Ortega opened his eyes, and the deathlike darkness gave way to confused images and sounds.
Ortega was on-board the Huey, lying on its metal floorboard.
His chest was warm and sticky with his own blood, but he was alive.
The wind slapped him against the face while the noise of the engine was stunning, but nevertheless, he was alive.
Ortega had a clear view of Messner, Danforth, Krakauer and Eddie Johnson, one of the hostages they’d freed on that mission looking down at him. They were standing all around him, packed up against each other and sporting worried expressions on their faces. He could tell they were worried by the look in their eyes. Their torn clothing told of the time they’d recently spent on the run in the jungle, while he could hear someone talking on the radio behind them. Besides all that, of course, there was also the pain...
Ortega could hardly swallow.
It was excruciating.
Comparable to gigantic hand – made of needles – squeezing his chest diabolically. Jesus. Ortega couldn't be alive... Not if he felt that bad... Not with all that pain he couldn’t.
I guess that bullet gutted me– he thought.
It must have... and it must have been a large calibre too.
It probably ripped open my stomach because that’s the only plausible explanation for how much pain I’m in.
Ortega shifted his look down to his chest, but his camouflage uniform was so full of blood that he couldn't understand where he’d been hit.
Why the hell doesn’t anybody ever just die instantly in this damn war?
Why doesn’t everybody die, just like that, bam, it’s over, the same way they do in the movies?
Jesus.
Ortega stretched his hand out to Krakauer and Berry... fully aware there was nothing else they could do for him any more.
Be that as it may, he was happy they’d be there in his final moments before he died.
Even just seeing those faces made him happy, yeah...
He was happy about being awake.
He was still alive.
Still alive for the meantime at least. Not that there was much hope though, because he was well aware of the way he felt. He could feel it inside. He could feel it deep inside him reaching out to him.
Take me – he thought.
Berry took his hand and held it tight.
“Raven?” whispered Ortega, but Delmore Berry didn’t answer. No one did...
This because Rambo and Jorgenson were gone, and Ortega knew it.
“You’re gonna’ make it, Manuel,” Delmore said quietly to him.
“You’ve got this.”
Ortega was in a state of shock.
He had lost too much blood and was looking pale, too pale. The longer he laid on that metal floor the more blood he was going to lose.
Ten minutes later, there was so much blood that it began dripping onto the floor.
“We are almost there,” said Delmore.
“Hold on, brother.”
***
When the helicopter landed on the hospital roof In Dak To, the rest of the Baker Team was received by a small crowd of paramedics and military personnel.
Only once the hospital staff had put Ortega on a stretcher, cut his uniform wide open, checked on his temporary bandages and shot two injections of something or other into him did they finally take him to the OR.
In the meantime, a crowd made up of both medical and military personnel formed around the POWs and the Baker Team itself.
Only then did the team realize Trautman was right there in front of them, standing just behind the crowd.
He was there waiting for them in person.
An insurmountable wall had formed between them of Surgeons, paramedics and stretchers at the ready. Nevertheless, there he was standing right there in front of them, observing carefully and not letting them out sight.
Danforth rejected any doctor who offered him care, gesturing to show his annoyance (’Prisoners come first, what the fuck!') until finally stopping where he was to look the Colonel straight in the eye, despite the crowd separating them.
As soon as he caught his eye Trautman gave him a nod.
Then in a slow and pensive manner, the Colonel lowered his head and Danforth immediately understood both the gesture and the message.
Without saying a word, he’d told him –Well done –.
Well done, he said.
RAMBO YEAR ONE
TAKE ME TO THE DEVIL