Promises to Keep (2 page)

Jack
watched until Wynn seemed calmer, not quite drifting off, but the tension in
his body had eased.

“I’ll
be back soon, Wynn,” he said. He saw Chief Whitley across the compound and
strode over to speak with him.

"Chopper's
on its way, boss. I've got some minor stuff over here. What do you got over
there?"

"Wynn,
and he's bad."

"The
crazy-ass kid?" Whitley frowned and spat into the dirt. "Damn. That
really sucks. "

"He's
not going to make it, even if we get him on that bird. He's all burned
up."

"Son
of a bitch. Sorry, Boss. I'll get his things out of his tent and send them with
him."

"That's
good." Jack turned to go back to Wynn's side, stopped, then turned back to
Whitley. "Chief?"

"Yeah?"

"Did
you know that Wynn got hitched before we deployed? His wife's pregnant."

"No
sir. Stupid kids. Some of them get married to the first piece of tail they get.
Especially the guys from the sticks. She’s pregnant? That makes this even
worse."

“Yeah,
I know.”

Jack
walked back to Wynn and squatted down on his heels beside him. The IV bag was
almost empty. He waved another Corpsman over.

"Why
didn't you change this IV bag?"

The
man looked embarrassed. "'Cause Lieutenant LaGuardia said not to."

Jack’s
eyes narrowed. "What? Why?"

Dwight
LaGuardia was a new hotshot doc that had recently come to play over there in
the sand box. Young, intense and straight from Hopkins, he was arrogant since
he'd only been a doctor for about eighteen months. He was always going on about
how superior his training had been at what he called "The Hopper."

Jack
grabbed the Corpsman by the elbow. "Keep the fluids running into him.
He'll dehydrate in minutes with those burns if we don't keep pouring it in.
I'll talk to Lieutenant LaGuardia."

LaGuardia,
blond-haired with round, steel rimmed glasses, was only a few steps away,
looking into the bleeding ears of a man perched on the hood of one of the
HUMVEEs. Jack knew right away what that was about
—explosions tended to
rupture eardrums.

"Dwight,
what's this about stopping the fluids on Wynn, back there?"

Their
newly arrived doctor, full of himself and his obvious superiority, turned and
looked at Jack without attempting to hide his disgust. Apparently, rank didn't
matter when you graduated from Hopkins and your boss was an ex-surfer from
UCLA.

"Because
it's a waste, Jack. You know that."

"Bullshit."

"Screw
that." Dwight raised his voice indignantly. "Any first year med
student knows it's a waste of resources. The guy's dead already. With burns
like that, he isn't going to make it onto the chopper, much less all of the way
to Bagdad or Balad or wherever they're flying to today."

"What
the fuck is your problem? The kid can hear you," Jack whispered angrily
under his breath.

What
an asshole
, he thought, shaking his head.
Rich and entitled with
delusions of grandeur.
Jack figured the new doctor came from a long history
of family money. No doubt, his father planned on a Senatorial candidature for
his son’s future.

Jack
didn’t mind that. Asshole or not, those who serve always learn
something.
Even this jerk may make it to “human” someday.

Dwight’s
sneering reply was contemptuous and condescending, "It doesn't matter.
He's gone already, and there's nothing you or I can do about it. We save the stuff
for the guys we can help, not waste it on somebody who's as good as dead.
Besides, it's your damned fault he's fucked up anyway."

Jack
hid the automatic flinch that comes with a right guess. He knew that Dwight’s
accusation was dead-on, but he refused to take the bait. "My fault?"

"Yes,
your fault. He went out with the guys yesterday, but it wasn't his turn. It was
Valdez's turn at bat, and you sent Wynn instead. Why? This is Valdez's second
deployment. He's been around the block, he was the best guy for that patrol and
you know it. The
souk
was way too hot for a kid like Wynn."

Jack’s
jaw clenched. "He needed to go."

The
souk
market was a hotbed of insurgent activity. Every patrol through there got hit
—sometimes
with an IED, sometimes with an ambush, mostly with both. Dwight was right.
Valdez had been the better choice. He'd been a combat corpsman his entire
career. Fallujah, Bagdad—he'd been in any number of shitholes around Iraq.

Calm
under fire and one hell of a medic, Valdez was the perfect choice to send with
the Marines during a sweep for illegal weapons and explosives. He could bust
down doors with the best of them but he'd been short, with only weeks left on
his enlistment. You don't send a guy that short out into the shit
—especially
when there's a slacker, who needed to pull his own weight hanging around.

"Why?"
Dwight probed, stabbing an accusing finger toward him. "Why send Wynn?
Just because you were pissed at him? He didn't meet your perfect standards? He
was a stupid kid. He couldn't handle it. Not yet."

Dwight’s
words burned—like salt in an open wound.

"He
needed to go,” Jack said, forcing himself to remain composed. “I’ve done the
same thing with others before him. They don’t smarten up if you baby
them."

Yes,
he had been pissed at Wynn, because he was an irresponsible shirker. Wynn was
never around for the hard work and always showed up for the easy stuff.

That
day, Wynn had come back from patrol with the Marines, an easy milk run through
an area run by a friendly sheik. All they did was pass out candy and soccer
balls to the kids but, even then, Wynn hadn't bothered to clean and maintain
his gear properly.

A
medical bag without the right stuff in it, was just as deadly as a terrorist's
bullet. Jack had chewed his ass thoroughly, turned him right around and put him
on the patrol through the souk. Now he was as good as dead.

"Wynn's
not a child,” Jack snapped. “He's a Navy Corpsman and dammit, he needed to
learn to act like one."

"Well,
he isn't going to be anything, now." Dwight poked Jack with his
forefinger. "He's going to die and you killed him."

Jack
was more of a lover than a fighter, but even he could be pushed too far.
Searing heat and perceived failures with every soldier who died, already had
him right on the edge.

Dwight’s
douche bag comment shoved him right over.

In a
passionate explosion, Jack sprung forward, throwing Dwight back against the
HUMVEE with one sharp shove.

The
sudden look of abject terror on Dwight’s face soothed a primal part of him.
Combat fit, six-foot one and primed to detonate, Jack figured he was
intimidating as Hell.

The
otoscope, an instrument designed for visual inspection of the eardrum, went
flying over the hood. The Marine under examination gave Jack a surprised,
horrified look and then quickly slipped away.

"Don't
be such an unfeeling prick,” Jack growled, barely able to hold on to his
temper. “He's right here."

Dwight
straightened up and straightened the collar of his fatigue jacket. His eyes
narrowed, his body tensed.

For
a second, Jack thought he'd try to take a swing at him. For a second, Jack
hoped he would, because that meant a one-way trip to the stockade and out of
Jack's life for the snotty little Lieutenant.

The
idea of retaliating and beating the shit out of the obnoxious little turd made
Jack automatically flex his hands, balling them into fists. Would he end up in
the stockade too, if he had to explain why he’d put his junior officer in the
hospital?

Jack
wondered if it would be worth it.

Like
an animal instinctively guarding himself against a dangerous threat, LaGuardia
took in his senior officer’s size and seemed to think better of it.

"Don't
be a sentimental fool, Jack
—I mean,
Sir,"
the
Lieutenant said in a tone laden with sarcasm. "We have finite supplies,
and regulations state that we must not waste them on expectant
casualties."

Jack
was fully aware of what Dwight meant. "Expectant" meant some wounded
were expected to die. The military, in a cold calculation of numbers and
statistics, determined those individuals should only get what they needed to be
comfortable as they passed away. One bag of saline and one shot of morphine fit
that bill.

It
sucked and Jack hated the idea, yet it was the right thing to do sometimes.
Still, only a cold-hearted bastard couldn't see how wrong it
felt
.

"I
know, I know. Still, you don't have to be a prick about it, OK? Have some
respect. He can hear you."

"No
he can't. He's burned to shit. He doesn't know what's going on."

"Bullshit."

Jack
moved to shove him again. Much to Jack's satisfaction, the asshole jumped back
as if jolted by a cattle prod. Jack satisfied himself by pointing a finger at
him.

"I
just talked to him for ten minutes,” Jack snarled in a low, angry voice. “He
can hear every piece of crap that comes out of your mouth. If you're going to
be a jerk, be a jerk, but keep your stupid cake-hole shut. Got it?"

"That
an order?"

"Yes,
that's an order."

"Then,
yes sir. Am I excused? I've got more people to see."

"Get
the fuck away from me."

Dwight
gave him an insolent look and stomped off.

Hot,
angry, irritable and ashamed of his colleague, Jack strode back to Wynn. The
corpsman had hung a fresh IV bag of saline, as ordered. Jack fished out another
dose of morphine from his pocket and shot it into the drip.

He
crouched down next to him. "How you doing, buddy?"

"I
heard what you guys said." Each word Wynn said was low and slow. "I
can't see shit, but I can hear just fine. I was listening to you talking about
me."

Fuck.
"I'm
sorry. That guy's an idiot. Screw him."

"I'm
not going to make it, am I?"

"Don't
worry. We’ll get you out of here."

"You're
lying. I can tell." Wynn's voice became more slurry from the morphine. He
sounded distant, as if he were speaking in a dream.

Jack
groaned inwardly. He didn’t want to have this conversation. Not here, not now.

Not
ever.

"You'll
be chasing your kid around your yard in no time. Good as new."

"I
haven’t been here long, but I’ve watched you work,” Wynn said. “You’re one of
the good ones, sir. The best. I appreciate what you’re trying to do for me, but
I’m OK with it. Really. Everyone dies sometime."

"Dude,
I
—
”

"No…
just remember your promise. Make sure my girl gets that ring.”

Wynn
gave a weird grimace that looked to be an attempt at a smile. A half-hearted
laugh came out of his mouth. It sounded like some strange combination, a cross
between humor and hysteria.

“It’s
my dying wish, ya know? Tell her… tell her that my last thoughts were of her. I
wasn’t good enough for Laura—didn’t deserve her. I hope she finds someone
better. Someone for her and the baby."

Jack
didn’t have a clue what to say.

The
heat was oppressive. The smell of burnt flesh and death surrounded him. This
goofy, kind-hearted and sometimes over-enthusiastic puppy of a kid was dying…
and the poor bastard was OK with that.

Jack
cleared his throat. His heart ached as he
felt
this loss, knowing there
was nothing he could do. Usually, Jack could keep himself detached from this
shit. He had barriers erected to help him keep his heart separated from the
emotional aspect of his job.

Those
walls must’ve been compromised because right now, Jack felt like crying.

“I’ll
stay with you, if you like,” he managed to choke out. “I don’t think it'll be
long.”

“See?
What’d I tell ya? A good guy.”

“You
were pretty good, yourself.”

Wynn
gave him a strangled laugh. “No I wasn’t. But I might've been, if… if…” He
stopped talking for a moment; perhaps he was having an inner vision of one of
the many possible “what ifs” that were no longer a possibility for him.

When
he spoke again, he whispered. “You have work to do, sir. You’d better get
going. Take care of someone else. Take care of yourself. I’ll be OK. I don’t
mind dying alone. I’ll be thinking of Laura.”

That
last sentence seemed to take a huge effort. Wynn collapsed, relaxing back into
something less substantial. The morphine was disconnecting him from his body.
The newbie corpsman was halfway gone already.

Forget
the appalling circumstances. Bob Wynn, it turned out, was a fucking saint. Here
he was on the threshold of death, making a choice to die with dignity and
grace, while thinking of others.

Would
I be so selfless?

Jack
stood up, shifting his feet, now desperately holding back his sudden,
ridiculous and overwhelming impulse to cry. He patted Wynn’s shoulder,
wondering if the dying man could feel his last human touch.

“It’s
been real nice knowing you, Bob.”

“You
too.”

“I’ll
check these other guys out and I’ll be back, alright?”

“Sure.”

Jack
hesitated, and then left the corpsman alone on his lonely canvas stretcher.

“Over
here, sir.”

Jack
ran over and took in the sight. A soldier with a head injury, who seemed OK
upon arrival, gasped for air. After a brief assessment, it looked like a
spontaneous pneumothorax. The lung required aspiration of air and placement of
a chest tube.

Jack
went to work, focusing on saving the man.

“Better,
soldier?” he asked, when the lung re-inflated and the man could breathe
normally again.

“Oh,
yeah. Thanks, sir.”

“That’s
your ticket home, right there.”

The
exhausted Marine smiled.

Once
Jack was certain that the man was breathing easily, he busied himself with a
few of the less seriously wounded men
—a bandage here, a stitch
there—all the while hoping and praying that the chopper would finally get there
to evac some of these guys.

Finally,
he heard the staccato beat of helicopter rotors getting louder and louder.

"Birds
on the way, buddy,” he called out to the man with the chest wound. “We'll get
you home. You ready to go?"

“Looking
forward to it.”

Jack
took a moment and looked up into the bright midday sun. Sweat dripped down his
back as he watched the helicopter dip lower and lower. Soon they'd land, grab
the worst cases and load them. Those injured would be in the hospital at Bagdad
in minutes.

One
of the female Marines
—they always took at least one woman to
search the female natives—had a sprained ankle and minor smoke inhalation.
Jenny, a cream-skinned woman under all that protective soldiering gear,
couldn’t wait for the next bird out of here.

Jack
bantered with her while strapping her leg. He couldn’t help but notice the
woman’s flesh was all soft silk, nothing like the skin of the men he was used
to treating.

It
took force of will to pull his thoughts back to practical matters at hand and
ignore the fact he was touching a young and attractive woman.

As a
senior officer, the enforced celibacy of his situation was trying, to say the
least.

When
he finished, he remembered Bob Wynn and sprinted over, hoping to find that he
was still alive.

"Bob?
I’m back, Bob,” Jack shouted over the
whoomp, whoomp, whoomp
sound of
the helicopter.

No
answer.

He
knelt down and quickly felt for a pulse at the junction of his neck and
shoulder. Bob Wynn was dead.

"Damn
it."

Jack
sat back, his energy sucked right out of him. What a waste. The young corpsman
was dead and Jack felt responsible. That was just one more thing added to the
pile of guilt within his overactive conscience.

Every
day that he was here, every man or woman he wasn’t able to save added more to
that heap. At this moment, Jack felt utterly crushed by its weight.

He’d
hoped that he could at least to be there for Wynn's last moments, so the poor
kid didn’t have to die alone. Apparently, Jack had screwed that up, too.

Shameful
secrets and unwillingly given, yet heartfelt promises. They seemed to go
together.

Jack
clutched the ring in his pocket and remembered his vow to a dying man, for whom
he'd suddenly had the utmost respect.

OK,
buddy, I owe you. Don’t worry. I'll get it to her.