Authors: Holly Hart
"
I
s the stretcher ready
?"
"
Y
es ma'am
." The chorus of agreement rings out behind me.
"
G
ood
. On three…" We get him onto the stretcher and the medic hands me an IV bag, which I hold above the patient. We start running, and the dog – Jake, I think – howls, jumping out of the helicopter and keeping pace alongside us.
I
t breaks my heart
, but I need to do what's best for the soldier. "Someone take care of that dog," I say, concentrating on not falling over on the uneven terrain. Thankfully, the men carrying the stretcher – all four of them – are lean and fit and we get to the hospital without incident. Behind me I hear a bloodcurdling howl of grief, and I turn my head, only to see something that I know I'll never forget – a eighty-pound German Shepherd bomb dog struggling with all its might against two soldiers to return to its master's side.
I
've had dogs
, I grew up with them – but this is the first time I've ever really understood that they experience the same emotions we do. And then the soldiers and I run through the double doors into the hospital and we enter a whole new world of beeping machinery, injured soldiers on life support, and a gaggle of nurses and doctors converging on my patient.
"
W
hat the hell
were you doing?" Sophie asks, rushing over to me in a fresh set of scrubs and handing me a set of blue surgical gloves. "What if that thing had gone down? You could have been killed!"
"
I
wasn't
, though," I reply tersely, maintaining the pressure on the injured soldier's wound. "Did you hear about the blood?"
B
ack to business
, she nods. "Yes, they're bringing it up from the fridge now." The soldiers place their precious cargo down on a transportable gurney and step back, looking lost.
"
G
ood
," I reply tersely, concentrating on holding my hands firmly pressed against the bleeding leg. My arm's aching already, and I can't imagine how the medic must have felt over the course of a half hour flight. I can feel Mike’s pulse weakly beating underneath my hands, and pray that he makes it. I can't bear losing another one. More than that – I can’t bear losing
this
one.
A
doctor hurries up
, snapping his latex gloves on. "Status," he says, simply, and I tell him what I know. "Left leg, bullet lodged in the femoral artery. He's lost a lot of blood. O positive."
"
O
kay
." He nods seriously, contemplating his course of action. "At least we've got a lot of that. Let's take him to the operating theatre, stat."
M
ore running
, six of us pushing the wheeled bed – a resident doctor, the surgeon and four nurses. There should be more of us really for something as serious, but we're stretched thin as it is and this will have to do.
"
W
here's my blood
?" I hear the doctor shout, and then see a nurse hurry up with two bags. "Okay, good – let's get it in."
I
don't remember
a lot of the surgery, just flashes here and there – the bullet coming out, the sound it makes as it falls into the metal tray by the side of the operating platform. I remember the moment he crashes, and we all stand back and the doctor shocks him with the paddles, the joy I feel as the heartrate monitor suddenly blinks back to life. And then it's like my mind shuts down and suddenly, I'm sitting by his hospital bed, holding his hand, and I've got no idea how I got here.
"
K
atie
?" A voice penetrates my consciousness, but only barely.
"
K
atie
?" It comes again, and it's familiar – I know I've heard it before. "Katie, are you alright?" It's Sophie. She rests a worried hand on my shoulder. "Come on, let's get you out of here."
I
look up at her
, eyes red with prickling tears. I hear my voice as though it's coming from the other end of a long tunnel, or underwater. "Oh, hey, Sophie," I say weakly, "what's up?"
"
W
hat are you doing here
?" she asks. "The operation finished hours ago – he should be okay, shouldn't he?"
I
can hear
the concern in her voice because I've been there, too. Sometimes a patient gets under your skin. There's no rhyme nor reason why any one case in particular gets to you, it just does – and I know exactly what she must be thinking: that for me, this was the one…
I
've
stood in Sophie's shoes before, over here and in emergency rooms back in the states, looking at one of my colleagues who's flirting with the dark side of this profession – forming an emotional connection with a patient who could die at any time. I look back down, see my hands and noticed for the first time that they are covered in blood. My eyes keep traveling, and I see that my blue scrubs are soaked in the sticky, drying substance.
"
C
ome on
," she says reassuringly, "let's get you back home. We need to get you into a shower."
I
know
I need to do what she's telling me, but I can barely operate my limbs. I know I need to tell her
why
this man means so much to me, but just standing up feels like running a marathon, and I need Sophie's support, which she gives me without hesitation.
"
I
'm sorry
, Sophie," I sniffle. "This one’s different," I say, trying to explain why, but stopping in the face of my anguish.
"
N
onsense
. We all get like this sometimes," she says, hushing me. "Come on, let's go."
"
H
old on a sec
," I reply. "I just need to do one thing."
S
ophie shoots me a weird look
, but lets go of me nonetheless. I walk over to the man whose life I've been living and dying alongside for the past six hours and look down at his sad, weathered, battle scarred face, and shudder as I think of the horrors he must have lived through out in the field.
T
he sandy mop
of hair on his head seems so innocent, so at odds with his job – to be a trained killer in the employ of the United States government – that until I cast my mind back to how caring a lover he was, I find it hard to reconcile in my mind. I lean forward, and a loose strand of my hair brushes his face before I quickly pull it back. I pull back the fabric of his blue hospital gown and find what I'm looking for.
T
he dog tags
, lying on the skin of his chest all this time, are warm to my touch. I pick them up and read them.
S
gt Mike Carson
, U.S. Army.
T
his whole time
, I never knew his surname.
Chapter Three - Mike
I
can't move
my legs and I don't know where the hell I am. I try and cast my mind back to the last thing I can remember, but to be honest – I can't remember anything. My mind is just a sea of dense grey fog. It feels like every time I try and get it working, the motor turns over once but then just coughs and dies.
M
y throat
. God, I'm thirsty. I turn my head, look to the side, and try and figure out where the hell I am, desperate for some water. It's sure as hell not some dusty Afghan mountainside, so at least I've got that going for me – but as I struggle to open my crusted eyelids, my blood runs cold as I begin to contemplate whether I might have been taken captive.
I
suddenly remember
who I am – Mike Carson, Sgt, U.S. Army, military ID number 756 4561. Are those going to be the last words I say for the rest of my life? Is some terrorist going to hoist me up by my manacled hands and leave me dangling, desperately trying to keep myself up on my tiptoes as he beats me with a stick and I scream in pain: "Mike Carson, Sgt, U.S. Army, ID number 756 4561".
T
hat would be
a hell of a way to go.
I
never thought opening
my eyelids would be such a challenge, but it feels like they're cemented shut, and I try and pry them open until, exhausted, I slump back in frustration – cursing a body that’s failing me. Suddenly, other sounds, other sensations, begin to make themselves known – some welcome, some definitely not. I can hear the gentle whirr of a ceiling fan and what sounds like the monotonous hum of an air conditioning unit somewhere in the room, and the sound gives me a delicate thread of hope to hang on to. After all, how likely is it that the Taliban would've put me up in an air-conditioned hospital?
"
H
ey
, Katie, I think he's moving," I hear an undoubtedly American voice call out from the other side of the room. "Get the poor kid some water, will you?"
W
ater
. Yes, I'd kill for some water. And she's American – that's a good sign, isn't it? I try and open my dry, cracked lips, try and get my tongue moving, but everything's such an effort – it feels like I'm trying to climb my way out of a morass of heavy, sodden mud with one arm tied behind my back. I feel a soft hand cradle the back of my head, lifting it gently.
"
H
ere you go
, sweetie," the woman says with a voice like honey, tipping a paper cup of cool liquid to my mouth. It tastes like the nectar of the gods, and I try and gulp it down but just end up inhaling it and spluttering; but I don't care, I just keep going.
"
T
ake it slow
," the soft, calming voice says, and I focus on the sound. "Don't worry, we've got plenty – we're not in any danger of running out."
I’ve heard that voice before…
M
y tongue finally lubricated
, I try and say something. "Where –" I croak, and the woman presses the cup back to my lips. This time, I take her advice and sip gently, gratefully. She's done this before. I try again. "Where am I?" I ask hoarsely, desperate to know the truth. "Did they take me?"
"
H
ey now
, calm down," my savior's voice croons. "You're safe, don't worry. You're at Bagram Forward Operating Hospital. You've been under for about a week. We weren’t sure if you were going to make it, soldier," the voice says, and although I can’t be certain, it seems to crack with emotion.
"
T
ommy
?" I ask, dreading the truth, everything flooding back to me in a wave of violent, bludgeoning emotions that seem to threaten my very sanity. My brain starts screaming at me, it doesn't want the truth, tells me I should close my ears, block it out. But I can't – the rational side of me needs to hear it.
T
he long pause
confirms my darkest fears before she even opens her mouth. I can almost picture her tortured face. How many broken, battered soldiers has she had to deal with? How many times has she had to dole out the bad news?
"
I
'm sorry
…" she whispers, her voice heavy with emotion, and I barely hear another word.
C
hapter Four - Katie
T
he base is dustier
today than I can ever remember. Sandstorm season must be right around the corner, I realize, and the thought fills my belly with dread as I trek around looking for an eighty-pound German Shepherd called Jake who last saw me dragging him away from his dying owner – at least, that's what he'll remember. That is, if I ever find him. At this rate, that's not looking likely.
I
pass
by another conurbation of identicle plywood housing units that look every bit as worn as the one that I was assigned to over nine months ago, and look down at the crumpled piece of paper in my hand.
S
outh quadrant
, Unit D-19, room five.
T
he handwriting's mine
, it's messy and barely legible, even to me. My feet are sore and dusty after hours of walking around this massive growth of men, weapons and material in the middle of the desert, and I'm just hoping that I've finally made it to the right place. I look at the signpost to confirm I'm in the right neck of the woods, and then my eyes track along the row of plywood huts. Thinking about it, they look kind of like dormitories at a summer camp – but not any kind of summer camp that I'd ever want to go to.
D
-16
, D-17, D-18 – my eyes trace their way along the tired, worn out row of houses until I finally see it, the building on the corner. I pick up the pace, crossing my fingers in the vain hope that that might somehow swing the odds in my favor. I don't think I can bear looking at Mike's grieving face any longer unless I come back with his dog.
H
e knows
it's not my fault that Jake's not by his side – I did what I had to do in a difficult moment – but knowing and believing deep down are two entirely different things. In just a couple of seconds, I find myself at the front door of the shack and test it. It's not locked. I push it open and step through.