Mark was assigned to the second Battalion, The Merican Regiment. In the first months of his tour, he saw more horrors than he thought possible: men and women with limbs blown off, bullet wounds, head injuries, and worse—death. No matter how much he saw, he could never get used to it. He found it hard to sleep at night. Nothing in his other life could have prepared him for this nightmare world of bombs, guns and death.
While on patrol south of Garmsir, in the southern Helmand Province of Afghanistan, Mark’s company was attacked. An IED hit the vehicle in front of Mark’s and exploded. The concussion from the blast knocked Mark to the floor of his truck. He pulled himself up and saw the stricken vehicle engulfed in flames. Machinegun fire erupted all around them. Mark noticed a soldier on his back next to the burning truck. He was screaming and holding onto his leg. Without fear, Mark grabbed his medical pack and rifle and leapt to the ground. He rounded his truck and dove to the ground, behind the large front tire of his truck.
The injured soldier was thirty feet from him. His screaming had stopped. The loss of blood was weakening him. Mark crawled forward. A bullet hit the dirt in front of him. A rock flew up and cut his forehead.
He reached the wounded soldier, pulled supplies from the pack, and pressed a thick bandage to the open wound to stem the blood flow. The soldier’s knee was badly damaged. This fighter would be going home. If Mark had anything to do with it, he would go home alive, but judging by the amount of blood pooled on the ground, Mark had his doubts. Unless they could get a helicopter here in a hurry, this man would die.
For the first time, Mark looked at the face of the soldier he was trying to save and was surprised to see it was a woman. She looked a lot like Shelly. “You’re going to be OK!” He yelled over the gunfire and crackling flames. She stared back at him without emotion. Mark knew shock from blood loss had set in.
