21 July 2005: The Worst Day of My Life

I remember having a hard time focusing, what seemed like hours of tasks and seconds to do them. Beneath me was the road, black topped, six foot embankments dropping on either side, a canal to the north reeded and muddy, and farmland stretching everywhere else. It was the Mulla Fayad expressway screaming "welcome to the cootch of civilization" its mouth split wide by a 250 lb aerial bomb and two propane tanks wired together as a carepackage from the insurgency...

Six foot down lay Ingram, next to his rolled truck, forearm severed but for a 3 inch chunk of skin. The lower arm made a 120 degree angle halfway between his wrist and elbow, and two, yes two, tourniquets were trying to stop the growing blood puddle and failing.
Six foot down lay Brown, face first in the mud, shoved into by the weight of the truck he´d been tossed from, crushed by. He spoke through red chunked teeth, a jaw broken in two places, and gurgles, and curses.
Six foot up was the lieutenant being command-like and frozen in his truck.
Six foot up was the cyber-one (Still waiting on that charicature to be posted deanmoriarty77) blanking on the medevac request.
It was the enlisted men and I who went six feet down to help our friends. 3 on the guns. 1 securing detainees. The rest treating wounded, wide eyed, breathless. We had to do anything.
Check Joe for breath.
Bleeding?
Bones?
I blank. Get Doc.
Yelling 2 litter urgents to Reggie, get him on the medevac request.
Check security.
Get hextend (blood clotter) to Ingram, open the flow.
Calm him. Me. Pray. Tighten tourniquet.
The puddle is growning and somehow his sleeve is making a sickly balloon of blood.
He gets quiet. Keep him talking.
Yell stop standing around, get stretchers, prep medevac site.
I say goodbye to Brown, levelling with him on the extent of his injuries, trying to joke, trying to calm. he and i had a conversation 45 minutes prior. we both agreed these hasty planless, aimless patrols to nowhere was a waste of manpower. That we were sure to get hit. Same old story two months into this year.
We load the wounded and I gain some focus while pulling security, waiting for recovery assets, waiting to be attacked again. Focus gets me into the downed humvee, forcing it gas down, oil spewing, up the embankment, surprised it still ran (sort of). Sitting there waiting to be towed (I stayed behind the wheel) I lost focus again, going from wide pan frantic scan to close in fixation. Shrapnel in the windshield, bloodstains and pools lingering inside. A persistent hanging odor, a mixture of freon and mortality had me a the heave. Anyone who´s worked in a slaughterhouse or grocery store meat department knows the stink I speak of. The meat locker. Processed and reprocessed air. Stale. Soaked. Heavy. once it got in my nostrils I smelt it with and without the air on, in and out of the truck, and two days on.
Mixed reactions of Iraqis we drove past won fixations as well. Faces. Reactions, and no sound. Children not trying hard not to look at the wreckage we towed through their city. Adults had a hard time not reacting likewise. Eyes not averting, pointing fingers and mouthed words just barely held back. Quickly hidden smiles, doubletakes, stares. The first impression that destruction leaves. My windshield catching their thoughts before they saw me, torquing the wheel behind it.

Yep, shitty day.
Time for liquor sweet lambs.
(Oh and something about topless beaches rocking)

Always,
REV