Wallen kicked open the door.
The squat house at the base of the hill was little more than a hut. It was probably a temporary home built while the Afghan farmers constructed their larger houses in the village. Made of thick dried mud, it had been converted into a goat barn. Crawling inside, Ford collapsed against the wall in the dark room. Wallen set Ford’s rifle next to him. All of a sudden the floor underneath Ford began to move. Startled, he jumped up when a baby goat shot out from under him.
Motherfucker, he thought. What’s next?
Settling back down against the wall, Ford began placing urgent calls for morphine. He had neglected to get another syrette from Howard, and now the pain was tremendous. Calling medics from the other team, he asked for anything to stanch the pain. It came in waves. Each time, he dug the heel of his boot into the dirt, until soon he had scraped a trench into the floor.
“I need your medic,” Ford called to Lodyga, who was up the valley. “We’re running down on morphine.”
ODA 3312 was already moving toward Ford. The team had packed up its support positions. But as the soldiers moved closer, they started to take fire from enemy fighters on the hills above.
“I will try and get up there, but we’re pinned down right now,” Lodyga responded over the radio.
Over and over, Ford called for morphine. Each call, he tried to stay composed. He didn’t want his voice to betray the fact that the shit was bad and he was hurting.
When the morphine he had gotten from Howard finally started to work, it hit him hard. He hadn’t experimented with drugs before the Army, so when the painkillers began to take effect, his speech became slurred. His voice seemed to roll out of the radio like syrup.
Between radio calls, he struggled to retain consciousness.
With his left arm in tatters, it was hard to get comfortable. Every time he tried to feel at ease, his left arm failed. It offered no support. One time, he closed his eyes and woke up after being bumped.
It was a goat again, its head pressing against his good arm. Using his right arm, Ford would shove the goat away only to have it return. The goat was determined to push him out of the building. As Ford struggled with the animal, he glanced around the room. Wallen had left, but he spotted an Afghan commando sitting nearby. He yelled and gestured for him to help. But the soldier just shrugged.
Shoot the damn thing or something, Ford thought, again fending off the goat with his good arm.
Finally, the commando got the message and grabbed the goat by its horns. Ford could see the animal struggling to stay put as the commando dragged it out the door.
Moments later, Wallen returned. He had been relaying messages or questions from Walton to the team sergeant.
Ford knew the others needed to get off that ledge. But they hadn’t moved yet. In his view, the problem was simple: Nobody had a sense of urgency about getting the team down. The team was getting chewed up, and they needed to head to the wadi.
“Ryan, what the fuck are they doing?”
But Wallen didn’t have an answer.