When the patrol gathered at the start point for their briefing, the rain diminished to a light mist that was more of a nui-sance than a hindrance. It was just enough to cause constant face wiping but not enough to restrict visibility. It would be a damp, miserable afternoon.

As soon as the squad made its way across the tape the point man, PFC Michael Bailey, raised his fist, turned to Sergeant Combs, and said, “I need to take a piss, Sarge.”

“Goddammit, Bailey! Why didn’t you say something be-fore we started?” Combs replied angrily. Apparently, he was upset that now he had to stop the patrol and wait for Bailey to do what he should have done before they even got to the rally point.

“It just hit me, Sarge. Sorry.”

“Hurry up then.”

Bailey walked over to a cluster of scrub brushes to his left. He fumbled with his trousers as the whole squad watched.

“Shake it more than three times, Snuffy, and you’re play-ing with yourself!” Combs yelled. A few of the squad members laughed at the old joke.

Bailey zipped up and moved toward his position. He got about halfway there.

It looked like the earth opened up around him. The blast sent him into the air in what seemed like slow motion. I heard a squashy thump behind me and looked around at the lower half of a right leg. The squad member in the third posi-tion yelled out and dropped to his knees. Shrapnel. The rest of the squad hit the ground in defensive fighting positions.

“Doc!” Combs screamed as he ran to Bailey’s aid.

I took off toward the injured soldier as all of the medical training I received in school raced through my mind. I auto-matically opened the aid bag on the run and took out a tourniquet. No. Last resort only. I needed to see the wound first, and then evaluate. I needed to elevate the good leg and cover him with a poncho to keep him from going into shock. What about the other casualty? Which one do I treat first? Is Bailey dead? Is the other soldier bleeding to death?

By now, the soldiers from the defensive positions and guard posts were running to the explosion site. The QRF arrived and followed suit. Combs turned and screamed at them all, disregarding the wounded man at his feet.

“Get the hell back to your positions! This might be a fucking attack!”

I knelt beside Bailey and checked his eyes for any re-sponse. He was alive and conscious. He started mumbling incoherently as I peeled away the shreds of his fatigue trou-sers to expose the wound. A pool of bright red blood was forming rapidly on the wet ground where his leg used to be. I covered him with his own poncho, and then used my knee to elevate his left leg. I grabbed the largest bandage I had and slapped it on the stump. It filled up with blood almost in-stantly. I knew that I had no choice now. I applied the tourniquet and turned to Combs.

“Loosen this every two minutes. Call back in for a MEDEVAC now, or this man is gonna bleed to death. There’s no time to take him back by truck.”

Combs nodded at me and I gave him control of the tour-niquet. I picked up the aid bag and ran over to Private Darrell Marks. He was sitting up and holding his left cheek. Blood oozed between his fingers.

“Let me see,” I ordered, and pulled Marks’ hand away from his face. It was a shrapnel wound, just as I suspected. I could see the piece of metal protruding just under his skin, so he was not in any immediate danger. I tied a bandage around the kid’s face and said, “Put pressure on this. You’ll be fine.”

I hurried back over to Bailey.

“Did you make the call?” I asked Combs, who was study-ing his watch and turning the tourniquet as he had been instructed.

“On the way,” Combs said calmly.

“He’s going into shock! That fucking chopper needs to get here now!” I screamed at the sky. If Bailey dies, they’ll blame me.
Then I heard the familiar sound of helicopter blades cut-ting through the air. I motioned to the QRF driver to bring the truck across the tape and hoped it didn’t hit any more mines. Then I turned to the squad and directed two of them to lift Bailey onto the back of the truck and help Marks as well. I climbed onboard and told the driver to head for the helipad as gently as he could but in a timely manner.

Two medics were there with a stretcher when the truck pulled up. I wanted to go with them, but was coldly re-minded that they were perfectly capable of taking care of Bailey and Marks from this point on. The senior medic did an on-the-spot evaluation and told me that I had most likely saved Bailey’s life.

I stood on the helipad and watched helplessly as the chopper flew away with my patients.

My patients. I never thought I would ever say those words in my life.

By the time we made it back to the staging area Combs had snatched two men from the QRF and went on the sched-uled patrol without me. I was told that they had to continue the patrols regardless so as not to give the Commies the op-portunity to take advantage of the disorder. It made sense. There was nothing more any of us could do for Bailey or Marks at this point.