The Man In The Doorway

by: Author Unknown,
They came in low and hot, close to the trees
and dropped their tail in a flare,
rocked forward
and we raced for the open doorways.
This was always the worst for us;
we couldn't hear anything
and our backs were turned to the tree line.
The best you could hope for was a sign
on the face of the man in the doorway,
leaning out waiting to help with a tug
or to lay down some lead.
Sometimes you could glance quickly at his face
and pick up a clue
as to what was about to happen.
We would pitch ourselves in headfirst
and tumble against the scuffed riveted aluminum,
grab for a handhold
and will that son-of-a-bitch into the air.
Sometimes the deck was slick with blood or worse,
sometimes something had been left
in the shadows under the web seats,
and sometimes they landed in a shallow river
to wash them out.
Sometimes they were late,
sometimes...they were parked
in some other LZ
with their rotors turning a lazy arc,
a ghost crew strapped in once too often,
motionless,
waiting for their own lift,
their own bags,
once too often into the margins.
The getting on and the getting off
were the worst for us
but this was all he knew,
the man in the doorway,
he was always standing there in the noise,
watching, urging...swinging out with his gun,
grabbing the black plastic and heaving,
leaning out and spitting, spitting the taste away,
as though it would go away...
They came in low and hot,
close to the trees
and dropped their tail in a flare,
rocked forward
and began to kick the boxes out,
bouncing against the skids,
piling up on each other, food and water, and bullets...
a thousand pounds of C's, warm water and rounds,
7.62mm,
half a ton of life and death.
And when the deck was clear,
we would pile the bags,
swing them against their weight
and throw them through the doorway,
his doorway,
onto his deck
and nod
and he'd speak into that little mike
and they'd go nose down
and lift into their last flight,
their last extraction.
Sometimes he'd raise a thumb
or perhaps a fist
or sometimes just a sly, knowing smile,
knowing we were staying
and he was going
but also knowing he'd be back,
he'd be back in a blink,
standing in the swirling noise
and the rotor wash,
back to let us rush
through his door
and skid across his deck
and will that son-of-a-bitch into the air.
They came in low and hot,
close to the trees
and dropped their tail in a flare,
rocked forward,
kicked out the boxes
and slipped the litter
across the deck
and sometimes he'd lean down
and hold the IV
and brush the dirt off of a bloodless face,
or hold back the flailing arms
and the tears,
a thumbs-up to the right seat
and you're only minutes away
from the white sheets, the saws and the plasma.
They came in low and hot,
close to the trees
and dropped their tail in a flare,
rocked forward
and we'd never hear that sound again
without feeling our stomachs go just a bit weightless,
listen just a bit closer
for the gunfire
and look up
for the man in the doorway.