It's Not All Her Blood...

"It's not all her blood", my Sergeant First Class said to the medic. I was sitting on the exam table staring straight ahead, not 100% certain where I was or what had happened.

The medic looked at me and then nodded at the NCO that had came with me to the clinic. I was not trying to be difficult with the medic, but when he asked if I was hurt, I truly didn't know and shrugged.

I was in a daze. Completely oblivious to any pain or where, if any of my blood was coming from.

The medic began with my head since there was so much blood on right ear, neck and shoulder.

He discovered small pieces of shrapnel lodged behind my ear.

We would later joke how some pieces literally had pierced my ear.

The medic began picking each piece one at a time. I heard them 'clink' against the metal pan he was depositing them into.

He spoke slowly and quietly and said "You know, when you get back to Anaconda, there are counselors you can talk to. Your sergeant told me this isn't your first attack. You can go home if you want. No one comes back the same after they have been through what you have been through."

I nodded, and cleared my throat to speak for the first time in what seemed like forever.

I tried to swallow but my throat was so dry from all the smoke and debris of the explosion.

All I could muster out was, "Do you think I could keep a few pieces of the shrapnel? I think I can make an earring out of it."

Just a few hours prior, we were on a routine return mission back to our base camp.

We were truck drivers and it was May of 2004. We drove all over the country. Delivering supplies to military personnel. Water, food, ammunition- you name it, we hauled it.

We drove M915's with huge targets on our back for the enemy.

On May 25th, 2004 shortly before noon, the 915 I was driving was hit by a roadside bomb.

We were the lead truck behind the first gun truck.

This was my choice.

I wanted to be in the lead.

My A-driver, my battle buddy, my best friend and soon-to-be-dad, carried a M-249 machine gun.

We always agreed that the lead of the convoy was where we belonged.

One minute we were taking the curve upward on the ramp leading to a bridge. The next minute the loudest sound I have ever heard went off and a rush of debris, smoke and the pressure of the explosion hit me. Everything went black.

No sound.

No sight.

I must have blacked out, because the next thing I know I feel the steering wheel shaking. I can't see, I can't hear, but I can feel the truck. I push down with my right foot on the gas pedal, no clue where I am or what has just happened.

After what felt like forever, but was really just seconds, the smoke starts to clear and I can see again, but I can't hear. I look over to my right, and see my best friend, my battle buddy, this soon-to be-dad covered in blood. He is holding his face rocking back and forth. He is shouting, but I can't hear him.

I keep driving.

He falls over on me. He is clawing at his face, and that is when I see it. I see the blood spewing from his forehead and right eye socket.

His right eye is hanging from a thread.

I can tell he is screaming, but I still cannot hear him.

I rub his back and I tell him it's all good, I can get us out of here.

I call in a medevac and I am told later I was talking in a jumbo mess of words. Clearly, the trauma from the explosion was playing with my communication skills.

The truck begins to lose momentum. It's beginning to stall.

I get to the top of the bridge and park it as close to the bridge as I can.

I have over 20 trucks behind me that need to get by.

I tell my battle buddy, my best friend, this soon-to-be-dad I will be right back.

I jump out and flag down a truck. The KBR civilian truck panics and drives by.

The next military truck drives by.

They are following protocol.

But I need help. I need to get my battle buddy, my best friend, this soon-to-be-dad medical care.

I go back to our truck and I scream at him that I am going to get him out. I guide him to crawl across to the drivers seat and I scoop him out.

I drag him on to the ground and I cradle him like the little brother he is to me. Someone has showed up.

They hand me a bottle of water.

I pour it over his head to truly asses the damage.

His right eyeball is gone. It must have fallen off in the truck.

I cradle him and soothe him. Telling him it's going to be okay.

I can hear him now. He is saying over and over again that he will never see his baby boy.

I try to reassure him that he will see him.

I tell him it's going to be just fine.

Two more explosions go off.

No one is hit.

We get him into a truck that stops and up a few hundred yards and we create a secure site for the medevac to land.

I stay with the convoy. I grab all our weapons, ammunition and radio from our tuck.

I jump into another truck speeding by.

I think someone tells me to stay put in the truck.

I get out and pull security.

After the medevac takes off with my battle buddy, my best friend, this soon-to-be dad, we head to the closest camp in a town called Taji.

I am taken to the medics.

I am covered in blood.

It's not all my blood.