barefoot_bard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
barefoot_bard) wrote2010-07-13 09:27 pm
barefoot_bard) wrote2010-07-13 09:27 pm
Entry tags:
Never Broken
Title: Never Broken
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 5 July 2010
Summary: A medic faces down adversity from all sides. Kirkuk, Iraq, 2006.
Author's Note: This piece contains descriptions of wounds.
If you listen to the infantry guys talk, you'll probably come away with the impression that they're the baddest bastards in the Army. They're the trigger pullers, the door kickers, the dedicated boots on the ground. But they're not the only ones out here runnin' and gunnin', not by a long shot. Out here, damn near everybody gets out of the wire. Even the artillery. This means, of course, that damn near everybody takes hits. Including the artillery.
Being outside the wire means trouble. Doesn't matter what the mission is or what you're rolling with, it's just trouble. We learned that fast. Only a few weeks after getting here, in fact. Our overall mission has two parts. The real work of artillery, heavy fires, and infantry work, getting out and getting shot at. If I'd wanted to make myself a target like that, I would have stayed in the infantry. I prefer being an arty medic, by a lot. But maybe this is the Army's way of telling me it wants me back with the grunts.
I'm not the only ex-infantry guy in the battery, either. There are three others. Staff Sergeant Rhodes, Sergeant Donovan, and PFC Johnson. I can't stand any of them, either. Donovan is all right when he isn't in charge of anything. Johnson is a pussy. Rhodes... Rhodes has the biggest hair across his ass about anything relating to the Airborne. And, lucky me, I was with the Five-Oh-Deuce for three years. Maybe he's just pissed that he washed outta jump school - but how anybody could wash out of that, I have no fuckin' idea. He's got a nice big grudge against me though. Doesn't help that he's a prick anyway.
This is my third combat tour. My previous deployments have been anything but cushy, and this time around I had been hoping for something a little less hairy. It'd be nice to go fifteen months without getting shot at or blown up every other day. On this tour, it was more like every three or four days. Every mission sucks too, because Rhodes goes along on every goddamn one. Or at least every mission I'm out on. I'm his favorite target. It's because of that bastard I lost my stripes. Some bullshit about me getting a couple hospital medics to steal meds for me. It was almost a goddamn court-martial, but Colonel Johnstone stopped that shit cold. Thirty days extra duty, loss of rank and pay, and confinement to barracks wasn't much comfort though. We've hated each other since.
It's been hell since I've gotten back to the line. I can't even hand out a bandaid to a guy with a papercut without Rhodes breathing down my neck about it. The guys are good about it, at least. They know what's up. It's a real pain when we're out on a route-clearance run or a patrol through town. Chances of getting hit skyrocket every time we leave the wire. We all know it. It's part of the job. Not that knowing it makes it suck any less. Adding the pressure of knowing there's an NCO watching every move you make out there, hoping you slip up so he can bust you for it? Yeah, that's pretty shit.
We've had a lot of near-misses these last couple weeks. A bunch of guys wounded but none killed. The guys think we've been lucky. Luck never lasts though. It was a night raid when our luck left us hanging. Haji knew we were out. They always do. Even when we try to keep our movements on the low, those fuckers always know what's going on. What should have been an in-and-out raid on a suspected weapons stash started out okay. We got to the place and breached in without opposition. It's easy, actually. Nobody seemed to be home. Sergeant Rhodes is there too, of course, and he tells me point-blank to stay outside by the trucks. Whatever, man. It's about time Fields got some time with the guys anyway. I stay outside by Sergeant Vincenzo's truck and keep an eye out for trouble around us.
The security team keep close watch on their assigned sectors. We aren't about to let some scarf-wearing fanatic get the drop on us. Rhodes is moving around the perimeter, checking on everyone. I have no idea what his problem is tonight, but he made sure to say that I was not to go into the house under any circumstances. Is he afraid I'm going to try stealing an AK or some shit? The report comes back from Silverman. There are weapons in the house all right. AKs, a couple RPGs, an RPK, and a goddamn IED. The entry team gets ready to start clearing the house's second floor. That's when the place goes boom. Everything standing within twenty yards of the house gets knocked onto its ass. There's a gap of about forty seconds in my memory, starting just after I got blown off my feet by the blast wind.
Next thing I remember is hearing somebody shouting above me. There's hands on my IBA and I'm being dragged away from wherever I'd landed. My ears are ringing like crazy and it dawns on me that I've dropped my rifle. This is an enormous no-go in the infantry world. I swat at whoever's dragging me and suddenly I'm dropped myself. Get up. My ears are clearing up, sorta, but everything still sounds as if I'm underwater. It's Gorton, the kid who drives for Sergeant Vincenzo, who's shouting at me. I can see Sergeant Donovan some ways behind him, waving his arms like an idiot.
"Doc! Doc, get the fuck up! C'mon man, they're in the house, Jesus Christ, man, get up. C'mon man, move it, they're... fuck... get up!" He starts pulling at my IBA again, trying to haul me up by himself. Gorton's a skinny little shit though. There's no way he's gonna manhandle my weight like that. Get up, though. He's right about that.
"Fuckin'... get on the radio," I tell him. "Get a QRF out here, right fuckin' now. Get... shit. Just go, man. Get on the radio and get us some fuckin' help."
It feels weird being on my feet again. Unsteady and floaty-like. The out-rushing air from the blast rattled the tympanic membrane. My balance is off. Fuck. I have to get my weapon. Everything else is irrelevant if I can't defend myself. It would be just like Haji to spring an ambush while the patrol is picking itself out of the dirt. The M4 feels like a cinderblock when I finally fumble my hands around it. My balance is improving though. Good. I need my equilibrium to be steady when I get to work on the wounded. Somebody else is shouting nearby but I can't tell if it's directed at me. Just then, I don't care. I've got guys down in here that need me.
In through the doorway, sweep the main room, it's clear, move on. There's a guy down by the stairwell. Or part of a guy anyway. It's Fields. Fuck. I step over him and sweep the next room with my rifle. It's clear too. It's not even necessary to clear this place. It just fucking blew up, after all. I do it anyway. A good soldier always makes sure his surroundings are secure before he puts his weapon aside. There's another guy at the bottom of the stairs. Silverman. He's dead too. I clear the stairwell even though it's really obvious that there is no danger here. The rest of the entry team are sprawled on the stairs where they fell, their positions marking where they were on their ascent.
Checking your buddies to see if they're alive or not sucks. It really, really does. Silverman and Fields are dead, Ashley is on his way out, Hammond looks like he'll probably make it. Then... ah shit. There's Johnson. He looks like absolute shit. His face and his whole front are badly burned. I crouch on the stairs near him and try to get his helmet off. The chin strap is melted to his cheeks. It won't budge. I'm not about to tear it free, either. Why is the poor fucker conscious for this? Why did he have to start coming down the stairs again? I don't like him but Jesus. Nobody deserves this shit.
"This is gonna suck, bro," I tell him as I set my rifle down and grab for my aidbag. He only groans. The helmet will have to stay in place for now. His IBA and blouse, on the other hand, gotta go. My hands are shaking as I try to pry open the front of his IBA. The Velcro flap isn't opening. I have to cut it. I drop my knife twice before I can get the flap cut away. What the fuck is wrong with me? Focus. I have to fucking focus. The IBA is out of the way. I cut through Johnson's blouse and shirt, as best I can. He's a mess. His pants gotta come off too. Or not. Fuck. I can't tell what's pant leg and what isn't. Not in the unsteady light from my flashlight.
Dry dressings, carefully tied around the burns. I don't have enough to cover them all. Johnson needs to get out of here fast. Both of them do. "Gorton!" I holler down the stairs. "Vincenzo! Fuckin'... somebody!" I have to leave Johnson and check on Hammond. He's unconscious but breathing well enough. I manage to get his IBA off when my help shows up. It's Gorton. Great. He's only a few months out of AIT and here he is, staring down at his blown up, burned up buddies. He's got a folding litter with him but he's also rooted to the spot at the base of the stairs. The shock has got him.
"Gorton!" Nothing. "Gorton! Hey, Kenny!" I can't go down to him, even if I wanted to. There's a nasty piece of sharpnel in Hammond's side that's causing some equally nasty bleeding. "Come on, brother, snap out of it. You can't help them." I have his attention now. "Get up here. Listen to me, man. You can't help them, but you can help him. Hold pressure here. That's it."
He's whiter than a sheet and probably wants to puke everywhere, but he holds it together. Good man. "QRF's comin'. Sergeant Rhodes won't let anybody else in here. He said we're to clear outta here and secure - "
He said what? "We're not goin' anywhere," I tell him sharply, putting one of my remaining dressings on Hammond's face. We weren't gonna get anymore help? Sweet Jesus. "Not without these guys. Rhodes can go fuck himself."
Gorton grins. If he holds it together for the rest of the night, he'll probably do all right. There's not much else I can do for Hammond. I shift down the stairs, careful not to step on him or Gorton and go down to Ashley. As I'd thought, he doesn't have very long. There's only one thing to do for him.
"Kenny," I say, glancing up the stairs. "If you remember only one thing of all this shit, remember this." I hold up a syrette. "Morphine. It's a painkiller, yeah, and it also depresses the respiratory system. Twenty milligrams of this and..." I jab the syrette against the thick part of Ashley's thigh and hit the plunger on the top. "It's the only bit of mercy a guy like Ashley will get."
It'll take a couple of minutes for the morphine to get into his bloodstream. Once it does, though, he won't feel a thing. Ever again. It's the best I can for him. I pat his shoulder and linger a moment before going back up the stairs to Johnson.
"Johnson has to go first," I tell Gorton. "He's worse off."
There are shouts and the rumbling sound of Humvee engines from outside. The QRF is here. Somebody is yelling at the top of his lungs too. But there are guys coming into the house. I'm beyond relieved. Getting these two guys out of here would have been impossible with just me and Gorton, even with the litter he'd brought.
"I need two guys up here with a litter!" I call down to the faces at the bottom of the stairs. They're only a few feet away but it seems like a lot more to me. Before I know what's happening, two guys and a litter are on the scene. They take over responsibility of Hammond from Gorton and get him out of there. Johnson goes next. In only a few minutes, he and I are left alone in the narrow stairway. I have to go with the wounded but I can't make myself move.
"I hate this shit," Gorton says, staring at his bloody hands.
"Me too." I sigh and reach for my rifle. The flat sand-coloured steps are littered with dressing packaging and splattered with blood. Hammond's helmet lies upside in a patch of blood. How had it come off? I pick it up. "Come on. Let's hitch a ride back with the Medevac."
Gorton retrieves his own weapon and moves off down the stairs. I follow him, then stop abruptly and crouch down by Ashley. He's still breathing, but it's the last faint scraping breaths of somebody only minutes away from death. There's a ring on his dogtags, I know, and I wrestle the chain out from under his gear. He never wore the ring on his finger for some reason. I consider taking the ring and one of his tags with me, then I carefully tuck the chain back under his shirt. It's better for his wife to get his effects all at once.
Outside, everything is glaring bright headlights and bustling soldiers. I ignore all of it. My head hurts and I'm still feeling a little dizzy. Sergeant Rhodes spots me though. He gets in front of me somehow. It's obvious he's pissed. Good for him. He's got Sergeant Donovan with him. Even better.
"You're in the shit now, Jimenez," he snaps, jabbing a finger into the middle of my IBA. "Who the fuck do you think you are? I gave you an order to stay out of that house, but you don't give a shit about following orders. This time you're going down. I won't have a shitbag like you in - "
I have heard that shit from him for too long and right now I don't want to hear it anymore. Without even thinking about what I'm doing, I shift my rifle and Hammond's helmet to my left hand, then haul off and belt Rhodes a good one in the jaw. It shuts him up but quick. "Fuck you," I tell him and move on. He can do whatever the hell he wants to me. I don't care. I just saw five guys after they'd gotten the shit blown out of them. Does he really think his bullshit matters?
There's a Medevac bird on the ground, in the field just across the road. Gorton has somehow gotten the crew to wait, even though the medic on board is royally pissed off at him for it. I drag myself into the helicopter and tell the other medic to shut the fuck up when Gorton clambers aboard after me. The helicopter lifts off and I stare out at the ground as it shrinks away. All this shit for a few fucking AKs. It was a trap and a damn good one. We strolled right into it. Fucking Hajis. We oughta be waxing every last one of those fuckers. Instead, we're handing out crayons and soccer balls and they're blowing us up for it.
"I know you," the flight medic shouts. "You're that sergeant they busted down. Jimenez, right?"
Great. The entire FOB must know about that shit. "Yeah. So?"
"Remind me not to box with you," the flight medic answers. "You got a mean right hook."
I snort a laugh and look at Gorton. He's staring at the litter racks, where Johnson and Hammond are secured. He'll feel like shit for days. He and Hammond are buddies. I tuck Hammond's helmet between my knees where it won't be seen, even in the dark. Gorton's seen enough for one night.
The rest of the night doesn't improve. Johnson dies at the hospital and Hammond is flown on to Balad. Sergeant Rhodes adds assault to the charges he brings against me. I'm pulled off the line again. Later that week, Gorton gets busted down to private for telling Rhodes that he's the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth. The battery has a memorial for the four guys who got killed. It's the usual circus. Four sets of boots, with four rifles and four helmets, and four sets of dogtags. I don't attend. At least not the official memorial. I go later, after most of the battery has gone. It's easier to kneel down in front of that short line of boots and rifles when there's nobody else around. Nobody can hear your thoughts if they're not near you.
I kneel and I pray. Fields, the CLS guy I'd trained, who shouldn't even have been in that house. Silverman, who was getting out after this deployment. Ashley, who'd missed seeing the birth of his first child. Johnson, the guy I'd told to suck it up and be a man after he'd strained a ligament in his knee last month. It's always the guys who least deserve it that get hit. It's always the guys like Kenny Gorton and Alejandro Jimenez who get left mired down in the aftermath. Gorton's lucky, at least. He's only lost rank. It's court-martial for me this time around. Rhodes will see to that. And somehow I still love being an arty medic.
The motto of 3-7 Artillery is "Never Broken". It's meant to be an inspiring motto, I'm sure. It'd be nice if it actually was.
Rating: M (Suitable for ages 16 and above)
Disclaimers: Names given in this story are fictional and any relation to an actual person, living or dead, is purely incidental.
Original pen-date: 5 July 2010
Summary: A medic faces down adversity from all sides. Kirkuk, Iraq, 2006.
Author's Note: This piece contains descriptions of wounds.
If you listen to the infantry guys talk, you'll probably come away with the impression that they're the baddest bastards in the Army. They're the trigger pullers, the door kickers, the dedicated boots on the ground. But they're not the only ones out here runnin' and gunnin', not by a long shot. Out here, damn near everybody gets out of the wire. Even the artillery. This means, of course, that damn near everybody takes hits. Including the artillery.
Being outside the wire means trouble. Doesn't matter what the mission is or what you're rolling with, it's just trouble. We learned that fast. Only a few weeks after getting here, in fact. Our overall mission has two parts. The real work of artillery, heavy fires, and infantry work, getting out and getting shot at. If I'd wanted to make myself a target like that, I would have stayed in the infantry. I prefer being an arty medic, by a lot. But maybe this is the Army's way of telling me it wants me back with the grunts.
I'm not the only ex-infantry guy in the battery, either. There are three others. Staff Sergeant Rhodes, Sergeant Donovan, and PFC Johnson. I can't stand any of them, either. Donovan is all right when he isn't in charge of anything. Johnson is a pussy. Rhodes... Rhodes has the biggest hair across his ass about anything relating to the Airborne. And, lucky me, I was with the Five-Oh-Deuce for three years. Maybe he's just pissed that he washed outta jump school - but how anybody could wash out of that, I have no fuckin' idea. He's got a nice big grudge against me though. Doesn't help that he's a prick anyway.
This is my third combat tour. My previous deployments have been anything but cushy, and this time around I had been hoping for something a little less hairy. It'd be nice to go fifteen months without getting shot at or blown up every other day. On this tour, it was more like every three or four days. Every mission sucks too, because Rhodes goes along on every goddamn one. Or at least every mission I'm out on. I'm his favorite target. It's because of that bastard I lost my stripes. Some bullshit about me getting a couple hospital medics to steal meds for me. It was almost a goddamn court-martial, but Colonel Johnstone stopped that shit cold. Thirty days extra duty, loss of rank and pay, and confinement to barracks wasn't much comfort though. We've hated each other since.
It's been hell since I've gotten back to the line. I can't even hand out a bandaid to a guy with a papercut without Rhodes breathing down my neck about it. The guys are good about it, at least. They know what's up. It's a real pain when we're out on a route-clearance run or a patrol through town. Chances of getting hit skyrocket every time we leave the wire. We all know it. It's part of the job. Not that knowing it makes it suck any less. Adding the pressure of knowing there's an NCO watching every move you make out there, hoping you slip up so he can bust you for it? Yeah, that's pretty shit.
We've had a lot of near-misses these last couple weeks. A bunch of guys wounded but none killed. The guys think we've been lucky. Luck never lasts though. It was a night raid when our luck left us hanging. Haji knew we were out. They always do. Even when we try to keep our movements on the low, those fuckers always know what's going on. What should have been an in-and-out raid on a suspected weapons stash started out okay. We got to the place and breached in without opposition. It's easy, actually. Nobody seemed to be home. Sergeant Rhodes is there too, of course, and he tells me point-blank to stay outside by the trucks. Whatever, man. It's about time Fields got some time with the guys anyway. I stay outside by Sergeant Vincenzo's truck and keep an eye out for trouble around us.
The security team keep close watch on their assigned sectors. We aren't about to let some scarf-wearing fanatic get the drop on us. Rhodes is moving around the perimeter, checking on everyone. I have no idea what his problem is tonight, but he made sure to say that I was not to go into the house under any circumstances. Is he afraid I'm going to try stealing an AK or some shit? The report comes back from Silverman. There are weapons in the house all right. AKs, a couple RPGs, an RPK, and a goddamn IED. The entry team gets ready to start clearing the house's second floor. That's when the place goes boom. Everything standing within twenty yards of the house gets knocked onto its ass. There's a gap of about forty seconds in my memory, starting just after I got blown off my feet by the blast wind.
Next thing I remember is hearing somebody shouting above me. There's hands on my IBA and I'm being dragged away from wherever I'd landed. My ears are ringing like crazy and it dawns on me that I've dropped my rifle. This is an enormous no-go in the infantry world. I swat at whoever's dragging me and suddenly I'm dropped myself. Get up. My ears are clearing up, sorta, but everything still sounds as if I'm underwater. It's Gorton, the kid who drives for Sergeant Vincenzo, who's shouting at me. I can see Sergeant Donovan some ways behind him, waving his arms like an idiot.
"Doc! Doc, get the fuck up! C'mon man, they're in the house, Jesus Christ, man, get up. C'mon man, move it, they're... fuck... get up!" He starts pulling at my IBA again, trying to haul me up by himself. Gorton's a skinny little shit though. There's no way he's gonna manhandle my weight like that. Get up, though. He's right about that.
"Fuckin'... get on the radio," I tell him. "Get a QRF out here, right fuckin' now. Get... shit. Just go, man. Get on the radio and get us some fuckin' help."
It feels weird being on my feet again. Unsteady and floaty-like. The out-rushing air from the blast rattled the tympanic membrane. My balance is off. Fuck. I have to get my weapon. Everything else is irrelevant if I can't defend myself. It would be just like Haji to spring an ambush while the patrol is picking itself out of the dirt. The M4 feels like a cinderblock when I finally fumble my hands around it. My balance is improving though. Good. I need my equilibrium to be steady when I get to work on the wounded. Somebody else is shouting nearby but I can't tell if it's directed at me. Just then, I don't care. I've got guys down in here that need me.
In through the doorway, sweep the main room, it's clear, move on. There's a guy down by the stairwell. Or part of a guy anyway. It's Fields. Fuck. I step over him and sweep the next room with my rifle. It's clear too. It's not even necessary to clear this place. It just fucking blew up, after all. I do it anyway. A good soldier always makes sure his surroundings are secure before he puts his weapon aside. There's another guy at the bottom of the stairs. Silverman. He's dead too. I clear the stairwell even though it's really obvious that there is no danger here. The rest of the entry team are sprawled on the stairs where they fell, their positions marking where they were on their ascent.
Checking your buddies to see if they're alive or not sucks. It really, really does. Silverman and Fields are dead, Ashley is on his way out, Hammond looks like he'll probably make it. Then... ah shit. There's Johnson. He looks like absolute shit. His face and his whole front are badly burned. I crouch on the stairs near him and try to get his helmet off. The chin strap is melted to his cheeks. It won't budge. I'm not about to tear it free, either. Why is the poor fucker conscious for this? Why did he have to start coming down the stairs again? I don't like him but Jesus. Nobody deserves this shit.
"This is gonna suck, bro," I tell him as I set my rifle down and grab for my aidbag. He only groans. The helmet will have to stay in place for now. His IBA and blouse, on the other hand, gotta go. My hands are shaking as I try to pry open the front of his IBA. The Velcro flap isn't opening. I have to cut it. I drop my knife twice before I can get the flap cut away. What the fuck is wrong with me? Focus. I have to fucking focus. The IBA is out of the way. I cut through Johnson's blouse and shirt, as best I can. He's a mess. His pants gotta come off too. Or not. Fuck. I can't tell what's pant leg and what isn't. Not in the unsteady light from my flashlight.
Dry dressings, carefully tied around the burns. I don't have enough to cover them all. Johnson needs to get out of here fast. Both of them do. "Gorton!" I holler down the stairs. "Vincenzo! Fuckin'... somebody!" I have to leave Johnson and check on Hammond. He's unconscious but breathing well enough. I manage to get his IBA off when my help shows up. It's Gorton. Great. He's only a few months out of AIT and here he is, staring down at his blown up, burned up buddies. He's got a folding litter with him but he's also rooted to the spot at the base of the stairs. The shock has got him.
"Gorton!" Nothing. "Gorton! Hey, Kenny!" I can't go down to him, even if I wanted to. There's a nasty piece of sharpnel in Hammond's side that's causing some equally nasty bleeding. "Come on, brother, snap out of it. You can't help them." I have his attention now. "Get up here. Listen to me, man. You can't help them, but you can help him. Hold pressure here. That's it."
He's whiter than a sheet and probably wants to puke everywhere, but he holds it together. Good man. "QRF's comin'. Sergeant Rhodes won't let anybody else in here. He said we're to clear outta here and secure - "
He said what? "We're not goin' anywhere," I tell him sharply, putting one of my remaining dressings on Hammond's face. We weren't gonna get anymore help? Sweet Jesus. "Not without these guys. Rhodes can go fuck himself."
Gorton grins. If he holds it together for the rest of the night, he'll probably do all right. There's not much else I can do for Hammond. I shift down the stairs, careful not to step on him or Gorton and go down to Ashley. As I'd thought, he doesn't have very long. There's only one thing to do for him.
"Kenny," I say, glancing up the stairs. "If you remember only one thing of all this shit, remember this." I hold up a syrette. "Morphine. It's a painkiller, yeah, and it also depresses the respiratory system. Twenty milligrams of this and..." I jab the syrette against the thick part of Ashley's thigh and hit the plunger on the top. "It's the only bit of mercy a guy like Ashley will get."
It'll take a couple of minutes for the morphine to get into his bloodstream. Once it does, though, he won't feel a thing. Ever again. It's the best I can for him. I pat his shoulder and linger a moment before going back up the stairs to Johnson.
"Johnson has to go first," I tell Gorton. "He's worse off."
There are shouts and the rumbling sound of Humvee engines from outside. The QRF is here. Somebody is yelling at the top of his lungs too. But there are guys coming into the house. I'm beyond relieved. Getting these two guys out of here would have been impossible with just me and Gorton, even with the litter he'd brought.
"I need two guys up here with a litter!" I call down to the faces at the bottom of the stairs. They're only a few feet away but it seems like a lot more to me. Before I know what's happening, two guys and a litter are on the scene. They take over responsibility of Hammond from Gorton and get him out of there. Johnson goes next. In only a few minutes, he and I are left alone in the narrow stairway. I have to go with the wounded but I can't make myself move.
"I hate this shit," Gorton says, staring at his bloody hands.
"Me too." I sigh and reach for my rifle. The flat sand-coloured steps are littered with dressing packaging and splattered with blood. Hammond's helmet lies upside in a patch of blood. How had it come off? I pick it up. "Come on. Let's hitch a ride back with the Medevac."
Gorton retrieves his own weapon and moves off down the stairs. I follow him, then stop abruptly and crouch down by Ashley. He's still breathing, but it's the last faint scraping breaths of somebody only minutes away from death. There's a ring on his dogtags, I know, and I wrestle the chain out from under his gear. He never wore the ring on his finger for some reason. I consider taking the ring and one of his tags with me, then I carefully tuck the chain back under his shirt. It's better for his wife to get his effects all at once.
Outside, everything is glaring bright headlights and bustling soldiers. I ignore all of it. My head hurts and I'm still feeling a little dizzy. Sergeant Rhodes spots me though. He gets in front of me somehow. It's obvious he's pissed. Good for him. He's got Sergeant Donovan with him. Even better.
"You're in the shit now, Jimenez," he snaps, jabbing a finger into the middle of my IBA. "Who the fuck do you think you are? I gave you an order to stay out of that house, but you don't give a shit about following orders. This time you're going down. I won't have a shitbag like you in - "
I have heard that shit from him for too long and right now I don't want to hear it anymore. Without even thinking about what I'm doing, I shift my rifle and Hammond's helmet to my left hand, then haul off and belt Rhodes a good one in the jaw. It shuts him up but quick. "Fuck you," I tell him and move on. He can do whatever the hell he wants to me. I don't care. I just saw five guys after they'd gotten the shit blown out of them. Does he really think his bullshit matters?
There's a Medevac bird on the ground, in the field just across the road. Gorton has somehow gotten the crew to wait, even though the medic on board is royally pissed off at him for it. I drag myself into the helicopter and tell the other medic to shut the fuck up when Gorton clambers aboard after me. The helicopter lifts off and I stare out at the ground as it shrinks away. All this shit for a few fucking AKs. It was a trap and a damn good one. We strolled right into it. Fucking Hajis. We oughta be waxing every last one of those fuckers. Instead, we're handing out crayons and soccer balls and they're blowing us up for it.
"I know you," the flight medic shouts. "You're that sergeant they busted down. Jimenez, right?"
Great. The entire FOB must know about that shit. "Yeah. So?"
"Remind me not to box with you," the flight medic answers. "You got a mean right hook."
I snort a laugh and look at Gorton. He's staring at the litter racks, where Johnson and Hammond are secured. He'll feel like shit for days. He and Hammond are buddies. I tuck Hammond's helmet between my knees where it won't be seen, even in the dark. Gorton's seen enough for one night.
The rest of the night doesn't improve. Johnson dies at the hospital and Hammond is flown on to Balad. Sergeant Rhodes adds assault to the charges he brings against me. I'm pulled off the line again. Later that week, Gorton gets busted down to private for telling Rhodes that he's the biggest piece of shit to ever walk the earth. The battery has a memorial for the four guys who got killed. It's the usual circus. Four sets of boots, with four rifles and four helmets, and four sets of dogtags. I don't attend. At least not the official memorial. I go later, after most of the battery has gone. It's easier to kneel down in front of that short line of boots and rifles when there's nobody else around. Nobody can hear your thoughts if they're not near you.
I kneel and I pray. Fields, the CLS guy I'd trained, who shouldn't even have been in that house. Silverman, who was getting out after this deployment. Ashley, who'd missed seeing the birth of his first child. Johnson, the guy I'd told to suck it up and be a man after he'd strained a ligament in his knee last month. It's always the guys who least deserve it that get hit. It's always the guys like Kenny Gorton and Alejandro Jimenez who get left mired down in the aftermath. Gorton's lucky, at least. He's only lost rank. It's court-martial for me this time around. Rhodes will see to that. And somehow I still love being an arty medic.
The motto of 3-7 Artillery is "Never Broken". It's meant to be an inspiring motto, I'm sure. It'd be nice if it actually was.