There Are No Words

Chapter 15A

Walker

"Shit, Walker!" Jaceen yells. "I heard that one whistle!"

"Fuck!" I reply. Thankfully, the bullet missed us both.

"I know. Go! Go! Go! Over to your left. Look! He's there, behind that shrubbery, to your left."

I hear the familiar "Rat-a-tat-tat" ricochet through the air as Jaceen's machine gun lets loose in the direction of the insurgents. Dust kicks up as the bullets leave his barrel. All around me, men are shooting across the desert field before us. We're under cover behind a ridgeline that protects our bodies from the shoulders down.

At the moment, I'm perched on a ledge, head barely above the ridgeline, as I return fire against the enemy forces across the open field. It's loud as shit up here as various weapons fire at once. As noisy as it is, however, I'm grateful. Deafening racket is nothing compared to the deadly silence of the unknown.

This is no video game. This is no training op. This is life or death. If hit, you're likely going home in a body bag, or leaving the field on a stretcher. If shot, you'll be lucky to leave with a flesh wound or a hut to a limb.

"Keep pushing! Let's go!" I hear from my right. I shoot off more rounds, looking down my scope.

I hear Coach yell behind me. "Yeah! Ooh rah!" He must have hit his intended target.

"Coming up! Coming up!" I hear Chips shout from behind as he broaches the ledge we're on. "I brought up ammo."

Sweat pours between my legs and into my boots. My back is covered with a fine layer of sand. "Hell Man is kicking my ass today, Coach," I say to him as he rests up against the ridge. "Hot as balls out here."

"No shit, Walker," he replies, letting off a round. "But, he's not going to get you today. Just them, Walker. Just them," he says pointing towards the enemy. "Let's go. Pick it up, man."

"I hear you. I hear you. Here we go," I obey, opening up my rifle once again.

The Helmand River Valley in Afghanistan is an important area for our troops to protect. While here, we're cracking down on drug trafficking in partnership with the Afghan troops. Most of the world's poppy fields are in this area. To fund their terroristic endeavors, the Taliban wants to get control over them. With most of the world's opium being produced here, this area's a cash cow waiting to be slaughtered. In addition, the children of the area are valued for the money they can bring in through human trafficking. I'm proud to fight against these atrocities. I'll gladly stand here all day shooting the enemy to fight against that. Though, I do wish the climate was more accommodating towards us.

Along with fighting the Taliban, we also have the pleasure of battling the elements. Some days, the temperature can reach 120 Fahrenheit during the day. Heat stroke is an all too familiar condition in this sandbox. I've seen plenty of friends pass out or grow delirious from the intensity of it. Now, I feel the pressure of that heat pushing against my back. I grab a nearby canteen and take a swig of water. Wiping a hand across my brow, I take a quick look around us.

Coach is reloading to my right.

"Remember, Walker," he says as he slides the magazine in his weapon. "No such thing as can't! No such thing as can't."

"No such thing as can't, Coach," I echo with a smile.

"Gonna get these mothers!" he yells, running down the line towards Chips.

Right now, my objective is staying alive. As listed on the memorial at the entrance of our base, more than 400 Marines and soldiers have given their lives while stationed at Camp Dwyer. I'm honored to carry on their mission. At the end of the day, however, I wanna leave this ledge with all my faculties and body parts intact.

Last month, Tadhg left the field completely disoriented. He'd fired his AT-4 and something went wrong. Word is, the weapon's blast wave somehow caused an impact injury to his brain. When they got him over to the 31st Combat Support Hospital, he started seizing on the table. As he was leaving base, he was still having problems. I'm not sure how he is now; I haven't heard. I hope he's ok, though. I know Aunt Maebh is probably worried sick about him, to say nothing of Caoilainn.

I've never had to shoot the AT-4, but I'm told the pressure wave feels like a sucker punch to the head. You always wear a helmet when shooting an AT-4, but an explosion is going off on your shoulder and your head is right next to the gun. The intensity of the blast can be overwhelming. Tadhg has spent many nights up late with headaches and pain around his eyes. I know ibuprofen tablets have been a constant friend of his lately.

I look to my left and see Toledo approach. He looks a little wobbly.

"Hey, Toledo," I shout at him. "You ok, man?" He glances around before zeroing in on me. "Toledo, you ok?" I repeat.

He's too quiet.

A few seconds later, he leans up against the ridge next to me.

"Hey, Walker."

"What's up, Toledo? You ok?" I ask a third time. He looks at me and I can see he's confused.

"Yeah, I'm fine," he replies, breathing a little too rapidly. "Why? You ok, Walker?" He doesn't wait for my reply, before I hear him say, "I'm good. I'm good," and then sigh. "Just feeling, you know, a little warm today. Think this heat is getting to me or something."

I reach over and grab my canteen. I hand it to Toledo. He's pale. I catch the medic's eye and nod my head in our direction. He sees me and signals that he'll be along in a minute. He's helping someone else down the line.

"Drink up. Hydrate some. You'll feel better. Sit down on this ledge, get under the ridgeline," I tell him.

"Yeah, yeah, sounds like a good idea." As he does, he leans to the left. He's unsteady and I grab his shirt sleeve to keep him upright.

"Whoa! Whoa. Toledo, what's going on?" I ask, alarmed.

"I don't know, Walker," he mumbles. "I just feel really tired. I just need..." and he goes over in my arms.

"Medic!" I immediately yell. "Medic!"

I remove Toledo's helmet and see it.

Aw, shit!

"MEDIC!"

Toledo's been hit. There's a hole in the back of his neck. It's been bleeding into his helmet and is now pouring down his back and across my arms. Cripes! If the medic doesn't hurry Toledo's gonna bleed out in my arms.

Suddenly, there's commotion all around. They're yelling for help and getting Toledo off the ridge. They race him out of here, all the while dodging bullets as we provide cover for their retreat. Adrenaline is racing through our veins as we do our best to recover. I hear a radio call go out and after some time, the familiar blade slapping of an approaching Apache reaches us. I sigh with relief knowing an imminent airstrike is en route. The sooner that chopper gets to this area the sooner today's fighting ends, and the sooner we can get back to check on Toledo.

Shit, this war, I think to myself, hoping he pulls through.

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For more information about blast injuries to the brain, please visit the following website published by Brainline, an organization dedicated to those impacted by TBI:

https://www.brainline.org/slideshow/mechanics-blast-injury