by Kris Nacole
I advanced across the hot sand to the wreckage, smoke whirling around me. The wind blew sand in my face, and each grain felt like razor blades in my eyes.
I blinked, trying to focus. “Jones?” I yelled, reaching out to grab him.
It is him. A relief fell over me as I realized he was still alive. I turned him over onto his back.
He coughed, and his eyes started to roll back. I scanned him for injuries. He was covered in blood, and I wasn’t sure if it was his own or someone else’s. It was hard to tell.
“Jones, stay with me, man.” I tried to stay calm as I assessed him. After seeing a deep gash on his arm, I pulled out my med kit and applied a tourniquet to stop the excessive bleeding.
He sputtered while coughing up blood, fighting to breathe. “One…hella…ride…man…damn…hurts,” he managed while aspirating.
“Your ride’s not over yet. Stay with me. You have a wife and kid to get home to. You’re not going anywhere, you hear me?” Knowing things were bad internally, I turned to yell for the medic who was dragging one of the wounded away by his armor. “Take him to the medic truck, and then come back for Jones!”
There was a piece of shrapnel lodged in Jones’ side and blood was oozing out around it.
I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Open your eyes. We’ve been through so much together. This is NOT the end. Wake the hell up!” My throat tightened painfully in part because I was watching my best friend, possibly dying, in my arms and noxious black smoke was blanketing us.
There was blood pooling beneath him. So much blood. Jones’ blood. The smell of the blood, fuel, and smoke was making me sick.
Finally hearing me, Jones slowly blinked open his eyes, never fully focusing on my face. Tears mixed with the blood on his cheeks.
“Love you, bro…,” he said, gurgling—nearly choking on his own blood. The right side of his mouth weakly pulled into a half-smile. He was trying to be brave. “Ari… Mac… love them.” He winced in pain.
Dammit!
“No, no, no, oh no you don’t,” I snarled, getting angrier. I did not come back here to watch my best friend die. “You’re going to tell them yourself when you get home. We’ll have you outta here in no time.” But even as I said it, his warm blood oozed between my fingers and over my hands. The sand was soaked and clumped with it. He’d lost a lot of blood—too much blood.
A few seconds later, two medics came up to help me get Jones back to the other Humvee. As we were getting ready to turn around, gunfire ripped through the air.
“Get down!” I ordered, and we all crouched lower and picked up our pace. Dragging Jones must’ve hurt my shoulder because my entire arm was on fire and hurt every time I moved.
I yelled up to Hansen, the gunner, as we got closer. “Cover us as we get in! Gunfire coming from the northeast corner of the village!” He quickly opened fire to provide enough cover for us to get Jones into the back of the Humvee. I watched as the medics lifted him up in one swift motion and moved him onto the stretcher.
“No return fire. All clear Sergeant,” Hansen reported a few moments later.
I turned to Miller and Scott and told them to check for any remaining wounded and bring up the rear in their Humvee, and then I jumped into the medic truck with Jones.
“Go, now!” I yelled into the radio as we all pulled away and headed for the medic tent back at base.
I hovered over Jones as the medic started to hang IV fluids and take vital signs. “Stay with me, man. Don’t you dare fucking die on me.”
My pulse was still racing, and my body trembled. He was still alive, but for how long? No, he couldn’t die.
My eyes were burning as tears threatened. Hold it together. Jones was my brother, my best friend.
This can’t be it…I’m not going home without him.
Once we arrived at the medic tent, they took Jones off the hard plastic stretcher and laid him down on the cot in front of me. One nurse cut his uniform off quickly and started hooking him up to a bunch of different monitors. Another nurse was pushing meds through his IV while the doctor yelled commands to them both.
His breathing was shallow. His skin was a pale gray, and he was no longer responding to anyone or anything.
Wake up, dammit, wake up!
The monitor started alarming. “There’s no pulse,” the male nurse said to the doctor. “Starting compressions now.”
Standing there, I watched in disbelief as he performed CPR. My knees buckled, and I held my breath. It hurt too much to breathe. Everyone around me seemed to be moving in slow motion, and my ears were ringing.
“One, Two, Three, Four, Five,” the nurse counted, as he pumped Jones’ chest in a steady rhythm. I could hear the sound of Jones’ ribs cracking with each thrust.
All these sounds—the cracking bones, the alarms sounding, oxygen flowing as they bagged him, and the gurgling coming from Jones’ mouth—I knew would haunt me for the rest of my life.
Tearing my eyes away from him, I looked up at the monitor and watched as a faint wave crossed the screen with each pump of his chest. I couldn’t say the words aloud, but I was screaming inside:
Fight Jones, come on you stubborn bastard, FIGHT!
I’d been deployed multiple times, saw a lot of dead bodies and had to make a lot of tough decisions. But none of them had affected me like this. Seeing Jones like that, knowing he was going to die and I couldn’t do anything about it, was ripping me to shreds and pissing me the fuck off.
It’s my fault. He was my responsibility. I should’ve done things differently, and he’d still be alive. I’m the one who doesn’t deserve to live.
I stood there feeling helpless.
“Okay, stop compressions,” the doctor said, pulling off his bloody gloves and throwing them in the red biohazard bin behind him.
Stop compressions? No!
The doctor frowned and looked at his watch. “Time of death…fourteen-hundred.”
Time of death…
The words echoed through my mind, but I couldn’t seem to comprehend them.
“Wait, NO!” I ran over to Jones’ bedside and started to pump his chest myself. My arm and shoulder burned with each thrust, but I didn’t care. “Ahhhh! Come on, dammit!”
A hand gripped my arm. “Sergeant, I’m sorry, but he’s gone. There’s nothing else we can do.”
“Don’t touch me!” I yelled, pulse hammering, ears ringing, head spinning. “Come on, Jones. Come on, man. Not now. Not like this,” I cried out. Still nothing. A few moments later, I stopped, stepped back, and sucked in a deep breath realizing he was really gone. He was dead, and it had happened because of me.
I should’ve taken the front instead of him.
My stomach churned and sweat was dripping down my face. Turning around, I grabbed the small metal trashcan behind me and threw up. As I set the trashcan on the ground, a sharp pain shot through my shoulder.
“Ow, damn.” I reached back to touch where the pain was. My fingers grazed something warm and sticky. More of Jones’ blood?
My body grew heavy, and the room was spinning. My vision clouded, and I lost my balance.
“Sergeant, you’ve been shot,” is all I heard as everything went black.
WHAT’S GOING ON? WHERE AM I?
I blinked, forcing my eyes to focus. My head was pounding. I lifted my arms and saw an IV in one and a blood pressure cuff on the other.
“Welcome back, Sergeant,” a tall blond said as she reached up to hang another bag of saline on the pole beside my cot. “How’re you feeling?”
I ignored her and looked at the cot beside me. Jones’ body was no longer there. I was hoping it had all been a bad dream. Maybe Jones was going to walk in at any minute and tell me what a dumb-ass I was for getting shot. We would always give each other a hard time, but when it came down to it, we had each other’s backs.
“Where’s Jones?” I asked, without recognizing my own raspy and tired voice.
“They’ve taken his body to prepare it for
travel back to the States,” she responded quietly. “I’m really sorry for your loss.”
No. Fuck.
It hadn’t been a dream. Jones was really gone.
I tried to swallow, but my throat and mouth were dry. What about his wife? His daughter? Now she would have to grow up without a father. What happens when she’s older and doesn’t have him there to walk her down the aisle at her wedding or to do other important things with her.
She’d always called me Uncle Zane because I practically lived at their house before I’d gotten my own. Her big, green eyes flashed through my mind as I imagined her looking up at me as I explained what a hero her daddy had been. I would make damn sure she knew exactly how brave her hero was.
After I had laid there and shed tears over the loss of my friend, the doctor came in to give me an update on my injury. Thankfully the bullet hadn’t done any permanent damage. A few sutures, some Motrin—because everyone in the military knows that Motrin fixes everything—and a couple weeks in a sling, and that would be it.
I wished it was worse, though. I wished I was dead instead of Jones. I’d never experienced something as traumatizing as losing my best friend and brother. Our job is dangerous, so there’s always the chance of something happening, but it never feels like it’s real until something does happen, especially when you’re the one in charge.
Over the next few weeks, the commander tried several times to send me back home, but I insisted on finishing the deployment. It was my last on active duty, so I wanted to finish it with my men, many of whom I had been deployed with multiple times throughout my career.
With Jones now gone, I wasn’t going to leave until our mission was completed. I had to honor his name. It was the least I could do.
It had been two months of pushing through the emotions of losing Jones. I didn’t want to wake up in the mornings. I was a shell, hollow—empty. Yes, I forced myself to go through the motions of living, but I was broken inside. Every day I was reminded of his death.
No matter how hard I fought to stop the flashbacks of that day, I couldn’t. Work was hell without him. Everyone else could laugh and carry on, but not me. I’d never be the same again.
After work I sulked back to my tent to go to sleep. I pulled back the black sheet I used for privacy, and it fell to the ground.
Dammit.
Since losing Jones, the smallest things would send me to the edge of rage. I was like a loaded gun, cocked and ready to blow.
I was too tired and angry to attempt to rehang the sheet, so I kicked it to the side. I knew my anger wasn’t at the sheet nor was it at the idiot who chews with his mouth open at chow or the moron who throws his weights down at the gym. The anger inside of me was from losing Jones. My emotions were amplified, and I was tired of every little thing pissing me off.
I was struggling with the reality that I was going home soon without him. Guilt ripped through me because I was getting to go home and because a part of me was excited to go home to Chesney and the kids.
There was some mail laying on my cot. I sat down and stared at an envelope from Chesney. Bringing it to my nose, I could smell the vanilla perfume I’d bought her. The smell alone triggered memories of our time together. Closing my eyes, I remembered how she tasted, how her hair smelled like sugar cookies, and how her body felt on top of mine.
“What the hell? Are you sniffing paper?” Bradford said as he walked into the tent, breaking me from my thoughts.
Never any damn privacy. I should’ve put the damn sheet back up.
“If you don’t get the hell out of here, I’m gonna kick your ass and tell your wife what you really do with all of the snacks she sends you in her care packages,” I growled.
“You wouldn’t,” he challenged.
“Oh, but I would.” Bradford would always sell the items his wife sent, so he could use the money for his gambling addiction without her finding out.
“Asshole.” He turned to walk out of the tent.
“All day, every day,” I said, returning my attention to the letter.
My hands trembled as I unfolded the thick paper. I hadn’t told anyone back home about Jones. They would all ask a million questions, and I could imagine their voices full of pity as they told me how sorry they were for my loss.
Sorry, my ass. They have no fucking clue what it’s like.
I was trying to push past the guilt, but I was still haunted, remembering that day in vivid detail. It gave me nightmares. He’d still be alive if I hadn’t made the call to put him in front of the convoy. Then again, someone else would’ve died if not him. Logic didn’t silence the guilt, though. It had been my job to keep them all safe.
Glancing across the tent, Jones’ cot and foot locker were empty. Nothing remained of my best friend and comrade. I thought about his wife and daughter as they’d received the news and wondered how they were holding up. I knew I should’ve reached out to Aribella, but I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to say, and I’m sure she wouldn’t want to talk to the man who was partly responsible for her husband’s death.
Get it together.
I took a deep breath as I looked at the photos of Chesney and the kids laying on the makeshift cardboard table next to my cot. Blinking back tears, I tried to gather my emotions and started to read the letter.
My dearest Zane,
I hope you’re doing okay. I miss you terribly. I miss the sound of your voice, feeling your arms around me, and feeling your lips against mine. I’ve enclosed a couple of special photos for your eyes only. Maybe after seeing them, you’ll like your lucky blue shirt even more…
Placing the letter down on my cot, I picked up the envelope and pulled out the photos. In the first one, there was Chesney, brown eyes shining, her silky, brown hair draped over one shoulder in waves, and the other shoulder bare with my favorite blue t-shirt falling slightly down one arm. Her legs were exposed, as well, and I imagined my soft cotton shirt rubbing against her as she moved. I wanted to be like that shirt and be wrapped around every square inch of her, buried deep inside of her, forgetting the world and how fucked up I was.
The second photo was of her lying on the bed, my shirt pulled up her thighs showing me her smooth, olive skin. She was biting her lip in the most tantalizing way, and my body stirred as my pulse quickened.
Yes. Exactly what I need right now. A distraction.
Even from more than seven thousand miles away, she had this effect on me. Tucking the photos under my pillow, I read the end of the letter.
I sure have a lot of fun wearing it. It smells like you, and I love feeling it draped over my bare skin. I can’t wait to be able to feel your touch again. You’ve always told me I was your sunflower because I could brighten your day no matter how bad it is, so I hope my letter and the photos help brighten your day a little. I love you to the moon, Zane Thomas. Until we see each other again…please come home soon. Stay safe.
Your Firefly,
XoXo Chesney XoXo
Please come home soon. Stay Safe. Until we see each other again.
The words on the page haunted me, and the guilt returned. What if she never did see me again? What if Dylan had to grow up without his father? I was supposed to be the one who’d died, not Jones. It should’ve been me…
Suddenly visions of holding Jones’ lifeless body in my arms as his warm blood ran over my arms and hands flashed through my mind. Closing my eyes, I swallowed hard and tried to think of something else.
Go away! Get out of my head! I’m so sorry!
Reaching up, I grabbed the sides of my head with both hands. The letter fell to the ground.
Make it go away.
Jackson walked into the tent. “Sergeant, are you okay?” His high-pitched voice startled me and made me jump to my feet.
“Yeah, I’m fine. What do you need?” I snapped, picking up the letter and photos, putting them into my backpack.
He reminded me of a scared teenager, trembling in his boots. “Sorry, sir. The Shirt told me to come find yo
u. We need to go to chow and get ready for our next mission.”
Ah, the Shirt, also known as the First Sergeant. That man drove me insane on a daily basis. He was always up my ass about something. He probably would’ve slapped a locator bracelet on me if he could. Ever since Jones’ death, it seemed he was babysitting me. I couldn’t even take a piss without him checking on me.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a few,” I said, trying to gather myself and regain some sort of normalcy.
What the hell is my normal?
OUR LAST MISSION WENT OFF without a hitch. Everyone came back safely, and I knew Jones would’ve been proud. His voice echoed through my mind from something he’d said after one of our first missions, many years ago. “Can’t wait for the next one! Air power! Aim high!”
When we’d first started deploying, he’d been the most enthusiastic airman I’d ever seen. Only the newbies still used those phrases after boot camp and tech school. I used to want to punch him every time the words left his mouth.
Now, I’d give anything to hear him say it again. I’d let him annoy the hell out of me as much as he wanted to.
I grabbed my calendar and crossed off another day. It was almost January. A new year and hopefully a new start.
As I reflected on my time during this deployment, part of me was relieved it was coming to an end. My time in the Air Force was also coming to an end. I’d always imagined retiring from the military, but my feelings had changed a lot over the past several months. It was time to get out and concentrate on my family.
I changed into my shorts and t-shirt, laid down, and tried to get some sleep.
No, Jones. No! Wait! Watch out!
I bolted up in bed, sweating and looking around frantically. My hands cramped from gripping my sleeping bag so tightly.
Another nightmare. Dammit!
The nightmares and visions were frequent. It had been hard to sleep at night. Every time I closed my eyes, I would see Jones’ face through the darkness, blood spurting from his body and oozing slowly out of his mouth and ears, my blood-soaked hands as I’d held him and begged him not to die—all of it.