Page 8 of Resuscitation

Through the haze of dust and smoke, Blake could make out that their once sturdy RG-31 truck was now reduced to a mangled ruin.

A muffled, pitiful moan cut through the incessant, loud ringing in Blake’s ears. He lay sprawled on the baking hot asphalt, every breath a laborious effort.

Pain lanced through his leg where shrapnel had lodged deep into the flesh. He tried to move but found his body unresponsive, pinned by wreckage. Panic surged, adrenaline momentarily numbing Blake. He forced himself to focus—to assess.

He registered fragmented images—Rodriquez slumped lifelessly in his seat that had blown out of his vehicle, both his legs gone. Miller’s face twisted in agony as he clutched at a gruesome wound just a few yards from him.

“Miller…No, Miller…” Blake’s voice came out a rasping whisper, barely audible even to himself.

* * *

Searing light.

A distant murmuring of indistinguishable voices.

Groans of pain.

Blake’s eyes opened, squinting as he did so.

A fluttering wall of fabric and the rhythmic beeping of monitors slowly came into focus.

His lower body ached. He blinked, trying to piece together what had happened.

He looked down to see his right leg bandaged, then noticed his arms and hands crisscrossed by shrapnel wounds.

A nurse approached his bedside. “Sergeant Harrow, you’re at the Kandahar Airfield hospital, transferred from FOB Lagman. How are you feeling?”

Blake opened his mouth to speak, but his throat felt like sandpaper. The nurse offered him a sip of water through a straw. As he drank, memories of the ambush flooded back. His eyes widened with sudden urgency.

“My squad…Rodriguez…Johnson…Miller,” he croaked.

The nurse’s expression softened. “I’m sorry, Sergeant. You were the only survivor from your squad.”

Blake felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He shook his head in disbelief. A flash of memory came to him. “No…that can’t be right. I saw Miller…he was alive…”

Just then, one of the medical team members came by, his face grave.

“Sergeant Harrow, I’m Captain Kwan, one of the surgeons here,” he said, glancing at the nurse, who excused herself before moving away.

Kwan took a chair next to Blake’s bed. “I was told that Private Miller was brought in alive to Lagman, but his injuries were too severe. I’m sorry to say, he died shortly after arrival.

” He cleared his throat. “That was three days ago. The combat surgical team at Lagman stabilized you and transferred you here. You’ve been drifting in and out of consciousness since arrival. ”

Blake closed his eyes, squeezing them tight, as the reality of what happened crashed over him. His squad and his friends were all gone. All dead. And he was still here. Still alive.

Kwan continued, “Do you remember anything about what happened?”

Blake kept his eyes closed. Shook his head, releasing a fresh wave of pain. He felt more than remembered flying through the air, the blast wave slapping him down, but mostly…Miller’s face. “No.”

“That’s to be expected. We’ve had this conversation several times since you arrived, so don’t be alarmed if you forget it again—it will take time.

You’ve sustained several superficial shrapnel wounds and the tissue of your right thigh had some deeper damage, all easily treated.

However, our main concern is that you’ve suffered concussive brain trauma. ”

Blake opened his eyes and gazed blankly at the curtain surrounding his bed. “Concussion? That’s nothing. Send me back in, coach.”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. The CT scan hasn’t shown any bleeding around your brain or swelling severe enough to require operation.

” He almost sounded regretful that he hadn’t had the opportunity to slice open Blake’s head.

“But your symptoms and our scans show signs of deeper damage. Brain contusion—a bruise, you might say. I’ve arranged for you to be transferred to Landstuhl tomorrow.

They have more advanced imagining capabilities and can design a course of rehabilitation before you’re sent back home. ”

Blake barely registered the doctor’s words.

Except the last one. Home. A concept that now felt so foreign.

How the hell was he supposed to go home when his brothers-in-arms would never see their families again?

Reality seeped in, and he felt a numbness spread across his body.

“You’re sending me home…for a brain bruise? ”

“Sergeant Harrow,” Kwan began gently, “your injuries may not be visible, but trust me, they are serious. There could be lasting effects on cognitive function and memory.”

Blake’s head pounded with a dull ache, the doctor’s words washing over him. Forgetting the look on Miller’s face…that might be a blessing. But somehow it felt more like a betrayal. After all, Blake was the only one left alive to remember Miller and the others.

“Concussive brain injuries are the most difficult to treat,” Kwan continued. “The damage is microscopic. Tearing of the tiny blood vessels, shearing of the brain tissue. Nothing I can operate on. No quick fix. But we do have therapies and with time and rest, you will see improvement.”

Blake stared at him blankly, the surgeon’s words echoing, slipping through his grasp, yet oddly familiar. They’d had this conversation before, hadn’t they?

Kwan sighed and stood. “Get some rest, Sergeant. I’ll check back later.”

He left and the nurse returned. “Did Dr. Kwan explain everything?”

“Yeah,” Blake muttered, his tone laced with bitterness. “Everyone’s dead except me.”