Page 17 of Defending What is Mine

All I can think about is getting to the accident and searching for survivors. Almost there, Wilde. The more I allow myself to think of one of my own lying out there injured—or worse—the tighter my vision narrows. Just focus on that smoldering heap in the distance. Bullets impact the armored sides of the Humvee, but there’s no time to worry about it. I push the thought away and keep my eyes on my target.

When I arrive, the only light in the area comes from my headlights, and the scene it illuminates turns my stomach inside out. Fully aware that same light serves as a beacon to the bad guys, I kill the engine and find myself in total darkness, save the fading glow of still molten steel in the wreckage ahead. I grab a flashlight before hopping down from the cab and run toward the accident like my own life depends on it.

Lives lost—extinguished in an instant. Young lives. The loud crack of a round whizzing near my head finally causes me to take notice of my own danger. First one, then two, then a series of tings as bullets ricochet into and against the fender. That’s when I realize I’m standing in the open waving a goddamn light around like an idiot, making myself a target.

I drop to my hands and knees behind the smoking remnants of the Humvee, searching the rubble for signs of life. In the lull between bursts of gunfire, I hear a stifled moan, then a quiet call for help.

“Hang on. I’m here. I’m coming…just hold tight.” I scramble to find him, to get to him, but all I see is carnage. I dig and pull, and look for movement, but...nothing.

Another burst of gunfire, this round closer than the last, has me prone, my body pressed as flat to the ground as I’m able. That’s when I see it. Underneath a twisted pile of steel—apparently blown free in the explosion—is a dirty, blood-stained glove, slowly waving me over.

“I see you,” I yell. “I’m coming.” I dig hard into the sand with my elbows and knees as I crawl on my belly to the wounded soldier. “I’m here,” I call as I reach his position and touch his hand. With no idea where he’s injured, or how severe those injuries may be, the last thing I want to do is drag him free only to make things worse. “Where are you hurt?”

“My leg. It hurts so damn bad. I can’t move it.” Pain laces the soldier’s voice and urgency washes over me. If this kid is going to have a chance, I need to get him back to the base. Now.

Fortunately for us, the wreck provides some much needed cover between our position and the enemy’s. A small conciliation, all things considered, but if he’s going to have a chance, I need to get him free.

“Is that your only injury? Are you sure?”

“I think so. Nothing else hurts—not like my leg, anyway.”

“Alright.” I scan the flashlight over the mound pinning him down. There, underneath what used to be a front bumper and one of the wheels, protected by an armored door half buried in the sand, is one of my men. Injured and hurting, but alive.

“Alright, when you’re ready I’m going to lift this off you. Okay? Are you ready?”

“I don’t know,” he groans, his voice cracking. “It’s really fucking heavy on my chest.”

I take a deep breath and raise up to my knees. “On three, alright?” I get the best grip I can manage along the edge of the door and count down before I grab hold and attempt to pull, but he’s right, this heap is h-e-a-v-y. Through all my groans and struggles, it doesn’t budge.

Feeling defeated, I sit back, huffing to catch my breath as I try to come up with plan B. I look around, hopeful to find something I can use as leverage to pry him free. Eventually, I find a thick piece of scrap that looks like it might be long enough to do the job.

I crouch beside the wounded soldier. “You’re right. All this shit has got to weigh at least four hundred pounds. Instead of picking it up off you, I’m going to tilt it, and when I do, you’re going to crawl out.” Far as I can tell, the chances of him being able to drag himself free are fading by the second, but I refuse to focus on anything but getting him to safety. There isn’t room for failure. Not now.

“I don’t know, man. My leg.” He falls silent for a few seconds. “Okay, yeah. I…I can…try. But it hurts real bad…”

“I know, brother. But we’ve got to get you out from there, so I can get a better look. You can do this. I know you can. Ten seconds of pain…that’s all I’m asking.” And I’m fully aware it might be too much.

“Come on, Jonesy,” he mumbles. “You got this. Suck it up. No pain, no gain.”

Jonesy? Pfc Jones? Holy shit. Don’t you worry brother, this is going to work. I won’t let you down.

“You ready?” I ask. “Go on three?”

“On three.”

I count it out and dig deep on three, then push on that steel like it’s my life’s mission. And it still doesn’t budge—not an inch. Not until I think about what I would do if this was one of my brothers trapped underneath. Thinking about one of my own...hurt and depending on me to save him...it unlocks some inner reserve I never knew I had. I hear Private Jones grunting and groaning as he tries to help, and it pushes me into high gear.

The scrap doesn’t move much, only a couple of inches, but it’s enough. Between mortars exploding in the distance and random gunfire aimed our direction, Jones fights through the pain and crawls free.

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