Shock had taken over. Walding had tried to stay awake, but it was difficult. He was drowsy. He could hear the bullets and explosions and the rotors of the helicopters. But all the sounds blended together.
How long had he been at the casualty collection point? He didn’t know. At least a medic had looked at his wounds. Bandaged him. Given him water, and morphine for the pain.
Still, he wasn’t sure what would happen next. Would he live? He was fighting hard. He thought about his wife and children again. His grandparents. He was trying everything to just stay focused, to just stay awake. He was afraid that if he fell asleep he would never wake up.
He knew his fellow soldiers were doing everything they could to keep him alive. He wanted to live—even though he knew if he survived, his leg was gone. No way a surgeon could reattach it. Collapsed on the stretcher, he didn’t want to think that far ahead. He couldn’t think far ahead. He didn’t know if he would even survive.
He opened his eyes and glimpsed the helicopters. Moments later, the commandos began carrying his stretcher. They had to cross a river—the same one that he had fallen into at the beginning of the mission. And in their haste, they dragged him through the water again. He was drenched. The water, though, momentarily shocked his senses. Shit, I lived through the firefight, but the hypothermia is going to kill me, he thought.
As the commandos carried him to the medevac, the enemy gunfire increased in intensity. They were aiming at the helicopter, which, despite being hit, continued to hold its position. They had to wait before loading him. The soldiers laid down a line of suppressive fire. And when the firing subsided, they moved Walding on board.
Once inside, he heard voices and glanced up at a face hovering over him. Then he passed out.