When Shurer returned to the base, it looked like he had been shot. Every part of his uniform was covered in blood. His hands were black and dirt was caked in his fingernails.
He took off his uniform and stepped into the shower.
That night, he stayed up with the guys in the team room, talking about the firefight. It was a bullshit session. What they did in the battle. Where they were.
But Shurer’s mind kept returning to the wounded.
Trapped on that tiny part of the ledge, he had worked as fast as he could. It was claustrophobic. The ledge—that shitty piece of rock floor in the middle of nowhere—was the size of a tiny room. He turned it into his makeshift emergency room.
He thought he’d performed well under pressure. But he kept second-guessing himself. Could he have done more to help Walding? Did he do enough to save Behr and Morales?
He didn’t know. Then he recalled the near misses. Bullets pinging off his helmet. And, of course, CK. Dead. He’d looked at CK’s face. This young man. His life gone too soon. To CK, the Americans represented a better future. And really, that’s all he ever wanted. A better life for his mother. His relatives. His family and friends.
More importantly, CK had been willing to die for his beliefs. He stood up against the Taliban. He fought against the HIG and all those thugs trying to regain control of Afghanistan.
CK had dreamed of a day when Afghanistan would be free. People would live in peace and harmony. But now he was gone. His body smashed. And that would be one of the enduring images Shurer knew he would carry with him for the rest of his life.