Silent Angel

By Duane Shaw

Christmas Day, 1967. I'm a patient at the Ninety-Third Medical Evacuation Hospital near Saigon, Vietnam. Today I'msemi-alert, but unable to sleep andagonizingly scared. The constant aching pain in my arms and apounding headache make metense. I feel helpless. My spirit feels empty, andmy 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 tubingandsurgical tape are partially covered bybloodstained bandages on my arms.

Two days earlier, mysquad's mission was to secure theperimeterof Saigon for a Christmas Day celebration featuring Bob Hope and Hollywood's Raquel Welch. While on asearch-and-destroy patrol, near the village Di An, we wereambushed on ajungle trail by asmall band of Vietcongguerillas. My rightthumbwas ripped from my body by AK-47assault-rifle fire and fragments from aclaymore 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 andhostility. As aninfantry combat veteran, I've beenbrainwashed todespise 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. Ifeel compassion forhim, knowing both of us have lost control of our destiny. We are equals.

The survival of the twenty-two soldiers in thewardis dependent on the

attentivenessand medical care from our nurses. Apparently, they neverleave our ward or take time off. The nationality, country or cause we were fighting for never interferes with the loving care andnourishmentnecessary to sustain us. They are our life-keepers, ourguardians, our safety net, our hope of returning home. It's nice to just hear a woman's voice. Their presence is ourmotivation to get well so we can go home to our wives, children, moms, dads, brothers, sisters and friends.

Christmas is a special day, even in a hospital bed thousands of miles from home. Today the nurses are especially loving andgracious. 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 Iswallowtwenty-two pills three times a day. Even on Christmas, life goes on in our little community, likeclockwork, thanks to the dedication of our nurses. They never miss abeat, always friendly and caring.

There's a rumor thatGeneral Westmorland and Raquel Welch will visit our ward today and awardPurple Hearts to the combat wounded. I'm especially hopeful it's true because I would receive thecommendation. The thought of meeting Raquel Welch and General Westmoreland gives me anadrenaline boost that lasts throughout the day.

By early evening we realize they aren't coming. Everyone is very disappointed, especially me. The day's activitiesceasequickly after ayummyChristmas dinner and most of my wardmates slip offto sleep by seven or eight o'clock.

It's impossible to sleep. The IVs in my arms continuecollapsing my veinsone by one. I'mpricked andprobedby what feels like knives, not needles. My arms are black andblue after many failed attempts to locate a vein for IVfluids. I occasionallydoze off, only to be awakened by the agonizing pain of another collapsed vein and infiltrating fluids. My arms areswollen to twice their normal size. This pain is worse than mygunshot 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 lightlymassage[t1] smyswollen, 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 connectmomentarily[t2] . She has tears running down her cheeks. She felt my pain. She turns and moves away, ever so slowly back to herworkstation[t3] .

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.

I heard the familiar squeak of my husband's brakes as he pulled into the drive. I snapped a small limb bristling with hot pink azaleas off the bush. I felt the seed of love that God planted in my family beginning to bloom once again in me. My husband's eyes widened in surprise as I handed him the flowers. "I love you," I said.