Page 6 of Warrior's Walk

Untying the ruck sack from beneath his knee, I strap a plastic splint to his leg and tighten the tourniquet. Fragments of bone stick out in every direction, and his torn skin hangs likea tattered rag. The other leg is most likely broken, or at least fractured, but there’s no blood. Running my hands over his shin, I check for obvious breaks, but come up short.

I douse his leg with saline solution, and his scream pierces through the chaos surrounding us.

“Hand me that saline,” another medic insists, and I pass it to him. He’s working on another soldier with a gunshot wound to his shoulder.

“Give me something for the pain,” my patient begs. His voice is shredded from the agony wracking his body.

“Can’t give you much more than one shot of morphine. Your blood pressure is tanked.”

“Fuck that,” he pants. “Don’t care if I die, just don’t want to die hurting this bad.”

My protective instincts fire up. “You’re not going to die. Not on my watch.” I stab the top of his thigh—the only part of his leg left intact—with an injection of morphine. His face is ravaged from pain and grief, and I lean over him, looking directly at him. “You know, all this blood really brings out the color of your eyes.”

He cracks his eyes open and squints at me. They’re hazel. Muddy green with flecks of gold. I was only making a joke to take his mind off the pain, but his eyes really are beautiful.

“They’re my best feature.” He tries to smirk, but his mouth pulls into a tight, straight line.

His grimace makes my chest flood with sympathy and concern. He’s a soldier, a warrior, and I know that for every ounce of agony he’s feeling, his face is only showing a tenth of it.

“Are you flirting with me, soldier?”

His laugh morphs into a wet cough that makes his body shake, increasing his misery tenfold.

The blood seeping from his leg in multiple places is lessening. Maybe he won’t bleed out before we get back to the base.

“That was a hell of a jump.” It takes enormous balls to jump thirty-five thousand feet into a hot zone under enemy fire.

“Looks like it was my last one,” he wheezes.

“I hope not. I bet you’re a hell of a soldier.”

I can see the FOB coming into view as our helo descends. There’s already a team of soldiers rushing toward the tiny airstrip in anticipation of our landing.

“We’re about to touch down. Keep that bag raised above your head unless someone takes it from you.”

“Yes sir,” he rasps.

I wrap my fingers around his wrist, the one holding onto his buddy’s lifeless hand. “You’re gonna have to let go, soldier.” He gives me one small nod, and I take it as permission, tugging his hand from his friend’s and taking possession of it. “You can hold mine instead,” I offer.

I’m surprised by the strength of his grip in his condition.

“Don’t… Don’t let me go.”

He licks his bottom lip and his tongue sticks. I realize how dry his mouth must be and how much care he needs right now beyond life-saving measures. There are currently eighteen hundred soldiers stationed at this base, and I’m responsible for keeping each and every one of them healthy, but right now,thisguy,thishand gripped so tightly in mine, is the only life I care about. If I let go, he may not make it. I don’t think I can live with that on my conscience.

This is my fourth deployment in thirteen years. I’ve saved many lives, and I’ve lost many lives, but I absolutely refuse to gamble withthisman’s life.

“I’m right here, soldier. I won’t leave your side.”

Things move quickly after that. We rush the patient into the medical bay where I assist a doctor and a team of nurses as we try in vain to piece his leg back together again. After an hour, the doctor raises his head, catching my eyes across my patient’s body. The look on his face says it all. He shakes his head minutely. There’s nothing more we can do for him. He backs away, peeling off his gloves. The place looks like a battlefield, littered with bloody gauze, latex gloves, and the detritus of plastic packaging.

The infusion of blood I gave him in the helo stabilized his blood pressure enough that he could sustain another injection of morphine. It was enough to partially knock him out so we could work on his leg, but it’s beginning to wear off now. The nurses move around me, cleaning up and checking on the other patients. He opens his eyes, looking high as fuck. They’re glassy and the whites are now tinged red. The first thing he does is grab my hand and squeeze.

“Did you fix me?”

Sometimes, I hate my fucking job. My heart pounds as I wonder how to tell him. I’ve delivered bad news to hundreds of patients, maybe more, so why is it so hardthistime withthisman?

I don’t even know him.

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