If I die in a combat zone...

He was trying to ask if the wound was bad, but when he attempted to speak the only result was a gurgling of blood at the hole on his neck. Two of his men were dragging him behind a sand colored wall by his body armor, while the rest returned fire. No one knew exactly where the shot had came from, so the squad started firing shots above the buildings to keep the enemy’s head down while the rest scanned windows and roof tops. They set him down behind the wall before taking up positions with the rest of the platoon. The medic rushed over, set his supply bag on the ground.

“You’re going to be alright sir!” he said as he began to bandage the lieutenant’s neck. “We’re calling in the medevac right now.”

Lieutenant Jones didn’t try to speak again, instead he looked at the medic’s eyes. He was met with an expression he had seen many times before. He knew it wasn’t good.

“Sarge we need a chopper right now!” yelled the medic over the sound of gunfire. He turned back to the lieutenant. “It’s going to be alright sir! We’re going to get you out of here soon, just hold on!”

There wasn’t much else he could do. He was helpless, lying on the ground, watching his blood mix with the dust. His rifle was slung across his chest, but he could barely muster the energy to grab it, let alone fight. All he had to do was hold on; he’d be damned if he was going to die in this God forsaken country.

He lay there across the ground for what felt like an eternity. He thought of home, his childhood, his first love, her brown hair, the coolness of autumn air, the perfect beaches of Long Island. He thought of his sins and what God had in store for him, if there even was a God. He thought of the men he commanded, hoped that they would make it home. He hoped that his family would move on, that his death wouldn’t be too hard for them, and wished they knew that he would be ok, that they had the same reassurance that every event was part of some plan.

“Higher says they can’t risk a bird until we secure the area,” the platoon sergeant said. “We have a better chance of carrying him out.”

He took the blow in stride, confident that he would make it. Getting killed was something that happened to a friend or innocent bystander; the thought of himself dying had never cross Jone’s mind. The sniper had eluded the storm of gunfire, and now the squad was taking cover behind the wall.

He began to feel an odd sensation in his chest and head. It wasn’t painful, but it was a sensation he had never felt before, and it’s mystery made deeply unsettled him. His pulse increased and his body started to writhe in the sand. He wished he was back home, sitting by his backyard pool in the summer air.

His vision suddenly turned black at the edges, and was slowly getting blacker. He tried in desperation to force his eyes open, but found that they already were. He grabbed the medics hand and squeezed with enough force that he soon found his arm shaking slightly from the fatigue. He heard a faint voice telling him to hold on, that help was coming soon. He began to feel numbness washing over his body, starting at his hands and feet and moving inward. As his arm went numb his grip of the medic’s hand relaxed, followed by the whole arm going limp. The darkness in his eyes and his numb body made Jones feel as if he was being buried. He tried to resist the inevitable, forcing his eyes open and willing his body to move, but it remained limp and unresponsive. It wasn’t fair, there was so much he was never going to experience, no heirs to carry his name, and no wife to remember him.

He stared up at the blue sky, knowing that it would be the last time his eyes would ever see its peaceful canvas. He watched his vision began to blur, thinking that it wasn’t that bad, and that he had done his best. He thought of a joke his family loved to tell, no matter how old or cliche it became, and happily watched the last bit of light leave his eye.