Without warning, Stephen was yanked upward. The disturbance was as painful as it was abrupt. Stephen opened his eye and saw two men were dragging him over a large pile of rocks. His Kevlared head was being smashed against rock after rock while his torso felt like it was being stabbed from behind and crushed from above. Stephen saw a bright flood of white smoke and let his head fall to the side.
I’m back in this damn hallway again, aren’t I?
Stephen addressed the men with the cognitive capability of a fraternity pledge on his bid night, “Really guys? Didn’t I just leave this place?” His slurred mumbling went unheard and unheeded.
Reality briefly snagged him from the stupor and Stephen became conscience of the situation unfolding around him. Soldiers had a strong grip under his armpits and were hastily dragging his body out of the southern part of the building. But it was so bright, completely unlike the hallway from moments ago. The pain in Stephen’s back started to let up, or maybe it was just numb. But the pressure on his chest was overwhelming to the point where he couldn’t catch a full breath. Without warning, the soldiers broke into a makeshift trot and a tsunami of brilliance and warmth washed over him. He closed his eye and groaned in pain. His head was bouncing around when he caught sight of Mayweather moving alongside them and peering at Stephen with a look of shock.
Mayweather pulled a radio mic up to his mouth and shouted to the soldiers carrying Stephen while at the same time blasting orders to someone else. If Mayweather was good at anything, it was multi-shouting.
“They got ‘em both. That’s it. Roger that, they got our guys. I repeat. All men are accounted for.” Mayweather listened intently to the radio’s chattering response which was too low for Stephen to hear as he passed by them. Mayweather then looked over his shoulder and shouted, “Affirmative Gunny! I say again, affirmative. You are good to go. Get your men out of there and bury those bastards!”
The two men were still dragging Stephen at a steady but far from gentle trot. Watching the scenery of destroyed buildings pass by his vision, Stephen’s eye expanded to get a good look at the tan colored M1A2 Abrams tank idling in position. The seventy ton armored juggernaut held its 122MM gun trained directly at the building they had just pulled Stephen from. He chuckled to himself at the realization of where the new door in the southern hallway had come from.
Tilting his head awkwardly, Stephen looked back toward the building and saw several Marines evacuating the building. Once they were clear, the tank released a heart-stopping thunderous clap. The tank crew delivered three sequential rounds into the four-story building before it completely collapsed on itself. Stephen craned his neck to see a glimmer of the rising dust plume emerging from the collapse.
He smiled and said under the weight of his hampered breath, “Good bye, crappy little building.”
He hadn’t much liked that building and the hospitality had been somewhat less than pleasant. Groggy and disoriented though he was, Stephen looked upward and caught the eye of a dirty-faced grunt who couldn’t have seen his twentieth birthday yet. Stephen smiled at him and squeezed the Marine’s arm with a deep expression of the overwhelming brotherhood he felt for the man at that moment. He wanted to speak but Stephen still couldn’t take in a full breath without choking on a cough.
He wanted to rest but the men pulling him seemed hell-bent on dragging him over every rock in Iraq before finally laying him between a tall building and a grouping of chest-high concrete walls, known as Texas Barriers, for cover. Without hesitation, a guy who must have been a medic ran over and immediately began buzzing around him. Lights were being flashed into his eye, water sprayed his face and a barrage of questions flooded him from multiple directions as the medic ran through a field diagnostic to assess his condition. Two other soldiers were hesitantly moving around him when he felt a sudden release of the constriction that had been hindering his breath. Looking down, Stephen was shocked to see the top of Waters’ uncovered head resting on his chest.
Mile 12
“Look at this son of a bitch! You hear me? I said, look at this Hooah son of a bitch!” Stephen could hear the rhythmic escalation of Mayweather’s taunts long before he could actually see him but he had no doubt the platoon sergeant was strutting.
“Lantz! You sure as hell do like attention, don’t you?” Mayweather stood directly over Stephen and laughed.
“Mayweather…,” Stephen coughed through the debris he had inhaled and struggled to get the full sentence out. “Glad… you didn’t leave…”
“Well, hell. We couldn’t let you have all the fun on this wonderfully fine day.”
“Really, no kidding. Thanks brudder.” Stephen couldn’t bring himself to sarcasm and his lip was beginning to numb. “I didn’t think we would…”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Don’t you go getting all soft and squishy on me now.” Mayweather interrupted. “Besides, I happen to know how often you shower. And ya’ see, the Geneva Convention has all these rules and types about cruelty to the enemy.” Stephen thought this guy was having way too much fun for the middle of a war zone. He really did love this world. His own mind drifted aimlessly for a moment and Stephen’s eyelid began to droop closed.
Mayweather leaned down and gave a firm pat to the side of Stephen’s face. “Hey, hey! No sleeping there, squad leader. You see any pillows here? This ain’t no nap time.”
Stephen wondered if the man was trying to keep him conscious or if he was that desperate for an audience to laugh at his corny humor.
Once he confirmed that Stephen’s clear eye was wide open and locked onto him, Mayweather stood up and continued, “Like I was sayin’, the Geneva Convention. I mean, what’s CNN gonna report when they find out we left our own little weapon of mass destruction in that building?”
Stephen sighed and resolved that Mayweather was never going to miss a beat. Regardless of what was happening around them, this man would not pass an opportunity to yank a chain. He really seemed to have no capacity for knowing when to shut up. Stephen looked up at him and squinted to see Mayweather’s silhouette, which was only partially blocking the sunlight. He had to push out deep breaths to push out the words, “You know… an asshole... you are.” There was no sarcasm there. Stephen was speaking the honest truth about his good friend but it only emboldened Mayweather to respond with his signature wink and that overconfident click from the edge of his mouth.
“You just hang in there Yoda. Doc is on the way.” Mayweather stood tall and looked around at the battlefield carnage with the calm satisfaction of a suburban dad proudly surveying his lush green lawn. “Ah, I tell ya, Lantz. It may not be napalm in the morning, but it still smells like luvin to me!”
Stephen peered up at the man in continued disbelief and spoke slowly, “There sum-thing seriously wong with you. You shood. Need to get checked out too.”
Stephen winced as a tow-headed medic with a pale face and bursting blue eyes peered into his own moderately opened eye. “Hey brudder, you mind gibbin me a rundown on how I’m holding up?”
Normally reserved on making explanations but conscious that shock was a real threat to his patient at the moment, the medic accommodated Stephen’s concerns, “Yeah, sure. Sergeant, you’ve got an obvious concussion so you’re probably feeling pretty shook up right about now. Several lacerations to your face, including a split lip which is why you’re talking with half your mouth.” The medic gently pressed his fingers along the ridges of Stephen’s cheek and skull. “I’m not seeing any signs of broken bones in your face. But you’re going to have some pretty attractive bruising there.”