I don’t remember the flight back to the camp. I don’t remember anything Bert might have said on the way. I don’t even remember landing. All I could think of was my boy, my Tommy, in someone else’s chopper but safe, alive. I barely set the helicopter down on the ground before I climbed out, ducked beneath the slowing blades, and started across the airfield, heading for the medical tent, my helmet cast aside in my haste. I had to find him. He needed me.
“Prosser!”
Behind me Sherman barked my name, his voice ringing out above the hustle of soldiers as the wounded were helped from the transports.
“Catch up with me, Major,” I hollered, not slowing my pace, “if you want to talk.”
I heard Sherman call out, “Masters! Get him.”
Don’t stop me now, Bert, I prayed.
He didn’t. “Fulk’s choppe
