I roll onto my back and touch my face, running my fingers over the rest of my head. The bandage is gone and with it the key. There is light in the adjacent room they brought Emily from. 

Emily. There is a pool of blood which is smeared by apparent dragging toward the door. This shiver reminds me I’m naked; I look up to see the clothes are still on the table along with what might be food and water. All the tools previously on the table have been removed. What happened and what is happening?

I crawl to the table and pull the garments down, dressing on the floor. Using the table, I pull myself up to kneeling but it’s too painful to maintain. Expending my remaining strength, I manage to sit on the table. Dry bread and dirty water are amazing (But I would eat almost anything right now). 

Circulation slowly improves as the itchy wool builds warmth; I am feeling slightly more alive. 

Dim light in the adjacent room spilling into the darkness creates tunnel vision; I can’t stop staring at the streak of blood. It’s a small office with monitors for old CCTV and books in stacks on the shelves and desk, titles all in Cyrillic. I pull the chair out from the desk and sit down on my own terms. 

The blood stops right at the door in an almost perfect line; the smell of bleach here seems to be the reason. I don’t allow this respite to last and turn to the desk. Quickly and quietly I search each drawer.

 The pen I place on the desktop, the small scissors I hold in my right hand. There’s another door which I find unlocked. Pushing on the door while turning the knob, I open it enough to see out. This hallway looks like the same one I’ve been dragged down several times before. 

Opening the door a bit further, it creeks and I stop. Body frozen but heart racing, I feel as though the entire compound heard that. There’s no sound in answer to mine so I pop my head into the hall and quickly look both directions. To the left there are a few doors and a larger steel security door at the end. To the right, the hall turns right and out of sight. 

As quickly as I can, I go right and around the corner to see what’s down there. From what I can tell it’s the hall my normal interrogation room is in. I can’t be sure because I’ve never seen it in this direction. I try to run but a limping trot is all I can manage. The door I am guessing is my normal hell is locked and I quickly move on. I remember the note, realize I should investigate it, and attempt to find my possible ally. 

Three steps further and I hear a door opening down the hall. I pivot more quickly than I can handle and stumble against the wall. I push back around the corner and into the office, closing the door. A male and female voice speak confidently as they approach. I hide myself behind the door, gripping the scissors, ready to fight. Right to left the voices pass; I see the light from under the door blink as they pass. 

I slow my breathing and try to think. The security door isn’t that far. It sounds as if they have opened and closed one of the doors. I peak out again finding the hall empty. Running to the security door, I press my ear to the steel and can still hear their voices fading away. I try the door. Locked. I moved back to the closest door I haven’t been in. Locked. Across the hall, locked. 

Moving quickly, I pass the office and go back around the corner, running straight into a guard. Without thinking I push him back slightly in an attempt to plunge the scissors into his neck. He rotates his left hand up executing a radial block. With my other hand, I come in low and jam the pen into his abdomen; he grunts with pain. 

Adrenaline and a proper outlet – in the microseconds that seem so much longer in combat, I feel better than I can remember. His left hand on his radio and his right reaching back to draw his pistol, I make the choice to stab him in his shooting hand. I lunge for the holstered weapon but he steps back, blading away from me. His hand leaves the radio, grabs my outstretched wrist and uses my momentum to slam my skull against the wall. On the stone once again, bleeding from my head…

*

The dust is thick after the explosion and I can’t stop coughing. I roll Dan’s body off of me and begin to assess his wounds. He’s bleeding from his nose and ears with blood rapidly soaking his shredded left sleeve. The rest of the stack moves in and proceeds with clearing the house.

“CORPSMAN!”

Blood; so much is running out of his arm.

“Dan! Dan! Can you hear me?! I’ve got you! You’re gonna be alright.” 

 No Corpsman. I repeat the call and begin cutting off his sleeve. I get the tourniquet from his IFAK and slide it up onto his bicep above where frag has all but amputated his forearm. I’m cranking it down and yelling his name. After I get the bleeding stopped with the tourniquet, I slide my freehand under him and under his armor doing blood checks. It’s too hard to tell because there’s already so much everywhere. I roll him over on his good arm to check for wounds on his backside.

“Corpsman!”

A fire team comes back down the stairs and through the room the insurgents attacked us from. 

“Rogers, go get the Corpsman.” 

I lost sight of the Marine as he sprinted into the blinding light outside. Come on, come on, where is he?! Rogers came sprinting back,

 “Doc set up a CCP but he’s working a few other guys. We gotta move him. Can you help?” He’s looking at me and seems to genuinely wonder if I’m operational. How bad do I look? Damn, my face hurts. I can taste iron from the river of blood pouring out of my broken nose.

“Let’s do this.” 

Two guys grab him at the armpits and we grab his feet. I cross body sling his rifle and we move out into the street. I squint from the sun and sweat pouring into my eyes but I can’t wipe it away. Further down the block we turn into a courtyard and find Doc working on a few guys, hands covered in blood, exhausted. 

“Corporal, let the Corpsman evaluate you.” Sgt Wyatt always took care of his guys. 

“I’m fine.” I say, but Wyatt looks unconvinced.

“You look like hell.”

“Doc, can I go?” I shift my eyes from Wyatt to Doc looking for approval.

“What’s wrong with you?” There’s no affect to his tone and he doesn’t look up; he just keeps packing gauze into a gaping hole in the thigh of a Marine on the ground. 

“Nothing.” Everybody knows it’s not true but that’s what a Marine is supposed to say.

“He’s good Sgt.”

Doc sounds annoyed. He finishes dressing the other wound and starts to work on Dan.

“How long has this tourniquet been on? You didn’t mark him.”

“It just happened. We brought him straight here.” 

Doc looks disapprovingly at the Sgt, but Wyatt’s hollow grey eyes are unmoved and he turns to look at us. He is a stickler for never showing weakness.

“Ben, wipe your face off before the next house.”

Doc reaches into a nearby kit and pulls out two tampons. He unwraps them and shoves one in each of my nostrils and without warning sets my nose. Rogers starts wiping my face off with a dirty rag and Doc stops him by trading it for some alcohol wipes. I’m sure I look stupid with a partially cleaned face and strings hanging out of my nostrils but nothing is pretty here and there’s no one to impress.

I look at Sergeant Wyatt, he nods and the four of us double time back to catch up with first platoon. Coming out of the courtyard, we start taking fire from second-story windows across the street. The SAW gunner lays down a heavy stream and we close the distance, crossing the street to join the platoon. 

First fire team breaches the street level door and frags the entry room. The team funnels in, a few shots marking their arrival. I go in with the second fire team. With the ground floor secure, we push upstairs. 

Just as the first Marine’s helmet is level with the top of the landing, machine gun fire skips off the concrete, snapping right beside his head. He slides back down a step or two, creating a small train wreck in the stairwell. Sporadic fire continues in our direction and Jenkins lobs another frag in response. 

As soon as it detonates, we sprint up the last few steps into the dust cloud. Pointman puts two rounds into a military age male; he falls, AK clattering to the floor. Jenkins hooks in to the right, tripping over the enemy machine gunner who is moaning and bleeding on the floor. I follow in and clear back left, final guy checks the other corner. 

Jenkins stands up, cursing the dying man, and shoots him in the head. Bending over, he begins to rifle through the dead man’s clothes. Finding cigarettes, he puts them in his empty grenade pouch and looks around. The other three of us look at each other and silently refocus for the next room. 

These precious seconds are critical to momentum.

“I’ve got this.” 

Jenkins runs to the next door as he finishes saying it. The other two follow and just as I start after them, something catches my foot and I fall hard onto my rifle. The Iraqi shot first crawls up and reaches for my pistol. I draw it before he can take it but he manages to grab the slide as I try to fire, and the weapon won’t discharge. 

Much of my weight still on my rifle, I’m now wrestling for control of the pistol with someone who seems drug fueled. There’s a fire beyond rage in his eyes and a strength greater than the average man, especially one just shot twice. He’s got both hands on the pistol to my one and I’m losing it fast. Rolling slightly, I draw my K-bar with my left hand and stab him in the arm. It’s enough for me to regain control of the pistol and I empty the magazine into him. I reload and put a final round in his head. Standing, I holster the pistol and retrieve the knife. My head is pounding as I bend over to pick up my rifle and I shuffle to catch up in the next room. 

---

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These Veteran stories of struggle, adventure, and post traumatic growth need to be heard!
Join the cause to de-stigmatize mental health issues.
Please SUBSCRIBE, share our website with friends / co-workers, and support us by donation or at the STORE.