So, here it is. This is the account I wrote of the 14 May ambush is which I was shot. It was mostly written in hospital in Germany, just days after the incident, so I could record as much of the raw emotion and detail as possible. Since then I have emailed and spoken with many people to confirm details, but of course some of it will still be incorrect. What I have written is what I can remember, between the confusion and the pain. I hope it helps people understand what it is like to be in a firefight, not for reporters, but for soldiers who face this day after day.
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14th May 2007
A sudden explosion of pain in my back, like a street-fight kidney punch, pushed me to my knees. Immediately, I knew I’d been shot. As I gasped for the breath that had been driven out of me, my head swam with a multitude of questions and curses. I couldn’t believe it, although in all honesty, with the amount of bullets flying through the air all around us, it would have been more difficult to believe that anyone was going to get out of here without getting shot. But still, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t believe it. In Nuristan province, in north-eastern Afghanistan, surrounded by US soldiers fighting for their lives in an Al-Qaeda ambush, I’d been shot.
Arriving in Afghanistan 5 weeks earlier, I had explained to the Public Affairs Officer at Bagram Air Field that I was here to show the reality of a deployed soldier’s life. I wanted to be “outside the wire,” living with the soldiers on the frontline. During my two trips the previous year I had succeeded in spending most of the 3 months in the field, and the results were strong photographs of a dangerous mission in an unforgiving environment. But this year I was going further. I had resigned my staff position with Agence France-Presse, an international news agency, and said goodbye to my girlfriend, family and friends, and flown out to Afghanistan as a freelance photographer. And this time I was staying for 9 months. Initially my request for such a long embed with the US military in Afghanistan was greeted with amazement. Was I serious? Did I realise how difficult 9 months would be on me physically and mentally? Was I aware of the dangers I would be exposing myself to? Yes, yes, and yes, were the answers. My previous trips had convinced me that there was a huge need for the world to understand the fight in Afghanistan. Many people thought it was all over, and of those that knew it still raged, many believed it was inseparable from the war in Iraq. From what I had seen and learned in the spring and autumn of 2006, embedded with the British in Helmand, the Canadians in Kandahar, and US forces in Paktia and Khowst, I knew that the war in Afghanistan was incredibly complex. However, it was important that the world knew what was going on there. I wanted to remind people about a conflict regularly called “The Forgotten War,” and I wanted to show them the realities of the fighting at ground level. And to achieve that, I would have to live with the troops. I wanted to show their lives in a combat zone, and so I would have to go through the soldier experience. Well, I asked for it, and boy did I get it!Now I was shot, and the battle around me showed no signs of ending. I realised that kneeling behind a Humvee, I was still exposed to whoever had just shot me, and so I ran and dived behind a large rock. Well, that’s how I remember it. One of the other guys there told me afterwards that there was no running or diving involved. He said “You half crawled, half dragged yourself behind that rock. As I curled into as small a ball as I could, another bullet slammed into the rock, less than two inches above my head. It appeared the sniper wasn’t finished with me yet. Then an explosion ripped through the air, as a rocket propelled grenade detonated against the Humvee that I had just abandoned. Close by, three soldiers crouched behind some more rocks. Bullets hammered against their protective boulders, and more cracked overhead. Staff Sergeant Anderson was busy getting a field onto Sergeant Clark’s arm, through which he had been shot moments before me, and Staff Sergeant Sears was shouting at me. He was telling me to hang in there, that they would get me out of here soon. He asked me how many times I had been hit, where I was hit, and lots of other questions that blurred into each other. I knew he was trying to keep me awake, to stave off the dangers of slipping into unconsciousness, but even as more bullets hammered at the rock that sheltered me with the ferocity of a blacksmith working at his anvil, my mind was wandering.
I had woken that morning to the sound of helicopters buzzing low overhead, and had dragged myself out of my sleeping bag into the early dawn light. A couple of Blackhawks were disappearing over the mountains to the west, and within a few minutes two troop carrying Chinooks appeared, with an Apache gunship escort. And so another day of missions was underway in Nuristan province, in the north-east of Afghanistan on the border with Pakistan. This is an extremely volatile area, where the US presence is only months old, and where fighting is fierce. In the foothills of the Hindu Kush, with peaks rising to over 18,000ft, Nuristan is also where experts believe Osama bin Laden’s last two videos were recorded. It is an area that resisted the Soviet invasion successfully, never allowed the Taliban to gain a foothold, and even in fact even defied Islam until 1895. Until then the area was known as Kafiristan, “Land of the Infidels.” All over the small outpost, soldiers made final preparations for the day’s mission. Officially called Kamu. but known as “The Palace” due to its connections with Afghanistan’s last monarch, King Shah, the base had once been a royal hunting lodge. While those days were gone, the manicured lawns and blooming rose bushes remain, in stark contrast to the utilitarian living of the Afghan and US soldiers, with their sandbags, gun emplacements, and canvas tents.The US Embedded Tactical Trainers that I was embedded with were to undertake a joint mission with the 1st Company, 2nd Kandak, 201st Corps, Afghan National Army that they were mentoring. It was a simple blocking operation, but was planned to take several days. There would also be a small element from White Platoon, 3rd Squadron, 71st Cavalry, 10th Mountain Division, or 3/71 Cav as they are known.
It is a military axiom that no plan survives first contact with the enemy. Others talk of Murphy running around on the battlefield. Whichever, this day was not to go as planned. No sooner had the US and Afghan troops positioned themselves in the initial position, than everything changed. Radio reports started to come in of a TIC, or troops in contact, the army’s newest description for a fight. But this was not the fight expected, or planned for, but an ambush 20 kilometres to the east, on a different joint operation. Sitting, listening to the radio transmissions from a TIC, is an awful experience. The feelings of helplessness and frustration, coupled with worry and anger, make following the events more difficult. But when a “Break, break, break” call goes out, followed by a “Nine-Line” request, it is then that things are at their worst. “Break, break, break” indicates that an emergency message is about to be broadcast and all other callers should cease transmitting. A “Nine-Line” call informs all listeners on the net that a US soldier is wounded, and in need of an immediate medical evacuation. It is a radio call that raises the hair on the back of the neck, and we were now listening to multiple calls for MedEvac, meaning there was a mass casualty situation. It was clear that they were for both US and Afghan personnel.
Radio reports kept coming in, and then came the worst news of all. While most troops had indeed pushed out of the kill-zone, and raced the 10 klicks (kilometres) to Kamu to get their wounded onto MedEvac helicopters, up to 10 ANA soldiers had been left behind in the fight. How this happened was unclear, but the most likely case was that they jumped clear of their vehicles which were then damaged during the attack. Several ANA had been killed, and if the chain of command had been broken, it was possible, though shocking, that someone could be left behind, due to the differing tactics in the face of attack.As the closest units available, the ETT/ANA element I was with was designated the Quick Reaction Force (QRF). Within minutes we were loaded into the Humvees and racing towards the ambush. As we raced along the treacherous road, word came in on the radio that White Platoon had also put together a QRF and they would be heading out the gate of Kamu just as we arrived. The US Embedded Tactical Trainer Master Sergeant Best, commanding the ETT team, began coordinating with Staff Sergeant Sears from White Platoon about what we should expect. Best believed that the ambush was in fact a feint, albeit a very successful one, and had been intended to draw out a larger force for a more aggressive ambush already in place. So essentially, we were playing right into the insurgents hands and racing into a pre-planned trap, but of course if the men left behind were to be rescued then there was no choice. Best told the gunner, “Young ‘Un,” that this was it and he had better be switched on up there, scanning for any sign of danger. We were driving straight into the maelstrom.
When we arrived the White Platoon element was already there. We had stopped by a rickety old wooden bridge, and following everyone else, I climbed out of the Humvee. There were buildings on the north side that would have to be cleared before the troops could safely move further down the road. Best called for five ANA soldiers. Staff Sergeant Sears joined him, and I ran after them as they moved quickly across the bridge.With US and ANA working smoothly together, no time was wasted in shouting orders. The first compound was approached, and following a quick shout of instruction to any people inside, the door was kicked in. Then, just as they exited, the roar of cannon fire filled the air. Everyone dropped to the ground instantly.
“It’s the Apache” shouted Master Sergeant Best, explaining to the terrified looking ANA (and an ashen faced Irish photographer) that it was the overhead Close Air Support (CAS) doing the firing. He got on the radio to find out what was happening, what they were firing at, and more importantly to give them our position. It is exactly these kinds of confused, fast moving circumstances that lead to “blue on blue,” or friendly fire, incidents, and MSG Best was doing his utmost to avoid that. He was still trying to get clarification as to what the helicopter gunships were shooting at, when they fired again. The noise was paralyzing, even though I knew they weren’t shooting at us. I realised I was almost frozen with fright and I had to force myself to move again.Suddenly, a call came over the radio saying that the Apache helicopters had spotted ANA survivors on the south bank. Unfortunately they had also seen wounded and possible dead. On the other side of the river ETT Sergeant Clark was waiting with the rest of the ANA, with elements of White Platoon further back. The road was bad, and moving Humvees was slow, so Master Sergeant Best jumped into the back of a Ranger. I followed him, realising that he was going to race up ahead with the ANA. Soon we had six or seven guys in the back and were racing east. Within a few minutes, we saw the first of the dead. The Ranger came to a halt, and the ANA spilled over the side. There was much shouting, lamenting, and some crying. Then another Ranger appeared, racing towards us, carrying wounded. It couldn’t pass on the narrow road, and there was a lot more confusion, horn-blowing, and shouting. I moved towards the second Ranger, and I could see two walking wounded standing in the back, and a third soldier laid out on the floor of the pick-up. He was shot in the neck and shoulder, and was in a pretty bad way, but rather than giving him any medical assistance, his comrades were crying and hugging each other. They were obviously in shock, but Staff Sergeant Sears was infuriated. He shouted and swore and grabbed and shook them, but to no avail. He then began to give first aid to the man himself, all the time shouting at the other ANA to pull themselves together and help their friend. He was telling them that this was not the time for grieving and that there would be plenty of time for that later. Right now, they needed to rally round their buddies and lift their spirits, or at least pull some perimeter security. He seemed to get through to one or two of them, and together they pulled the body armour off the wounded man. Sears kept shouting at the man to wake up, and finally an ANA soldier understood what the Sergeant wanted, and started to talk to the wounded man, in an attempt to keep him conscious. 
A Humvee from White Platoon had pushed further up the road, perhaps 50 metres, and was reporting back that there were more ANA dead and possibly wounded up ahead. ETTs Best and Clark, along with Sears and I, spaced out and began to jog up the road. I pulled slightly ahead in order to be able to turn and shoot some frames.And then, after maybe 20 metres, while out in the wide open, everything went to hell. Machinegun fire burst from the north ridge, and suddenly the air around me was filled with noise and bullets. In this kind of situation there is not really any time for thought. You react, or get shot. One of the things that MSG Best was constantly reinforcing to his men, and to me, was the importance of always being aware of our surroundings. “If we are attacked right now,” he would regularly ask during foot patrols, “where is your best cover, and what is your exfil route?” I had taken this lesson to heart, and so I already knew where I was going to take cover. With no idea where anyone else was going, I dived behind a large rock to my right and ate dirt. I pulled myself into as small a ball as possible. Bullets smashed against the rock, while more cracked overhead. I have always been told that when bullets are whizzing, whining, or buzzing, it means they aren’t that close, but when they snap or crack, that is the sound of them breaking the sound barrier. It also means that they are very close. Too close! I was terrified, and I mean properly terrified. There was no other cover, so I wasn’t going to be able to move, and it was only a matter of time before we started to take fire from the south, to which I was totally exposed. The worst thing you can do is stay still in a situation like this, but there was nowhere I could go. And the so I lay there, thinking that my protective rock must surely be shattered by the bullets beating against it, and waiting for the inevitable eruption of fire from the south, from which I would have no protection at all.
The others were in a similar situation, when the Humvee up ahead saw our predicament. Racing towards us, it pulled up near Staff Sergeant Sears and me, although to be honest I was curled into such a tiny space that I didn’t even dare lift my head to look around. The first thing I knew about it was when Sears shouted to me to move, and we both jumped up and ran into the cover provided by its armoured hulk. The vehicle slowly reversed backwards towards its original spot, and we trotted alongside it, hunched over to make as small a target as possible.
At the time, I couldn’t understand why Master Sergeant Best and Sergeant Clark hadn’t joined us beside the Humvee, but from subsequent emails and conversations I have pieced together their story. They were pinned down together between two rocks. “There we were, spooning like a pair of lovers”, said Best of their predicament. Sergeant Clark says at this point things get a little fuzzy for him, and he says that he is glad he was with the “grizzled old fucker.” Best is 50 years old, and Clark is 22. He remembers saying “We have to get out of here,” to which Master Sergeant Best gently replied “Well, where the fuck do you suggest we go, they are shooting at us from both sides.” Sergeant Clark wanted to try and get back to the ANA soldiers sheltering behind some huge wooden beams, but when Best moved his foot slightly out from behind their pulverised rock, the fire immediately intensified. Clark shouted back “OK, you’re right, but we can’t stay here.” The experienced Master Sergeant then got on his radio, and coordinated with the ANA to get their DSHKA heavy machinegun and rocket propelled grenades to provide suppressive fire on both ridgelines. Then they would jump up, and run, with Best firing to the north and Clark shooting south. Meanwhile the Humvee sheltering Sears and me had stopped in the shade of some trees. It wasn’t exactly cover, but if the insurgents couldn’t see us, hopefully it would be more difficult to shoot at us. And then, as if on cue, the insurgents on the south side opened fire on us. They definitely could see us, so we ran around to the north of the Humvee. Up top, Kittle, the.50 Calibre machine-gunner, was pouring withering fire on the southern ridge.
Then we saw Master Sergeant Best and Sergeant Clark running towards us. Everyone laid down fire to try and cover them, while I shot photographs of their mad dash over open ground. The “Fog of War” is defined by the British Joint Services Command and Staff College (JSCSC) as a term used to describe “the level of ambiguity in situational awareness experienced by participants in military operations.” In other words it is very confusing. Often several participants in the same fight will have wildly varying tales to tell. This doesn’t necessarily mean anyone is lying, just that they had different experiences during the same high intensity event. By the same token, often there are large gaps of memory. For me, there is a strange split in my memory. I remember all my thoughts, decisions and actions, but I don’t remember taking most of the photographs I later found in my cameras. Obviously I was shooting pictures, but it turns out I did most of it without thinking. The soldiers call this “muscle-memory,” when they have practised an action to the point where it can be performed instintively. I would compare it to driving a stick-shift car. When you are learning to drive, the whole releasing accelerator, engaging the clutch, and changing gears is an action that requires total concentration. Eventually though, it becomes second nature, and requires no concious thought. So, when we were under fire, all my concious thought went into watching what the soldiers around me did, and doing the same thing myself. This seemed the most sensible course of action, and I hoped would increase my chances of survival in the unfolding battle. As I said, this meant that I composed abd exposed most of the photographs of the fight without being aware of it.
Except, that is, when Master Sergeant Best and Sergeant Clark made that run over open ground, under intense hostile fire. That I remember. I remember it only too well, because I distinctly recall the thoughts that flashed through my mind. I thought they were going to die. These guys had become my friends, and now I was photographing them as they ran over open ground, with insurgents shooting at them from both sides of the valley, and I was absolutely certain that they were going to be shot and die while I was making pictures of them. It was horrible. They made it, but since then I have thought a lot about those moments. I thought they would die, and it made me feel sick, but I continued to shoot pictures. It was awful, and I certainly didn’t want any harm to befall them, but the cold, hard truth is that I have set myself the task of documenting the whole experience of soldiers in Afghanistan, and if I was to flinch, to turn away from something that I might find upsetting or worse, then I would have failed at my job. And if I am not prepared to give everything to this job, then I shouldn’t be there at all.
By now the protective gunships had left us, as they were low on fuel. In fact it was right after they left that the attack started on us. This is a classic tactic of foreign fighters, especially Uzbeks and Chechens. They are exceptionally disciplined, and will hit and then hide and wait until the Apaches are forced to leave. Also, the staging of the bodies of the dead and wounded on the road, along with all their equipment and sensitive items such as radios, is another favoured tactic. It draws the rescuers into that kill-zone. All this was known, but the fact that ANA soldiers were still unaccounted for when the Quick Reaction Force arrived meant that all of these danger signals were put to one side in the attempt to rescue the missing ANA.
Bullets were still flying through the air too close for comfort, when the rear left door of the Humvee opened, and a US Marine ETT, Capt. Tom Grace, climbed out. He greeted Master Sergeant Best like an old friend, and said “Good to see you man, I’m you’re replacement.” Best laughed and welcomed him to his new posting. Then the Marine turned to me, grabbed me and pulled me close, so I could hear over all the gunfire, and said, “Man, you’re fucking crazy. Nobody can be paying you enough to be here right now.” Little did he know that, as a freelancer, nobody was paying me at all!
Then I saw Sergeant Clark’s face overcome with a strange expression. He looked down to see blood on his left forearm. I yelled that he’d been hit, into Best’s ear, and we dashed behind the Humvee for cover. Sergeant Clark, and Staff Sergeant Anderson, the commander of the Humvee, jumped behind some rocks on the other side. I don’t know what happened to the Marine.
Behind the Humvee, by the front right tyre, Best and Sears were firing at the southern ridgeline. Best was also shouting over to the other two Sergeants to get a situation report (Sit Rep) on Clark’s wound when a hail of small arms fire sprayed the vehicle right between them. Sears ran for the rocks, where Anderson was giving Sergeant Clark first aid, while Master Sergeant Best moved to the back of the vehicle, where I was still crouched. I could see Anderson putting dressing on SGT Clark’s arm and I shot a few frames. I moved a little to the left to try and get a clearer shot while still remaining in cover. As I framed the photograph of soldiers sheltering behind a rock as dust rises above it from the bullets hammering the other side, there was a huge explosion, maybe 75 metres out to the south. I could hear Best on the radio swearing. That was a friendly mortar round, landing “danger close.” Great, now we were going to get caught in friendly fire.
And then, the kidney punch. Now here I was, still lying behind a rock, with bullets flying all around, and more rocket propelled grenades exploding behind me. I could still hear someone shouting to me, telling me everything was going to be ok, but I wasn’t convinced. Strangely the initial pain hadn’t been that bad, but I knew as the shock started to wear off the pain would get worse.
Lying behind that rock I felt more alone than I have ever felt in my entire life. I thought about my girlfriend, and hoped I would see her again, and I worried about how her life would be affected if I died here. As the pain got worse, the fear grew over the extent of my injury and how it might affect the rest of my life and I will admit that, briefly, I wished I had just died straight out from the shot. Immediately I pushed that thought away, and decided there and then that I was not going to give up. Fuck that sniper, and fuck all these insurgents. I was going to live. I was going to go home and see my girlfriend and my family again. I held onto this thought as the pain increased. God, it hurt!
I can’t be sure, but I think I was behind that rock for 10 or 15 minutes before someone finally got to me. Someone ripped open my shirt as I lay on my belly, and I heard them say I had been shot in the kidney. They asked me if I had a field dressing (which I did – thanks to First Sergeant Reynolds in Salerno last December). He tore it open and pressed it down on the wound, sending bolts of pain shooting into my brain, and then told me I had to get up. I thought he was kidding, and wanted to wait for a stretcher, but it wasn’t going to happen and, deep down, I knew it. He rolled me onto my side, grabbed me by the hand, and helped me up. I managed to hold on to both of my cameras although they felt heavier then they ever had before. I was terrified of getting shot again, but I couldn’t tell if all the firing around me was outgoing, or if we were still getting shot at. He half dragged half pushed me towards a Humvee, but when we pulled open the door there was already a body in there.
I now became aware that the ETT Humvee had moved up to help get us out of there, and suddenly I was being bundled in behind Staff Sergeant Brown, with Specialist “Young Un” on the gun beside me. I had my left arm behind my back, desperately trying to hold the dressing in place and to keep pressure on the wound to stem the bleeding. It hurt like hell at this stage, and my arm felt weak already. Sitting in Clark’s usual seat, I looked across to my right to see Clark in my seat. He told me to hang in there, and we’d be out of here soon.
More bullets pounded against my side of the Humvee. Godammit! Let’s get out of here, I thought. Sergeant Clark was talking to me now, and I tried to focus on his words. He was telling me to keep the pressure on the wound. “You’ve got to contain the bleeding” he kept telling me. I was struggling to focus, and I guess he could see it. “Stay awake, stay alive,” he must have told me 100 times. He started asking me about home, about Helen, and about anything that would keep me awake. He kept me going, never relenting or giving me a moment to faze out, and all the time he was suffering with his own wound in the left forearm.
Up top, “Young ‘Un” was shooting constantly as we began our drive out. Finally we were on our way, but I knew it was quite a trek back to the Kamu outpost. I struggled to stay awake, and then my left arm started to go numb. I just couldn’t keep pushing on the dressing on the gunshot wound, and in the end I simply used my knees to push against the seat in front to force my body back against the seat. My hand on the dressing was forced into the wound, and effectively kept the bleeding at bay.
The drive back to Kamu was like a nightmare. Initially we kept getting stuck behind ANA Rangers, who were still collecting their dead, and we couldn’t pass them because the road was so narrow. We were still under fire, and I was worried that “Young ‘Un” was going to get hit. He is only 22 years of age, and I know I wasn’t the only one who felt protective of him.
We were driving over what I believe are the worst roads in the world, and every time we went over a large hump or dip I would involuntarily moan or cry out. Poor old Brown, who was driving, kept apologising to me, but the guy was doing a great job. He was getting us out of there, and that was all I cared about. Truth was that I couldn’t be in much more pain anyway.
After a drive that seemed like eons, but was closer to 15 or 20 minutes, we arrived back at Kamu. It was chaos when we drove through the gates. Humvees and Rangers were parked everywhere, and we were directed between them towards the rear of the small base, to the Helicopter Landing Zone. Clark had already told me that there was a Medevac helicopter waiting on the ground. As we stopped several soldiers ran to the Humvee and pulled at the handle on my door. White Platoon’s medic, Specialist Cerezo, was telling me everything was going to be ok. He helped me out, and got me face down on a stretcher. All around me there were people running, and I knew I wasn’t the only one hurt, even though it felt that way.
My stretcher was set down on the beautiful manicured lawns of the palace that I had been admiring just a few hours earlier. A medic in a flight suit, from the Medevac helicopter, Staff Sergeant Peter Rohrs, knelt beside me. He talked to me as he checked me out, asking me where I was from, and why did I still have a camera in my hands. I asked him how bad it looked, and he said I had a hole in my back about the size of the palm of my hand, but he couldn’t see any other wounds. He ran his hands up and down my legs and arms, and around my head, looking for other injuries or blood, but found nothing. He asked me if I had any other pain, and I told him my front left lower ribs hurt. He pulled apart my armour quickly. Once off, Staff Sergeant Rohrs started cutting my shirt off. He was using the specially designed medic’s scissors, but they got stuck at my rolled up sleeves. “Come on” he said, “You’ve got to be kidding me. These things will cut through a penny, but they won’t cut a shirt off.” Eventually he got through it and when he rolled me over his eyes widened. “Well” he said, “That’s why your ribs hurt. You’ve got another bullet hole in your chest. Looks like the entry wound.” This hole was the size of a penny, and I just couldn’t believe that something so small could cause so much pain.
He bandaged me as best he could, all the while making small talk with me. He commented on my tattoo, and on my nipple-piercing. I tried to make a joke about having my chest pierced too now, but he didn’t get it at the time. A few days later he visited me in Intensive Care at the Bagram Air Field hospital and admitted it was a good joke, just uttered in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As he was working on me, I remember people coming up with two stretchers. I was feeling very light headed by this time. I think that I had been given some morphine. But I came back to reality when I heard someone say “Put those two over there with the other dead bodies.” My God, I thought, how many are dead. Rohrs moved on to a US soldier, who I later realised was Kittle, the .50 Calibre gunner I had photographed earlier, and who had been shot just after me. Then some of the guys I had befriended over the previous weeks came to talk to me. There was a lot of concern on their faces, but the banter was light hearted. I asked them to take some pictures of me, which they weren’t comfortable with at first, but I insisted. The deal had always been if one of them got hurt I wouldn’t hesitate to photograph the scene, and so, quid pro quo, they should photograph me. I asked how many people had been hurt. The current figures were 15 ANA dead (which later rose to 17), four more wounded and one missing, believed captured by the insurgents. God, or Allah, help him I thought. As for US personnel, there were five wounded from 10th Mountain, and one of the ETTs. SGT Clark had been shot in front of me, Kittle had been shot, and I think Anderson was also hurt. These were shocking figures. Apparently I was the worst, and so I would be going out on the first bird.
As I lay on the stretcher I shot a few photographs of Rohrs tending the US soldier beside me, but by now I was really struggling to stay awake. When Master Sergeant Best’s face appeared before me I wasn’t sure if it was real or a dream. He was lying on the ground, with his face up close to mine, and holding my hand. He was upset, and I knew he would blame himself for what happened to me. I told him that he wasn’t to do that, that I had known the risks from the start and had accepted them willingly. At least I think I said that. That’s what I was thinking, but I might not have spoken at all. It was all pretty confusing in my head. He said he would put all my kit together and have it shipped to Bagram for me. I was glad he was ok, but later I found out he had taken some shrapnel in the back, but his armour plate had stopped it. However, an other RPG had exploded close to him, and slammed the heavy door of a Humvee into him, damaging his shoulder.
Things started to recede in my mind, and everything became like a dream. I felt like I was watching a movie, and it was all in slow motion. My stretcher was lifted, it seemed by all my friends, and they carried me to the helicopter. The rotors of the Blackhawk sounded like a record on the wrong speed, too slow, whooooop, whooooop, whooooop. The HLZ was in a wheat-field, and the high stalks rippled like water in the downwash of the helicopter’s blades. I let my hands fall off the side of the stretcher, and it felt like I was floating on water as I was carried through the field. I remember thinking it would make a great photograph. Then I was on the bird, and the very same sound that had woken me just hours before now lulled me into oblivion.