First Sergeant Ramirez was the first to fall.
As he watched, the bullet tore through the trachea and carotid artery, and from behind the wheel of the overturned U.S. Army Stryker vehicle, Private First Class Marke Lightman cringed, waiting for the single word he dreaded to reach his ears. It was useless, he already knew, by the way Ramirez had fallen to the burnt red clay, the subtle arch in his back and the hollowness of his eyes; he already knew it was too late. Shaking himself from the daze he pulled his head back behind cover, just in time to hear the deafening sound of several rounds punching into the metal of the vehicle and see the dust several feet in front of his face explode as bullets dug into the earth. Breathing heavily and suddenly aware of how close he had come to death, he gripped the stock of his M4 Carbine and pulled it close to his chest, gritting his teeth against the fear that threatened to grip his spine.
“MEDIC!”
He ran. Fleeing the fear as it closed in on him, Marke streaked from behind the Stryker as fast and low as he could towards his fallen Sergeant. Ramirez lay in the middle of the skirmish, his blood pooling beneath him. The sand kicked up around Marke as he closed the distance between them, laying suppressive fire into the rocks to buy him a moment. Dropping to his knees, he slid the last yard and came beside the fallen man with a shout.
“Suppressive fire! I need time!” he bellowed.
He turned his attention to the man on the ground, praying that the other soldiers had heard him and were holding the insurgents down. The First Sergeant lay sprawled on the earth, his arms splayed out to either side, one hand still clutching the grenade he had pulled out just before he was shot. Marke reached out, gently turning Ramirez’s head, trying desperately to ignore the man’s eyes, wide open in shock and hauntingly devoid of life. He cursed under his breath as he saw the wound, blood still flowing from the torn artery even as he lay dead in the sand. For a moment he kneeled motionless by the body, transfixed by the carnage before him.
The sharp sound of gunfire snapped him back to reality. Looking up, he thought quickly, scanning the battlefield. The other soldiers had the insurgents pinned behind a group of large rocks that jutted from the mountainside, but it could only last so long, they only had so many bullets and there were still at least two that needed to be killed. Coming to his feet, Marke grabbed his First Sergeant by his vest and with a roar hauled the body over his shoulder, running for cover. He was almost halfway to the upturned Stryker when he heard the warning scream from his left.
“Lightman! Look out! Get away from the Stry…”
The world exploded.
Marke was thrown from his feet as the Stryker blew apart, engulfed in a fiery inferno. He felt himself lose his hold on Ramirez’ body just before he hit the ground and felt his head snap back, smashing his helmet into a large stone. Dazed and ears ringing, he rolled onto his side, grimacing as he felt pain lance through his arm. With a grunt he looked down at the torn sleeve of his uniform and stuck two fingers beneath the cloth and pressed the wound. It felt shallow, but he knew he would have to tend to it later. Wiping his bloody fingers on his uniform, he slowly stood, finding his footing and heading towards where he had heard the warning.
As he found cover behind a boulder off the road he froze. Specialist Crowe and Sergeant Johnston were huddled over the screaming body of Private Rhodes, hastily unpacking gauze to try and stop the bleeding from the jagged shard of shrapnel embedded in his thigh. For a moment Marke was too stunned to move, he could only stare at the blood drenching Rhodes’ pant leg.
“Doc!” Johnston yelled. “We need you, now!”
Marke burst into motion, falling to his knees beside Rhodes and dropping his M4 and pack to the ground. Unzipping the largest pouch, he ripped the medical kit out of his bag and opened it, wasting no time in pulling latex gloves over his hands. He looked at the two soldiers beside him.
“What happened?” he snapped.
Crowe turned from his position at the edge of the boulder and lowered his weapon, silent tears staining his dirt-encrusted face.
“One of the bastards has an RPG,” he spat out. “He stood and fired it before I could get a mark on him. The round must’ve hit the fuel tank on the Stryker, next thing we knew there was fire and shrapnel everywhere, Rhodes was screaming and he had that shit in his leg…”
“I radioed in for a Med-Evac, it should be here within half an hour,” Johnston said, then paused, his eyes fixed on the blood on Marke’s sleeve. “You alright, Doc? You were closer to the damn thing than we were…”
“I’m fine,” he interrupted. “It’s just a scratch. Move out of the light, I need to see.”
Bending low over the whimpering Rhodes’ leg, he inspected the wound. A foot-long twisted shard of shrapnel was buried several inches into his leg. He looked up at Rhodes, shaking his head and cursing.
“Listen to me, Rhodes,” he said, placing a hand on the young soldier’s shoulder. “The shrapnel pierced the femoral artery in your leg. I have to take it out. The problem is, it’s the only thing keeping you from bleeding out. So I need you to listen to me, buddy. Once I pull it out, I have maybe two minutes to stop the bleeding before you lose too much blood. I need you to stay as still as you can. I’m going to put on a tourniquet, but I need to pinch the artery while I do that. Can you stay still for me, Rhodes?”
The Private nodded stiffly, speaking through grunts of pain, “Do it… Doc. I… I won’t move…”
Marke nodded and unpacked the tourniquet, lifting the leg and placing it underneath. Crowe held the Private’s shoulders and nodded. As Marke pressed down on the leg with his left hand to keep it steady and gripped the shrapnel with his right, Johnston leaned close.
“I don’t mean to rush you, Doc,” he whispered urgently, “but he’s already lost a lot of blood. If you don’t pinch the artery soon it won’t matter if you get the tourniquet on.”
Marke looked at him and nodded grimly.
He paused for a second and then took one last fleeting look at Rhodes. The Private nodded. With a final breath out Marke pulled up sharply, discarding the shrapnel and ignoring the scream of pain that tore from the wounded soldier’s lips as he dug his fingers into the wound. Finding the artery by touch and memory he pinched it tightly shut.
“I’ve got it, buddy. You’re going to be alright. Just hold still a little longer, I…”
His words were cut off as Crowe released Rhodes and stood with a yell, bringing his M4 to his shoulder and firing off a quick succession of rounds. Two men wearing fraying camouflage and carrying AK-47’s fell to the ground. But the sounds of gunfire combined with the released pressure on his shoulders caused Rhodes to jerk in terror, attempting to crane his neck to see what was happening. Marke’s fingers slipped and came out of the wound, and with nothing to stop the bleeding it gushed out, a river of crimson that the sand drank greedily. Frantically, Marke pressed down on the man’s leg and inserted his fingers in the wound, to no avail. Rhodes had stopped struggling, had stopped moving, breathing. His head lolled to the side, a mask of unrivalled terror etched on his lifeless features.
Marke fell back, his hands stained red, shaking his head in disbelief. He had never seen so much blood. He felt a hand grab his shoulder and looked away to see Johnston speaking into a radio. He stopped and glanced back at Marke.
“Crowe killed the last two of the bastards. The area is clear and the helicopter will land in a few of minutes, Doc,” he said softly. “We’ll take all of them back with us.”
He nodded hollowly, feeling the tears cascade down his face. “I had it, Serg…” he whispered. “I had it…”
“I know you did, Lightman,” said Johnston. “There’s nothing else you could do… It wasn’t your fault, Doc…”
Marke stood, turning away from the body and watching as the HH-60M landed on the road between the smouldering remains of the Stryker and the rocks where the insurgents had hidden. Only one thought echoed through his mind as they took flight and turned back towards the base, soaring over miles of Afghani terrain.
‘I could have saved them.’
*****
Night had fallen, washing over the painted crimsons and purples of the sunset like a wave. Inside the shack he had called home for the past seven months Marke sat on his bed, absentmindedly staring at the floor, barely hearing the words his Sergeant was saying to him.
“It wasn’t your fault, Doc,” Johnston said. “Rhodes was bleeding for a good minute or two before you showed up. We tried to stop the bleeding, we didn’t even know if you had survived the blast. We just didn’t have the training. We couldn’t fix him. He was dead before you even got there.”
Marke shook his head at that, scowling at him, “But he wasn’t, Sergeant. He wasn’t dead. If I could’ve just held the damn artery closed he would’ve been fine…”
“You can’t think like that…”
“I can,” Marke snapped. “It’s true. I shouldn’t have been the one who came back. He should have. They should have. My body should be under that fucking sheet. I got distracted when Crowe let go of his shoulders. I wasn’t focused. That’s what killed Rhodes.”
He looked down, shifting his feet and folding his hands behind his neck. After too long of a silence he met Johnston’s eyes with a hard look, finding himself hating the look of sorrow and sympathy he saw intermingled therein.
“What do you know about it?” he yelled, coming to his feet, his face inches from his Sergeant’s. “Were you in the Stryker? Do you still have blood on your hands?”
“Lightman,” Johnston began again, softer this time. “We all lost them. Not just you. Try and remember that.”
With that he turned and opened the door, stepping out into the night. Before Marke could shut it he turned around and raised his hands, shedding light from the shack on the spots of red on his skin.
“And yes, Private. I do,” he whispered, and walked away.
Marke closed the door and returned to his bed, sitting slowly onto the mattress, staring silently at his bloodstained hands. He considered the half empty pack of cigarettes lying next to the Bible on the nightstand for a few minutes before finally taking one and lighting it, inhaling deeply. Reaching down, he took up the aged bottle of scotch he had been drinking before Johnston had barged in and took a long swig.
“I never smoked before I came to Afghanistan,” he said to no one in particular. “But if I’m going to die anyway… why the hell not?”
He took another long drink, trying desperately to drown the memory of the day, to forget the emptiness of Ramirez’s eyes, the look on Rhodes’ face, the feeling of panic when the Stryker had flipped with him inside it after they hit an IED, the sight of Corporal Pierce with the steering column through his chest. He scowled and came to his feet, pacing around the room, bottle in hand.
‘That damn thing was supposed to protect us!’ he thought, drinking deeply. ‘It killed Pierce and… and…’ He trailed off and sank onto the bed, tears rolling down his cheeks, sobs breaking his speech. “It’s my fault…” he whispered. “If I could’ve just held on… Rhodes… He wouldn’t be…”
He doubled over, shaking uncontrollably. Breathing slowly, he stopped his tears and looked at the bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label, a gift smuggled into Afghanistan for his birthday in a shoebox. He had only drunk one glass before tonight, and now was staring at the last quarter of the bottle intensely. He put the neck to his lips and swigged, gulping down the last of the scotch in a matter of seconds. Reduced to a fit of coughing, Marke looked around the room, which swam before his eyes. He couldn’t feel the pain in his arm anymore, and alarmed he took off his shirt and examined the bandage, white save for the line of blotted blood where a shard of shrapnel had grazed him. His eyes wandered down to the sparrow inked on his forearm, a tribute to a close friend who was lost in Iraq, then to the edelweiss flower over his heart. He smiled slightly at the sight of it.
‘German soldiers used to use these flowers as a sign of courage,’ he thought, nodding to the wall. ‘They would climb to the tops of the Alps and pick them, and then wear them in their lapel as a symbol of their bravery…’ He stopped to light another cigarette, then spoke aloud, his eyes brimming with fresh tears. “I should never have gotten that. I don’t deserve it… Rhodes and Ramirez and Pierce deserve them… Why didn’t I die too?” he pleaded. ‘They didn’t deserve to die… I should’ve died… if I hadn’t hesitated…’
Guilt overwhelmed him and he stood, moving over to where he had left his gear. Clutching his vest with unsteady hands, he unfastened the clasp to his M9 Beretta with clumsy fingers and jerked the sidearm out of its holster. He dragged on his cigarette as he walked back towards his bed, slumping down on the hard mattress and placing the pistol in his lap. His eyes traced the sleek black barrel and moulded grip, and his index finger traced the line of the trigger. With a surprisingly smooth motion he took it up and dropped the clip from inside the handle, slowly counting bullets before shoving it back in place and cocking the gun. For a long moment Marke cradled the gun to his chest like a lover, quiet tears streaming down his face.
In one swift movement he gripped the handle and pressed the barrel to his head, sobbing.
“I’m sorry…” he choked out, taking one final deep breath. “I just can’t… I just want it all to s… stop…”
Just as he went to squeeze the trigger, something caught his eye and he stopped, lowering the gun ever so slightly. A corner of paper was stuck out from the Bible on his bedside table, unnaturally white against the sand brown pages of the old book. It had laid there since his first week in Afghanistan, unopened, but it had comforted him just to see the embossed cross in the leather every night before he closed his eyes, as he had when he was home. Reaching out, he awkwardly took the corner of paper between two fingers and pulled. When his blurred vision adjusted he saw he held an envelope, adorned simply with the words, ‘My Son’ in an elegant cursive script. Slowly, clumsily, he opened the unsealed envelope and pulled from within it a folded letter. Still grasping the gun with one hand, he unfolded the paper and began to read.
‘Marke,
I slipped this letter into my old Bible before I gave it to you to take to war, knowing that it might be where you would turn to in a time of desperation. I know very little of what you will encounter, what you will see while you are at war, but I know that there will be times where it gets hard to just carry on. I know there will be days when the world seems full of darkness and you won’t be able to comprehend there ever being light again.
But I must beg you not to lose hope, Marke. Sometimes all you need is to know you have one person back home who is praying for you, who is asking God every day to bring you home safely, and who loves you. And you have more than one, Marke. Your sisters and your mother are missing you more each day, holding your picture and counting down the days until you return to our family safe and sound.
And you have me, son. I know we fought long and hard about you joining the Army. I know I was harsh on your choice of a career, too harsh to be honest. You just have to understand – you are my son, Marke. The thought of you on the front lines broke my heart, and instead of telling you the simple truth I hid behind my anger. I was scared, Marke. I was scared that I would live to see my son lowered into the ground. And I don’t know what I would do if I ever had to – no father should have to bury his child. I’m sorry for my anger. I’m sorry I didn’t support you as much as I should have…
Know that although I haven’t said it nearly enough, Marke, I am proud of you. I am honored to have you as my son, and to have had the opportunity to watch you grow into a strong, good man. So please, don’t ever lose hope. Hold on to the people who are here for you, so I can tell you all this in person when you come home.
I love you, son.
Dad’
Marke stared at the paper for a long moment, watching the ink swirl and blur where his tears had stained the page. His hands shook, one clutching the letter tightly, creasing the paper, the other still gripping his sidearm as he looked slowly from one to the other, from life back into the eyes of death, a quick, sharp bite of pain and then it would all be over. His gaze lingered on the tearstained page. As his father was a man of few words, and even fewer of affirmation, the letter sent Marke reeling at the praise written in those few short paragraphs. He had spoken of love, of pride. And more than these, he had shown vulnerability, fear and remorse.
Marke looked down, breathing slower now, his tears gone. In one hand he held his life, his family, his home – a mother and sisters who still thought of him, and a father who was finally being open and honest with him. In the other he held cold blackened steel, sleek and polished, beautiful, deadly, and irreversible. After a careful moment he slowly folded the letter and pressed it into the envelope, laying it gently on top of the leather Bible.
There was a resounding thud as the Beretta hit the floor between Marke’s feet. With a kick it spun across the floor, coming to rest beside his combat boots, still stained with the blood of Private Rhodes.
