I dug my heels into the dirt forcing my back into the brick wall.
I could feel the jagged bits of mortar beginning to tear the flesh,
but I pushed as hard as my right leg would allow trying to become
part of the wall. I heard the booming voice of Reverend Phil over
and over, just as I'd heard it for the last six months.
"Welcome to the Holy War," indeed.
Three pairs of boots came flailing over the brick wall. The last
was stopped in mid air and blood rained down overhead. It was black
in the moonlight. The body continued to fall over the brick wall
and across my shredded left leg. The puddle of dirt and black blood
became a small creek as the tourniquet I'd tied at my knee came
loose. I pulled the body of what looked like George Henderson off
my leg and began to retie the bloodied rag that was keeping me from
bleeding to death. It was a cold thud in the bloody mud pool that
brought the world to a frame-by-frame stand still.
In the silence of the first frame, the world became a bright flash.
The kind of flash you expect to succeed not precede your death.
Everything became excruciatingly hot. The second frame had George
Henderson being pulled into the sky. In the third frame, I reached
for George hoping to pull him back to me or be pulled with him.
The fourth frame ripped my left leg away mid-shin. I was slumped
over trying to scream in the fifth frame. And the sixth frame was
dark.
It was over. I knew I was dead, or dying. But without fail, there
was Reverend Phil's booming voice.
"Welcome to the Holy War!"
* * *
"You should be dead, mother fucker."
Slowly the agitated face of Pastor Steven Willis came into focus.
"What?"
Pastor Willis was visibly pissed off. He was stomping from bed
to bed yelling at each of the other men.
The room was rank with the scents of rancid meat, dried blood,
and death. The flies gathered against the window hoping to find
a small crack. If they could only get in, the room would fill with
their buzz as they fed. The thought forced me into the fetal position.
My head propped over the side of my bed, I threw up all over the
dark wood floor. The second wave was immediate as I thought of the
natural wood that lay underneath the layer of dried blood.
My shoulder felt warm and wet as I felt the stitches popping loose.
Two nurses ran from the end of the hall to my bed. A doctor followed
close behind carrying an armful of supplies. I screamed as the nurse
pushed me onto my back and drove the longest needle I'd ever seen
into my shoulder.
"I can't work with all this blood," the doctor shouted.
The nurse quickly jammed a gauze pad into the open wound on my
shoulder. I screamed and passed out.
When I came to, I couldn't move. I'd been strapped into my bed.
Pastor Willis slouched over me.
"It's okay, son. You're in the PLF hospital. It ain't much, but
they've got you stabilized. Shit, kid, I thought you were dead,"
he forced a slight laugh. "As Reverend Phil says, 'welcome to the
Holy War.'"
"George Henderson?"
Pastor Willis sat down in the lime plastic chair that was next
to my bed. "You mean you don't remember, or what happened?"
I remembered the bright light and Henderson flying over my head,
but all I could ask was, "Henderson?"
"Henderson saved your life. His dead ass took most of the grenade
blast. All you lost was the lower end of your left leg."
His attitude was so nonchalant that I thought he was joking. I
immediately denied everything. I wasn't even in the hospital as
far as I was concerned. I was still struggling to find the words.
"My leg?"
"As you laid there bleeding to death, the enemy jumped the wall
and cornered you in what's left of the Chapel of the Manger. One
of the heathens was trying to cut off your right arm. Lucky for
you, Bravo came blasting through from the south and pulled you out
of there. And now you're here."
This absolutely wasn't happening. I had to be dreaming. |
