Walton recognized the sound: a sharp scream. Another soldier had been shot.
When he turned his head, he saw Rhyner clutching his leg and blood on his pants. There was no one else to take care of him, so Walton tore open the airman’s pants to expose the wound. He feared the round hit an artery. But luckily, he had only been grazed.
“You’re okay. You’re okay, man. Just keep going.”
Rhyner was shaken. But Walton needed him to be alert. His job was too critical. He was the pilot’s eyes on the ground. He was responsible for coordinating air strikes. Find a target and lead the pilots to the right positions. But Rhymer seemed a little shaky. He was young and this was his first major battle. So Walton had to keep tabs on him. In fact, Walton was bogged down. As the commander, he had to coordinate the mission. But having to help with the air strikes was an added responsibility.
After treating Rhyner’s wound, the medic in Walton urged him to check on CK.
He had been putting it off as he frantically radioed commanders about the battle, trying to get reinforcements. In this mind, he knew CK was dead. His body was pinned up against the mountain in an open area near the crevice. But what if he was really alive and just wounded? Walton had to find out.
Firing some rounds hoping to suppress the enemy fighters, he raced from the ledge to CK’s body. Rounds skipped off the rocks as he weaved his way to the Afghan. One bullet struck his rifle, smashing the flash suppressor, a cigar-size tube on the end of his barrel.
Grabbing CK’s body armor, he turned him over. Walton could see that the terp’s eyes had rolled back in his head. Blood was coming out of his mouth, ears, and nose. There was no pulse. CK was dead. Rolling the Afghan’s body for cover, Walton started barking at the commandos nearby. Only a few were firing. The rest were pressed against the rock face. “Just don’t stand there. Fire,” he screamed.
Walton knew they were in trouble. Accurate fire was hitting all around them. There was little cover. He knew Behr was bleeding out. Morales was seriously wounded, too. But scanning the ledge, he knew there was a bigger problem. Behr and Morales were still too much in the open. While the overturned tree had provided some protection, it wasn’t enough—and with the enemy snipers, it was just a matter of time before they picked them off. One wrong move and they would be dead.
Walton bolted back to his original position and grabbed Carter.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he told Carter. “I am going to go right and you’re going to go left. We’re going to get up and grab these guys and drag them back.”
“Okay,” Carter said.
“ONE. TWO. THREE.”
Both men bolted to the wounded soldiers and dragged them to the position underneath the sloping rock. The spot wasn’t that much better than the tree, but it offered some cover. Huddled near the rock wall, Walton grabbed Carter’s hand.
“Make a fist,” he ordered, putting Carter’s hand near the wound on Behr’s pelvis. “Press it here as hard as you can.”
Walton then rushed back to CK’s body and dragged it to their position in order to shield Morales and Behr from some of the fire. Before leaving the Afghan, he checked for vital signs again.
Nothing.
Walton just didn’t want to believe that CK was dead. He took a deep breath and finally called over the radio that the Afghan had been killed. And for a moment the radio, which had been so busy with traffic, fell silent.