Chapter 12

Whatever struck me, had hit me a glancing blow. I stumbled for a step and felt a burning pinch in my right bicep. It seemed as if I had a magnet in my pocket attracting every piece of loose metal in the desert. I regained my balance and kept running. I slid to a stop and dived to the ground next to where Brad Kim was trying to put a tourniquet on Gordon Vanderwilt’s leg. Brad was having trouble because incoming rifle fire made sticking your head up a very bad idea. I grabbed the CAT (Combat Issue Tourniquet) from Brad, wrapped it around Vanderwilt’s leg, cranked the windlass tight and locked it in place. The tourniquet wouldn’t have taken as much effort on bare skin, but a lot of blood and a lot of bullets whizzing by eliminated that option.

“How you doing, Gordie?” I asked as I marked a ‘T’ (for tourniquet), along with the time on his forehead.

“Not so good, Doc,” he replied, “how bad is it?”

I cut open his trousers at the bullet hole, exposed the wound and blotted up the blood. Vanderwilt had a through and through wound of his upper thigh that, judging from the amount of blood, the slug must have nicked his femoral artery.

“Good news, Gordie. The bullet missed your junk and went through your thigh. I’m going to hook you up with an IV to replace some fluids. Your job is to lay still until we can get you out of here, Okay?”

He nodded, with a small smile of relief. I cut a line in his left arm and injected him with some morphine. Then I cut away enough of his ACU (Army Combat Uniform) trousers to slap a moist dressing on both the entry and exit wounds. It was a challenge to do all that laying on my side, and it took some effort to ignore the firefight happening around me while I did it. When I was satisfied with my work, I patted Vanderwilt on the back.

“You’re gonna to be fine, Gordie,” I reassured him.

While I was working on Gordon Vanderwilt, my platoon beat back an assault across our front. I could see a half dozen bodies out there, some as close as fifteen meters away. I was surprised to see that they were wearing camouflage uniforms instead of caftans. I wiggled around until I was in a good prone firing position in the small depression Brad and Gordie were using for cover. And, just like that, I was a rifleman. The firing had died down except an occasional burst from an AK and I didn’t see any baddies to engage. During the lull, word was passed down the line from SFC Edwards that LT Albert’s element was three minutes out on the bad guys’ right flank and helicopters were inbound.

In a perfect bit of timing, the insurgents decided to try another assault just as Albert got his men into position. When the tangos jumped up to rush us, they ran into a wicked crossfire. I joined the fray firing a couple of bursts as the attackers tried to advance using fire and maneuver. In five crazy minutes it was all over. They withdrew from the fight, dragging away their wounded but leaving at least a dozen dead behind. I stood up when SFC Edwards gave the ‘all clear’ and sought out SSG Ruiz. Both Gordie Vanderwilt and Lamar Smalls were in his squad.

Ruiz rounded up a few guys to carry Vanderwilt back to my make-shift aid station. I was busy making sure Vanderwilt’s tourniquet was still secure when Olivia Simpson joined us.

“Whatcha need, Johnny?” she asked.

I pointed to Lamar Smalls and his sad looking bandage.

“Look after PFC Smalls please, he has a head wound, and I didn’t check him for TBI (Traumatic Brain Injury),” I answered.

“I’m not talking about them, I mean you,” she said.

At my confused look she pointed at my chest.

I looked down and there were a couple of holes in my vest. That’s when I noticed a dull pain in my upper right chest. I guess adrenaline had masked it till now. I shrugged. I had too much on my plate to worry about it now.

“Nothing penetrated and nothing hurts to badly, Liv, so a bruise maybe,” I said.

She nodded and knelt by Smalls. Olivia was a cutie, so Lamar was wearing a big grin as she removed his hastily applied bandage.

Vanderwilt was still good to go, so I moved over to check on LT Smith. The Lieutenant was awake now, her eyes open and blinking. I took her hand in mine and sent her reassurance and calm.

“Welcome back, Lieutenant. Lay still for me, please. Can you hear and understand me?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Good! My name is Johnny Pulaski and I’m a medic. Do you remember your helicopter crashing?” I asked.

Her eyes widened, and she nodded again.

“Water,” she rasped.

“I get you a sip in just a minute, I need to examine you and ask you some questions first,” I said.

I made sure she wasn’t suffering from a back injury and after a little poking and prodding I determined that the good lieutenant had either broken or cracked a few ribs on her right side. She also had some serious bruises on her back and a dislocated shoulder. I handed her my canteen and let her drink. I was putting a sling on her right arm when she asked me a question.

“There was a woman named Pulaski a class behind me at the Academy, any relation?”

“My sister, Katrina,” I replied.

She nodded.

“Small world. Write down your contact information for me please,” she said.

I took the small notebook I always carried out of my pocket and wrote out my address, e-mail and cell phone number. I tore out the page and handed it to her just as the helicopters arrived. And when I say arrived, I wasn’t kidding. Suddenly there were helicopters everywhere. Two Air Force HH-60s and the Chinooks we arrived in were finding a place to land while a swarm of Apache and MH-60s armed with miniguns looked for the insurgents.

I briefed the Air Force PJs on the status of the dead and wounded airmen and passed them the Casualty Cards I’d filled out. They loaded their folks and PFC Vanderwilt up on the SAR birds and took off for Balad Air Base and the big hospital there. PFC Smalls went with us, we’d treat him at the TMC.

The second Platoon did not fly off into the night, instead, we were left to deal with the dead and wounded insurgents. We collected any weapons we could find and searched the bodies for whatever intel they might have. SFC Edwards took photos of the dead men and made sure what was found on each man was matched to his photo. Edwards said these guys were wearing the uniform and carrying the equipment of the old Iraqi Republican Guard. The Intel pukes were going to be very interested in this.

Sitting uncomfortably on the troop seat in the Chinook reminded me that I also needed to visit the Troop Clinic at the FOB to see if I had any shrapnel in me. I wasn’t looking forward to dropping trou so one of my contemporaries could check me for helicopter fragments. I also wanted to have my chest and right arm checked out. I had a rip on the right sleeve of my ACU top with some blood around it. I wasn’t in a lot of pain, so I figured I was okay.

We landed at Hawkeye at 0600. I escorted PFC Smalls to the Troop Clinic. Lamar was bummed that Olivia Simpson wasn’t caring for him. Instead, she smiled sweetly and waved at him as he trudged towards the clinic.

LT Albert, SFC Edwards and SSG Ruiz came into the clinic as Lakota was injecting some lidocaine in Lamars’s forehead. They watched as she cleaned the wound and sewed him up. Her stitches were plastic surgeon quality. Lamar’s scar would be barely noticeable. I was handing her whatever she needed as I waited my turn. When she finished putting a small dressing on Lamar, everyone turned to me. Ruiz pointed to my vest.

“Take that off, Doc, I want to look at it,” he ordered.

I shrugged out of my vest, wincing when I pulled my right arm out of it. Ruiz took the vest and pulled out the padded ceramic insert (Enhanced Small Arms Protective Insert (ESAPI). He grunted when he looked at it and showed it to Edwards and the Lieutenant. Then he showed it to me. The 8x10 inch plate had a crazy spiderweb of cracks an inch or so from the center. The back of the vest had a handful of ragged tears in the outer fabric from the RPG that hit the helicopter.

“You took an AK round in your vest, Doc. Looks like it came from your left front at an angle and ricocheted off to the right. Are you sure you’re okay?” Ruiz said.

I shrugged and pulled off my ACU shirt.

“I’m a little sore but nothing major,” I said.

When the shirt was off, I saw there was a furrow burned into my right bicep. It was a couple of inches long and a quarter inch wide. The furrow was red and seeping blood, but it was not serious. The bullet that hit my vest had barely grazed my arm.

“Take off your t-shirt, Johnny,” Lakota ordered.

When my shirt was off, Lakota gently touched me around my Sternum. I was a little tender to right of my Sternum but no other complaints.

I made an excuse to hang around when my Chain of Command left. Lakota gave me a curious look when they were gone.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“This is kind of embarrassing, but I think I picked some shrapnel,” I said.

She asked, “Where?”

I sheepishly unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my trousers and let them down. There were a couple of bloody holes in my OD boxers and three bloody spots, all on the outside of my right thigh. Lakota tsk, tsked and put me face down on an exam table. She cut away my boxers, shot me up with lidocaine, covered my butt with a sterile drape with a three-inch aperture and proceeded to remove five pieces of metal from my leg. Lakota’s hands were steady and her movements precise as she found the shrapnel and plucked it out of me. She closed three of the wounds with butterfly closures and put a few stitches in the last two. Lakota gave me a three-day course of amoxicillin and sent me away.

Back in my hooch, I took a shower and hit the rack. I was beyond exhausted now that the adrenaline had worn off. I fell right asleep and didn’t wake up for nine hours.

I woke up in time for the evening meal which was a good thing because I was starving. JP and I were sitting at a four-place table when SSG Kennedy and LT Baker stopped by. Baker put her hand on my shoulder and asked.

“You okay, Doc? I heard you had an exciting night.”

I gave a confused shrug.

“I’m peachy, Ma’am, why wouldn’t I be?”

“My counterpart in the Maintenance Battalion said your vest was DX’d (direct exchanged) by your Platoon Sergeant. Gary told me they put it on display at supply issue as proof they work. Anyway, I’m glad you are good to go, Doc,” Baker said.

She squeezed my shoulder and left the DFAC, the ever-present SSG Kennedy on her six. I picked up my cheeseburger and took a bite when JP gave me an incredulous look.

“Dude, you need to ease up on the women, leave some for the rest of us,” he said.

“And you need to learn the difference between friend and girlfriend,” I replied.

JP gave me an eye roll.

“Maybe you should explain that to Lieutenant Goodbody,” he snarked.

We stood down for thirty-six hours after the SAR mission. We replenished expended ammo, and I restocked my aid bag. We also cleaned our weapons and equipment, and I drew a brand-new vest. It was weird seeing my old one hanging on the wall with a caption that read: ‘THEY REALLY WORK.’

At 1900hrs we had a platoon meeting in the empty DFAC. LT Albert and SFC Edwards conducted an after-action review of the mission. We discussed what worked and what needed work. We agreed that our movement to contact and immediate action drills worked, but we needed to get better at ammo discipline. SFC Edwards decided that we would each carry three extra thirty round magazines to supplement our basic load of seven. Naturally there were a few groans about the extra weight.

“Better to have and not need than need and not have,” he pontificated.

We also speculated on the nature of the soldiers we encountered. The best idea we could come up with was that they were remnants of an Iraqi Guard unit hiding out in the rugged rocky desert. Whoever they were they needed to be dealt with.

I think I proved myself to my platoon mates beyond any doubt during the mission. The guys were still friendly, but they treated me with more respect now. I don’t know, maybe I was imagining it or maybe I was just more confident in myself. Whatever, it still felt good.

So, two days later one of the best weeks of my time in the military began when the TOC’s runner tracked me down at breakfast.

“They want you at the TOC at 0900,” he said.

“Why?” I asked.

He just gave me an eye roll.

“0900,” he repeated as he trotted off.

At 0900 I reported to the Tactical Operations Center. I was showered, shaved and in a clean uniform.

SFC Edwards met me at the door and walked me to a desk where a Master Sergeant sat.

“Specialist Pulaski, I’m MSG McDowell, and I’m a Retention NCO for the US Central Command in Iraq. I have reenlistment paperwork for you that supersedes the intent to reenlist you signed before attending the Special Operations Medic Course,” he explained.