Second Medic Call

Sorry for the delay in posting, folks. My mom passed away last week so it was a bit crazy hereabouts. She was diagnosed with terminal lung cancer while I was away in BCT. They gave her only a month or two to live but the old broad pushed it out to almost a year. Luckily, she was doing alright, able to move about and live her life until the last few days. She faded quickly, over the course of a day or two and went without any suffering, for which I am grateful.

So, on to happier things . . .

Where did I leave off my rambling tale? Ah yes, my second Medic call! This one wasn't nearly as dramatic as the first, it was just funny that I wound up covered in blood again before I'd had a single moment of training. It happened while we were "toeing the line" - our first formation of the day at 0430- inside the bay. Illness was running wild through the platoon: we'd lost two guys to Mono and a half dozen or more had strep, while the rest of us were dealing with the flu in one form or another (I was sick every single day of BCT!) We'd all become accustomed to the hacking, wheezing, sneezing and groaning all around us so we barely noticed that one kid, I'll call him Alaska, was moaning and wobbling as he stood at attention . . . we all were! It wasn't until I heard my Jamaican buddy yell: "Catch him, catch him!" that I realized anything was wrong. Alaska passed out cold while standing in formation. Went out like a light and face planted into the concrete floor. (Nobody moved fast enough to catch him!) DS Comic was on duty, back in his office and he came running out when he heard all the commotion. So, what are his first words when he sees Alaska down and out?

"Coppinger, get your ass over here!"

Great, another DS who thinks I know what the hell I'm doing.

Alaska had landed chin first, breaking his two bottom front teeth in half and driving the entire bottom row of his choppers up through his bottom lip. His eyes were rolled back up in his head and he was laying on his back, gurgling and spitting blood everywhere as he gasped for air. (The guys next to him had rolled him over on his back and were staring at him with that charming WTF?? look folks get when they're panicked.) Again, not knowing what to do I let a little common sense prevail. I held c-spine and rolled him onto his side so he'd stop choking on all the blood (and holy shit! there was a LOT of blood!) I stopped his buddies from trying to pull his impaled lip off of his teeth and got a clean white sock (nope, we had no medical kit in the bay!) pressed up against it to slow the bleeding. DS Comic called 9-1-1 on his cell, then made everyone else leave the bay except for me, him, my Jamaican battle, and Alaska of course. I kept talking to Alaska and he slowly regained consciousness, though he was still out of it. The EMT's showed up, slipped on a c-collar, put real bandages up against the wound and carted him off a few minutes later. After they were gone, Jamaica and I started cleaned up the blood while DS Comic handled phone calls and paperwork. He came back into the bay as we were finishing up . . .

"Hey, Drill Sergeant . . . " I said, "you know I'm not a Medic, right?"

He stopped and looked at me with a smile. "Really? You looked like one to me. That was good work, soldier." Then he ordered us to clean ourselves up and get our asses downstairs for a PT session.

Now, that doesn't seem like much I guess, but here's the thing: DS's NEVER call anyone soldier. You're a "private" at best . . . more often: a privvit, shitbag, wannabe, high speed, or hero. None of which are said with anything other than mockery and disdain. You don't rate being called a soldier until after you've graduated BCT. DS Comic was the first one to grant me that title and it meant a lot . . . ya' know: for about five minutes, until they had us low crawling in the icy rain down at "the beach" and I was once more a nameless "privvit!"

Such is the life of a soldier, I guess.

Later!