TRIAGE

What, Troop? Have I seen your buddy? Are you kidding?
How the hell would I know that? Just take a look around!
See them lying on their stretchers; see 'em waiting in the sun
See 'em bleeding; hear them moaning as their life drips on the ground.

I'd like to help you, trooper, your friend could use the comfort,
He could use some one to hold his hand and stay there by his side.
But take a look around, son, if I took the time to help you,
Could I justify the time it took me to the ones who died?

Go wait over there. Hey, wait! Are you a corpsman?
Too bad, we could have used another pair of hands today.
God, they just keep coming, VSI and walking wounded
I haven't seen this many since the grunts went back to Hue.

See 'em lying in the sunlight 'cause there's not a bit of shade here.
Hear them crying for their mothers or a priest or for their wives.
This one, this one's next, get him straight into the OR.
Not the head wound, his body only thinks it's still alive.

Corpsman, get a line in, get some O neg, get it going,
It's another sucking chest, damn, he's dropped two pints at least.
Get a chest tube; stabilize him, dress the wound, then he can wait.
Don't worry, lad, you'll live, don't talk, lay back and rest.

Where the hell do they all come from, what's the reason?
Amputations, shattered livers, bellies torn and full of dirt.
Jews and Christians and Agnostics, San Francisco, Quincy, Brooklyn,
They've little else in common save they're wounded, badly hurt.

"Can you save me? Will I make it? Am I gonna be OK, Doc?"
And I lie just like they want me to, "Sure, lad, you'll be just fine."
And I see their recognition, and they realize they're dying.
"Hey, Doc, I need a minute, Doc, a minute of your time.

The Pre-op ward is chaos, people cursing, screaming, choking,
The floor is slick with vomit; blood is tracked all over it.
Get an airway, this man's dying, can't you people get it right?"
"Yeah, we'll save your leg, hold still, son, this might hurt a bit."

Check the OR, seven tables, each one full, and no one's closing.
Half way calm here, meatball cutting, patch 'em up, evac 'em on.
But the tension's thick and rancid, overpowers the smell of blood.
First ones came at O' dark thirty, now it's five more hours till dawn.

"Choppers inbound, five more minutes. Litter bearers to the pad.
Nine and thirty, two are head wounds. One's a snake bite, three are burns."
Meet the choppers, try to sort 'em, stabilize them; keep 'em breathing.
Need more OR's, haven't got 'em. Over there son, wait your turn.

Rearranging all the schedules but they're dying while they're waiting.
And the floodlights paint their misery in tones of blood and dirt.
Put that head wound in the corner, face and skull all ripped to hell
No dogtags, he's a grunt, so there's no nametag on his shirt.

This is not what we prepared for months ago at MTC.
These are boys not simulations, not the training films we saw.
Smell the burns and rancid blood smells, vomit, feces, hear the pain.
Hell is real, lad, and we've found it, live it daily, name it war.

Troop, I told you I was busy, get the hell out of my way.
There's too many, and there isn't time to stop and look for him.
Yeah, I'll tell you if I find him, go sit down, give us some room.
Oh, Hey, tell me, what's his name, son, what, your buddy's name is Tim?

0600! "Kill that radio! Fuck, 'Good Morning Viet Nam!'"
Show me one good thing about this war but ETS or DEROS
These young kids take all the trauma, do the fighting and the dying.
And the bastards back in Saigon get the medals, go home heroes.

All the causes and the treaties, noble purpose, come to this.
Nineteen, dying on the table, bagged in rubber, sent to Graves.
And the injured that we salvage, scarred up faces, missing limbs,
Let our leaders tell the papers that, "Our allies' flag still waves!"

Hey, kid, are you still waiting, no, I haven't found him yet.
Was he VSI or walking? VSI, shot through the head?
Sit down here, lad, that's him lying in the corner over there.
Was a head wound, too much damage, I'm sorry, but he's dead.

After midnight, grim exhaustion keeps you tossing on your bed
O dark thirty, somewhere out there, hear the arty crashing in.
Rotors popping, wounded screaming, four more choppers on the way,
O dark thirty, choppers bringing nineteen, thirty-seven, ten.

©Copyright October 28, 1992 by Stev Lenon

Author’s Note: The numbers 19, 37, 10, refer to categories of wounded inbound on dust-off ships. They represent Very Seriously Injured, Seriously Injured, and Walking Wounded.