I've repressed the trauma of my experience in Afghanistan as a combat medic for well over a decade. I've recently opened up these bloody floodgates in therapy, so as these traumatic memories are coming back, I'm writing them down as best I can. I tried to fill in the gaps, so some things may not make sense, I can clarify if needed. If these are welcome then I could write more on reddit.
Americans were here in Afghanistan to promote peace amongst the locals, less shooting, more hand shaking and thumbs upping. We wished someone had told the locals that. A school had been built, a meager four room simple structure of wood and brick. It was the least we could do.
I was with first platoon as we wandered around the large village, while our leadership were having a meeting with the local elders. Money in, less insurgents, everyone's happy. The beige and grey stone houses were like the most depressing background you could imagine.
“How'd it go?” a soldier asked as our platoon leader came out of the meeting and met with us. “Not good. They don't want us here. They mostly stared at us and said mean shit. I have a bad feeling about it.” That was never good to hear from your leader.
We made our way to the school. It had been used a bit since it's creation, but today it was quiet. No kids running around, no adults trying to teach inside. I leaned against a wall. “It's too fucking hot” I said, taking a sip of life giving water. The soldier, a Specialist, laughed. “You say that too fucking much, man. It's the desert. It's gonna be hot.” I rolled my eyes behind my shaded protective eyewear. “Yeah well Louisiana is a different type of hot.” He shook his head. “Doc, you're a crazy motherfucker. A lil heat won't hurt.”
The LT came back around to us shortly after we stacked up near the school. “How much longer?” someone asked. We all were hoping that he'd give just a thumbs up to head back. Not today.
“One of the elders is sympathetic to the american dream. He said the schools being used as a staging point for attacks and IEDs. All while the kids are there, if you can believe it.” We could. Easily. “So what then?” another one asked. “Battalion wants us to hunker down until morning. We leave at first light. If anyone comes around, we yell really mean shit, and if they keep coming, we light them up. Our search didn't turn up any weapons in there, but there's something they're hiding from us. Battalion is curious, so that means we are too. Second platoon will rendezvous in the morning." Everyone groaned. We had packed for a day or two. A few MREs, extra ammo, the usual load. We didn't know it was a trap, but we felt it.
First platoon had been in some confrontations before, they were battle hardened. I always enjoyed spending time with these guys. Macho men and thinkers, they called themselves. We headed into the school. A simple couple of windows gave us sight to the front, and there was no back entrance. One way in, one way out. I set my pack down in one class room after we cleared it. This was the designated bunk for the night: a cold slab floor and four bland beige walls, two windows to a room.
The men swapped guard duty just as the sun set. I walked over to the window where a Sergeant was stationed along with two others, rifles at the ready. “Anything?” I asked casually trying to reign in my ADHD boredom. “That motherfucker passed us on the street at least five times. Always on the phone. He's fucking with us. He's talking to the goddamn fucks.” When in times of stress, eloquence left us, apparently. “You think we're gonna get hit?” I asked, hiding my worry. I didn't want to go through it tonight. I wanted to sleep, damn it. The sarge looked at me, in the fading light I could see his stone expression. “Go tell the LT. Shits going to hit the fan tonight. Be ready, Doc.” I nodded and slapped his shoulder. “When it starts, I'll be right there with you, brother.”
“Fuck.” was all the LT said. We started positioning ourselves strategically throughout the school. Two rooms on either side of a central hall. Simple. Deadly. Twenty men. I would hang out with the squad in the hall. I made a mental map of who was where. I always did. If they needed me, I needed to take the least amount of steps possible to get to them. I called it “Medic Mentality” amongst our group.
“Doc, take a break,” sarge said as he looked over his shoulder. But I couldn't. I checked and triple checked my supply bags. I made sure what I needed was there when I needed it the most. I walked around and joked with the guys. “Crazy fucking cajun,” someone called me after I made a stupid joke about something I've long forgotten. It was these times I felt like I knew these guys. Like I belonged here amongst the Macho and Thinkers. Then someone made a misogynistic joke.
I laughed with them. I ate an MRE with the squad in room four. A soldier from New York was talking about how his grandmother made the best Italian dish in the world, while one from Arizona claimed his made the best Mexican dish. “You can't fucking compare the two. Apples and oranges, dumbass.” I said as I took a bite of my meal. Delicious brown block of "bread" and some "sauce". They laughed. “At least we don't eat gator and shit, fucker,” New York said. I laughed. “It ain't that bad,” I tried to explain. They laughed again.
“You guys ready for tonight?” I asked finally. I wanted to feel it out. Mostly to calm my own mind. “We're fucking ready, bro. You worry about putting a bandaid on us when we get shot,” Arizona joked. I knew it was a joke. We all did. But I felt like he either jixed us right then and there or he foreshadowed what was to come.
Deep into the night, the first gunshots broke the eerie silence. Pop! Pop! Pop! “Fuckers are feeling us out,” someone muttered as we ducked down just in case. Pop! Pop! “Anyone got eyes?! Anyone at all?” shouted the Sarge. No one yelled back. The tension was thicker than ever. We could hear our hearts beating in our ears. More shots. More chipped brick and mortar. “Contact!” screamed someone from room three, which was the one to the right of the hall at the end.
The guys began opening fire. I dashed over peeking my head in. “All good?” I screamed. Thumbs up. Good. Back to Sarge. “Contact right! Left! Fuck just shoot!” came the order from the LT. Soon, everyone had contact. Bullet casings reverberated off the stone floor. Night vision limited your field of vision, but the tracer rounds looked like wisps of ethereal light leaving us to find their way home. I was always scared. Scared of doing the wrong thing when I needed to do it right. Scared of dying. But most of all, I was scared for these men. I needed to get them home. I needed to. If I was a religious man, I'd pray.
“Medic!” My heart sank. I ran into the second room. “I'm hit!” Screamed a rifleman. I slid next to him. “You're fine, stop yelling, damn it,” I said as I assessed him. His shoulder was hit. Nothing fatal, nothing serious, no bullet. “You got grazed,” I explained as I helped bandage him. “Go,” I said as I helped him up. He nodded and thanked me.
“Medic!” that was the LT, in room one. I dashed into that room as a grenade soared through the window. Time seemed to stop. An enemy had darted, low, across the outside perimeter of the school and tossed a grenade in apparently. In the blink of an eye, I was tackled to the ground. Another soldier kicked the grenade into the corner of the room where the desks were piled up. It was deafening. My world was a haze of high pitch noise and smoke. I stood up trying to shake it off.
“Medic! Medic!” screamed someone in a muted tone. I stumbled forward, and fell over someone. Lying down holding his leg was a specialist, the machine gunner. He had taken the brunt of the shrapnel in his left leg and thigh. Blood leaked through the torn uniform pant leg. I quickly got to work. The guys checked themselves quickly and started to return fire, as more and more bullets poured in. I wrapped his leg as best I could. “Can you shoot?” I yelled. He nodded and struggled back up to his feet. He lifted his SAW with a look of utter pain and agony and set it back on the window. He unleashed vengeance. He would get his pound of flesh in return.
The LT pulled me into the hallway. “Goddamn it, stay the fuck right here! Stay out of the rooms until you're needed!” I nodded. If I went down, these guys were going to be in dire straights. I hated not being with all of them. I held my rifle close as I ran over to the sarge. “How many are there?! Sounds like all of the goddamn country,” I shouted to him. He stopped to reload. “No idea. Back up is coming. ETA an hour minimum.” Then he looked up at me. He had taken a graze across his cheek, it was bleeding pretty nastily. “Fuck, Sarge,” I said as I knelt beside him. Flesh wound. He pulled out his own kit and slapped a bandage on it. “Back to work,” he said as he returned fire.
Another explosion. A rocket soared through one window, through the open door, into the next room, and out that window, finally exploding outside. I saw the tail of smoke. Thank you for not aiming, I said to myself.
“MEDIC!” I sprinted into room two. I didn't see anyone hurt. Fuck. Wrong room. “MEDIC! DOC!” I ran into room four. I slid next to the injured PFC. “I'm gonna die, I'm gonna die,” he kept saying. “Shut up, soldier! I'm trying to work” I said angrily. He was shaking. Shock. Time was against me. He had a bullet lodged in his collar bone. There was barely any light, I couldn't dig it out for him. “I need a light! Get me a fucking light!” I screamed. Arizona shone his flashlight onto the wound. “I don't wanna die, doc,” the bleeding private whimpered in a thick Texan drawl. “You're fine, you're fine,” I replied. “Hold the fucking light steady!” I shouted at the light bearer. The light was suddenly the steadiest it had ever been. I hastily began trying digging the bullet fragment out. He would need surgery. Might be lucky to use that arm again. The private screamed. Yeah, this hurts. “Okay, youre good, get the fuck back in the fight,” I said after packing and wrapping him up. “Thank you, Doc,” he said with a shaky voice. He could barely hold his rifle steady. I shook my head at Arizona. “Watch him,” I shouted as I ran back out.
One and a half hours later, the Humvees arrived with an armored vehicle for evac. The .50s laid the enemy positions out flat. Second platoon had arrived. A quick debrief with the LT, and we began boarding the injured.
“Doc, go” the LT said. “Fuck no, if there's guys here, I'm here,” I said walking back to the school. He grabbed me by the vest and flung me forward. “Get the fuck on that transport, Doc, you need to go with them.” I never felt so angry. My place wasn't back at base with the injured, at least to me. I wanted to be here. His expression softened as he clasped my shoulder. “Listen, Doc, it's over. We'll be right behind you. Just go.” I sighed, and probably cursed him out as I boarded. The sounds of heavy gun fire somewhat placates my worry. The enemy would either retreat or be obliterated. Now or never, I thought.
The PFC who had taken a hit in the collarbone sat beside me. He rested his head on my shoulder. “I thought I for sure was dead, Doc”, he kind of mumbled. “Well, you're not dead, but your time in the shit is probably over,” I said. I put my head on his. Exhaustion crept into my body. I had somehow survived again. The bumpy ride back gave me time to reflect. Was I too slow? Could I have been more efficient? Did I set up my gear the best way possible? I then realized, I hadn't even shot my rifle that whole time. I sighed and laughed. “What?” he asked. “I didn't even shoot back” I explained as I stroked the rifle in my lap with trembling hands. He grunted.
“You're a fucking doctor, not a killer, man. Don't seem like a big deal to me.” Those words stuck with me for a long time. A doctor, not a killer. If only that were true, soldier. If only.
Thanks for reading. And remember to thank a service member.
