The Man In the Doorway
They came in low and hot, close to the trees and dropped their tail
in a flare, rocked forward and we raced for the open doorways. This was always
the worst for us, we couldn't hear anything and our backs were turned to the
tree line. The best you could hope for was a sign on the face of the man in the
doorway, leaning out waiting to help with a tug or to lay down some lead.
Sometimes you could glance quickly at his face and pick up a clue as to what was
about to happen. We would pitch ourselves in headfirst and tumble against the
scuffed riveted aluminum, grab for a handhold and will that son-of-a-bitch into
the air. Sometimes the deck was slick with blood or worse, sometimes something
had been left in the shadows under the web seats, sometimes they landed in a
shallow river to wash them out. Sometimes they were late, sometimes...they were
parked in some other LZ with their rotors turning a lazy arc, a ghost crew
strapped in once too often, motionless, waiting for their own lift, their own
bags, once too often into the margins. The getting on and the getting off were
the worst for us but this was all he knew, the man in the doorway, he was always
standing there in the noise, watching, urging...swinging out with his gun,
grabbing the black plastic and heaving, leaning out and spitting, spitting the
taste away, as though it would go away...
They came in low and hot, close to the
trees and dropped their tail in a flare, rocked forward and began to kick the
boxes out, bouncing against the skids, piling up on each other, food and water,
and bullets...a thousand pounds of C's, warm water and rounds, 7.62mm, half a
ton of life and death. And when the deck was clear, we would pile the bags,
swing them against their weight and throw them through the doorway, his doorway,
onto his deck and nod and he'd speak into that little mic and they'd go nose
down and lift into their last flight, their last extraction. Sometimes he'd
raise a thumb or perhaps a fist or sometimes just a sly, knowing smile, knowing
we were staying and he was going but also knowing he'd be back, he'd be back in
a blink, standing in the swirling noise and the rotor wash, back to let us rush
through his door and skid across his deck and will that son-of-a-bitch into the
air.
They came in low and hot, close to the trees and dropped their tail in a flare, rocked forward, kicked out the boxes and slipped the litter across the deck and sometimes he'd lean down and hold the IV and brush the dirt off of a bloodless face, or hold back the flailing arms and the tears, a thumbs-up to the right seat and you're only minutes away from the white sheets and the saws and the plasma.
They came in low and hot, close to the
trees and dropped their tail in a flare, rocked forward and we'd never hear that
sound again without feeling our stomachs go just a bit weightless, listen just a
bit closer for the gunfire and look up for the man in the doorway.
Author Unknown