Weekly Expressions #3 ~ MC

                                                                             WE #3 MC

        

My eyes scan the debris-covered land, my M-16 clutched in my right hand. My comrades and I are supposed to be looking for survivors of the bombings, but so far, no one has turned up. A dog has scampered across the street here and there, but no other signs of life anywhere.

                The helicopter blades are making me deaf and I barely hear the pilot shout to us that we are landing to scope out the area. I mean, sure, it’s all but natural to not rescue any survivors because there aren’t any after these small areas have been completely scorched down by bombs and that of warfare, but any other time we have scoped for survivors, there has been at least one. So, needless to say, this was a bit odd.

                The pilot motions out the side of the helicopter to the other one behind us and they turn a corner and disappear to land and look for survivors elsewhere. Our helicopter lands and the blades slow as the pilot cuts the engine. My comrades and I jump onto the dirt street, weapons ready to fire at any time. You can never be too careful, a lesson I once had to learn the hard way; I have a scar across my left jaw to prove it.

                Everywhere we look, debris is covering everything. A smashed car here, pieces of heavy metal beams there. Papers flutter in the slight breeze. Other than that, it is quiet. Too quiet for my taste.

                I round a corner of a building, my weapon before me and my comrades behind me. More debris and quietness. I start to get a little frustrated. To think that there could be no civilian survivors due to our war, our bombs, is really starting to tug at my heart. Everyone is dead, a whole city is destroyed because of us.

                “Doesn’t look like anyone made it,” Lieutenant Jackson comments without the slightest hint of emotion in his voice.

                “Someone made it, alright?” I snap at him. “Someone is still out here.”

                A few more minutes of searching and we still come up empty-handed.

                “Hobbs, forget it, man,” Colonial White says, already giving up hope of finding any survivors.

                I quickly turn to him and shove him against a wall, my left forearm against his chest. “And what if there are survivors and we give up?!? What if someone needs our help and we’ve already turned back to the helicopter?!? If you want to give up, you go right ahead! I don’t need quitters dragging behind! If you want to be a soldier and stick to our values, then do it! Is that understood?!?”

                White nods his head, surprised at my outburst. I release him and he quietly falls into step behind me.

                I round another corner and hear something. I stop, motioning for the others to do the same. I hear it again, a small sob coming from somewhere close by.

                “Hello?” I call out. “Is someone there?”

                The sobbing rises a note. My comrades follow me as I walk toward the sound.

                And then I see her. Huddled in a tight ball, a little girl, no more than 7 years old, clutches something in her arms. There is blood running down the side of her face and she doesn’t move.

                I run to her and drop my weapon. I drop to my knees in front of her and say, “My name is Hobbs and I am here to help you.”

                The little girl stops sobbing, raises her eyes to me, and clutches whatever is in her arms tighter. I gently brush the hair away that has fallen in her face. Without warning, she lunges herself at me, hanging on to my neck and resumes her sobbing. Filled with compassion, I pull her closer to me and hold on to her tightly. We sit there for a few minutes, my comrades awkwardly shifting their feet behind me.

                I finally pry the little girl off of me just enough to examine if she’s hurt. That’s when I see it – a huge gaping hole in her side about the size of my fist. It looks twice as big on the torso of the little girl.

                “Medic!” I call to the medic on our team, then I silently curse myself as I remember the medic was in the other helicopter.

                I manage to lay the little girl on the ground, tear off a piece of blood-soaked fabric from her shirt, and wrap it as tight as I can around the wound. She loosens her grip on what she is holding in her arms and I see that it is a bundle. I look closer and realize it is a baby – a dead baby.

                I try to take it from her so I can patch up her wound a little better, but you would think I was trying to murder her. She bolts upright and cries out, “George!” as she snatches the baby back. I decide by the time I am finally able to get it away from her, she might already be dead from the wound, so I work around it. I patch the wound tighter, trying to stop the blood flow.

                I know we need to get her into the helicopter to take her to the nearest hospital, but I also know much movement on her part can result in a quicker death.

                “White! Jackson! Somebody!” I shout over my shoulder. “Go back to the helicopter and tell the pilot to bring the helicopter here!”

                Deep down, I know time is running out for the little girl and she will probably be long gone by the time the helicopter arrives, but I force that thought out of my mind and refuse to give up.

                I hear one of my comrades run off back the way we had come, but I do not know who as I don’t dare take my eyes off the little girl for fear of looking back and she’ll be gone.

                There is really nothing more I can do as I am not a medic, so I hold one of the little girl’s hands and talk to her in a calm voice.

                “Everything will be alright. It’s going to be ok. We’ll take care of you.”

                The little girl gasps in pain and I start to panic. “C’mon!” I yell to no one in particular, willing whoever went back to move faster.

                The girl’s grip on my hand tightens and she whispers one thing: “Amy.”

                “Is that your name?” I whisper back to her.

                She nods and coughs, blood spewing from her mouth. I know she hasn’t got much longer, a couple minutes at the most. A tear slips down her cheek and I know she knows it, too.

                It suddenly dawns on me that she’s not going to make it. It would take at least another minute to reach the helicopter, a few seconds to get the message to the pilot, and a few more minutes to get the helicopter up and running and bring it here. Too long.

                A tear escapes my own eye, as the harsh truth sinks in. I grasp the little girl’s hand tighter and pull her closer to me.

                We sit there for what seems like a lifetime and finally I hear helicopter blades and the powerful whoosh of air as it lands a few feet away. A false sense of relief instantly floods me, but soon vanishes as I look down at the little girl.

                Her breathing is slow and shallow and her eyes are closing. She still holds the dead baby close to her.

                “No, don’t,” I quietly plead. “Please don’t slip away. The helicopter is here. We can get you fixed up.”

                My heart drops into my stomach as she exhales one last time and her eyes close for good, trapped in eternal darkness.

                I rock back and forth, still holding her. I feel a hand on my shoulder and I cry out in rage. I am angry. I am angry at this war, at our enemies, at myself for not being able to do something to save her.

                I vow to myself and to the little girl in my arms right then that I will not let her die in silence. Her death will not go unavenged. Her death will not have been in vain.

                I gently lay her on the ground, place a kiss on her forehead, and rise to my feet, a new purpose for my life in place – to bring justice to the innocent lost in this war.