One last touch of the cross I wore and I placed my hands on the M-60 grips. Our Huey danced slightly from side to side as the treetops flashed closely past us. We were landing in a hot LZ. And I was the most frightened nineteen year old special ops soldier in the U.S. Army.
The radio’s excited calls for help were almost drowned out
by the crackle of gunfire coming loud over the channel as the men on the
hilltop fought for their lives. We were their last hope. The sky above the LZ was thick with glowing tracer rounds which had suddenly begun arcing up to meet us as we swooped in to land.
Arriving after a one hour flight, the two leading gunships had turned back badly damaged. Now, barely able to maintain control of their damaged aircraft, their pilots were
desperately trying to get back across the border into Panama and out of the
drug cartel’s area of control.
The six man squad on the ground was depending on us. We had
to get them out! All were wounded. All were someone’s husband, son, or brother.
We couldn't leave them! To do so would condemn them to a horrible death.
It had been worse than horrible. I’d never seen the
shattered bones and exposed intestines of another human before that day. It was
long ago, but it changed my life forever.
*****************************
“Don’t worry, son,” I said, patting his shoulder. “We have a
good team here. I promise, we will do our best for you.” I watched as his eyes
gave in to the powerful effects of the anesthesia. Once again, another soldier
needed me to help him survive. But this time it would be a scalpel and the
finest technology our teaching hospital had, instead of a Huey mounted M-60 in
my hand. “And thanks be to God, I won’t have to kill anyone in order to help
this one,” I gratefully thought.
But, the sudden brightening of the overhead lights caused my
mind to serve up another brief flash of a nightmare of bright daylight, the
smell of smoke, and the sounds of hurting men. Memories which I think will
never die.
Clint Bowman
