Flights out of Howz-e Madad

Some of our guys get medevacked back to camp,

heads wrapped in gauze, their femurs packed tight,

field dressings soaked through.

They had taken casualties – a few of them –

somewhere west of the mountains

and had to be extracted,

the chopper barely able to touch down –

too much incoming fire.

Finally they have everybody on, shuddering, strapped in,

the wounded lying nose to nose.

Beneath the whump whump of the rotor blades straining to be gone,

medic scrambles to start IVs.

Once they’re in the air, pilot says to co-pilot –

You got anything to eat?

He balances altitude with food, downs chicken fingers

stained brown with cold ketchup.

Bringing the chopper out around the backside of the mountain,

pilot glances over his shoulder at medic fighting to find a vein

then shouts above the deafening

pulse of rotor blades turning –

How’s it going back there?