Willow's Story - Calvary

youtu.be/jv30gyHJwc8 - (Quicksilver Messenger Service - Calvary)

	“Whitney, Meyers,” Dawes called, stamping out a cigarette, “got a call. Big one.” The robot stifled a gasp, the call to duty stirring her legs. Hopping up she threw on her flak jacket, helmet clipped over her tight bun.
	“Coming sir!” Jogging out across the barren dirt she piled into the bay of the Huey, Vasquez shooting a wave at her as he jumped back out and guided the whirring rotor to life. Twirling over them, Meyers safely beside the captain, the helicopter jittered to life and rose from the spewing, ochre clouds of dust beneath it. She steadied herself in the back, checking that everything was in place and litters were ready. In the cockpit Dawes chattered back and forth at the radio, the line to the front open as he pushed the helicopter faster to the north. They’d just been starting to get calls to the north, the mention of some new neighborhood of the city dropping a pit in her stomach. Breathing deep she steeled herself for another grisly scene on the ground, the tired, muddy faces of men soon to be sent home or, at the least, off the front for a time. The mumble ahead of her in the cockpit jarred her, the rapport between pilot and platoon commander crackling over the air as they powered faster and faster over the treetops.
	“And you’re gonna mark that with a- Got it, we’ll be looking.” Dawes whapped a hand on Meyers’ forearm, the boy turning around to parlay the information backwards.
	“Willow,” he yelled over the turbine’s roar, “we’ve got bad cases down there.”
	“Sir?” Meyers turned back, listening intently to the line
	“One major leg wound, several shrapnel wounds, one,” he stopped, chewing his lip. “One chest wound, and another shrapnel just now.”
	“Understood,” she shouted back up, eyes narrowing- crunch time. Scooting around she made triply sure everything was ready, a tourniquet readied in her shivering hand. Time steadied around her, the helicopter approaching the south side of the ruined city.
	“Alright we’re coming down now.” Swerving around the circumference to one of the more open suburbs, a fuming column of smoke guiding them in as the craft settled down with a forward lurch. Vasquez jumped out to the gathered cluster of men, stretcher in hand. Leaning on a muddied dike the gathered soldiers hefted the worst of their buddies up onto it and ferried him back inside. The ambulatory few hobbled over and inside, hopping off-legged as a buddy guided them.
	“Stop that bleeding,” Vasquez shouted back. “Just a few more!”
	“Got it!” Turning to the groaning man beneath her, tourniquet still dangling loosely in her hand, she doubled up the dressings on his throbbing thigh. He panted repeatedly, eyes glazing in shock as Whitney pressed hard into the pouring wound in his leg. He groaned, teeth grinding, breathing harder as she ripped away the fatigues on his leg and yanked a tourniquet tight. Scrabbling around she dressed the several grievous shrapnel wounds sitting around her, fragments of mines embedded harshly in the arms and backs of moaning, writhing men.
	“Last one!”
	“Sir!” Hopping up and switching places with the crew chief, Whitney guided the last stretcher in, the remnants of the ducking platoon left behind in the ditch they were sheltering in. She paused to listen, a sickening pull of air stopping her short of rendering aid. Was her pseudolung punctured? No, she didn’t feel it, and-
	“Willow, get to it!” Jumping she reminded herself to act then think, act then think. There was no time for breaks.
	“R-Right, sir!” Stooping low over the second of the two stretcher cases she sputtered, her lung flagging empty in horror. His chest, torn free of his shirt, was blast open on his right side, a gaping hole piercing through his lung. He choked and gagged for breath, the wound in his chest sucking. The others were okay, she repeated to herself, this man needed help. Her hands staggered in place, the returning anxiety gripping her wrists in place. Blinking she locked the fear away, some unfathomable well of will slinging her hands to motion. She deftly compressed the wound as the slack man reeled weakly, fingers worming around in a daze. Plugging the arterial swell of blood, lolling his head to the left lest he start choking, hands tight over his chest.
	“Sh*t!”
	“Sir?” Whitney half turned from her patient to Vasquez, ducking his head.
	“Dawes you gotta pick it up there!” The clatter of punctured metal slipped past Whitney’s head, just a toe off the sickening crack of a rock jumping off the home windows.
	“What’s up Alf?”
	“We’re taking some,” he ducked again, cursing, “some small arms shit up here.”
	“Anything hit bad?”
	“Couple holes, but we’re moving.” Whitney hadn’t processed the exchange until the rattling stopped, the stutter of the small bag in her chest wheezing air in and out as her hands wriggled in place again.
	“How’s he doing Willow?”
	“Wha- Oh,” she peeped, turning to Vasquez. Fumbling for words she stuck a thumb up and turned back to the still patient, his eyes fluttering lazily. Flicking the plasma bottle hanging in her hand there was little more she could do but hold the pressure with her off hand, the shaking helicopter bolting south again to the evacuation hospital.
Skidding to a stop on the ground Whitney jumped out, already joining the manic rush to ferry the wounded into a waiting ambulance. The scream and beat of the helicopter waiting behind her clapped and stripped the ground beneath her, the cloudy, tumbling dirt and debris scratching at her legs as she hefted herself back inside. Her hands were dirty again, but she could clean that up back at their pad while Vasquez assessed the damage. Curling up in her seat she waited for the short jaunt west and up into the uplands again.

	“Another call, let’s go!” Whipping his hand in the air the quartet piled in once again, a brief time to refuel and for Vasquez to look at the dozen-odd holes peppering the tail before heading out again. Fifteen minutes had passed from landing to dust off, Whitney panting in place at the reality unfolding in front of her. Their shift had only just begun, there’d be hours more of this incessant back and forth, hours more of fire raining upwards from the city.
Breathing deeply she steadied herself, holding herself in the swaying helicopter as they rocked over the canopy once again, nearing that same city’s broad, open surroundings. The men ahead chattered across the radio and narrowed in on their destination, a plume of smoke sitting purple on the horizon, breaking apart from the odd stack of billowing ash and cinder attacking the shallow city skyline. She slowed her breathing, letting the instinct creeping in the back of her head lurch forward again, to still her hands and her mind and let her work.
	“F*ck me!” Turning again Vasquez was hobbling forward, hand reaching and pulling himself behind the pilots. A sharp rattle rang the helicopter, the craft lurching sidelong as they circled the city. “We’re taking heavy stuff, twenty mike-mike. Can you-”
	“Pull us lower,” Dawes grumbled ahead of them, Meyers’ hand twitching on the stick. “I’ll f*cking try Alf, but-” Another blast rocked the ship as it broke into a horrific yaw, the spin uncontrolled as it roped itself around and around.
	“God, f*ck! Hang on, we’ve lost the tail!” Dawes chewed harder, yanking the stick as the craft edged lower, dangerously towards the core of the city and over the simmering Perfume River. He fussed with the controls, the brutal drop of the rotor head from its gearbox shaking the thing as the spin steadied and the wind and air took over. He curved the stick in his hand, aiming for the water to cushion their drop. Diving through the air the craft smacked hard into the river, a trail of fire watching it descend. Plunged into the fetid waters of the river Whitney struggled free from her seat, the dropping mist from the impact wetting her hair as water flooded into the wreck. Finally free she wiggled out onto the water, buoying herself with her hands and kicking hard. Paddling for the squared banks she hefted herself up, turning back to the sinking wreck as the others bobbed up, panting.
Together on the bank they dashed for cover inside an abandoned building, the fuming smoke choking the city too much on the street.
	“Alright,” Dawes started, “we put down somewhere along the Perfume River, closer to the northside, the Imperial part.” He pointed to the damp map weaseled from his pocket, tracing a line along the body of water to the square citadel across it.
	“So we’re here, and we gotta get here.”
	“Well, wait,” Meyers interrupted. “Sorry Alf, but, if we’re here we should be damn close to the MACV compound. Right about here.” He drew a circle on the map with his index finger.
	“And that’d save us the river re-crossing, good thinking.” Dawes patted his shoulder. “Understood Willow?”
	“W-Well, sir, shouldn’t we stay with the craft? To be recovered?”
	“Well, yes, but this is a hostile city.”
	“And if we’re that close to the compound they should be able to get us,” she snipped. A tick in her head told her this was a dangerous idea, too risky and poorly thought out with their present condition.
	“So long as we’re sneaky about it we can get there in an hour, two tops. All good?” The other two nodded.
	“...Okay, sir.”
	“Then let’s go.”