Angel of Okinawa; Chapter 17

 

Angel of Okinawa; Chapter 17

© 2024 by Amber Wright

Derek's glazed eyes shifted slightly but I knew he didn’t know me. He didn’t know anybody. His expression was too blank.

His mind looked numbed and wounded.

He must have encountered a horrific shock to make him pitch into his mind that deep. I kept my hand on his shoulder, hoping he would wake up from his daze but nothing happened.

I saw two Navy medics make their way through the maze of pallets on the porch to us.

I kept my eyes fastened onto his slowly rising chest to make sure his heart was still beating.

Derek's skin looked pale and sweaty, and I knew he had to be worked on right away if he was to survive. Please, God! I screamed inside.

“You know him, girl?” one of the medics asked me.

I nodded so he added in command, “Please go get him a drink and bowl of cool water and a rag for him then.”

I stood up, glanced down at Derek, and rushed off to the kitchen.

I heard a ragged yell coming from the porch, and looked through the window in time as one of the medics were digging into the bloody mess of Derek’s lower pant leg.

The other medic was holding him up by his shoulders and firmly gripping his neck for his pulse.

I saw Derek sag a little and my fingers flew into action. A glass of Meema’s orange punch, a bowl of the coolest water on hand and the softest rag we owned.

Armed with my supplies I came back to them as they were finishing bandaging his knee. They laid Derek back down and left me to my work.

I took a deep breath and began.

First, I wiped his sweaty, chattering face with the cool wet rag. Then, I slapped his face lightly, trying to revive him from the shock.

He didn’t respond like I wanted him to so I simply held his head with one hand and brought my glass of orange punch to his cracked dry lips.

“Drink, Derek.” I spoke gently but firmly.

Thankfully, the liquid disappeared from the glass slowly and he finished the glassful of orange punch.

I saw more sweat beading across his tanned forehead so I dipped the rag into the water again and wiped his face clean again.

Girlfriend or not, I told myself stubbornly with clenched jaws, I’m going to take care of him until he gets well!

^{· · ·}

By the time Derek finished his second glass of orange punch, I knew he was beginning to revive a little and breathe more evenly instead of deep, unsteady breaths. Silently, I thanked God, and washed his face again.

The afternoon heat began to cool, thankfully, and I checked on him after every patient I tended to. I wanted to be sure that he was alright.

My aunt Phan looked even paler as I saw her step from the house and onto the porch. I saw her daze and cringed.

Would she ever heal? I wondered silently, but smiled encouragingly at her as she walked past me. “Hello, Aunt Phan.”

Phan glanced blankly at me and walked on. I felt a heavy stone sink into my chest. This was not like Aunt Phan.

Aunt Phan was usually talkative and smiling even during difficult times. Her daughter’s death had caused her to die inside, I could see.

Would Phan ever live again to feel the beauty of the island when this war was over? I prayed so, but something inside me knew. I would not hope falsely.

As I was about to turn my head from Aunt Phan’s downcast figure, I saw her unfold a little slip of paper. Her eyes fell to the sheet and a sort of strangled noise came from her.

I leaped to my feet and raced through the maze of pallets on the back porch to reach her. I was close enough to hear her ragged breathing and muttering, “No, no, God! Not him!”

Instantly, I knew her husband had been reported dead. I knew.

The look on her face, the clutch of her hands, the strangled expression on her listless eyes.

No, not to Aunt Phan! Please no! I wanted to scream. I watched my aunt stand still like a stone pillar—silently for a moment—until the sound of torpedoes filled the air, striking at the U. S. frontline of Onna.

I heard a scream and watched numbly as Aunt Phan ran into where the fight was taking place.

Once her flying figure moved a notch farther from my blurry vision, I moved my feet into action towards her.

Behind me, I heard Meema screaming. “Stop, Angel! Phan, stop! Angel!”

I knew I couldn’t turn around by this time. I was already into the mass of vines and on the trail of Aunt Phan. I had to get her. She would die if I didn’t. And could I live with my conscience if I knew I hadn’t done anything to stop her death?

I felt the air below my feet as I flew over the tall grasses and matted vines as I raced after Aunt Phan.

She was getting farther away…and yet farther from me…so far.

I ran like the wind through vines and hazy gun smoke, and the space between us began closing up, slowly, shortening the gap until…I heard a rain of bullets fill the air and felt a hand jerk me nose flat to the ground.

I smelled the wilted grass and dirt below me, and blinked in stunned surprise.