“Wrap it up boys, we’re moving!” shouted one of the leaders on the ground.

“P” had grabbed up Kopps’ assault bag full of ammo and took up a position in front of me.  The men from Kopps’ machine gun squad proceeded to carry him out.  With two tourniquets wrenched tightly on his upper thigh, still losing blood and occasionally drifting in and out of consciousness, the team waded through the ravine.  I placed myself behind the men, ensuring that if anyone were to ambush us from our six o’clock, I would either take the round or eliminate the threat.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, the type of feeling you get when you’re walking in the dark by yourself as a child lingered over me.  I was completely exhausted, I hadn’t eaten a good meal in almost a week.  My muscles were tightening up in my lower back and legs as I tried to stay as low as I could in the water, as the incoming rounds snapped overhead and impacted the muddy walls a few feet from my face.

I had accepted the fact that I was probably going to die.  For some reason I didn’t care anymore, I was more frustrated than anything else.  I couldn’t stand watching my guys get hit and scream; the sound of them screaming was blood-curdling.