Chapter 1

The mere sight of mangled human flesh, limbs twisted into unnatural positions, blood and gore abounding is just wrong, no matter how it occurs. The effect it has upon the person observing it depends however, on the number of times you've been exposed to it, your own level of resistance to the macabre, and the situation you're in at the moment. As I ran towards a young boy with his arm entangled in a PTO shaft of a large machine, I steeled myself for the worst, these are never good, and often if not always, horrific. The sheer power of your average farm tractor is enough to rip a body to pieces, and this one was larger than most. It sat silent a few feet from my patient, who was ominously silent as well. I knelt at his side and relief washed over me as he looked me in the eyes, and saw the primal fear and agony in his glaze. Another man, a volunteer fireman, one of many in the area, began to give me vital information as he desperately cut through the jacket which was tangled around the shaft, crushing the boy's arm against the shaft. The arm, broken and twisted looped over the shaft, his wrecked shoulder protruding forward showing its obvious shattered state. Large abrasions and lacerations covered the child's back, a large knot on the side of his head wept blood, and his breath came in ragged gasps, his feet, free of the rest of the tangle, dug furrows in the sandy soil. "Get me out of this fucking thing" he cried, "Oh God it feels like my arm is still on the ground."

What do you say when confronted with something like this? They never teach you that in EMT school. It is something that you have to come up with on the spot, adapting to the situation as it unfolds, hoping that when it comes, it will be the right thing to say. To say that you feel helpless and inadequate is without question.

"I'm here, and we'll take care of you."

What else could I say at that moment, suddenly, here I was, the person who was expected to have the answers, the expertise and knowledge to fix this disaster his life had become. Never mind that I was also scared and shocked, never mind that I wanted to recoil and run, this was my job, and do it I must. With a grunt, the firefighter slashed through the last of the jacket and his arm flopped free, without thinking I caught it, and straightened it out as best possible, hoping to get the blood flow back to his cold hand. This was something I knew, I felt for a pulse as I assessed his mental state. What other injuries did he have? Spinal injuries? Skull fracture? In my mind I ran down the possibilities, so many that it staggered the imagination, checking off each one.

Let me back up a bit, the day had started off quietly for us, we'd been sitting at the station, enjoying a quiet morning of a beautiful day, cool and sunny. I had just finished a cup of coffee and was thinking of nothing more that what might be for lunch, or perhaps sneaking a nap if our director went somewhere. My partner stood talking with the office personnel about other people we knew. Neither of us remotely thinking that in a moment's time we would be rushing to the rescue of someone we never even knew existed. Vaguely I heard someone talking on the fire frequency of our station radio, and just from habit, I paused to listen. A volunteer fireman, on his portable radio was fading in and out in scratchy static, giving an address.

"Tony, what's that about?" I asked.

Without warning, the station rocked with the blare of the Rescue tones, stopping all conversation immediately.

"EMS, RESPOND TO 434 POLK FARM ROAD IN REFERENCE TO A 15 YEAR OLD TRAPPED IN FARM EQUIPMENT."

We looked at each other with that "deer in the headlights" look, then, as if one person, ran to our truck scattering debris behind us.

I jumped behind the wheel as my partner grabbed the radio microphone.

"What's the mileage D?"

I told him, then dropped the ambulance into gear, flipped on our lights and rolled out the bay.

"M2 RADIO, WE ARE ENROUTE STARTING MILEAGE 321"

The dispatcher relayed the information she had to us, a 15 year old boy was caught in the shaft of a cotton sprayer, he was alert and breathing, but she had no other information, except to say the female caller was hysterical.

We radioed back for her to put Air Med on stand-by and dispatch First Responders, those brave, insane, wonderful and sometimes pain in the ass volunteer Firemen, who are ready at a moments notice, to drop everything and come running.

For those of you who don't know, First Responders and volunteer Firemen, usually the same person, are your neighbors, everybody from the skinny, greasy kid with the too long hair who changes your tire at the service station, or the middle aged farmer in overalls with chewing tobacco stains on his shirt, to the owner of the busiest restaurant in town. Most of them you never pay attention to at all, except to wonder why that "Billy Bob" looking fool has lights and a siren on his old 4X4 pickup.

For the most part, they are ordinary people, going about their lives just like everybody else, but they are an entirely different species altogether. These are the men, and women, who are blessed, or in my thinking, cursed with for lack of a better word, Hero Syndrome. But let me digress, I ain't talking about the "LOOK AT ME!" type hero, in fact, even though they are many times over hero's lets call it something else.