Monroe hustled over to him. Restin pointed his penlight overhead. A rope had been thrown over a rafter. One end was tied to a vertical beam, the other hung down above them with a large hook tied to it.
Monroe spit. “Those fucking bastards!” Shaking his head, he looked at Restin then said, “Carry on, Bill.”
Restin found Grant’s belt and shoes. He didn’t expect to find any identification. Grant wouldn’t have had any. He found an empty holster in a corner, Russian made. Remembering the pistol on the table that the lieutenant snatched, he picked it up. He wrapped the windbreaker around mud-covered shoes. As he started securing the bundle with Grant’s belt, he noticed something and held his penlight close. “LT! Look, sir.” Monroe came nearer. “Think I found one of the things they may have hit him with, sir.” Blood was on the belt buckle. Monroe just shook his head. Restin finished and put the bundle near his gear, dropping the holster on top.
Corpsman Stalley’s next urgent task was to get fluid into Grant. Tearing open a small packet, he pulled out an alcohol wipe, and cleaned a patch of skin on the inside of Grant’s arm. Using two fingers, he gave light taps on the skin until he found a vein. Removing an IV needle from a plastic bag, he leaned close and inserted it. Ripping a piece of tape, he rolled it around Grant’s arm, securing the needle in place. Next, he removed an IV fluid pouch, held it overhead until the fluid flowed to the bottom of the tube near the shutoff valve. He handed the pouch to the chief as he attached the tubing to the needle. Once it was secure, he slowly adjusted the flow control, until the fluid started a slow drip.
As he worked, Stalley kept talking, trying to keep Grant conscious. “Sir? Can you hear me?”
Grant managed a hoarse, “Yeah.”
“Okay, sir. Stay with me now. You’ve got a wound that needs suturing.” Stalley was working swiftly and methodically. They didn’t want to waste too much time in this place. Grant needed help… and the prospect of running into more Russians, or East Germans, was none too appealing.
He squirted some saline solution around the wound, then cleaned the area with Betadine swabs. Once the wound had been sutured, he covered it with a small battle dressing, and secured it with adhesive tape.
Last, he squirted more saline solution on a piece of gauze, and very gently wiped blood from around Grant’s mouth, nose, eyes, and ears. They couldn’t give him anything to drink in case he had internal injuries. The best he could do was pour fresh water on some gauze and squeeze a few drops over his mouth.
“We’re ready, lieutenant,” Stalley said, as he pulled off the gloves then stood.
“What about pain meds, Cal?” Monroe asked.
“No can do, sir, not with the concussion I’m sure he’s got. Don’t know how long he’s been out, but from now on, we’ve gotta keep him conscious.” Stalley hoped Grant wouldn’t get nauseous and have to puke, especially with his fractured ribs.
They put the litter next to Grant. Three of them spaced themselves evenly apart along his body.
Stalley gently straightened Grant’s injured arm, placing it close to his body. Grant moaned. “Sorry, sir,” Stalley apologized. He ripped a piece of tape and secured Grant’s arm to his body. “Sir, now we’ve gotta put you on a litter. This might hurt some. Are you ready?”
“Go,” Grant murmured.
“Chief, hand me your penlight then stabilize his head.” He directed the three men standing by. “On three, roll him slightly toward you, and I’ll check his back. Ready? One… two… three.” Stalley quickly did his examination. More deep bruising and lacerations. “Slip the litter under him, as close as you can near his side. Okay. Roll him back. Easy.” It was done.
They secured his legs and stabilized his head. Stalley opened a “space blanket” and covered Grant, tucking the edges under his body. Used to prevent the loss of body heat, the blanket uses a material consisting of a thin sheet of plastic that’s coated with a metallic reflecting agent.
“Ready, lieutenant,” Stalley said.
Four men each picked up a corner of the litter, then with care, started their nearly two mile trek back to the planned extraction site.
Grant drifted in and out of consciousness during the journey. When he was awake, he felt lightheaded, dizzy. Things were very blurry, even the faces that sometimes were looking down at him, talking to him, reassuring him. His mind was constantly in a fog, unable to bring anything into focus. Most of the time it was completely blank. He knew he was being carried but couldn’t remember why or by whom. What he did know was that every part of his body was in pain, but he couldn’t remember why.
Throughout the journey, Stalley carried the IV pouch, occasionally checking the drip flow. He’d lean close to Grant, trying to stimulate him into staying awake by talking or tapping his shoulder. With his suspicion that Grant had a concussion, it was vital now that he stay conscious as much and as long as possible.
They were closing in on the location where they hid their jump gear. Stopping about fifty yards from the water’s edge, they gently laid the litter on the ground, then slid their rucksacks from their backs. So far the only sounds came from water lapping against the shore and a high-pitched train whistle off in the distance, blaring in three short bursts each time it sounded. Across the water, on land, nothing moved. The nearest village was over three miles west.
Lieutenant Monroe signaled for Clayton and Restin to scope out the area. He and the chief took defensive positions near Grant. Stalley quickly checked the IV flow, examined the needle in Grant’s arm, then put a hand on his forehead, checking for any sign of fever.
Staying away from the shoreline, away from exposing themselves, Clayton and Restin stayed low, combing the area cautiously, thoroughly. Clayton used the scope, moving it slowly as he searched along the opposite bank, while Restin kept his attention on the river, confirming no patrol boats were in the area.
Hustling back to the others, they reported their findings to Monroe, then got down on a knee and positioned themselves several feet away from Monroe and Kenton, putting a double perimeter around Grant.
Lieutenant Monroe reached for his radio. Trying to keep his voice low, he called, “Delta Tango calling Alpha One. Delta Tango calling Alpha One. Come in Alpha One. Over.”
One of the pilots sitting aboard a Huey, waiting on the tarmac at Tempelhof, keyed his mike. “Delta Tango this is Alpha One. Over.”
“Delta Tango confirms package is safe. I say again, package is safe. Ready for extraction. Acknowledge. Over.”
“Roger, Delta Tango. Alpha One underway. Out.”
Stalley leaned close to Grant, patting his shoulder. “It’s almost over, sir.”
With Tempelhof being only twenty-five miles from their location, they expected the chopper to reach them in under ten minutes. The SEALs quickly gathered all their gear, making sure everything was secured. Then they double checked their weapons.
Clayton slung his rifle strap over his head, then took out the Starlighter, keeping watch for the chopper and any unsociable Russians or East Germans.
In the distance they heard the familiar whomp whomp whomp rapid sound of a Huey. “Two o’clock!” Clayton reported.
Monroe pulled a penlight from his pocket. The chopper was coming in really low. He held the light overhead, and signaled.
Stalley leaned over Grant, protecting him from flying debris. “Your ride’s finally here, sir!”
The pilot maneuvered the chopper, so the nose was facing the water. Standing by the door, manning his M60 machine gun, the gunner waited until the helo was ready to touch down. As soon as the skids hit dirt, he unfastened a stretcher laying across canvas seats. He jumped out, then pulled the stretcher from the chopper. Keeping low, he raced toward the SEALs.