FICTION

I don't know why the LT always insisted I carry the damn thing. It was awkward and heavy and I hadn't been trained on it. But Lt. Mason, and Lt. Hershey who was before him, and Lt. Strang who was before him all seemed to think a medic must not carry an M-16 and must carry a .45.

So I wore it, at least on medcap missions we conducted during the day. It's a good thing I never had to use it, and maybe the point was just to look menacing (as though a medic with an 8-inch long needle isn1t menacing enough). It did give me a nice swagger when I walked, and I started to enjoy the feel of the heavy metal piece in its holster.

One December day when we were set up on the east end of Ben Luc bridge, I decided to practice drawing it out of the holster, swinging my left arm up to hold it firmly in both hands, feet spread for a stable firing position, eyes on the target...Sgt Quesada, a shake-and-bake from north Texas was on my right looking over a map and Sellers was reading on a cot to my left when I suddenly (to them) executed my maneuver. As I yanked the .45 out of the holster, the barrel swung up then down and the weapon discharged, just missing my left hand and Sellers, driving a neat round hole in the asphalt between me and Sellers--would have been in one foot if I hadn't spread them in anticipation of my great John Wayne imitation. Before any of us had time to think Quesada had grabbed the weapon, holding it barrel down, and was letting out an non-stop stream of curses and obscentities, many in Spanish but by no means all. When he ran out of breath and stopped there was a moment of pure silence...no one spoke or moved...until some grunt at the rear of the line giggled and the rest of the squad suddenly erupted with laughter and the release of nervous tension, all at my expense. After that day I was permitted by the Lt. (required by the sergeants) to leave the .45 behind.

Since that day a number of erroneous stories have circulated. In one it is said that I nearly killed five of our own men (ten to this day claim to have been among them). In another it is said that I was aiming for my own foot and missed. The wildest is that I fired at Quesada's feet, yelling "Dance!" But none of those stories is true. Here I have set out the true story the way it happened and if I ever go back to Ben Luc bridge, I will dig the slug out of the asphalt to prove it.

C. Robertsİ 2/99