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Afghanistan 2014

The Marines kept putting one foot in front of the other, the platoon moving down the straight dirt road. There was nothing in sight other than the mountains and tree-lined empty tracts of dirt, now long barren from the rule of the Taliban and ten years of war. The average Marine in the platoon carried a three-day assault backpack, complete with a camelbak and sleeping gear. Some of the men even had packs that looked bigger than they were. With all the equipment, it is baffling that they could even carry a 27 pound M240B machine gun, let alone the standard 9 pound M16A4 rifle. At some points, the steep mountains would curve until they were right next to the dirt road, before sweeping back again, once more leaving empty tracts of dirt. The small breeze caught the dirt on top of the mountains, creating a dusty environment. Somehow small dead trees remained, dotting the side of the road. Each person was keeping a strict ten meter dispersion, and for the most part they were silent.

"I still can't believe I got in before we pulled out," I said, shrugging my pack back up on my shoulders. I joined about a year ago, and finally received word I was being deployed to Afghanistan. Some of the older guys told me it sucked, seeing as every American is a target, unlike Iraq. However anything from what I heard would be better than peacetime corps.

"The fuck you talking about?" Santell asked. Santell was not being a dick, that's how people usually talked to each other in the platoon. Santell was one of my greatest friends, and I knew if I was to go down, he would be the one to pull my ass out of the line of fire. He kept a very unique item strapped to his backpack. His family was one of those families that had a history in the military. They immigrated from Italy, and settled down in a rocky mountain state. One of his older relatives hunted and killed a wolf, taking it's tail as a souvenir. Since that event, every member of his family carried it to war. Now, the matted, old wolf's tail was attached to the MOLLE loops on his backpack, a strange sight among the chemlights and paracord tucked around it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a tan shape float in my vision. I craned my neck, barely seeing over my equipment. I saw a single Marine, getting just slightly too close. I turned around, removing my hand from the grip pod attached to the rail system on my M16, "Stay ten fucking meters from me dumbass!" I shouted, waving him back with my free hand.

Of course, they were watching. Like they had nothing better to do. "They" were, of course, the Taliban. They took the opportunity. Two targets close to each other are a great target, as a single rocket propelled grenade could eliminate both targets. After over a decade of war, the Taliban knew this, and they were just waiting. They saw that private first class get too close to me, and they wasted no time in firing. The RPG flew in quickly, nothing like the movies where it travels through the air. Luckily, their aim was off, not taking into account the distance we traveled in the time they fired it. The RPG struck the ground, the explosion packing the dirt road down into the consistency of solidified cement. The concussion threw me to the ground, tearing off my pack. I looked over my shoulder, getting on all fours, and I saw the private already firing back.

"Form a line! Left side of the road!" the squad leader screamed. Everyone ran into the dry drainage ditch on the side of the road, firing up at the mountaintops on the right side of the road. Then the M240B gunners and squad automatic weapon gunners opened up, their machine guns creating a roar that kicked dust off the road, the direction of the flying dust changing with each shot. I felt something sting in my boot, like whatever it was was biting my ankle. I hoped it wasn't a camel spider, I had only heard horror stories about those things. I pushed the thought away and aimed the red-colored reticule of my scope at the most visible target on the mountain, the stinging feeling getting worse.

No longer able to stand it, I reached into my boot and felt a metallic metal cylinder. I pulled it out real quick, instantly regretting it. It was a single brass casing from an M240B gunner that found it's way into my boot once it ejected. When I took it out, the burning hot casing fused to my skin, and pulling it out too a chunk of mutilated skin with it. I screamed and dropped the casing, turning back to my rifle when suddenly something slammed into the dirt in front of me, spraying dirt and pebbles into my eyes, and instantly my vision turned black. I was blind, still hearing an increasingly dangerous firefight, and still feeling the pain of my injuries.

"Caivano's hit!" Santell screamed, likely calling for a corpsman. I rubbed my eyes, nothing about my vision improving. I felt hands placed on me, and an ear placed on or near my mouth, the corpsman listening for breath. I tried to speak but couldn't. The medic got on the radio, "On this frequency, one urgent casualty! Break! Stretcher needed!" I don't remember anything after that...