When they arrived on the hospital rooftop, the roaring sound of the incoming Huey was deafening. There were people everywhere so Garner ordered to Berry and Ortega to keep them out of the immediate area.
“We don’t have any details about what state there in,” said Garner, keeping an eye on the Colonel, who was already waiting for the helicopter in front of him.
“We can’t let this crowd keep the doctors from doing their job.”
Ortega and Delmore nodded in agreement, but as they both turned to move towards the crowd to form a human rope, Berry put his hand up against Ortega’s chest to push him back, and said:
“I got this.”
“You sure?”
“Oh, yeah. I’ll have two of those guys from the military police over there with me and that’ll be enough. Now go Manuel, just go...”
Garner is right, - thought Ortega as he started walking out into the crowd.
They knew nothing about their physical condition so people couldn’t just jump at them the way they would if it had only been a couple of days.
Then, unexpectedly out of the darkness, the Huey roared.
-
Trautman, Garner and Ortega were standing a few meters away from the landing circle waiting for a seemingly lazy helicopter to lower itself to the ground.
When the hold door finally opened, the first one out was Rambo. He was limping, but he got off on his own two legs.
Jorgenson on the contrary, was on a stretcher, but his eyes were open and he looked conscious.
Thank God – thought Trautman.
His sense of relief was short lived however once he realized the state he was actually in.
Considering how much gear Rambo had when he set off, he didn’t have any of it now.
He had a torn uniform on and the knife still in its cover.
Then there was his face.
Rambo’s face was black and hollowed out.
Even his neck was haggard.
He looked so much smaller because his body had shrunk from starvation. His badly torn uniform showed all the sores and bruises that covered him in certain places.
His face showed no sign of life.
Trautman flinched at the sight of his blood shot eyes.
He was making his way across that rooftop as though he was still on his mission.
Feeling perplexed by this, Trautman tilted his head unconsciously as he reflected, and then it came to him.
He realized that they’d given up over there. Both of them had.
They had programmed him to keep going.
Programmed to move forward and trained to do it.
Whatever they had to do or whatever it took, all for the mission’s sake.
Just like a machine.
They’d turned into machines.
If there was anything that mission had spared his body, it had, in any case, taken its toll on his mind. His suffering had turned into hate, his hate transformed into rage, and that rage eventually killed a part of him. He’d died inside, and once he had, everything else was just a reaction.
It’s about actions and reactions because for every action there had to be a reaction.
You run out of water, you look for more.
Run out of food, you look for more.
Trautman was well aware of how that felt and recalled his time spent in Korea. Fighting for days at a time, when the time of day made no difference and breaks were a luxury at best.
Rambo slowed his pace, to the point of staggering until eventually having to kneel down, unable to go on. The time had come for the medical staff to step in, he knew it, and for the first time, he had to let them do it.
Everyone in the vicinity became quiet as Berry and the MPs made sure they all maintained a safe distance.
Trautman took a moment to look over Jorgenson who was lying on a stretcher.
The bandage on his neck was the first sign of injury the Colonel had noticed. He couldn’t tell if he’d given up hope because his eyes were closed.
Despite his physical exhaustion, Rambo pushed the doctor away, gesturing restlessly as he insisted they bring Jorgenson up to OR before checking him.
Trautman couldn’t help wondering if there was still a way to save him, or if what they were witnessing was, in all actuality, the end. He’d already seen this kind of thing in the past. Teams came back from missions quite different from how they’d left. In many cases, they were no longer capable of fighting again.
Seriously.
Rambo’s career could have been over because of this or a thousand other reasons such as the vast number of tropical diseases that were so widespread in that damn country.
Rambo – he thought.
John Rambo.
The Colonel thought back in time, up to the day where he’d met the young man for the first time.
Initially, Trautman had had some reservations regarding how much younger the soldier was in comparison.
As far as he was concerned, Rambo was too much of a loner, too aggressive and far too impulsive for the Special Forces. Special Forces meant that a single man was equivalent to nothing, and teamwork and self-control meant everything.
Natural born loners like Rambo, on the other hand, are always on the side, because they give too much thought to themselves often considering their mates to be uncontrollable variables.
With the passing of time in Fort Bragg however, the team worked better and better together. As such, they acquired the same kind of brotherly love for Rambo that the youngest of any family would get.
Then, in Vietnam, Rambo proved to be one of the best, and did so, from the get-go. He had even received a recommendation for a Medal of Honour right after his very first mission Black Spot.
A Medal he probably wouldn’t receive owing to the secret nature of SOG missions.
Respecting his wishes, the doctor left Rambo as he was, kneeling on the ground. He then walked over to the paramedics, recommending they take away his knife before attempting to examine him further.
After that, the doctor made his way to Trautman.
“He has suffered extreme dehydration and malnutrition, probably has malaria and a nasty infection in one foot. I want that foot in surgery in fifteen minutes. As for the other guy...”
“Grizzly,” said Trautman.
“Yes, that’s right the one you refer to as Grizzly. His condition is worse. An AK bullet hit him in the neck, but that was two days ago. Lucky for him, Raven had some penicillin and streptomycin left and was astute enough to treat him with it. Frankly speaking, if he’s made it till now than with nothing but that drug treatment, he’s likely to make it.”
The doctor paused briefly, before adding:
“The pilot filled me in on how long they’d actually spent out there. He also told me where they’d got lost and then, subsequently found.
On the last two days Grizzly couldn’t even walk and Raven had to carry him over his back.”
The physician shook his head in disbelief.
“What that young man did for his team, under such circumstances almost seems impossible.”
“But it’s not.”
“I realize that.”
“We’ll need to talk to them.”
“You can’t. Grizzly is unconscious. I put him to sleep myself because he looked upset, whereas the other one...”
“The other one walked in here on his own two legs,” said Trautman.
“Not exactly, he got to there more or less,” said the doctor as he pointed a finger to the ground
“Then, he fell to his knees.”
Trautman didn't comment.
“Fine,” the doctor said looking at him.
“I’ll give you five minutes but not a single minute more.”
Rambo pushed away all the prodding hands as hospital staff attempted to sit him on a wheel chair so he stood on his own two feet instead. As he made his way towards the hospital entrance, with every step he took he could feel his strength coming back.
John Rambo - thought Trautman.
It was hard to believe that he was the same curious soldier, the one who was always asking the Colonel questions on absolutely everything, the whole time they were at Fort Bragg. It felt like such a lifetime ago.
Yet, in that particular moment, Rambo wasn’t acting like himself at all.
He was acting like a completely different person.
Trautman asked himself who that young man in front of him really was.
‘You can only really understand who a person actually is when you break them,” thought Trautman.
If that was the truth, and it was years that Trautman believed it was, then there was no better time than now to figure out what kind of warrior John Rambo actually was.
***
Trautman wasn’t sure if Rambo had seen him or not.
Someone had given Rambo the message to go into a sort of hospital storage room, and the wounded soldier had complied.
“Colonel, you do the briefing. I’ll take care of everything else,” said Garner.
“You sure, Garner?”
Garner smiled back at him.
“If not, how else can I be of any Goddamn use to you?”
Trautman nodded thankfully and gestured for Ortega to follow him so they walked into the storage room together.
Trautman, Ortega and Rambo were the only three people in that room once that door closed.
Almost zombie-like, Rambo eventually turned to face them but his reaction was entirely unexpected.
He didn’t bat an eyelid at Trautman. He didn’t even acknowledge that the Colonel was actually there. No recognition, whatsoever. Rambo was staring directly, and only at Ortega, and when he finally realized it was really him, he went off like a bomb.
“YOU LEFT US OUT THERE TO DIE, YOU GODDAMN FUCKING BASTARD!” Rambo shouted furiously at Ortega.
Then he jumped for him, grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up off the floor by his shirt.
“RAMBO!” yelled Trautman frantically.
The stitches on Ortega’s chest opened straight away, and without warning, a bright red stain appeared on one side of his white shirt spreading by the second.
“Johnny, I...”
“YOU SENTENCED US TO DEATH! BY CUTTING THAT DAMN ROPE YOU CONDEMNED US BOTH TO DEATH!”
His bloodshot eyes glared at Ortega almost in a demon-like fashion. In fact, if looks could kill, they would have cut right through him.
Without warning however, a sound, maybe some kind of radio frequency pierced him so fiercely, he suddenly felt confused.
Perhaps in reality it was the sound of a sudden doubt, or second thought. Whatever it was however, if it was inside his head, it was telling him to stop.
Rambo let go of Ortega at once, and he crashed to the floor.
He fell on his back and hit the floor hard, painfully grasping at the unstitched area under his arm with one hand.
Not more than a moment had passed before Rambo found himself right back at it, lunging for him a second time.
“RAMBO!” Trautman bellowed yet again, trying to stop him, but in vain.
The young man managed to hit Ortega with a left hook straight in the jaw, in all fury.
“WE WERE FRIENDS, MANUEL!” Rambo continued, almost in tears this time.
“WE WERE friends.”
Ortega spit blood onto the floor and lifted his head back up again looking at Rambo straight in the eyes. Ortega turned his head and offered Rambo his other cheek for a second punch.
It was when Rambo was looking at Ortega that he seemed to realize what was really going on.
“FUCK!” he shouted, incredibly frustrated with himself.
Trautman was finally able to get between the two.
Rambo turned to one of the steel lockers, picked it up off the ground and threw it to the other side of the room. He shouted again in frustration watching it hit the other wall.
“AAAARGH,” he shouted.
“Goddammit, that’s enough, Johnny!” bellowed Trautman.
“Do you hear me soldier? That’s enough! Look at me!”
Trautman pointed at Ortega, who was in pain still lying on the ground.
“Ortega made a field-decision, Rambo.”
“He made the decision he needed to accomplish his mission. Do you hear me soldier?”
Rambo turned to face the Colonel.
The young man was breathing loudly, almost hyperventilating and for a split-second, he looked as though he was going to hit the Colonel too.
“The prisoners were the mission, Johnny.
You weren’t the mission’s fucking objective Rambo nor were Jorgenson or Ortega. You weren’t indispensable.
Ortega was the Goddamn team leader and he proved he could live up to the role.
When the time came to cut that rope, he almost drowned doing it.”
Those words made Rambo grit his teeth even harder, like a hard pill to swallow.
Those words just made him even angrier.
“Ortega did what he had to do to save that last hostage, Lowell, if I remember correctly. You see, I do know everything that went on during that mission Rambo.”
Rambo turned away.
“And do you know why that is, Rambo? It’s because my Goddamn men know better than to feed me any kind of bullshit just to protect somebody’s sorry ass. No fucking way. I know the whereabouts of where you got lost. I know everything and I do because I Goddamn care enough to know it.”
This time Trautman was the one who turned his back on Rambo.
He pointed outside the room and continued:
“Could Ortega have done any better? Maybe he Goddamn could have, but then again, maybe he couldn’t. When all’s said and done, we’re talking about a fucking field-decision, Johnny. We aren’t talking about a run-of-the-mill decision some asshole makes as he sits in a fucking office somewhere drinking coffee at his Goddamn desk. Those pricks have all the time in the world at their disposal to do it. For fuck’s sake, you of all people should know better than that. A decision made on the field is never fucking perfect. It can’t be. It can be good or bad, better or worse, but never fucking perfect. Understand?”
Rambo didn't say anything while Ortega, who was still sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, looked up.
The bloodstain on his shirt had spread all the way down to his belt.
“Maybe there was some other way to save Lowell,” said Trautman.
“Or maybe, considering how badly he was wounded, he might have been a goner right from the beginning, but we’ll never know for certain. That’s war and that’s how it fucking is Rambo. War doesn’t give you any Goddamn dry runs. It’s not a school and there’s no right or wrong answer when you’re at war.”
Trautman stopped and studied Rambo attentively.
Then, almost whispering, he added:
“The reason I’m sure is because of my Goddamn front line, and first-hand experience, the same as yours.”
Rambo finally seemed to have himself under control so at least it was a start.
Trautman went on to say:
“You’re behaving like Goddamn kids, the both of you.
Yes, and I mean you too Ortega. You and your Goddamn, self-inflicted breakdown I’m going through a crisis bullshit.
‘I don’t want to kill this’ and ‘I don’t want to lose that’, then there’s ‘it’s my fault... no, it’s yours … no, it’s no one’s fault’.
So, enough is enough Ortega. I’m really fucking sick of your bullshit.
You both knew it from the beginning that when you’re at war ‘being the best’ doesn’t always cut it and that sometimes someone dies anyway.
That’s right, people just die, no matter what you do and that’s that, got it?
Somebody has to die while someone else has to get his hands all bloody.
This shit happens because it’s war for fuck’s sake and wars are dirty things. That’s it.
If you aren’t ready to get your hands dirty for this job, then you’d better get the fuck out now, and I mean the both of you, you fucking pussies.”
Rambo shifted his weight from one leg to the other as he stared down at Ortega, not knowing what to think.
Ortega on the contrary, didn’t take his eyes off of Trautman.
“You have to learn how to live with this Goddammit and you’re both going to do it. The reason I’m telling you this is because Baker Team B is moving on anyway, whether it’s with or without you two pricks.
Therefore, either we put an end to this Goddamn nonsense right here and right now, or I don’t want either one of assholes in SOG from this point on so you’re out. Have I made myself clear?”
The two soldiers stood quietly, staring at each other. Although he was squinting, Rambo made no effort to hide the rage in his eyes.
Unlike Rambo however, Ortega looked on at him calmly, almost submissively and glossy-eyed.
Trautman sighed.
“You’ve got the rest of your Goddamn lives to torture yourselves and one another about what went on during that mission.
As long as you’re part of my unit, you’ve got to get the fuck over it because if you can’t play the game, you’ve chosen the wrong job.”
Trautman made a gesture of finality and then said:
“Now, leave us alone Ortega. Johnny needs to debrief.”
Ortega went to reach for the door, but Trautman put his hand in front of the knob first and said:
“Get your stitches checked.”
*
When the door closed, Trautman found himself alone with Rambo, so alone it was uncomfortable.
“Debriefing,” he then went on to say.
Rambo however didn’t reply.
He just stood there. His head may have been down but he was looking straight up at Trautman through the top of his eyes and was still taking quick and short breaths.
He was a tiger ready to attack, but Trautman wasn’t intimidated.
“Debriefing,” he repeated again, with a different tone.
Giving no reply, Rambo moved closer to him instead, until their chests were little more than centimetres apart. They were now in the kind of stance men took right before a fight. Trautman had a look on his face however, that showed no sign of backing down.
“Look at me, Rambo. Take a really good fucking look,” said Trautman.
Rambo looked like he was going to explode.
“You need to understand that I know exactly what’s fucking going on inside of you,” Trautman told him taking a half step back from him.
“You’ve got one chance and one alone to take back every Goddamn thing you had before, and you have that chance now. If you waste it, you’ll never get it again, or your old life for that matter.
It’ll be over for you, and your fucking life hereafter will be nothing else short of hell.
Even in the US.”
Rambo’s upper lip went up in disgust but he took a step back away from Trautman, following his lead. He was still taking short breaths, almost hyperventilating, but in the end, looked away.
“And now, DEBRIEF SOLDIER!” Trautman bellowed.
This time Rambo jumped back startled, almost woken out of a dream.
Staring blankly ahead, the look in his eyes became increasingly distant and confused.
It was slowly starting to come back to him.
“Enemy fire had cut us off from the rest of the team so we got to the rope late,” he began.
“Ok, so we were late, but the intensity of enemy-fire we were up against made withdrawing impossible. When we finally managed to break away from them, we couldn’t just run to the rope because they were still on our tails and we risked getting shot at if we were out in the open water as we crossed. We then proceeded with yet another evasive manoeuvre taking us even longer. When we finally got to the rope safely, with the head start we needed to cross it, it wasn’t there anymore.
Crossing that river with no rope was out of question so we ran north hoping the team would have done the same in order to help us cross but in a different place. There wasn’t anyone there however. They’d given full priority to the prisoners.”
Rambo paused and stared blankly not adding anything else.
“Go on, son,” Trautman said to him, and with no further hesitation, he went back to telling his story.
“From the operative point of view, the first two nights went reasonably well, all things considered, but there was, nevertheless something not right with Jorgenson.”
Rambo turned to Trautman in an effort to underline that point.
“There was something, subdued but in place from the very beginning. Jorgenson has something wrong with him, Sir”
Rambo dragged a chair in front of Trautman and sat down on it.
He was exhausted.
“I don’t know, Sir. I’m not entirely sure how to say it. He was, well what I mean to say Sir, is that he became aggressive. This hostility didn’t pertain only to the situation we were in but he got aggressive, to the point of being violent with me as well. He acted cruelly, insane-like at times. I’m not a doctor so I can’t explain it. Whatever, it the reason for it was, it wasn’t normal, Sir”
“It’s all right son, just go on.”
“Once we realized we were really on our own, we decided it was best to keep moving the same way we that had got us there, Sir. What ended up happening was from that point on we weren’t able to shake them. They were unceasingly at our heels. We had those Goddamn’ motherfuckers right behind us, and it went on for days on end.
We didn’t sleep more than fifteen minutes at time, eating what we found while going forward so nothing substantial, just Vietnamese tubers and roots. We never actually stopped again after that, and especially not at night.
I always had a general idea of how far they actually were behind us. At times we were able to distance ourselves more because they coordinated with other teams or temporarily lost us and hard to start looking all over again combing the entire area. We never completely got rid of them though, so hunting under those circumstances was almost impossible.
We had to ration everything obviously, but in the end, we finished it all anyway. At that pace and under those conditions what we found didn’t measure up to what we needed.
Then, two days ago, the VCs engaged us directly and that’s where Carl got wounded. Nevertheless, we managed to get away that time too despite it all.
Even though we’d been so careful about using what little ammo we had, shortly then after we ran out. Any of the hunting I did after that involved using little more than my bare hands and if we did actually pause, it was only briefly. So, we barely had anything to eat or drink those remaining 48 hours in the Jungle, and since Jorgenson couldn’t walk I threw him over my back and carried him pretty much until we were rescued.”
“The last forty-eight hours we were in the jungle, before you found us, about fifty miles of march, more or less, I was carrying him on my back.
Jorgenson couldn’t go on Sir, and he wasn’t only referring to the pain.
He’d given up.
He was doomed. He was convinced the VC would find him and that they were right behind us so he preferred giving up to going on under those circumstances.
Even when they finally came and got us, I think that the Vietcong were there.
They were probably setting the usual L-shaped ambush up when the helicopter arrived sooner than expected, before they were in position, so engaging would have been suicidal on their part.
I think you were too early for them. The crew had no idea how risky picking us up actually was.”
“No Rambo, believe me when I tell you that they knew fully well how dangerous it all was.”
Rambo was quiet.
“Tell me more about Jorgenson,” inquired the Colonel.
“Yes.”
“Rambo, about Jorgenson.”
“Yes,” he repeated.
He’s out of adrenaline – thought Trautman to himself.
Once the adrenaline stops running, he’ll feel much worse than he already does now.
Come on Rambo, it’s the last stretch.
I know there’s something else you want to tell me.
Once you make this last effort, it’ll all be over.
I promise.
“On our third night, Jorgenson tried to kill himself,” Rambo said to Trautman quietly who couldn’t believe his ears once he’d heard it. Rambo however, went on with his narration despite being dazed, leaving Trautman unsure about what he’d heard.
“We were just talking and he was explaining something or other to me. Then, out of nowhere, he grabbed hold of the 1911 and I had to take it away from him. Only then did he go ahead and actually confess.”
“Confess? Confessed to what?” inquired Trautman.
“What did he say exactly?”
“He told me he hasn’t been able to sleep since we’ve been back. Those rare occasions when he did manage to asleep he wasn’t waking up feeling rested at all anyway.
He said that when he got ready for a mission he could never remember where he’d put his gear away the last time he used it, or he always needed to stop and rummage through all his packed gear once he’d made his bags because he couldn’t recall where exactly in his backpack to find it.
There were certain noises which had become intolerable, almost driving him crazy and that he was always full of rage but didn’t know why.
Honestly Sir, believe me, it’s all true.
He gets furious, even regarding unimportant issues.
He’d train too hard, complaining of acute muscle pain and yet wouldn’t stop.
That night he told me he had no choice but to train that hard or he’d have gone insane. He said he couldn't do otherwise.”
This was the first time anything like this had found its way to Trautman. There was no question about how serious it was however. He could feel it.
“Then when he got his neck injury, he became a demon, Sir. I wish I knew how to describe it better but there’s no other way really. The things