Ron's Worst Nightmares
From the Rubble
By Pat Squared
Sergeant Miguel Cortez, First Battalion, Fifth Regiment, First Marine Expeditionary Force, United States Marine Corps watched silently at the United Nations Multinational Task Force made their appearance. They waited of course until the First of the Fifth suppressed the uprising and then came in to Monday morning quarterback.
In the past two week forty-six Marines were dead or missing in action, and there were over one hundred twenty wounded. To add to the Marines general level of anger, the blue mushrooms arrived. Some can't-cunt European general tried to chew out the colonel for aggravating the locals and actually using lethal force upon a population that merely peacefully protested against American occupation. Not even the pile of captured rocket propelled grenades, machine guns, mortars, and hand grenades would budge the UN types from their theory.
Like you need an Chinese made 82mm mortar to protect your goat herd.
However, the UN types promised to complain at the highest levels.
According to the scuttlebutt floating around at the NCO club, Master Gunnery Sergeant Goldman had to break up the ensuing fist fight between the colonel and the UN officers. The colonel told the UN types to have their troops practice their surrender drills since that was all the UN was good for.
Such a shame, the State Department would bitch and it will cost the old man his star.
There were too many paper tigers inside the beltway. They did not have half the balls of the female marine recruits at San Diego and sat when they need to make wee-wee. They would ensure that any warrior would be put out to pasture.
However, the NCO network was universal throughout most Western armies. Master Gunnery Sergeant Goldman talked to his opposite number to allow the marines a chance to do a through sweep of the town to search for missing marines.
Taking advantage of the chance, Cortez led his squad towards the last known location of the shooter.
The rubble was still smoking and there were still bodies and blood.
It was time to find the shooter who saved Cortez's fellow marines.
"Marines, we got a guy with big brass balls who is depending on us to bring his body back home. He fought like a marine and should be honored like a marine. I don't care how tired you are. We are Marines and we never ever leave a marine behind. Oorah!"
The entire squad chanted the Marine battle cry. "Oorah!"
The squad started digging in the rubble.
Twenty minutes later, Corporal Jackson started yelling, "Sergeant, I got him. It's a Marine."
Sergeant Cortez and the platoon corpsman, Hospital Corpsman 'Doc' Gordon, scrambled up the pile of rubble. Gordon knelt and examined the body.
"We got a live one, sarge. Don't move him. Have Frank call in a medivac. Crush trauma with gunshot woulds. Have everyone else … carefully remove the rubble around the body. Don't touch him until I say it's okay."
Even though Sergeant Cortez outranked the corpsman, he respected Gordon. Without Doc Gordon, eleven men of the Cortez's platoon would have been killed in action instead of recovering on a hospital ship.
Digging, Sergeant Cortez recovered the down marine's gear. A USMC Designated Marksman M25 semiautomatic rifle with a broken scope, a rutt-sack, a notepad, a broken pencil, a K-bar knife, damaged field glasses, and a loaded AKS-74U.
There were only sixteen rounds of M118LR 30-caliber match grade rounds left in the magazine of the semiautomatic rifle. The five other magazines were empty.
"Sarge," Gordon yelled, "I need some type O Positive. Get me Gills and Chin, they are going to have to donate some blood or our boy ain't gonna make it. Also, have someone get me the backboard."
It took forever to move the marine onto the board, tape him up, and get some blood into the body. The marines moved the injured man into the Blackhawk and watched as it flew off.
Gordon walked to the radio.
"Mother Hen Three Two ... Mother Hen Three Two ... This is Devil Doc Alpha One Six. I am sending you an urgent. Crush trauma, multiple gunshot and shrapnel wounds. Subject unconscious, but breathing on own power. Marine, male, early twenties, blond hair, about six foot, malnourished. Name is Boiarskii, Vasilii, Six One Five Zero One One Nine Eight Five. Blood type O positive, I gave him a field transfusion from two live donors ten minute ago. Don't dare reclassify him as expected."
"... We are swamped."
"This marine is going up for an impact award. Expedite treatment. Verbal orders of Gunslinger One Five. Authentication Alpha Zulu Sierra Four Seven Five."
An impact award was a reward for an action so heroic that a senior officer has determined that it need not come up before an award board.
Sergeant Cortez looked at the corpsman in shock. He used the colonel's call sign and personal authentication code. Gordon signed off the network.
"What do you mean impact award? And how did you get ..."
"Christ, I know that you marines are stupid. How do you think corpsman expedited all those medivac flights? We don't sit around and say 'May I?' Doc Nix has the codes and the power to make that kind of call. I just operated the radios for Doc."
Doc Gordon opened his canteen and drank down a swig of warm water.
"That marine just saved us all from another attack and the folks on the ship were probably going to shove him aside and let him die with those injuries. No fucking way on my watch. He survived twenty-four hours in the rumble plus God knows how many bullets and pieces of shrapnel. I'm not going to let a fighter go down gently if he has a chance!"
"But... Marines can't lie."
"Sergeant, I am not a Marine. Navy corpsmen can and do all the time for the good of the service. We keep secrets and confidences so that we can do our job. However, if you must live up to the honor code - it ain't a lie if we write up the recommendation now and send it out with the other paperwork tonight. I guarantee that the colonel will sign off, especially once I tell Doc Nix what's up."
Doc Nixon was the chief petty officer in charge of all the corpsman assigned to the first battalion. He was the closest thing the marines in the first battalion had to a doctor without having to return back to a ship. The Doc's word on issues of health was law and not even the colonel would dare to argue.
Doc Gordon wrote up the citation for an impact award as Sergeant Cortez read Boiarskii's after action reports. They were textbook perfect. One half sniper's logbook, the other half looked like a CSI report dissecting the chaos of battle into understandable pieces. Facts were kept distinct from conclusions. It was textbook perfect down to the sketches.
Christ, twenty two days alone in the middle of the hell, and he had to fall just four klicks from home. Ain't life all just effed up.
"Doc, hang the big one around the neck of our boy. He earned it."