Morales didn’t remember much about his flight to Bagram. Actually, he didn’t remember much about anything after he was loaded onto the helicopter in the Shok Valley.
He was in such severe shock—he’d lost so much blood—that he couldn’t open his eyes. All he could think was: Thank God I made it.
He vaguely recalled those first few hours inside the Bagram hospital. He could hear all sorts of doctors and nurses treating him. One woman grabbed his hand as she was talking to him. She was asking him questions. Every question she asked, he responded to. But for some reason, he thought he was being “kind of a smart-ass” with his answers. He didn’t know why.
Morales recalled that they removed his wedding ring and stuck it into his top pocket. Then they cut off his clothes and covered him with a warm blanket, and connected an IV just below his collarbone. He was still shivering after plowing through the cold river. He had hypothermia. Then he was out.
When he awoke, it took a while for his eyes to adjust. It was like peering through a microscope. He had never been in surgery for anything. But then he heard a familiar voice.
When he spotted Ford, the team sergeant still had his arm. The doctors managed to save it. Morales smiled. It was good news.
As for his own leg, the jury was still out.
It was still attached, but the doctors told Morales that he would have a long, hard road to recovery. That he might never regain full strength in his leg, mainly because of his ankle. At the time, Morales was just happy to be alive. He didn’t want to think about it now.