She bent down to unlace her boots and kicked them off. She would sleep in her uniform. She didn’t fancy wandering around in her underwear with all the people present in the CTH, and if there were any emergencies during the rest of the night, she would be readily available.
Katie turned off the light and lay back on the bed. She sighed heavily, wondering why love was so painful and difficult to deal with. She thought of Joe again, and after sending warm loving thoughts winging his way—wherever he was—she set the alarm on her watch, and before much more time had passed, her eyes began to close. She slipped into sleep and for the rest of the night fleeting images crossed her mind of howling winds, gunfire, and soldiers floundering in a dark landscape. She tossed and turned, and when eventually the alarm on her watch went off, Katie awoke feeling as though she had not slept all night.
She immediately heard the wind howling around the building. Something sporadically banged against metal and there was the continuous harsh pinging of particles of sand against the outer walls.
Katie sat up on the bed feeling unrefreshed and stiff. Her eyes and head ached and she felt despondent and tense. The only thought that brought her enthusiasm was that Joe would hopefully be back from patrol that night.
She eventually got up from the bed, and glancing around the ward, she saw that a number of the beds had green curtains pulled around them, obviously occupied by other medical staff. She straightened the covers and pillow of the bed she had used then made her way to the locker room. Once out in the corridor, she could hear the murmur of voices coming from the R&R room. There had obviously been no casualties during the night, otherwise there would be far more hustle and bustle within the CTH. Feeling as though she hadn’t had a wink of sleep, Katie showered quickly, put on scrubs, and went to get herself a coffee.
Sergeant Webster and a couple of other members of the medical staff were drinking early morning coffee when she entered. They greeted her good morning and when she sat down Sergeant Webster gave her a brief rundown on the storm. “Looks like it’s reached its peak,” he said. “It should be blowing itself out soon and moving out of the region… We hope.”
“That’s good,” Katie responded dully and began to drink the rest of her coffee and without thinking about what she was asking. “Will that mean the patrols out will get back by this evening?” Immediately as she asked the question, she cringed inwardly and bit her lip.
Sergeant Webster studied her intently and hesitated before answering. “Looks that way,” he said eventually and continued staring at her with a closed expression.
Katie knew that it was pointless to try to justify why she had asked the question. She had dropped herself in it, and the way Sergeant Webster was studying her, she knew that he knew, either via the grapevine and her question had confirmed the rumors or—as he was not a stupid man—he had put two and two together and come up with the proverbial four.
Instead, she changed the subject hastily, mentally shrugging. Well, if he knew about her and Joe, there was nothing she could do about it. It wasn’t against the law. They weren’t committing a criminal offense. It was just that the brass frowned on it, but they couldn’t ban it.
The day was one of the worst of Katie’s life. Sick parade that morning kept her occupied with more than the usual attendees, also seeing those suffering from eye irritations due to the blowing sand and grit, raw, chaffed skin from stinging sand, windburn and heat. After that, she helped the nurses with the remaining patients, tidied up the wards, theaters, and trauma rooms then was at a loose end as to what to do next. She took a look outside the front doors to check on the storm. It was almost dark, with visibility reduced to near zero and sheets of sand blown by howling winds piling sand dunes against the side of the CTH and other buildings nearby. It was hot, the air thick and dry, and Katie found it difficult to draw in any air.
Shutting the door, Katie wandered back to the R&R room. Finding the room empty at that moment, she sat down in one of the chairs. She kept looking at her watch, wondering if Joe was making his way back to the base. Surely, he wouldn’t continue his patrol in the storm. He and his squad would become desperately lost, run out of water and food and then they would die out there. This thought was too horrible to contemplate. Sighing heavily, she leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.
Chapter Seventeen
Joe opened his eyes slowly. At first his vision was blurred, his eyes dry and gritty. His neck and limbs were stiff and sore from half reclining on the hard ground and his mouth was dry. He had slept fitfully for a couple of hours, never really sinking into a deep sleep, part of his mind aware of the banshee-like howl of the wind and part of his mind on full alert for signs of danger. It was stifling hot beneath his shemagh and wrapped as he was in his poncho and wearing armor and his uniform, he found it difficult to breathe.
He noticed that what little there had been of dawn had come and gone. The world was now gray-yellow in color with the wind screaming around the boulders and rocks, making strange fluting, and whistling sounds as it soared in and out of gullies, nooks, and crannies.
Eventually Joe moved, and when he did, small piles of sand trickled from his body. He stretched the kinks out of his shoulders and glanced along the line of men. Nobody else was moving.
All members of Echo squad either lay curled on the ground, completely wrapped in ponchos, or half-sat leaning against the rock behind them. The only sign of life from some was the movement of eyes behind scratched goggles and the occasional twitch of a limb. Looking out into the curtains of sand and dust, Joe contemplated their next move. They couldn’t stay where they were. If they did, their water would run out, and more importantly, the heat would start to affect them with serious consequences, especially if the sandstorm became worse. He needed to get his men back to Base Independence. The storm would shield their movements. Nobody—not even those who spent most of their time living in the desert—could hunt them down in this type of weather. The Taliban were not omnipotent. They had human weaknesses when it came to being able to survive in bad weather. He would wake the men and talk to them, seek their views on what they wanted to do.
Joe got to his feet, rising above the protective barrier of the rock wall, and instantly felt the full force of the wind battering at his head and shoulders. He staggered and swayed then proceeded to make his way along the line of men. Gently nudging their boots if they were asleep and receiving acknowledgments from the men who were awake, Joe reached the end of the row and gestured to Sergeant Eastman to join him.
As Sergeant Eastman got up from the ground, Joe attempted to send a radio message to the base, but the static issuing from his radio convinced him that a transmission would not get through while the sandstorm was raging. Defeated, he gestured for the squad to gather around him, where they all crouched down behind the protective shield of the wall.
“All right,” Joe began, “I can’t get through to the base. There’s too much interference from the storm. So, I’m gonna put something to you all. The weather hasn’t abated much and I’m sure you’re all feeling like shit. It’s not comfortable being out here in the heat. I think we need to aim for the base. It might be hours or days before the sandstorm dissipates, and we’d run out of water and food long before that. It won’t be an easy march back. I wanted to make you aware of that. We’ll be on our own, cut off from base. I need to know what you guys think.”
Joe surveyed each of the marines in turn, waiting patiently while his announcement turned over in their minds. He noticed that their faces were haggard and tired-looking. Most of their eyes were red and irritated from the dry, sand-laden air, and stubble adorned their faces with sweat glistening on their skin.
Eventually, one of the marines spoke up. “This thing is completely and totally fucked up, Staff Sergeant,” he began. “We stay here and things are gonna get mighty uncomfortable. We move out and things are also gonna get uncomfortable. Better that we move out and try for the base than sit on our balls and fucking turn into de
hydrated prunes.” He glanced at his fellow marines, who were all nodding in agreement.
Joe nodded, accepting their decision. “Copy that. All right. Now, when we move out of here, we stay close together, maintain shoulder-to-shoulder contact. If any of you get lost, stay where you are until we find you. We’ll take it nice and slow. Corporal Fitzimmons will take point. We’ll take a rest every fifteen minutes. With the storm, I don’t know how long it will take us to get back to base. Okay, take twenty, grab some water and chow then we’ll move out. Corporal Fitzimmons?”
“Here, Staff Sergeant.” The navigator raised a hand.
“I want you to plot the most direct route back to the base. Forget about the route for the original patrol. We need to get back ASAP,” Joe ordered.
The navigator withdrew a map and spent a few minutes plotting a route, doing some math on a blank space on the map, and then voiced his conclusions.
“South-southwest ten clicks,” he announced, “but it’s open terrain, pretty much desert. The wind and sand are going to be pretty rough out there. We’ll have our asses hanging out in the wind and be in full view of anyone tracking us.”
“A risk we’ll have to take,” Joe answered, unhappy at the navigator’s statement but accepting that beggars could not be choosers in the situation they found themselves in.
While he had been consulting with his navigator, the marines had all been hastily opening MREs and consuming them. Some had gone to relieve themselves and some were smoking cigarettes. Eventually, all members of the squad were ready to leave. Corporal Fitzimmons took point with Joe and the rest of the marines clustered behind, leaving a meter space between each one so that there was room to raise their weapons if the situation called for it. Joe gestured them forward and they stepped out from behind the rock wall, which took them into the full force of the sandstorm.
Immediately the wind tore at their ponchos, battered their heads and bodies, and buffeted them from all sides. Sand and dust found its way into clothes, up under goggles and inside shemaghs. The hot wind tore their oxygen away from them and they all found it difficult to breathe. Their route obscured by flying sand, they came upon hidden shallow gullies, rocks, and boulders abruptly and without warning and had to circle round, sometimes backtracking as their route came to a dead end.
Although Joe called a rest every fifteen minutes and urged the men to take on water, keeping them hydrated, he could see that they were exhausted. The squad was experienced, had completed long patrols in the past over far worse, hazardous terrain, but because of the gale force wind and the curtains of sand and the heat, their energy and stamina were becoming seriously compromised.
Joe and Sergeant Eastman frequently carried out headcounts and checked verbally with each member of the squad, assessing their health and general state of mind. At one point, one of the marines stumbled down into a gulley and fell flat on his face. Tired as he was and weighed down by his bergen, he struggled to get to his feet. Joe hurried to the fallen marine’s side while the rest of the squad took a knee, taking out their water bladders to rinse out their mouths and take long drinks of the now lukewarm water.
Joe grasped the fallen marine’s webbing holding his bergen to his back and hauled him upright. “All in one piece, Marine?” he shouted, peering closely into the man’s haggard, goggle and shemagh-shielded face.
The marine nodded, “Fine, Staff Sergeant,” he yelled back. “I lost my footing.”
“Ready to go on?” Joe asked. The marine nodded and Joe clapped him on the shoulder and walked with him until they joined the rest of the squad.
They continued on with their slow march, Corporal Fitzimmons constantly checking the map and compass and relaying their position to whomever of them circled the squad, checking for stragglers and surveying the terrain when the curtains of sand parted. The ground and sky merged into one so there was no horizon and no discernible landmarks. Their pace was almost a crawl. What would normally have taken them a patrol of a few hours was now taking them a great deal longer.
The men walked on, helmeted heads bowed to the wind, shoulders slumped beneath their heavy bergens. They stumbled constantly, some going down on one knee, but through sheer stubbornness and determination, gaining their feet and going on.
At last, Joe brought the squad to a halt. The ground under his boots had changed in composition. Glancing down, he toed the sand with his boot and to his relief saw that beneath a covering of sand and dust was the rough surface of a road. They had made it to the road leading to and from the base.
The last leg of their arduous journey went more smoothly, their march unimpeded by uneven rocky terrain, although it remained slow as the marines were exhausted. It was with an uplift of spirits that they finally saw the intermittent faint lights from the base up ahead.
Joe tried his radio once more and found that some of the static had dispersed and he was able to transmit a message to his squad leader, who in turn radioed through to the security checkpoint to advise them that Echo squad was approaching and ordered transportation to be sent directly to pick them up.
It was with a profound sense of relief that they were finally waved forward with a searchlight and within ten minutes, their truck arrived at the checkpoint. The weary marines climbed inside and collapsed onto the benches. They slumped forward with heads bowed, not even bothering to remove their shemaghs, remaining silent.
Joe closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax slightly. He was so tired that he couldn’t think straight. All he wanted to do after debriefing his squad leader was to take a long, hot shower and seek out his bed, where he could get some sleep. In addition, there was one more thing he needed to do, and that was see Katie. He so wanted to see her it was like an ache in his gut. “I’m back, Katie,” he murmured beneath his breath. “I’m back.”
Chapter Eighteen
Katie looked at her watch for the third time and saw that its luminous hands had finally crept toward 1930 hours. There were still thirty minutes remaining until she was due to meet Joe. Her stomach was full of butterflies, mouth dry, and the palms of her hands damp with perspiration. It had been nearly twenty-four hours since she had seen him. Tonight was the night they were due to meet and she was going to accompany him to the PX on Camp Roosevelt. She felt restless, couldn’t settle, and didn’t want to think about the fact that he might not make it back or that he might not turn up if he was too exhausted from the patrol.
At last, Wanda flung a magazine at her. “For heaven’s sake, woman. Sit still for five minutes and read this. You’re driving me nuts,” she exclaimed in mock annoyance.
Katie grabbed the magazine and laughed. “Sorry,” she answered. “I feel as nervous as hell. I don’t even know if he’s back yet. What happens if he doesn’t get back in time? What happens if he doesn’t turn up?”
“Bloody hell!” Wanda retorted. “If he doesn’t turn up, you come back here. He’ll be there if he can be there.”
Katie took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. She would be in his arms in twenty minutes, feeling the warmth of him and feeling his kisses. She suddenly flung the magazine onto her sleeping bag. “I’m going,” she said. “By the time I walk over there, it’ll be 2000 hours.”
“Thank goodness for that. You take care, girl. Take your torch and have a great time. I’ll want to hear everything when you get back,” Wanda said.
“Yeah, right,” Katie retorted. “That’ll happen.” She put on her military cap—Standing Orders had announced that helmets need no longer be worn—and checked her makeup in a small mirror, finally picking up her torch. Wishing her friend goodnight, Katie left the tent.
The sandstorm had moved on but it had left behind its mark with miniature sand dunes piled up against both tents and buildings, with dust and soil laying on the roofs of the canopied tents. Even now, the detritus left by the sandstorm still needed to be cleared away. The temperature had dropped considerably and the wind had died down to a cooling breeze, which was a dramatic change from the
fierce gale and heat earlier. Camp Churchill was back to its busy schedule and the usual noise was greatly in evidence.
Katie made her way to the road. It wasn’t dark yet but she switched on her torch and hoped fervently that she could remember in which direction the pallets with its makeshift seating area were. She hoped that there would be no one else taking a few minutes out to have some quiet downtime there.
She wanted to do an incredibly childish thing and run to Joe, whooping. She wanted to leap like a child into his arms and hold him for as long as they were together. She was desperate to see him, to feel his warmth, to see his eyes and his smile and hear his voice. Her heart was pounding so hard that she felt sick. There was always the possibility that he had not returned from his patrol or that he had become lost out in the desert, but she could not let herself think about that.
Katie headed in the direction of the NAAFI. It was a lovely evening, with a crystal clear navy blue sky studded with stars and a huge full moon peeping over the horizon. The temperature was balmy, with much of the humidity having dispersed due to the sandstorm. It wouldn’t remain that way for long, as it was a peak summer month for Afghanistan, but at present it was a warm summer night and she was enjoying it.
Katie sighted the rows of pallets and checked her watch. It was 1945 hours, she had fifteen minutes to find the place that she and Joe had visited previously. She turned off the road onto the well-worn path and began to wend her way around the stacks of pallets.
Katie found herself almost running with eagerness. She hoped he would be there but if he wasn’t, then she would wait for him.
For the Love of a Marine Page 18