Dwight Humphries

Chu Lai
Quang Tin Province

It's quiet on the night shift,
If the snuffle of respirators
Is quiet, the gurgle of patients
With sucking chest wounds trying
To breathe is quiet. I attempt to go
Through healing motions in this foreign
Land. Outside the compound is the night
Alive with Charlie. There is too much
Silence in this too-near a tomb. It's
Almost a relief to hear incoming.
Rockets, sounds like; close, closer.
Through the window I see friendly fire
stitch night. The men are scared,
They're weaponless and a rocket does
Not distinguish what flesh it lacerates;
They can't run for the bunkers nor can I.

Closer!
God, I'm scared.
Why so much noise? Why is war so loud?

I try not to break and run, can they
See how I tremble? I'm only a nurse,
I don't carry a gun yet I think I would
Shoot back now in payment for this fear,
This bile at the back of my throat.
Is that me moaning?
Or us all in the ward? Be coo-

A sudden light, I am lifted by unseen,
Unkind hands; a dim remembrance of pain
Somewhere, a twisting trajectory:
I thought flight was graceful
Then too soon a wall I break with my body...

Blackness -
A numb cocoon of tinnitus. I swim miles
To the surface. What happened?
There was incoming; that's it, we must have
Been hit - wait, I've been hit. Now
I'm one with my charges.

What damage? What about the me?
I attempt to rise, they're helpless
But find so am I, my limbs dead weight.

Think! Assess the damage.
Are my eyes open? There, now.
Scotoma like flies on papa-san's rice.
Probably from the blast; what do they
Call them? 122s? The vision's clearing;
I have both eyes it appears. What is my
Position? At the bottom of a deep, silent
Well with building scrap tossed on me.
My hearing's gone; I know why; that trickle
From my ears can only be blood - ruptured
Eardrums, deaf now as well as stunned.

What else is traumatized?
My hands seem intact, I count
The fingers - all there, now the arms.
Trouble is, the left one is pierced
In several places, I can see blood,
Rips like scarlet paper, all uneven
But nerves cut; no use that arm.
The right? Where is it?
Where is it? Where?
I shift then know, under me and
The angle says broken; yes,
Definitely fractured. My vision is
Clear now though I'm reluctant to move,
To check the triage; the ulna grates
As it juts through my skin.
Million dollar wound?
That's selfish - what about the men?

I don't know who's left in the dust,
The lazy dust settling down and anyway,
I can't help. What else? My legs
Are numb; are they there? Yes, they're
Just trapped it seems, but there's
A wetness I know is blood, a steady beat -
Severed artery.

My breath comes in great gasps,
I breathe deep then my whole chest
Is pain - broken ribs for certain and
A bubbling; pneumothorax from a rib
Or shrapnel - I'm drowning in what blood
I have left. Which side? The right;
I command myself to roll onto that side -
Each cough sends froth from my mouth.
Oh God, this is hell...

Well, shock should be setting in
And it steals upon me, capillaries
At the extremity shut down, cold
Seeps from the periphery in - trembling,
I know how bad it is.
Can't anyone get to me?
I can't hear anyone coming, I'm deaf
And there's probably too much fire.

Why me? What did I do to deserve
This miserable war? This endless
Pain procession of suffering and now
I'm hit and no help on the way.
My blood is not an everlasting stream
Like the wounded who dust-off
From the torn boonies.

Nausea - I'm tired, too tired to vomit;
I want to sleep, I know it is my final sleep.
Death's cold already chills my core - I never
Thought I would freeze in the tropical 'Nam.
Stillness; I wonder idlly if the artery
Is sucking air.
Not long,
Not long,
Not long have I...

Silence, chill and aloneness, I haven't
Strength to scream. I'm only 25, quarter
Of a century, an eternity to come as I
Continue the process of exsanguation.

And there is a candle
In the bullet-crossed darkness:
It is me, my mind, my heart.
It burns low, wavers
In a wind old as war
And goes out...

Dwight E. Humphries, the unofficial poet laureate of the Atlanta open mic scene, has published in more than 400 publications including Interim, Negative Capability and the Rockford Review. For a copy of his chapbook, Pugmarks, send $6 to 1111 Oakview Rd. #20, Decatur, GA 30030-4216.