Worth Saving(6)

“Fuck yeah, Captain Sloan! Took those motherf*ckers out!” one of the Raptor members yells, and the others cheer like our team just scored a touchdown. I smile a little smile to myself, then pull us the hell up and out of there before the next wave of terrorists realizes we’re still in the area.

As soon as we’re over the low hanging clouds and headed towards the base, I glance back at the crew to make sure everyone is alright, then radio in. Mission accomplished.

“Echo Nest, this is Whiskey Sierra,” I call in.

“Go ahead, Whiskey Sierra.”

“Roger, the package is in hand, and we are in route to your location.”

“Copy that, Whiskey Sierra. Casualty report?”

“Green, green, green, Echo Nest,” I reply, letting them know we’re all good.

“Aww f*ck! Umm, Captain, we’ve got a problem,” I hear a voice say from the back.

“That’s a good copy. Job well done, Whiskey Sierra. Come on home.”

I look over my shoulder to try to see what’s going on, but it’s too dark for me to see.

“What? What’s going on?” I reply.

One of the Raptor members turns on his flashlight and shines it at the floor of the chopper. All I see is red. It’s like someone spilled a bucket of paint all over the floor, and I follow the trail as it reaches Lieutenant Weston’s body.

“God dammit!” I yell when I see that the Lieutenant has been shot in the stomach and maybe the chest area—it’s hard to tell because there’s so much blood, and his entire torso is covered in the red liquid. “Fuck, man, bandage him up. Cover those holes, try to stop the bleeding. Dammit!”

My frustration reaches a fever pitch because I’m stuck in the front, and there’s nothing I can do for him.

“Hey, Weston! Can you hear me?” I yell over my shoulder.

He doesn’t answer. All I can hear is the sound of his heavy breathing, and an airy, bubbly sound coming from him with every breath, which tells me he’s been shot in the chest and has at least one punctured lung, if not two.

“This doesn’t look good, Captain Sloan,” the Raptor Team leader says.

“Come on Lieutenant, you fight that shit, man. Come on, breathe, Weston, breathe for us. We’re almost home, man. Hang in there!” I yell, but when I’m done yelling, I realize that I can’t hear the Lieutenant breathing anymore. I can’t hear the bubbly sound. There’s nothing.

“I’m sorry, Captain Sloan,” the team lead says. “I’m so sorry. He’s gone.”





Austin

Two Weeks Later

“Alright everybody, hold those glasses up. Let’s go, no exceptions, come on. Alright, listen up. This shot right here is for finally being back on American soil. For finally being able to enjoy a f*cking drink. For making it home safe after six f*cking months in the shittiest place on earth. Welcome home, motherf*ckers!”

We all clang our shot glasses together and liquid spills from each of them and lands on the round metal table centered between us. Then, in unison, we all tap the bottom of our shot glasses on the table and toss the drink back. Patron is strong as hell, especially when you’ve been gone for six months and only had Near Beer to drink. That shit is basically piss-flavored water in a beer bottle.

Once my throat is over the burning sensation, I sit back down in my seat while the other five people around me laugh and pat each other on the back. My commander, Lieutenant Colonel Mark Curry is with us tonight, so it’s supposed to be a special occasion, but it doesn’t really feel like one to me. While I’m obviously happy to be home from my third tour in Afghanistan, I’m still having trouble getting the image of Lieutenant Weston’s dead body out of my head. The sadness and disappointment I feel from believing that we’d gotten out of there safely, only to see that one of our guys had been fatally hit still sits with me right here at this table, with its arm dangling over my shoulder, weighing me down. It’s been there since I saw him lying there lifeless.

It’s not something you get over quickly, maybe ever. Even though I didn’t really know Weston very well, he was an Airman just like me, and like all of us here. His time in service didn’t match my five years—he was obviously young and wet behind the ears, but that makes it even worse. To watch a kid die when he’d just started doing what he wanted to do—it’s sickening, life changing.

I watch them all laugh, wondering how nice it must be to be able to just have a good time without thinking about the person who died on your helicopter, and I’m a little envious. It must really be nice. It was definitely nice every other time I came home and didn’t have to think about anything like this. It’s funny how you take things for granted, never even realizing that there’s another side to everything, even celebrating your homecoming. A lot of people leave for deployments and never make it back. So, how can I laugh and have a good time in this bar when a cloud that dark is lingering overhead?

“How about a toast to First Lieutenant Blake Weston?” I say aloud, but I look down at the floor. “How about a toast to the people who deployed but never came home?”

It’s quiet for a while, and I know I’m totally the Debbie Downer of the group, but I can’t help it. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen a man killed in action.