4 comments/ 7633 views/ 4 favorites Dawn in Nam By: DevisPixi Even the medical tent was under fire. We had six guys strapped to stretchers, ready to be air-lifted as soon as the chopper came. Captain Ventura shouted, "Dawn, line 'em up for triage—worst to first." "Sir, yes, sir!" I replied, although such military formality was more sarcasm than protocol. I was halfway through a nine-month tour in country. Captain Gregory Ventura, MD, was a draftee, who thought his four years of pre-med and six years of medical school would have kept him out of the Army. Unfortunately, there was a war going on and the Army needed doctors. "Greetings" came from Uncle Sam. I pointed to the three bundles of joy with the least life-threatening wounds—a bullet in the shoulder, a broken wrist, and a series of cuts and bruises—the most likely sons of bitches to go right back into the field. I nodded to two others that were lucky enough to be wounded so badly they would be sent home. At the end of the line was the infantryman shot four times and blinded by a grenade blast. His bleeding was barely under control and he seemed to me to be on the verge of going into shock. The chopper arrived and we hustled the first two stretchers to the opened bay. There were three of us nurses and we never failed to impress the copter jockeys with our ability to hoist and lift two hundred pound men like they were kiddies on a playground. The chopper pilot jumped from his cockpit. "Whoa there, people! I ain't got room for six stretchers." "You can't leave 'em here," Ventura insisted. "I've already got two on board," the pilot argued. "We can stand two guys up if we have to," I offered. "We'll try," the pilot agreed. We fitted two standers and three stretchers inside the helicopter's belly. That left the most serious case with nowhere to put him. "I'll stay with him till another copter can get here," Ventura decided. "No, you're the doc." I countered. "They need you back at the base hospital. I'll stay with him." As the dust and wind swirled around us, I regretted my decision. A sense of dread overtook me when I looked into the soldier's anguished face. Since being deployed in Nam, I had only had sex with a patient once. His name was Troy. He was a cute and cocky black kid from New Jersey, who took shrapnel from a land mine. He was trying to get a rise out of me. "How come the white GIs get more attention than the black GIs?" "That's not true," I insisted, sounding a little shrill. "Sure it is," he smirked. I didn't protest further. I just went about my business, toileting him and giving him a sponge bath. He eyed me in amusement as I washed his cock, balls, and ass. When I was done, I set the bed pan and wash tub aside, dried my hands, and perched my butt on the edge of his bed. I said to him, "How's this for attention?" I lifted the sheet, caressed his rising phallus between my palms, and let a dollop of spit drop on his arrowhead. I used my saliva to lubricate his dick and I felt it growing in my hand. I made sure he was watching me as I lowered my head and kissed, licked, nibbled, and flicked his rod. Then I drew it into my mouth and started to suck as hard as I could while pumping the base of his shaft between my fingers. He came in about half a minute, depositing a huge glob of hot fire down my throat. That was the only time I pierced the wall of separation between myself and my patients, although I have come close to falling in love with more than a few of the guys in my care. I hold back, however, because I know it isn't real—like it would be if we were back in the world—and they are vulnerable because they are hurt and broken. The blind soldier's name tag read: CHARLES WILLIAMSON, SPEC 1ST CLASS. He was swiveling his head from side to side and opening his mouth to speak, looking like a hungry bird looking for food. "It's okay, Williamson," I said to him, touching his scratched cheek with my fingertips. "I'm Dawn, a nurse. We're gonna hafta wait for the next helicopter." "How long will that take?" He sounded desperate. I didn't know, and so I said, "Not long." "I'm cold," he said, laying on the ground in a jungle, wrapped in a blanket. I was afraid he would go into shock. So I pressed my body against his, since I didn't have another blanket, as the only way to warm him up. "What do you go by, Charley, Chuck?" I asked and then I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, deciding to comfort him. "Ch-ch-charley," he answered, shivering. I held him closer. "Am I gonna die, Dawn?" "Oh, no, no, no," I insisted cheerfully. "I won't let you." Then I felt a pang in my gut, realizing I was promising something I couldn't deliver. "Where ya from?" Charley asked me. "Rhode Island," I told him. "No kiddin'?" he asked looking out into space as sightless people often do. "I'm from Connecticut, right next door." "We're practically neighbors." A moment later, he shook violently and groaned. "Some water, please," he croaked, turning to face me, but not seeing my face. "Sure," I said to him as I looked into my backpack for my canteen. I held it to his lips and cradled his head in my arms. He gulped and it seemed like I was feeding a bottle to a baby. "Thank you, Dawn." He nestled his head in my lap and I reached for his hand to hold it. "Try to get some sleep, Charley." Charley nodded his head and I found myself stroking his face with the back of my hand, still holding him. The night wore on and I fell asleep. There was no sign of a chopper and Charley's breathing became shallower. His body grew hotter and hotter in my arms. I feared that he was slipping away. I also feared the VC were lurking in the bush and I needed to pee. I let Charley go and stepped a few feet away to drop my pants and wiz. I mused that my sweet boy couldn't see me peeing, but he could have heard it. Near daybreak, Charley Williamson stirred and called my name. "I'm right here, honey." "Dawn, I'm scared," he spoke in a frail voice. He looked so fragile. As I pulled his wounded body toward me, an overwhelming feeling of affection grew in my breast. I lowered my head and pressed my lips to the side of his face. I tasted his burnt, soiled flesh, but nevertheless kissed him a second time. Then I kissed his forehead, chin, nose, left cheek, right cheek, and finally his dried, crusty, parched lips. Charley released a pleasurable moan when I opened his shirt and massaged his chest with a light, swirling touch, careful not to disturb the bandages temporarily dressing his bullet holes. Even as I reached inside his pants, I wasn't sure what I would find. There were some guys that had their nuts blown off. I felt my way to a limp, damp penis and a distended, drooping sack. His dick sprung right into action, hardening in my grip. That was good. I had lain by Charley's side, apprehensive about putting any weight at all on his fragile wreck of a frame. After I kneaded his cock to full erection, I kissed his ear and whispered, "Hold on a sec." I sat upright, unbuttoned my green shirt, and lifted off my undershirt, followed by my bra. I hadn't shaved my legs or my arm pits in three months and I hadn't seen a shower in a couple of days. We have been patching and lugging around patients for forty-eight hours straight. I caught a whiff of my stank. Somehow, I expected that Charley wouldn't mind, nor even notice. I kicked off my boots, took off my pants and funky undies, and put my boots back on—just in case we needed to make a quick getaway. I returned to Charley's side and moved his hands to my breasts, my nipples, my cunt, and my ass and whispered softly, "Yes, there. Feel that? Yes, touch it. Like that?" All the while, I caressed his hardened dick in my hands. Still without putting any weight on him, I held myself above his prostrate body and spread my furry pussy lips over his cock's head. I began to move slowly up and down on him and soon I felt and heard the sloshing of my sex spot. I kissed his opened mouth and sucked his tongue as I flexed my vaginal muscles and squeezed his phallus. He let out a sigh as his member throbbed inside my Venus and he left a trace of himself in my cavern of womanhood. I separated from him and slid down to his nether regions. His slime-covered cock was still thick and extended, and so I licked it and slurped it into my mouth. He served me another dose of semen, which I swallowed without giving it a second thought. Then I held Charley in my arms and spoke to him, as if they were the last words he might ever hear. "I love you." The blinded, wounded nineteen year-old draftee smiled and croaked, "I love you, too...Dawn, my angel." I continued to hold the man-child, rocking him slightly, till he fell sleep. I dozed off and woke only a minute or two later, feeling his youthful spirit depart from his irreparably damaged body. I cried a tear and then reached into my backpack to find my pistol, making sure the magazine was loaded, and I sat the rest of the night guarding my lover's corpse, waiting for the Vietcong or the medical helicopter, whichever came first. When I returned to the States, seven months later, I wanted to write a letter to Charley Williamson's parents in Greenwich, Connecticut. I never did. Twenty-five years later, I found the teenaged citizen-soldier's name on the wall and kissed the polished marble.