Medics Wild!

In early 1968, the huge Long Binh compound north of Saigon swarmed with activity. Helicopters rose and descended, raising clouds of red dust. Trucks and jeeps and boxy ambulances scurried here and there on various errands, adding more finely ground laterite particles to the air. Troops in from the field crowded exchanges and wandered the tangle of roads with thumbs out, seeking rides. Even this early, nearing noon, the NCO and Officer's clubs were busy dispensing food and liquor to off shift soldiers. Inside other buildings, nurses and doctors labored with the wounded and field laboratories were busy processing blood and body fluids. Generals and Colonels gave orders, Majors and Captains fleshed them out and Sergeants and Privates typed and distributed them. Logistic and Engineering units were working busily to keep the compound supplied and maintained. The war was approaching its high tide and all the activity reflected a surge of optimism that with just a little more effort, the war could be won. All of Long Binh seethed with activity. Almost all, that is.

North of the main compound, separated from it by several miles of jungle but connected to it by a laterite road like a baby amoebae pinching itself off from its parent lay a much smaller compound, fortressed by enough barbed wire to fence off half of Texas. Inside this isolated ring of wire lived an oil-tanker battalion that transported aircraft fuel all over southern Vietnam. Here also lived the medical dispensary, which saw to the illnesses of the oil tanker drivers and their supporting staff and headquarters.

The tankers had driven off before daylight and sick call had been over for an hour. The compound was at low ebb.

Inside the dispensary building, Sergeant First Class James Williard was taking his ease. He was leaning back in a battered office chair with his feet propped atop a rickety folding desk, a relic of WW II, or perhaps even the First World War. Williard didn't mind the uncomfortable furniture. He had his fatigue cap pulled down over his eyes to block out the light and was letting the monotonous drone of generators in the background lull him to sleep, where he hoped the last residues of his hangover would dissipate. He was just dropping off when the hesitant sound of the screen door swinging open brought him back to awareness.

"Doc " Williard recognized the tone of voice. An after-hours supplicant who was certain he would die horribly if he had to wait another day for treatment.

"Sick call's over. Come back tomorrow."

"Doc, I can't wait." The voice was plaintive.