18
Troy
The Corpsman
I’d fallen asleep gripping a dying Marine’s hand. I’d been asleep no more than three minutes—my watch had read 0700 hours, and now it read 0703. Red Mike patted me on the back: “Son, some other men still breathing need you.” Then he tore the Red Cross armbands off my uniform and removed my helmet with its Red Cross in a white circle. He planted a plain green M1 tin pot on my head. “You’re a Marine like the rest of us, Bud. No need for the damn decorations. We lost one of our corpsmen last night. He was all decked out in crosses too. Hard for the j**s to miss.”
“I’m sorry, Sir.”
“We need you alive. Understood?”
“Yes, Sir.”
He nodded. “Good enough.”
“Is it over, Sir?” I asked.
“Not by a long shot. They’ll be back tonight. Let’s get the wounded off the Ridge. Got
