Rescue

The staccato crack of enemy gunfire punctuated the spray of sand falling over me as I tried to make myself a little smaller. What a balls-up this flight turned out to be! A quick in-and-out mission to pick up a downed pilot now needed rescue itself. We had been jumped by an Iraqi squad armed with shoulder-fired anti-aircraft missiles just as we were about to beat feet back to the ship with the downed aviator. Now look at this mess: three dead, three of us busted up pretty good. The pilot and copilot were still strapped in their seats in the burned out husk of our helo; the pilot we picked up dead with a crushed skull. The crew chief, door gunner and myself were scattered across the sand trying to use the sparse cover to hold off better than a dozen enemy soldiers as we prayed for air support, a squad of Marines, or even John Wayne and the damned horse Calvary. I wasn't picky; any miracle would do.

I looked across in time to see the door gunner buy it. Damn! He was the best armed of all of us. The crew chief had an M14 and maybe four clips. As rescue crewman, I carried a .45 pistol and two clips with a total of 14 rounds. I had been disappointed to hear the Navy was going to switch to the 9mm; now I would have welcomed one for the extra rounds in each clip.

Rounds began hammering anew the small dune I crouched behind. I peeked low around the corner to see an Iraqi soldier rushing my position, coming in fast and low. I rolled out and fired four rounds in rapid succession. My elation in seeing three of them hit home was tempered by the quick math. Ten rounds remaining. At this rate, I was bound to lose.

According to literature and television, at times like this your life is supposed to flash before your eyes. A small, discreet part of my mind was looking for this to happen and wondering if the show would be any good. My animal mind had immediate control, though, and it was much more interested in finding a way out of this mess.

Looking around in desperation, I saw the crew chief look at me and shake his head. I suppose he was trying to say that it was a hopeless situation, but a giddy, gibbering part of my mind thought perhaps he was saying I could forget about the $20 he owed me from the poker game last night. My eyes fastened onto the door gunner and I was trying to figure out how he could help when I realized two things. First, the door gunner wasn't going to be helping anyone, ever again. Second, while he couldn't help, his M60 and the plethora of rounds he carried would help. It would certainly be better than this popgun with the small number of rounds I had left. The only problem: how to get it. It was 20 yards away, and that 20 yards was so open it may as well have been 20 miles.

I tried to signal my intent to the crew chief. His gestures were ambiguous; I wasn't sure whether he understood or not. Each minute that passed was a minute closer to death, so I rolled right, rapid-fired the rest of my clip, rolled left and took off in a low run to the door gunner and that M60. Changing clips on the way, I fairly flew. I could see the crew chief pouring cover fire and I thought, "I'm going to make it! I'm gonna do it!"

They say you never hear the one that gets you. That's a load of crap. Time expanded tremendously, and I heard a single sharp crack from one of the Iraqi rifles. For some reason it seemed to stand out from the other sounds of gunfire coming from the weapons that swiveled to track me. It seemed I could hear the subsonic whine of the bullet, followed by the meaty thud of the slug slamming home. No pain, just a warmth in my lower back and a growing numbness. I half stumbled, half dove for the M60. My hands were just closing on it when the world turned grey and faded to black.

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