Wash day

“The sergeant had lain out near the clearing for almost two hours with a wounded medic. He had called over and over for a medevac, but none had come. Finally, a chopper from another outfit, an LOH, appeared, and he was able to reach it by radio. The pilot told him that he’d have to wait for one of his own ships, they weren’t coming down, and the sergeant told the pilot that if he did not land for them he was going to open fire from the ground and fucking well bring him down. So they were picked up that way, but there were repercussions. The commander’s name was Mal Hombre, and he reached the sergeant later that afternoon from a place with the call signal Violent Meals. ‘God damn it, Sergeant,’ he said through the static, ‘I thought you were a professional soldier.’ ‘I waited as long as I could, Sir. Any longer, I was gonna lose my man.’ ‘This outfit is perfectly capable of taking care of its own dirty laundry. Is that clear, sergeant?’ ‘Colonel, since when is a wounded trooper “dirty laundry”?’ ‘At ease, Sergeant,’ Mal Hombre said, and radio contact was broken.” – Michael Herr, Dispatches (emphasis in original)

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