As the others climbed aboard, Ford could hear rounds pinging off the helicopter. Peering into the cockpit, he watched the pilots sit and wait as the bullets rained down on them. They never flinched. With the last wounded soldiers inside, the pilots hit the throttles and the helicopter quickly climbed out of the valley. For the first time, he relaxed. It was finally over. He was safe, but hurt badly.
“We’re going to make an emergency landing,” the crew chief yelled at him as the helicopter strained to climb out of the valley. “We’re going to put it down and transport you to another helicopter.”
Ford could see Walding, Morales, and several wounded commandos spread out on the floor in the back of the helicopter. The brain of one of the commandos was exposed and he was frothing at the mouth.
When they landed at the Kala Gush firebase, Ford hustled to the other bird while the medics grabbed the wounded. But before he climbed in, he watched one of the flight medics grab a frazzled colleague. Ford thought the frazzled medic was acting like someone who’d drunk twenty energy drinks.
“I will throw you off this bird if you don’t calm down,” the flight medic said. “Sit down and shut up.”
Ford again found a seat in the front of the bird. As soon as the nose of the helicopter dipped down and started toward Jalalabad, the frazzled medic started trying to undo Ford’s tourniquet. Ford was afraid that if he loosened it too much, the artery would suck up into his chest and there would be no way to stop the bleeding.
“Don’t touch it,” he yelled at the man.
But the medic ignored him and kept trying to work on the tourniquet. Ford pushed the frazzled medic’s chin away.
“Don’t fucking touch it.”
The medic looked shocked and finally headed toward the back and began working on the commandos. Ford tried to get comfortable. His arm hurt and the flight was taking what he felt was a long time.
As he sat there listening to the rotors beat the wind, Ford started doing the math. It had been several hours since he had been shot. Shit. His arm was probably unsalvageable.
When the helicopter finally arrived at Jalalabad, medics from other Special Forces teams and the hospital were there to meet them. The medics swarmed the wounded in the back of the helicopter.
Not as badly hurt as the others, Ford slid off to the side and watched. Spotting a chair near the landing pad, he walked over and sat down, letting out a long exhale. It was as if the world had been lifted off his shoulders. The stress of combat, of fighting for his life and the lives of teammates, had finally melted away.
Steve, a medic and friend from another team, saw him and came over. He thought Ford was in shock.
“Hey, you okay?”
Ford raised up a hand. “Dude, it’s good.”
Steve started to reach for Ford’s kit. His bullet-resistant vest and uniform were covered in blood.
“Do you mind if we start—” Steve began.
“Get this shit off me,” Ford said.
Steve started ripping Ford’s kit off. Slowly unstrapping the plate carrier, Steve had Ford’s sixty-pound vest, covered in ammunition pouches, and other gear undone and on the ground in a few minutes without Ford moving at all. With the equipment off, Steve helped him out of the chair and placed him on a litter. Nurses and doctors were soon at his side.
“Do you need anything?”
“More morphine,” Ford said, his arm throbbing from the pain.
But the doctors were afraid to give him more. They didn’t know how much he had already had. Ford knew he had had less morphine than the other wounded soldiers. He’d had none since he had taken Wallen’s syrette. And that was hours ago.
“I need more morphine.”
Steve finally convinced the doctors to get him more, and soon the pain faded away just as they loaded him on another helicopter to Bagram.