Medevac

This poem is about a medevac operation by two pilots on an oil field west of Mumbai (Bombay). Flying conditions were appalling. The American pilots remained true to their word when they declared many weeks earlier that if we needed them, they would come. The pilots were ex-Vietnam veterans and had flown gunship and medevac operations there.


The pilot’s voice crackles, ‘Papa Charlie, this is Kilo Lima,’
The ship’s hove to, plunging and heaving in the writhing swell,
‘ETA your helo-deck, zero three minutes. Are we clear? Over.’
I glance at the lacerated diver. The bastard’s going through hell,
At last, the chopper beats towards us in the hot and humid air.

‘Roger, Kilo Lima, deck’s clear. We’ve got a damned heavy sea.’
Now I can hear the percussive drumming of the huey's rotors.
‘Copy that, Papa Charlie. It’s like goin’ into a hot LZ!’
My crew stand ready by the deck as the bird approaches,
And the chopper beats above us in the hot and humid air.

The wind, salt and rust from the deck whip about our faces,
Beneath the rotors’ rhythmic beating, we calm the diver’s fears.
We check his weeping wounds for the blood is seeping through,
He’s in shock; we’ve stitched him badly. We wipe away his tears.
Thank God, the chopper beats beside us in the hot and humid air.

Thumbs up! We have seconds. By Christ, it’s a howling gale,
Go! Go fast, get the door and watch the bloody tail rotor!
The crew chief pulls the stretcher in. The engine exhales
A shrieking blast of Jet-A. We clear the deck and take cover.
The chopper beats away to Juhu in the hot and humid air.

Photo by Milan Degraeve on Unsplash
















Location: Mumbai, India

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