LEST WE FORGET

 

By: Kenda

 

 

An Emergency, Touched By An Angel crossover story, though the emphasis is on the characters from Emergency.

 

Lest We Forget is dedicated to my readers.  Your input regarding what elements you enjoy most in a fan fic story provides continuous inspiration.

 

 

Lest We Forget

 

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun, and in the morning,

We will remember them.

Amen.*

 

 

*Lest We Forget - a sonnet written during the first World War and often recited at funerals of war veterans.

 

    

Prologue

 

     The woman sat curled in a corner of her couch with a box of Kleenex in her lap.  Tissues soiled by tears and mucus were crumpled into balls and piled on the end table at her left elbow.  The volume on the TV was so low she could barely hear the reporter’s voice.  Not that it mattered.  The pictures that had been broadcast all day told the story.  It was April 30th, 1975, and Saigon was falling to the North Vietnamese. 

 

     “Why the hell am I sitting here crying?” the woman asked the empty room as she wiped at fresh tears.  “What the hell is wrong with me lately?  All I want to do is cry, dammit.”

 

     Unseen by the home’s owner were the two women sitting at the dining room table.  The house was an old but stately bungalow with a wide front porch. A wicker settee accompanied by two wicker rocking chairs made the porch an inviting place to relax.  The rooms within the house were spacious and airy, possessing ten-foot high ceilings.  The living and dining areas formed one big room separated only by an archway trimmed with the type of elaborately carved woodworking that hadn’t been used in more than fifty years now.  The kitchen, with its maple cabinets, maple drop-leaf table, and sky-blue Priscilla curtains hanging neatly at all three windows, was behind the dining room.  The arched hallway that ran behind the living room housed two large bedrooms and a bathroom.  Tucked away at the rear of the house was a laundry room that had at one time been a back porch.

 

     “Her language is a bit on the foul side, Tess.”

 

     “Yes, Angel Girl, it is.  But you must forgive her for that slip of the tongue.  She’s a veteran of the United States Army, she is.”

 

     “Ah, I see,” Monica nodded.  “Yes, those who have served this beautiful country are prone to rough language now and again as I have come to learn.”

 

     “Yes, they are.  But don’t let that fool you, baby. This gal is nothing but a lady.”

 

     “She’s so sad, Tess,” Monica observed as the woman plucked another Kleenex from the box.  “And she seems confused.  As if she doesn’t know why she’s crying.”

 

     “She doesn’t.”

 

     “But how can someone hurt this badly and not know why?”

     “Years of denial.”

 

     “Pardon me?”

     “Years of denial, Angel Girl.  This woman is a veteran of the Korean War.  She was just twenty years old when she first signed up to serve. Not much more than a child really.  She witnessed so many things that broke her heart.  But she was a nurse.  It was her job to be strong for everyone else.  It still is.  So, over the years, she’s learned to hide her pain.  But on some days that pain is too much for her to bear.  Like today.”

 

     “Because of what’s happening in Vietnam,” Monica guessed, as she caught sight of the helicopter taking off from the roof of the United States embassy as played out on the color console television set.

 

     “That’s right.  There have been so many things about this war that remind her of the war she served in.  Though she might not know it, today she’s crying because she’s certain everyone will forget.”

 

     “Forget what?”

     “The war.  The men and women who have fought so hard for so many years now.  The men and women who have lost their lives during what has turned out to be an unpopular campaign.  Do you know what they call the conflict she served in?”

 

     “No.  What?”

 

     “The Forgotten War.  And that’s how she feels today.  Forgotten.  Forgotten, unappreciated, and unneeded.”

 

     “But every human being needs to feel needed.  Pardon me for the poor sentence structure, but it’s so true, Tess.”

     “You’re right, baby, it is.”

 

     “So that’s our job here?  To make her feel needed again?”

     “Oh, no, Angel Girl.  We can’t do that.  Only she can find that feeling within herself.”

 

     “Then what is our job?  How are we supposed to help her?”

 

     “We’re not.”

 

     “But she’s crying, Tess. We have to help her.”

 

     Tess reached out a pudgy hand and patted Monica on the arm.  “You have such a kind heart, Angel Girl.  You remind me of someone else we’re going to meet on this assignment.”

 

     “Someone else?”

     “A young man by the name of John Gage.”

 

     “John Gage,” Monica repeated with a thoughtful expression.  “John Gage.  Isn’t he the one Andrew’s always being put on stand-by for?”

 

     “That’s right,” the Angel Of Death said as he stepped from the kitchen to join his colleagues.  “He’s the one.”

 

     “So are you finally going to get to take Mr. Gage home to Heaven, Andrew?”

     “I don’t know, Monica.  Every time I assume that’s God’s plan things change.  Mr. Gage appears to be very needed here on Earth.”

 

     “Well, that’s good.  At least that means he’s not sitting alone in his home crying.”

 

     “No, he’s not,” Tess agreed.  “But then John Gage doesn’t sit for very long on any given day.”

 

     “Ah,” Monica nodded,  “he’s busy.”

 

     “Always, Angel Girl, even if that term just means flitting from place to place.  He’s a young man with boundless energy and an enthusiasm for life that outshines the morning sun.”

 

     “Is he in Vietnam?”

 

     “No.  He’s right here in Los Angeles.  He’s a fireman.  A fireman and a paramedic.”

 

     “Oh, how exciting.  I’ve always wanted to drive a fire truck.  Will I have my own helmet and turn out coat?  Maybe a big pair of those rubber goulashes firemen wear when they go to a fire?  Will I be able to pull out an inch and a half?  Or cook chili for the guys when we get back to the station after putting out a big blaze?”

     “Now you just stop talkin’ nonsense.  No, you’re not gettin’ no helmet or rubber goulashes.  And you most certainly will not be driving a fire truck.  You’ll be working at Rampart General Hospital.”

 

     Monica smiled.  “Doctor Monica.  I like the sound of that.”

 

     “You ain’t gonna be no doctor, either, so you just get that idea right on outta your head, too.”

 

     “But if I’m not going to be a firefighter, or a doctor, what am I going to be?”

 

     “That depends on Mr. Gage.  And her.”

 

     Monica’s eyes went back to the weeping woman in the living room.  “Why?”

 

     “Because John Gage has to live long enough for you to be part of this assignment.”

 

     Monica looked at Andrew who was still standing in the doorway between the dining room and kitchen.  The Angel Of Death shrugged his shoulders.

 

     “You know as well as I do that sometimes the only thing that keeps humans from crossing into our world is their will to live,” Tess said. “Or their will to die.”

 

     “But Mr. Gage has always been such a strong young man in the past. He’s always had a fierce will to live.”

 

     “Yes, he has, Monica,” Tess agreed.  “But this time he’s going to need some help finding that will.”

 

     “Finding it from where?”

 

     “From her.”

 

     Monica made a skeptical face.  “If you’ll pardon me for saying this, Tess, she doesn’t appear to be in any condition to help even herself at the moment.  Let alone anyone else.”

 

     “That’s true, Angel Girl.  But don’t you see?  That’s part of God’s plan.”

 

     “His plan?”

 

     “Yes.  In order to help themselves, John Gage and Dixie McCall must first help one another.”

 

     Monica looked at Andrew who nodded his confirmation to Tess’s words.

     “But what if they don’t?  Help each other that is?”

 

     Tess heaved a sad sigh. “Then John Gage will die long before his time on this Earth is due to come to an end.  And while she’ll still live on in body, Dixie McCall’s spirit will die, too.”

 

     “It could all end so sad then.”

 

     “Yes, Angel Girl, it could,” Tess said, as she listened to the lonely sound of the woman’s sobs as they echoed off the high ceilings.  “It could all end very sad.”

 

 

Chapter 1

    

     John Gage paid little attention to the massive amount of news coverage given to the fall of Saigon.  He’d left Los Angeles right after a gathering at the DeSoto home for Jennifer’s sixth birthday on April 29th.  He headed for the mountains to hike and camp on his day off.  Well, to hike, camp, and push aside memories as he’d been doing for so many years now.  His wife Kim, and fourteen-month-old daughter Jessie, had been murdered on April 28th, of 1967.  Johnny had come to Los Angeles in January of ‘68 for a fresh start.  No one here was aware of the heartache he’d left behind in Montana.  Not even Roy.  Johnny had no intention of that changing.  Eight years had now passed since Kim and Jessie’s deaths.  Eight years in which Johnny had built a new life for himself while trying to forget the past. 

 

     Johnny would be the first to admit he never gave much thought to the war. Yes, he had opinions like everyone else in the country seemed to, but mostly he’d kept them to himself.  He didn’t understand why the leaders within the United States government never seemed to give the war their best efforts.  There was no doubt that U.S. technology could have blown Vietnam right off the map if need be.  Why the politicians had let this war go on for so long was beyond Johnny’s comprehension.  Yet if he’d been called to serve he would have.  He’d been released from draft status for Vietnam twice.  The first time was back in the summer of 1966.   He’d been exempt because he was an only son and an employee on his father’s ranch.  The agriculture industry provided a great value to the United States during times of war. It wasn’t unusual for young farmers or ranchers not to be called into the service of their country, especially if there were no other male siblings in the family to stay behind and work.  The second time Johnny had been passed over, the fall of 1970, was because he was a Los Angeles County fireman, and therefore considered ‘necessary personnel’ stateside.  Or at least that’s the way the draft board worded it on his deferment.   Johnny knew Roy had served a year in ‘Nam back in ‘65, but they rarely discussed it.  The only thing Roy had told Johnny was that he was one of the lucky ones.  Johnny took that to mean Roy saw little action, which would make sense since Roy wasn’t part of an infantry unit, but rather worked on a base as both a mechanic and radio operator.

 

     It had been a week since the fall of Saigon, and the guys at the station were still talking about it.  Roy had been the only one amongst them to serve in Vietnam.  Hank Stanley had been drafted several years before the build up of military personnel in Vietnam and remained stateside throughout his two years in the service.  Mike Stoker had joined the Navy right out of high school, and while he was aboard a ship that brought supplies to other ships off the coast of Vietnam, he was never involved in any fighting, nor had he ever stepped foot on Vietnamese soil.

 

     Chet and Marco had fallen into the same category as Johnny.  Their employment with the fire department had provided them deferments.  Nonetheless, it was a hot topic with everyone right now.  Or at least with everyone other than Johnny.  Because of his deceased wife and child he sometimes felt old beyond his years.  Not that he ever showed those feelings.  He’d become so good at hiding them even Johnny himself had a hard time digging deep enough to find them.  That wasn’t to say Johnny didn’t understand the significance of the war the United States had just lost, it was just that it didn’t directly touch his life.  If any of his friends back in Montana, friends he hadn’t spoken to in seven years, had served in the war, or even died over there, Johnny was unaware of it.  And none of Johnny’s friends here in Los Angeles had seen battle over there, so it wasn’t a subject the paramedic had reason to bring up.

 

     “So, Gage, what do you think?”

 

     Johnny continued washing the lunch dishes, totally unaware of the question he’d just been asked.

 

     “Hey, Gage?  You deaf or something?”

 

     Johnny turned around when a balled up napkin bounced off his skull.

 

     “Chet, knock it off.”

 

     “I asked you a question.”

 

     “What question?”

 

     “What do you think?”

 

     “Think about what?”

 

     Chet rolled his eyes at his co-workers.  Everyone but Roy was still seated at the table.  The senior paramedic was drying dishes for his partner and returning them to their proper cabinets.

 

     “About ‘Nam.  The end of the war.  The fall of Saigon.  The whole nine yards.”

 

     “I don’t think anything about it.”

 

     “You’re kidding me, right?”

     “No.  I’m not kidding you.”

 

     “You mean to tell me John Gage doesn’t have an opinion he’d like to share on this topic?”

 

     Johnny shrugged as he turned back to his soapy dish water.  “No, Chet, I don’t have an opinion.”

 

     “Oh, come on, Gage.  I’m not buying that.  Everyone has an opinion on Vietnam.”

 

     “All right,” Johnny said as he drained the water from the sink.  “If only to get you to shut up I’ll give you my opinion.  There was no reason we couldn’t have won the war.  I mean, we’re the wealthiest nation in the world fighting a country barely larger than the state of Rhode Island and yet we lose.  What sense does that make?  Over fifty thousand men and women lost their lives over there and for what?  Nothing.  Absolutely nothing.  What a total waste.”

 

     No one disagreed with Johnny on that point.  The paramedic shook his head with both sorrow and disgust as he wiped his wet hands on a dishtowel, then returned the towel to the rack.

 

     “Most of those kids who died weren’t over twenty years old.   Twenty years old.  When you’re that age you think you’ve already lived a long life and are wise beyond your years.  But you haven’t.  And it’s young.  It’s just so damn young to have everything taken from you.”

 

     The men watched as Johnny walked out the back door.  As soon as Roy heard the basketball start to bounce against the parking lot’s pavement he knew Chet had struck a nerve with Johnny.  Chet knew it, too.

 

     “What?”  The Irishman asked of the four pair of eyes staring at him. “What did I say?”

     Funny thing was, no one could answer Chet this time, or blame him for any wrongdoing.  If what he had said upset Johnny it was far beyond the ability of any man present to figure out why.

 

     Hank Stanley did what any good leader does at this point.  He clapped his hands together as he stood to head to his office.

 

     “Okay, guys, enough on this subject for today.  It will be wise for all of us to remember this will be a sensitive topic for many people we encounter in the weeks and months ahead.  Let’s just drop it around the station for the time being.”

 

     After Hank’s office door closed Chet turned to Roy.

 

     “But what did I say to get Johnny so narked off?”

 

     “I don’t think he’s narked off, Chet.  Just upset.  With Johnny’s there’s a big difference.”

 

     “All right.  So what did I say to get him upset?”

     Roy shrugged.  “I honestly don’t know.”

 

     “He doesn’t have a brother who’s served over there, does he?” Chet asked, fearing that maybe Johnny had lost someone he loved to the war.

 

     “Not that I’m aware of.  But to tell you the truth I don’t know much about his family.”

 

     “You don’t even know if Gage has a brother or not?”

     “Nope.”

 

     “You’re shittin’ me.”

     “No, I’m not.  I know his mother died a few months before he moved out here in January of ‘68.  I know his father is still living, and every so often he speaks of his paternal grandfather.  But other than that Johnny doesn’t mention his past.”

 

     “Weird.”

 

     “What’s so weird about it?”  Mike asked.

 

     “Mike, come on.  Roy and Johnny are best friends.  They’ve been partners for over three years now.  Don’t you think it’s odd that Roy doesn’t know more about Johnny’s home life in Montana than what he’s just told us?  I mean geez, Gage yaks on at the mouth about everything else.  A guy would think Roy would even know the name of Johnny’s kindergarten teacher.”

 

     “Mrs. Long Feather.”

 

     “Huh?”

     “The name of Johnny’s kindergarten teacher,” Roy said.  “Mrs. Long Feather. He went to grade school on an Indian Reservation.”

 

     “So you know the name of Gage’s kindergarten teacher, but you don’t know if he has a brother.  See what I’m saying here?  Weird.  Just plain weird.”

 

     “Chet, some things are private,” Marco pointed out.  “Even for someone as outgoing as Johnny.  All of us have parts of our lives we’d rather not reveal, or that are too painful to talk about.”

 

     “No way.  I tell you guys everything.”

     Roy just shook his head at the Irishman while Marco and Mike exchanged longsuffering smiles.

 

     Chet’s voice dropped, and his eyes darted around the room as though he was expecting a figure of authority to walk in at any moment.

 

     “You don’t suppose Johnny’s running from the law, do you?”

 

     “Chet, come on,” Marco scoffed.  “You’re being ridiculous now.”

 

     “No, I’m not.  Give it some thought here, guys.  What kind of Indian name is John Roderick Gage anyway?  Maybe that’s the name Johnny took after he--”

 

     “After he what?”  Roy asked.  He was trying not to show it, but he was getting a little miffed at Chet. 

 

     “I don’t know.  After he did something that caused him to change his name and leave Montana.”

 

     Roy leaned back against the counter with his arms folded across his chest. He tried to keep the glare he was shooting Chet to minimum intensity.

 

     “Chet, if only to shut you up I’ll tell you what I know about Johnny.  Number one; the United States Government forced Indians to take English names when they put them on reservations.  This extends to the names they give their children.  Or at least the legal names.  Number two; he spent part of his growing up years on a reservation, and part of them on a ranch his parents bought when he was a kid.  He came to LA to work as a fireman because there weren’t many job opportunities for a ‘half breed,’ as Johnny put it, in the small town of White Rock, Montana.  End of story.”

 

     “And does he ever go back?”

 

     “To Montana?”

 

     “Yeah.”

 

     “I don’t know.  Not that he mentions.”

 

     “And no one from his family ever visits him here.  So see, something’s up.”

 

     “How did we get to this from Vietnam?” Roy asked.

 

     “I’m just curious, that’s all.”

 

     “Well, keep in mind curiosity killed the cat.”

 

     “But--”

 

     “Let it go, Chet,” Roy advised.  “Look, you guys know my dad died when I was thirteen, right?”

     “Yeah.”

     “But it’s not something I talk about much, is it?”

     “No.”

 

     “And you never bug me about that fact, Chet, so extend that same respect to Johnny.   I don’t know why our discussion about ‘Nam upset him and I don’t care.  If he wants to tell me he will. If he doesn’t, then so be it.”

 

     “But I don’t think it was the discussion about ‘Nam that set him off in the first place,” Chet said.  “I think it was something else.  Only I can’t figure out--”

 

     Roy grabbed a dishtowel and stuffed it in Chet’s mouth as he passed by.

 

     “Chet, for once and for all, shut up.”

 

     To the sound of Mike and Marco’s laughter Roy headed for the locker room. He had a book in his duffel bag he wouldn’t mind reading if the afternoon stayed quiet.  Before he got that far the klaxons went off and the squad was called into service.  As Roy slipped behind the wheel a slightly winded Johnny jumped in the passenger side.  Roy took the sheet of paper Cap handed him and passed it to his partner.  Johnny checked the map book and navigated as Roy drove.  Right before they got to the school where a child had fallen from the monkey bars, Roy looked at his partner.

 

     “Do you have a brother?”

     Considering the two men hadn’t even been carrying on a conversation the question caught Johnny off guard.

 

     “What?”

 

     Roy felt his face turning red.  He had just stooped to Chet’s level, something he could have never imagined himself doing.

 

     “Never mind.”

 

     “No.  What’d you ask me?”

 

     “It’s not important.”

 

     “I didn’t hear you.  Ask me again.”
    

     Roy gave an internal sigh, hoping he wouldn’t regret this question given Johnny’s earlier unexplained upset.    “I asked if you have a brother.”

 

     “No.  Why?”

 

     “Neither do I,” Roy replied for lack of knowing what else to say.

 

     Well, Chet, that disproves your theory that Johnny has a brother who served in ‘Nam.

 

     Johnny shot his partner a look that said he was certain Roy had lost his mind.

 

     “I know you don’t.  So what’s going on?  Are you thinking of adopting one?”

 

     “No,” Roy laughed, before growing serious.  “I guess you’re the closest I come to having a brother.  I mean, I think of you like a brother, you know?”

 

     Johnny made a dramatic showing of smashing his body against the passenger side door as though he suddenly found it necessary to get as far away from Roy as possible.  He cocked an eyebrow at his partner.

 

     “Are you feeling all right?”

     “I’m fine. Why?”

     “You just don’t normally go around saying stuff like that.  Don’t tell me Joanne has made you join one of those groups where you get in touch with your feelings and junk like that.”

     “No, nothing like that.”

 

     “Then why the sudden sentiment?”

 

     Damn you, Chet.

 

     “Just forget I said anything.”

 

     “But--”

 

     “Forget it, Johnny.”

 

     “All right.”

 

     Nothing more was said until the men pulled into the school yard.  As they were opening compartment doors to get their equipment Johnny tossed his partner a teasing grin.

 

     “Hey, Roy?”

     “Yeah?”

     “If I was gonna adopt me a blue eyed, blond headed brother, you’d be the paleface I’d choose.”

 

     “Very funny.”

 

     And with that the two men jogged to the fallen child with the broken arm, their conversation forgotten for the moment.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

     With each year that passed since Kim and Jessie’s murders, the internal mourning period Johnny went through at the end of every April seemed to lessen in length.  That used to upset the paramedic, but over time he’d come to realize that was normal.  Normal, and overall a lot easier on his emotional health.  He knew that didn’t mean he’d ever forget his wife and little girl, or ever stop loving them, but it simply meant he was still amongst the living and had to carry on.

By the time mid-May arrived Johnny was once again his old self.  The same could not be said for Dixie McCall.

 

     The urge to cry whenever she was alone had not left the nurse.  And alone was how Dixie spent most of her time when she wasn’t on duty at Rampart.  Unbeknownst to Dixie’s friends and colleagues, she was rarely leaving her house these days other than when forced to make the trip to work, or go to the grocery store.  She was tossing out excuses left and right each time an invitation was issued for dinner, or a movie, or a Sunday afternoon of tennis with a trio of her female co-workers.  She no longer rode her bike around her quiet neighborhood on a daily basis, and she’d lost interest in the Candy Striper program at the hospital that she’d so faithfully been the head of for years now.  She’d taken the program beyond what it had been; a volunteer position for teenagers who delivered gifts, flowers, and newspapers to patients, or who played with the children on the Pediatrics Ward, to instead introduce these young people to the world of nursing in a way that turned many of them on to the idea of making the profession their life long careers.  Dixie had always been so proud of that, and had always enjoyed working with the teens, but lately she’d given more and more of those responsibilities to another ER nurse.           

 

     Like many people who are overwhelmed by depression, Dixie recognized the symptoms but didn’t completely understand the cause.  When she gave it any thought at all she supposed there were a lot of reasons why she didn’t want to get up and face each day.   Certainly the end of the Vietnam War was at least a part of it.   The men and women who served over there were arriving home, but to what?  Not a nation that was honoring them, that’s for certain.  Not anymore than it had honored her and the other veterans of Korea; and by what Dixie was seeing on the news, even less.

 

     This country loves a winner, but heaven forbid you should end up fighting on the losing side. 

 

     Dixie sighed as she slipped into her seat at the nurse’s station.  She’d been staring at next week’s schedule all day now, and hadn’t gotten any farther on it than Sunday.  Each time she found a moment to study it she was called away.  Though not called away for a patient in crisis, but rather called away because a treatment room wasn’t set up the way Doctor Brackett liked it.  Or because her newest nurse, a young lady fresh from college and barely twenty-one years old, was in the bathroom crying because Doctor Morton spoke sharply to her.  Or because someone lost the lab tests Doctor Early had ordered.  Or because an orderly hadn’t cleaned up the vomit in Treatment Room Five. Or because a waiting family member kept interrupting her to check on a patient.  Dixie stared at the black squares on the paper in front of her.

 

     I’m making the highest income now than I have ever earned in my life, yet every day I dislike my job more and more.  I feel like an adult baby-sitter.  If I’m not tending to Kel and his quirks about the set up of a treatment room, then I’ve got someone crying on my shoulder - literally - because Mike Morton brought his ill temper to work.  And if it’s not that, then someone is complaining about having to wait to see a doctor, or I’m washing dirty coffee cups left behind by all the paramedics who breeze in and out of this place on a daily basis as though it’s Dixie’s Diner.  I don’t know when I got so out of touch with hands-on-nursing.  Trauma care is what I do best, but it’s what I’ve gotten to do the least of these last few years.  <