Silent Angel
Christmas is a special day, even in a hospital bed thousands of miles from home.
By Duane Shaw
Christmas Day, 1967. I'm a patient at the Ninety-Third Medical Evacuation
Hospital near Saigon, Vietnam. Today I'm semi-alert, but unable to sleep and
agonizingly scared. The constant aching pain in my arms and a pounding
headache make me tense. I feel helpless. My spirit feels empty, and my body
feels broken. I want to be back home.
It's impossible to get in a comfortable resting position. I'm forced to try and sleep
on my back. Needles, IV tubing and surgical tape are partially covered by
bloodstained bandages on my arms.
Two days earlier, my squad's mission was to secure the perimeter of Saigon for a
Christmas Day celebration featuring Bob Hope and Hollywood's Raquel Welch.
While on a search-and-destroy patrol, near the village Di An, we were ambushed
on a jungle trail by a small band of Vietcong guerillas. My right thumb was ripped
from my body by AK-47 assault-rifle fire and fragments from a claymore mine
grazed my face and neck.
This medical ward has twenty-one sick and injured GIs, and one recently
captured, young-looking Cambodian. Restrained, he lays severely wounded in the
bed next to mine. I'm filled with anger and hostility. As an infantry combat
veteran, I've been brainwashed to despise the Communists and everything they
represent.
The first hours are emotionally difficult. I don't want to be next to him. I want to
have an American GI to talk with. As time passes my attitude changes; my
hatred vanishes. We never utter a word to each other, but we glance into one
another's eyes and smile. We're communicating. I feel compassion for him,
knowing both of us have lost control of our destiny. We are equals.
The survival of the twenty-two soldiers in the ward is dependent on the
attentiveness and medical care from our nurses. Apparently, they never leave our
ward or take time off. The nationality, country or cause we were fighting for
never interferes with the loving care and nourishment necessary to sustain us.
They are our life-keepers, our guardians, our safety net, our hope of returning
home. It's nice to just hear a woman's voice. Their presence is our motivation to
get well so we can go home to our wives, children, moms, dads, brothers, sisters
and friends.
Today the nurses are especially loving and gracious. Red Cross volunteers help us
write letters to our families. All of us still need special attention plus our routine
shots, IVs, blood work and I swallow twenty-two pills three times a day. Even on
Christmas, life goes on in our little community, like clockwork, thanks to the
dedication of our nurses. They never miss a beat, always friendly and caring.
There's a rumor that General Westmorland and Raquel Welch will visit our ward
today and award Purple Hearts to the combat wounded. I'm especially hopeful it's
true because I would receive the commendation. The thought of meeting Raquel
Welch and General Westmoreland gives me an adrenaline boost that lasts
throughout the day.
By early evening we realize they aren't coming. Everyone is very disappointed,
especially me. The day's activities cease quickly after a yummy Christmas dinner
and most of my ward mates slip off to sleep by seven or eight o'clock.
It's impossible to sleep. The IVs in my arms continue collapsing my veins one by
one. I'm pricked and probed by what feels like knives, not needles. My arms are
black and blue after many failed attempts to locate a vein for IV fluids. I
occasionally doze off, only to be awakened by the agonizing pain of another
collapsed vein and infiltrating fluids. My arms are swollen to twice their normal
size. This pain is worse than my gunshot wound.
It's 11 o'clock Christmas night. The ward is silent. My comrades and the
Cambodian warrior sleep. I'm tense and suffering.
To avoid waking anyone, I silently signal a nurse. She comes to my side and
gazes into my tearing eyes. Quietly, she sits on the side of my bed, embraces my
arm, removes the IV, then lightly massages my swollen, painful arms.
Gently, she leans over and whispers in my ear, "Merry Christmas," and gives me
a long, tender hug. As she withdraws, our eyes connect momentarily. She has
tears running down her cheeks. She felt my pain. She turns and moves away,
ever so slowly back to her workstation.
The next morning I wake slowly. I have slept throughout the night and feel
rested. I see while I slept a new IV was inserted in my arm. The swelling is gone.
Suddenly, I remember the nurse coming to my side in the night and my
Christmas present. I'm thankful and think of her kindness. I look towards the
nurses' workstation to see if I can see my angel nurse but she's gone.
I never see her again, but I will forever honor her compassion toward me on that
lonely Christmas night.
