Bitter are the tears of a
child: Sweeten them.
Deep are the thoughts of a child: Quiet them.
Sharp is the grief of a child: Take it from him.
Soft is the heart of a child: Do not harden it.
- Pamela Glenconner
Last night a grain of hot metal tumbled
through the air, a swift manmade meteor crashing through the heavens. The statistical chances of this solitary round
impacting one the scattered buildings was negligible, and the chances of it actually
injuring someone were almost infinitesimal. But in stark defiance to all known laws of probability,
this small sliver of dead steel plummeted downward, downward, downward… until
its path intersected a house. And then
it continued on, tunneling its way into a little girl sitting down for the
celebration of Ishtar. The round smashed
into the girls head, its sheer velocity driving it on a merciless path through
her neck and into her chest. Left alone
she would have died in less than five minutes, her death throes painting the
kitchen with bright spatters of arterial blood.
But she wasn’t left alone. Instead her father picked up his beloved
daughter and carried her trembling form out into the dusty street. As he stumbled outside the door, blinded by the
agony only a parent can know, his movements were tracked by two sets of
practiced eyes. Those eyes belonged to
our two battle seasoned medics, who had heard the painful cacophony and leapt
to action as surely as if someone had bellowed out their names. The medics assessed the situation in less
then a second, and then without pause they both set out at a dead sprint. In
those first terrible seconds they recognized how grave the girls condition was,
and passing the information to one of our platoon sergeants. While they struggled to stabilize their
patient the little girl continued emptying her precious life into the street. As
the medics labored under the harsh light of their LED flashlights, SSG Rock was
making coordinations with a MEDEVAC helicopter for immediate pickup. Fortunately they didn’t have to wait long.
Mala survived long enough to make it onto
the medevac bird, and then she left our protectorship. When the helicopter whisked her away at full
combat power she disappeared from sight, but not from our memory. The minute we arrived back in the barracks
the commander jumped on the line and made a call to the CASH (Army Combat
Hospital) to find out if Mala was still alive. The nurse on the other end of
the line told him that Mala was in surgery, and that we could call back at
midnight to find out if she’d survived the surgery. The last couple days had wore us to the bone,
but instead of succumbing to sleep the company leadership waited for the time
to crawl by. The evening quietly slipped
by, the small coffee pot set up in our command post straining to keep up with
this sudden spike in demand. The coffee
was hot and nourishing, but it did little to lift the tension that fogged the
room. A little before midnight, unable
to wait any longer we made a second call to the CASH. In a cool, professional tone the nurse on duty
told us that Mala was in ICU. Something
about our tone must have hinted at the storm of emotion on our end of the line,
and taking pity she added “she is going to make it”. As the news spread though the barracks everyone
breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then,
with our concern slaked we all crawled into our bunks to get some desperately
needed rest.
The next morning brought even better
news. The bullet had broken her jaw and
nicked her carotid artery, but despite the agonizing injuries she was awake and
alert. Hearing this news we decided that
instead of our usual patrol we would return to Mala’s home and escort her
family to the CASH. Although it was
still early in the morning when we arrived at the small home Mala’s extended
family told us her parents were already making their way to the CASH to see
their daughter. We loaded into HMMWVs
and made our way to the IZ, hoping to link up with Mala and her family. As we entered the hospital there was no sign
of the family, but when we got to the ICU ward we found Mala’s family anxiously
waiting for her in the hallway. They
were as silent and grave as marble statues. That all changed the moment they recognized us. In an instant they had returned to life, and
they started to shower us with blessings and tear filled praise. We looked around sheepishly, uncomfortable
with this sudden outpouring of praise. A
few of the soldiers looked through the ICU door to see Mala for themselves, seeing
instead her father anxiously signaling for us to join him. We walked over to Mala’s father, and as we
did Mala came into sight in the hospital bed behind him. She was awake, and as we walked up she gave
us a tired, thin smile. We had brought
some stuffed animals along to cheer up the antiseptic sterility of the room,
and her eyes flared with joy when we placed them at the foot of her bed. As we were arranging the stuffed animals SGT
James T., the medic that had worked so hard to save little Mala, came into the
room. Although the young sergeant was
making an earnest attempt to maintain some semblance of medical detachment he
beamed like a new father at the birth of his first child. Mala didn’t recognize him, but he wasn’t looking
for praise or thanks. He just wanted to
know that his little patient would survive her terrible wounds. We didn’t want to tire out Mala by extending
our stay, and once we were convinced she was going to make it we left the
room. We said our goodbyes to the
grateful family, made our way to the vehicles, and returned to the FOB.
Ten years from now our unit will have long
since passed out of local memory, the desert swallowing any physical trace of
our year in the Land of the Two Rivers. But
there will be one living, beating heart that will bear testament to our company’s
mission and the good we tried to do. And right now that somehow seems enough.
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