Some Gave it All (eBook)
100 Seiten
Made for Success Publishing (Verlag)
978-1-64146-343-0 (ISBN)
“BROKEN ARROW! BROKEN ARROW!” BELLOWED A soldier into his field radio. “Command . . . Command . . . we are being overrun!” The soldier put away the radio and began firing his machine gun. Explosions dimly lit the night sky like fireworks on the Fourth of July. In a nearby foxhole, a young Marine saw the shadowy, ghost-like silhouettes of the suicidal enemy sappers as they charged through the American defenses. The North Vietnamese Army used these demolition commandos expertly to breach the American defenses. Terror filled the bones of the young Marine. A kamikaze sapper charged his position, wired with explosives, leaving him little time to ponder his feelings. The sapper jumped into the foxhole, landing on top of the young Marine. The two men struggled hand-to-hand in a fierce battle to the death. The young Marine knew he had only seconds before the sapper would activate his explosives, killing both men.
With a swift, desperate motion, the young Marine swept his bayonet from its sheath and drove it into the waiting chest of the enemy. Silence enveloped the young Marine’s soul. At that moment, it was as if all life had stopped. The young Marine looked into the dying eyes of the enemy, then watched as his chest heaved with its final breath. But it was those piercing eyes that haunted the young Marine at that moment — and for every moment to come.
LATE SEPTEMBER in West Virginia was normally cold and crisp. This year, 2006, was no different. As the hazy fog began to roll in over the hills, the frail man in his mid-fifties staggered to his feet. He was wearing only a pair of black shorts that hung on his emaciated frame. Hard gravel crunched under his feet, then a wooden beam, then more gravel, then another beam. He walked on the tracks as the whistle grew closer. The Amtrak train had arrived right on schedule.
He collapsed on the gravel beside the railroad tracks. Startled by the blaring siren of the fast approaching Amtrack train, he labored to open his eyes and was blinded by the oncoming light of the locomotive.
He lifted his head in the approaching light and water dripped off his head and hair. A drop landed in his right eye, and the man slowly wiped it away. He then closed his eyes as if to entrust his fate to the oncoming train. At that moment, a nearby drunkard staggered forward and shoved the man hard off the railroad tracks, narrowly saving his life. As the train passed, the man struggled back to his feet. The drunkard angrily slurred, “Man, what the h*ll is wrrrong with yyou! You tryin’ to kill yyourself?”
The man’s eyes wandered and tried to focus on the blurred image of the Kroger Supermarket in the near distance. Struggling towards the parking lot, he stumbled through the automatic door, and into the brightly-lit grocery store. The man needed help — and he wanted help. But no words came from his mouth. Finally, he was overcome with weakness and fell, his head hitting hard on the concrete floor.
A Kroger cashier looked over the counter and shook her head in disgust. “Just another drunk,” she thought to herself. She picked up the phone and dialed 911.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“This is Brenda over at the Kroger store on First Street. We have another drunk passed out on the floor. No shoes and no shirt. He’s unconscious.”
The man struggled to form the words he needed but was only able to quietly whisper, “Daniel Edward Lane, United States Marine Corps, number 2461294.” No one heard.
The police and EMS arrived together just a few minutes after the 911 call. They did a quick examination and quickly lifted the man on a gurney and into the ambulance. He appeared intoxicated, but there was something about him — something different.
As the ambulance sped to the hospital, EMS called into dispatch. “Unit 410 running code to St. Mary’s . . . white male mid-fifties, unconscious, no ID, possible concussion, vitals are not good. Call ahead to have the trauma unit on standby.”
“10-4, 410. I will notify them,” came the immediate response from dispatch.
The driver stomped hard on the gas pedal. He had the feeling that time was a commodity they were running short of if the guy was going to survive.
On arrival at the hospital, EMS hurriedly pushed the gurney through the large glass sliding doors and into the ER. Dr. Shane Bowen moved hastily to the door as soon as he heard the ambulance pull up. “Who do we have here?”
“Don’t know, Doc. No ID. He just walked into the Kroger and collapsed. Possible concussion. He has a knot on the back of his head. His vitals aren’t good.”
“Ok. Let’s get him into the room, stat. Get that IV hooked up, and let’s run his vitals again,” said Dr. Bowen.
After a few minutes, the man was hooked up to an EKG machine, with an IV running from his arm to a bag of clear liquid on a pole next to the bed. Dr. Bowen scratched his head. Who was this mystery man, and what was going on in his body? Dr. Bowen looked towards the police officer standing nearby and asked, “Do you have any information on this guy yet?”
“No. Not really,” said the officer. “He was seen on the railroad tracks, acting like he didn’t care if he lived or died. He was pushed out of the way of the Amtrak just before it hit him. There are no missing persons reported matching his description. So far, no one has called in with any additional information.”
“Wow, that drunkard must have been his guardian angel,” said Dr. Bowen. He then turned to his medical assistants who were waiting near the bed. “Let’s get him to X-Ray to get his head looked at, and then let’s get him upstairs.”
The door buzzed and someone hurriedly entered the room. Dr. Bowen instinctively turned to see who had entered. To his surprise, it wasn’t a nurse. A young man in his mid-twenties entered the room with a look of despair. The strong, fit young man located his father and ran to his side.
“May I help you?” asked Dr. Bowen.
“That’s my Dad. I have been looking for him all night. He disappeared, and I couldn’t find him. I finally called the police department, and they told me that an unconscious man had been picked up at the Kroger and brought here. I’m Chris Lane.”
“Yes. He came in that way and is still in serious condition. What is his name?”
“Danny . . . Danny Lane,” said Chris.
“Danny Lane, the police officer and karate guy?” asked a shocked Dr. Bowen. “The one who knows Chuck Norris and brought him to town?”
“Yeah, that’s him,” said Chris.
“I thought he looked familiar. I remember seeing him on the news. But he’s lost a lot of weight. This is Danny Lane?”
“Yeah. That’s him. Is he going to be alright? He has been really sick for the past five months. He’s been having flashbacks from the war and talking out of his head,” said Chris.
“What war was he in?” Dr. Bowen asked.
“Vietnam. He was a Marine and saw a lot of combat.”
“Wow! He must have gone through h*ll. That had to be about . . . forty years ago! What years was he in Vietnam?” asked Dr. Bowen.
“Nineteen sixty-eight and nineteen sixty-nine.”
THE SOUND was deafening in its silence. It’s not that he was alone — there were many people within a few feet of him. There were even massive, multi-propellered helicopters in the near distance being prepared for lift off. But, it was the loneliness of his thoughts. “What have I gotten myself into?” thought nineteen-year-old Danny Lane. Just two days ago he was stateside, and now he was in Vietnam. He adjusted his helmet to sit more snugly over his short, brown hair. It was November 20, 1968, and Danny and his fellow Marines sat on the cold, wet tarmac in full combat gear.
It was 4:00 AM, and it was cool. It was not only cool, but it was wet; the monsoon season was in full swing. During this period, rainfall averaged an inch a day — an everlasting reality that Danny would soon learn to ignore. But on this given day and at this given moment, he was an inexperienced “boot.” You could tell a boot apart from everyone else. For one thing, their green, camouflaged, perfectly-creased uniforms and shiny boots looked like they had just come off a store shelf. Danny couldn’t even be called a “grunt” yet. A grunt was a new soldier who had at least seen combat. A grunt was given a little bit of respect — but just a little. A boot? None. No one wanted to be next to a boot. Boots were untested, and no one wanted to be next to them when the bullets started flying.
The helicopters fired up their engines, and the Marines started moving slowly across the dimly-lit tarmac towards the choppers. It was raining pretty hard now, and Danny could hardly see where he was going. Right beside him walked his best friend, Sotere Karas, who was also nineteen years old.
Sotere was small in stature, but large in heart. He had tremendous courage and always had a smile on his face. Danny and Sotere had met in boot camp at Parris Island, SC, and had become fast friends. Sotere became known as “the Greek,” because he always carried the Greek flag with him, which he planted in the moist Vietnamese ground in the heat of battle. Sotere was the son of Greek immigrants and still held citizenship in Greece. He had only been an American...
| Erscheint lt. Verlag | 1.5.2018 |
|---|---|
| Zusatzinfo | Pictures taken during the war/on the battlefield |
| Verlagsort | Seattle |
| Sprache | englisch |
| Themenwelt | Literatur ► Biografien / Erfahrungsberichte |
| Geisteswissenschaften ► Geschichte ► Regional- / Ländergeschichte | |
| ISBN-10 | 1-64146-343-0 / 1641463430 |
| ISBN-13 | 978-1-64146-343-0 / 9781641463430 |
| Informationen gemäß Produktsicherheitsverordnung (GPSR) | |
| Haben Sie eine Frage zum Produkt? |
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