I hear a piercing.

My body is not with me, I am behind myself north and to the left.  There is dirt everywhere.

My ears and eyes are bleeding.  I cannot see more than a foot in front of me, the world is blurred.

There is a hole where the barracks used to be, I try to rise but my bare feet slip in the puddle where Carlos used to be.

My hands are numb, I can't see them.  I can feel...loss.

The ringing is abating and screaming is the replacement.

"Everybody stay down!!"

"Fucking Maclin is hit!"

"Medic!"

I hear distant impacts followed by a whooshing sound.  Followed by heat.

Slowly my vision returns.

"Jesus Christ, Ricky, stay the fuck still."  The voice belongs to Carmichael the overly Christian Medical Officer.  He's speaking to me, or rather the bloody mess that was me.

I see my body rolling away from the pain, the fire inside me.  I do not see hands, or the top of my head.

I can see a face, the face that was in the camera.

The name on the shirt is Davidson.

The morphine hits, the world becomes still.

"Ricky, can you feel this?"  Carmichael begins to poke my body, it's too late the spine is severed.

A big burly Sergeant walks over to us.  "Carmichael go help Juarez, you can't do anything more."

Carmichael lowers his gaze in shame, he squeezes my shoulder softly.

"Ricky, can you hear me?"  The Sarge asks with compassion.  This is the guy that would make me do pushups underneath a bayonet to get my ass down.

I mumble something, I'm having trouble doing anything but sob.

"It was the goddamn Haji's. Hit us with mortars.  I'm sorry son.  Is there someone you want me to notify?"

The implication is clear.

I struggle and plead and mentally scream.  It's a low hum, a bloody bubble of a reply.  A puzzle of vowels and consonants.

It's a name.  Stammered and palsied.  It is my last words.

"Deborah Conners..."