I’d barely gotten him settled in his seat before the assholes on the hill started launching rocket propelled grenades at us. Our gunners did their job as the convoy began to move again. We were sitting ducks where we were, and we had air support and a medical evac on the way. We needed to get to an ideal location before they arrived.
“Two vehicles coming up on the right,” Briggs said into his mouthpiece.
Another truck reported more hostiles behind us. If I was a praying man, I’d be hitting my knees right about now, but after seven years of serving as an Army combat medic, I had little faith in hopes and prayers anymore.
And, I had shit to do.
“How you holdin’ up, Smiley?” I asked, checking over his wounds again, looking for something I could treat.
His eyes were closed. I took his pulse, feeling it slow beneath my fingertips. His breathing had gone from erratic to agonal. He took a few quick breaths, then one deep one, stopped, then his breaths were quick again. No, Smiley wasn’t going to make it. He was already dead, but his body didn’t know it yet.
Surgery might save him, but he’d never make it to the table in time. There was nothing else I could do for him.
Watching him slip away, I felt so goddamn helpless. I wanted to check on my other patients and find out how they were doing, but with the fight still going on, I knew better than to clog up the headsets.
Smiley was gone long before the helos made it to us.
By the time air support arrived, the gunners had disabled two of the enemy vehicles. The rest peeled off at the sight of the helos. The flight medics loaded up our wounded and took off, and we drove back to Bagram without further incident.
After we arrived on base and were debriefed, I headed to Craig—officially named Craig Joint-Theatre Hospital, the only role one medical facility in the country—to check on my remaining two patients.
When I wasn’t out with my platoon, I often worked admittance and triage at Craig, so I knew my way around the fifty-bed hospital pretty well. I found Rodriguez first. He’d had surgery on one of his kidneys, his arm, and fluid drained from his lungs, but was expected to make a full recovery. Malone’s leg was shredded, but they were trying to save it. His arm was broken.
I was mentally and physically exhausted, and expected to be at the hospital in seven hours for a shift, but my bed was across base which seemed like a hell of a long way to go for some shut-eye. I was considering crawling under the admittance desk and napping until I had to clock in when First Sergeant Mike Young pulled me aside and led me to his office in the back.
Young had been in the service for eighteen years. He was the hospital’s senior medic and handled all staff scheduling and administrative business. He was a good man, a little crusty and rough around the edges from serving as a non-commissioned officer for so long, but he kept the hospital running smoothly.
Directing me to one of the two chairs in his cramped office, he sat in the other. I all but collapsed in mine, wondering how the hell I was going to get up again once our conversation was over.
“I’m declining your request to stay on,” he said, getting right down to his purpose for our impromptu meeting. “The 4th Infantry Division is already en route to replace your unit, and two weeks from now, I want your ass on the bird heading back to the states with the rest of the 101st.”
After everything I’d done and given for the Army, declining my request to stay on felt like a slap in the face, waking me right up. Exhaustion forgotten, I sprung from my seat and asked, “Can I ask why, First Sergeant?”
“Listen, youngster…”
Knowing I was in for a lecture, I resisted the urge to drop my head into my hands. Nothing good ever came from a conversation Young started by reminding me of his age and seniority.
“You have forty-five days of use or lose, and if you don’t take it, the CO will lose his shit,” Young said, leaning back in his chair.
I’d been banking my leave, selling it back to the Army whenever it reached the use or lose status, but I’d reached the limit of what I could sell back, and apparently people had noticed. I could use some time off, but I had nowhere to go. Besides, I deserved to be here, stretching myself so thin I was almost ready to snap. I needed to serve, to atone for what I’d done. Since I couldn’t voice any of that without being sent for a psych evaluation, I kept my mouth shut.
“Go home, go to the beach, or go to Vegas. I don’t care where you go, but you can’t stay here. Get drunk, get laid, get your mind right. You are of no use to me, your unit, or these men if you burn out.”
There was a reason the military was so strict about leave. I understood what he was saying, but had a hard time applying it to my situation. This was different. Taking leave wouldn’t get my mind right. I needed to be here, serving, to do that. Still, his words smarted. I’d seen medics burn out before and it wasn’t a pretty sight. That’s how mistakes were made, often mistakes that ended in someone’s death. I already had one major fuckup on my conscience, I didn’t need another.
Maybe it was time to take a break, after all.
Watching me, Young frowned. “A much wiser man than me once said that it takes a strong heart and a weak memory to survive as a medic. You got the heart for it, Welch, but I’m worried about your memory. Go home and forget all this shit for a while. Face whatever the hell you’re running from and remind yourself what you’re fighting for.”
I’d rather trek across the entire desert with only one canteen of water than go home, but there was no arguing with him. Besides, deep down I knew he was right. It was time to face my demons.
They couldn’t be much harder to face than Smiley’s empty bunk.
“Yes, First Sergeant.”
