A (86:19)
You just mentioned before I got injured. I'm gonna go to the book. December 10, 2003. The small window near our room exploded in a shower of glass. The wood panel I kept in front of the glass landed at my feet with shards of glass peppering the floor. I stared at the shattered wood and glass for a few moments until the sirens went off. I scrambled and put my body armor on, thinking briefly that the cold December shrill I might want to put on warmer clothes than my stained brown shirt and black shorts. Unwilling to take that gamble, I charge in the open air, where I found a medic frantically working on a young Afghan boy with shrapnel, his chest gasping for air. I hovered over both the boy and the medic, uncertain if I should help. The medic flicked a large bore needle, preparing to jam the syringe into the kid's chest. I waited a moment longer, watching the blood pool in the silt below the child's back, and then found my feet and ran. When I arrived at the talk and pushed my way through the bat wing doors, Gonzo was there to give me orders. Protect the locals, gather intel, and don't die. Little did I know that day would change everything. Y. I opened my mouth to ask for more information, but a loud, short whistle screamed over the talk with just enough time for someone to yell, incoming. I flinched while Gonzo stood tall, unimpressed by the attack. He pointed to the door and gave me my orders. You got this. Ha. Hollywood. Now move. The problem with war movies is they're sort of accurate. Everyone's yelling and you're hyper aware of your own breath. Nobody has a clue what's what he's doing either. You make it up as you go, the muscle memory from training taking over. As I rounded the corner from the talk, a short shriek, shrouded, sounded overhead. Before I had time to duck, an explosion sent bits of shrapnel whizzing through the air. I slowed down and my body slammed against a wall, then covered my eyes against the waning sunlight. The the impact had hit the outer gate perimeter close to a bunker where the other soldiers had taken cover. Before I could move, another rocket slammed into the bunker, sending shrapnel and debris into its walls. Then we pressed our bodies against the side of the building, embraced for impact as another zip tore over our heads. The impact shook the building, and above me a voice rang out from the radio tower. Get me goddamn air support. They're. They're getting the talk. They're targeting the talk. Without a word, Max and I sprinted to the adjacent building buildings and burst through the screen door. Once inside, we discovered most of the local Afghans huddled next to an oven in a corridor just to the right of the door. They're getting closer. Spotter. Probably we should move into the kitchen area. Lopez gestured down the corridor and made his way into the crowd of Afghans just as Max returned to the room, sipping a Dr. Pepper and grin and grinning. Jackpot, he said. Take a sip. I laughed once more, standing with my back to the main entry just as I was about to turn and walk toward the kitchen hall way. I thought. I thought I heard the faintest whistle. Then it went dark. The great thing about our incoming artillery is that when you hear the whistle and the whoosh, you're far enough away from the impact. The shorter the noise, the better the chance you're in a kill zone. When there's little to no noise, you're dead. In my case, the rocket impacted a little over seven feet from my position. I poured my body into the wall for support and continued to wave off the scared Afghan man who's trying to help. The loud buzzing in my ears made it impossible to comprehend anything, and each verbal command I gave sounded like I was 10ft underwater. Confused, I stared at my bare arms and saw they were peppered with flecks of translucent black material. Absentmindedly, I rubbed at them, trying to move the strange material off my arms, until I noticed trickles of blood forming on my hand. I stared dumbfounded, then glanced at the main door. The blast had blown out the glass windows. I was rubbing broken glass and shrapnel into my arms. Almost whimsically, I began to take stock of my surroundings. As the ringing continued, I glanced around the room a few times, sluggish and still leaning against the wall. Then I realized I couldn't find Max. The only remnants of his presence were a Dr. Pepper can and splattered soda on the walls and floor. Feeling groggy in my head didn't help, which led me to conclude the shelling had vaporized him. Max. I yelled as I found my footing and grabbed my right ear. The buzzing was subsiding, but now throbbing grew more intense. Max, where are you? Where the are you? What the was that? I moved toward the splattered soda and saw that the screen door separated our corridor from the main dining hut had been torn off the hinges. The screen netting hung limp inside the room. Tables and chairs were flung about as if a small child had been throwing a tantrum. Streaks of blood snaked across the floor. Floor. It was reminiscent of a zombie flick where the undead dragged their bodies against the ground and leave bloody smears in their wake. My eyes traced the blood trail to a corner where I found Max. He was sheet white, rocking back and forth and holding his arm. I could tell he was mumbling something over and over, but with my own hearing muffled, I couldn't make it out. You hit. I yelled loudly as I rushed to his side. Max, can you continue to rock back and forth clutching his arm? Arm? Let me see. He shook his head in response, so I pressed. Let me see. He reluctantly released his arm and I saw the bloody mess above his sleeve. Inwardly, I cursed. My elbow. He said. I think it's broken. This was the phrase he would continue to repeat for the next several minutes, sometimes peppered with profane profanity. Not wasting my time, I pulled a black steel dagger from my body arm and sliced open the sleeve. Above Max elbow was a slight sloppy mess of muscle, tissue and fat. The wound looked like a pop can had exploded in his tricep of one of the greatest gifts of my military. The military can give you is muscle memory. When you practice the same drills over and over, instinct takes over. So I knew two things about our situation. One, Max was slipping into shock, and two, I Had to get him to a safe place and patch his wound. My many years of training kicked in, and I put his other arm around my neck and began to lift him. We got to move. We're going to get blown up again. They got us zeroed, I told him. The panic in my eyes was evident as the red stain on Max's makeshift bandage spread. His skin turned a sickly white and his breathing was labored. I was heaving under the weight of body armor, and my hands continued to tremble. I was still trying to still the tremors. I clenched and unclenched my fists while staring into his glassy eyes. Next to me, Lopez crouched, a look of concern and puzzlement on his face as he examined the wounded soldier. He abruptly stood, then pointed at the front door, where Max and I had received the brunt of the Chinese made artillery shell. We can reach triage that way. Get the medics. My hands continue to tremble. I'd been in combat before, so why was the fear gripping me so intensely now? I gave into the cowardice eking its way through my body and directed Lopez. Your turn to get blown up, bro. I. I'll stay with Max. Lopez hesitated, boots shuffling on the dusty floor. I imagined he was having the same psychological argument in his mind that I'd had. Then he nodded and ran out the door. I continued to talk to Max, whose head lulled like a drunk's, hoping medical aid would arrive this time. Where was he hit? Where's he hit? Two medics entered the room, huffing and stuck, sweating despite the winter chill. Lopez and toe. Before I could respond, they spotted the bandage and blood smears. Max's head lulled to the side while he went in and out of lucidity. He's gonna die. He's gonna die. He's gonna die. The record track in my mind was cruel. As I loomed over my friend in the distance, a low rumble began to build, and each men's man's head perked up like a prairie dogs in response, our salvation was at hand. Helicopter. The medics had already began packing their equipment. We have to get him to the lz. He has a medevac now and he needs it. Sledge shaken from the trance, I ran to the room where we got to work creating a litter to carry Max, whose clammy skin made him look more like Casper the Friendly Ghost in humor. Last thing I told him before we carted him off was the same thing you tell every dying man. You're gonna be okay. Promise. Gonzo found me after I watched Max's Helicopter fade to the dimming horizon. I clutched absently at Max's rifle for a long time, the emptiness filling me. The base medic diagnosed me with a concussion, and once my hand swelled, he splinted the arm and requested another medevac. I protested and tried to argue that it was nothing more than a few bumps and bruises. They disagreed. I was to be sent to Kandahar. My tour of duty had ended. So that moment that you reflect back on a lot in the book is the moment where you tell Lopez, like, you guys need medics. You're all in the same room. And he looks at you like, hey, get medics. As if you, Ben, go and run and get us some medics while we're getting bombed. And you looked at him and said, it's your turn to take the freaking risk.