Oh Janis......... :*( so tender....... kaffie > Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep > > Growing up, I wanted to be a doctor, but money was scarce so I went to > nursing school. In 1966, during my senior year, an Army Nurse Corps > recruiter came to talk to us. It all sounded so exciting; I would have a > chance to travel, it paid well and most importantly, I was assured that > I wouldn't have to go to Vietnam if I didn't want to - which I didn't. > > I signed up and after basic training, was assigned to Letterman Hospital > at the Presidio of San Francisco. During my two years at Letterman, I > received orders for Vietnam three times. The first two times I said no. > But the third time, I decided that my two years of experience would > probably be a huge asset over there. > > We landed in Tan Son Nhut Air Base and when the airplane door opened, I > nearly fell backwards, overwhelmed by the heat and the stench. Suddenly > all my experience seemed trivial. Being 23 years old seemed very young. > I was scared, but there was no turning back. > > After our debriefing, I was assigned to the 67th Evac Hospital in Qui > Nhon. When the helicopter landed on the hospital tarmac, they set my > things onto the ground. I climbed out, straightening my skirt. The > soldiers in the helicopter yelled, "Good luck, Captain," as they took > off. I was in my class A uniform, which meant I was also wearing nylons > and high heels. Nothing could have been less appropriate for the > surroundings. Miles of barbed wire topped by concertina wire encompassed > the hospital compound and the large adjoining airfield, along with acres > of hot concrete. > > I squared my shoulders and marched inside the grim cinder block building > in front of me. I was told to get some sleep, because I started > tomorrow. I gratefully fell into a bed and in the morning, donned my > hospital uniform - fatigues and army boots just like the soldiers. > Because I was a Captain, I was made Head Nurse on the Orthopedic Ward, > which primarily held soldiers with traumatic amputations. > > I took my role very seriously and had a reputation for strictness. > Although I had been a nurse in the States for two years, it did not > adequately prepare me for Viet Nam. I witnessed a tremendous amount of > suffering and watched a lot of men die. One of my rules was that nurses > were not allowed to cry. The wounded and dying men in our care need our > strength, I told them. We couldn't indulge in the luxury of our own > feelings. > > On the other hand, I was always straight with the soldiers. I would > never say, "Oh, you're going to be just fine," if they were on their way > out. I didn't lie. But I remember one kid that I didn't want to tell. > The badly wounded soldier couldn't have been more than 18 years old. I > could see immediately that there was nothing we could do to save him. He > never screamed or complained, even though he must have been in a lot of > pain. > > When he asked me, "Am I going to die?" I said, "Do you feel like you > are?" > > He said, "Yeah, I do." > > "Do you pray?" I asked him. > > "I know 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'" > > "Good," I said, "that'll work." When he asked me if I would hold his > hand, something in me snapped. This kid deserved more than just having > his hand held. "I'll do better than that," I told him. I knew I would > catch flak from the other nurses and corpsmen as well as possible jeers > from the patients, but I didn't care. > > Without a single look around me, I got onto the bed with him. I put my > arms around him, stroking his face and his hair as he snuggled close to > me. I kissed him on the cheek, and together we recited, "Now I lay me > down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep, If I should die before I > wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." Then he looked at me and said > just one more sentence, "I love you, Momma, I love you," before he died > in my arms - quietly and peacefully - as if he really were just going to > sleep. > > After a minute, I slipped off his bed and looked around. I'm sure my > face was set in a fierce scowl, daring anyone to give me a hard time. > But I needn't have bothered. All the nurses and corpsmen were breaking > my rule and crying silently, tears filling their eyes or rolling down > their cheeks. > > I thought of the dead soldier's mother. She would receive a telegram > informing her that her son had died of "war injuries." But that was all > it would say. I thought she might always wonder how it had happened. Had > he died out in the field? Had he been with anyone? Did he suffer? If I > were his mother, I would need to know. So later I sat down and wrote her > a letter. I thought she'd want to hear that in her son's final moments > he had been thinking of her. But mostly I wanted her to know that her > boy hadn't died alone. > > By Diana Dwan Poole > Reprinted by permission of Diana Dwan Poole © 1998, from the new Chicken > Soup for the Veteran's Soul. > > > ==== FOLKLORE Mailing List ==== > Your Listresses: > Missi <Richiele3@aol.com> > Kath <mzmouser@earthlink.net> > »§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« >