No new chapter yet BUT: words are flowing and story is being written.

Take your time...  but keep it coming.

AYE! Take your time......expeditiously!

Any updates??

This story has real potential, I hope I get to see it finished OP.

(Just in case that was too subtle of a hint.)
MOAR!!!!!

Attached File

alright, you guys deserve an explanation.

I first started writing this at the peak of anxiety/PTS (didnt know the second half at that time) as an outlet. I had a story in my head and you all got what was there and I was caught with my pants down when I hit the brick wall of writers block. about the time I hit that wall was also the time I got a handle on my mental issues with the help of the VA (as shocked as I am that they could help?).

I have been trying to push myself to write more of the ambush, from Doc's perspective. I'm not a combat medic of any sort, and the ones I know dont need me poking around in their heads for ideas for a story so I've failed to make headway.

I'm going to shift gears, leave you hanging on the aftermath of the assault on the armored column. I promise, I'll get back to it and start running from another angle. Bear in mind its deer season, and the first week of Nov is elk season... that whole week I'm going to be tromping around the now half burned down hunting grounds my family has been going to for 40 years.

ya'll deserve more, I'm sorry I've failed in that after getting you guys addicted. If there's one thing us SHTF fiction fans resemble: it's a damn Crackhead feinding for the next hit/chapter.

Go get some venison in the freezer and then go harvest an elk!  You can start worrying about "letting us down" after we start paying you for your efforts...

OK, Bambi is in the freezer right next to the elk!  With a full belly and a smile on your face would you please put pen to paper (er..well...fingers to keyboard!) and continue this story?

I am mighty glad that you have gotten your head back on straight, I really am.  May God Bless you and Keep you in improving your mental health.  That said, can we haz MOAR?  Purddy Please?

MOAR!!!

this has NOT been edited, any input as I try to dust off the story is greatly appreciated. This might be a jerky start but I have missed writing.



The stunning silence that filled the air had no effect on Doc Rios, the man was so tuned into his work that it just didn’t register. The first casualty had been one that Rios could do nothing for, the kid had literally been eviscerated. There were things that you could see, things you could block out, and things that you just knew would haunt you for life if you saw it. This was the second time in his life that he had seen a man blown into nothing but pieces.
Push it away. Bury it. There is work to do.

Rios’ first treatable casualty was sustained when LT McCeirney went down, he had been able to run to him to provide aid. The injured platoon leader had been pretty straight forward to treat: check for mass bleeding, dress the head wound, check the ears, keep him still. His casualty’s back was lacerated to shit from shale and metal shrapnel but not in a life-threatening manner, the head wound had been the result of an impact with some rocks, the airway was clear. Doc laid him on his side in the recovery position to ensure any further vomiting would not cause choking. That was about the extent of what he could do on the battlefield at that time, it would take a CAT scan, a hospital and time to see if any serious damage was caused. The things he did know were that the LT couldn’t form a proper sentence for shit, his balance was fucked, and he was puking. Luckily the blood that he was seeing in the vomit was because McCeirney had bit his tongue pretty good. The bad part was that Rios knew McCeirney had a solid history of TBI, to the extent that the next one could be the one that wouldn’t buff out.

Unfortunately for Doc, he was it for both platoons. Their fighting force had only managed him and one highly skilled trainee for medical personnel so far. The saving grace for the two platoons currently under his care was that a good number of the platoon’s fighters had some form of combat life savers training under their belts. After he had assessed the LT, Rios had started responding to the cries for help. When he had worn MARPAT with his Marines he had been used to hearing Corpsman, here he heard shouts of CORPSMAN!, or MEDIC!, DOC! and of course a couple of times he simply heard “HELP!”. It was all the same, someone was fucked up and needed him.

Doc hurriedly moved down the line of Second Platoon, the overwhelming response from the enemy below and the nature of the ordinance being used had forced the ambushers to stay low, though not immune from injury. As he ran hunched down the line he looked at everyone he passed, a few had some scrapes but nobody was in immediate need of aid until he came to the fighting position of a couple of the 2nd’s riflemen. The two had setup behind one of the fallen trees that happened to lay along the ridge, great cover against small arms. Unfortunately for the two they had been targeted by one of the autocannons below, which had shredded the log, the dirt and rocks around it, and the pair of fighters behind it. Both lay on their backs in pools of blood, with his arm blown off just above the elbow and the other with his abdomen sliced open and his intestines pushing out.

Rios ran between them and took a knee, both were still lucid so that was a good thing for him.

“Do NOT push those back in!”

Doc yanked an IFAK off of the amputee’s belt and grabbed the CAT tourniquet. Lucky for Rios this soldier had his kit in order. “Stay with me buddy, we’re getting you fixed up.”

Rios fed the CAT around the severed limb, high up about 3/4s of the way to the shoulder. With the strap fed through the buckle he tightened it as hard as he could, despite the further cries of his casualty. The strap secured he turned the windlass one and a half times and secured it, writing the time on the strap. With the spurting blood stopped Rios observed no further blood flow and did his body check: no further massive bleeds, no respiratory issues: stable patient.
Now back to the other one.

The young man laying down holding his intestines looked oddly calm. “What do I do Doc?”

“Where else are you hurt?” Rios had already begun inspecting the wound as he talked/shouted with his patient.

“Just here I think”

“You’re lucky, the intestines are not damaged, I’m going to wash them a little and try to put them in.”

With smooth motions and the confidence of experience two casualties were treated, one of which was lifesaving. The eviscerated patient’s innards were put back inside and the large abdominal gash taped shut with a few pieces of medical tape: you do what you can as you can on the battlefield and hope it makes the difference between life and death by the time the patient gets to the surgeons.

“Lay down, keep your feet up and watch eachother. I have to help others. You’ll be okay.”

The truth was he didn’t know if they’d be alright but he didn’t think it and if he did, he damn well wouldn’t say it.

On to the next casualty, Rios could hear the fighting intensify down the line, Third platoon was unleashing hell and he could feel the shift of incoming fire to the new target. He continued down the lines throughout the fight, slowly realizing the incoming fire had all but stopped. The two platoons had begun consolidating their wounded, allowing Rios to keep a better eye on the injured, he was woefully ill-equipped to handle the half dozen critical patients he had right now. He had no pain killers, his supply of combat bandages, gauze and other bleed stop items was exhausted and he had no IV bags. One patient alone at required the use of four chest seals and a shitload of gauze but had managed to get stabilized.

As he was looked over his casualty collection point and thought what to do next he was approached by 3rd Platoon’s LT Jake McCoy.
“What’s the status Doc?”

Rios sighed; he was suddenly tired as hell. “We have a dozen casualties. Three are KIA, I have six in critical condition and four that are fucked up but will make it to a hospital for further care. We need a Medevac.”
Lt McCoy looked at the wounded, this was the first mass casualty fight for them. “The Army cant get us any medevac flights but we just got notified by Castle that the town is sending their EMS to us: Doctors, ambulances, everything they can. Keep these guys alive Doc, help should be here soon. The rest of 2nd Platoon is mopping up the ambush site.”

Doc Rios nodded his head and turned back to his injured, suddenly energized with hope.

Thanks for getting back after it!

Thanks for the new addition.  Great story.

Thanks so much for the new installment!  Keep on Keepin' on!

I figured that this one had run its course.  I'm glad to see that I was wrong, it's a good story.  Thanks for the update!

Updates will be slow coming, but I’ll keep it up.
Im getting the writing itch again but it needs to be balanced with an ongoing home renovation.

quick note: I do not have my current proof readers checking this over, if you see something off say something please.

28.

Chief Warrant Officer 3 Samantha Fisher was alert, yet exhausted as she sat behind the controls of her MH-60 Blackhawk as they flew back to Camp Petry from their latest pickup. All of their previous Medevac missions were supporting their own units along the pass, this was the first to support a local militia group that had sustained casualties. She and her pilot had both been surprised to see the devastation that the group had inflicted upon the FFACA forces, it’s not every day an armored column gets shredded by what she figured was an irregular military group. Their helo had front row seats as the bridge was blown up, though from a safe distance away, as well as the mortar barrage dropped on the far side of the ravine. She’d have to find out more about this unit, it seemed they’d be supporting them in the future.

In the loud and cramped confines of the cabin behind them knelt Corporal Siemens and Sergeant Jarvis, the later being a stellar medic with two Purple Hearts and an NJP under his belt. Jarvis had been a flight medic for 15 years, during those years he spent as much time in a combat zone as he could which resulted in an extraordinarily high number of casevac missions he had been on. The experience he gained over the years had developed an almost OCD method to how he worked. Every medical bag had its place, every item in every bag an exact location. Jarvis could instinctively reach for any medical item he needed without needing to draw attention away from whomever he was working on at the time. On more than a few occasions this strict control of his work environment had saved lives. Siemens had found Jarvis’ strict adherence to his gear layout as odd at first but quickly adjusted to it.

As Sergeant Jarvis knelt amongst his patients proceeded through his usual process of evaluating those in his care. This was a short flight for a Casevac mission and the three casualties were in pretty stable condition, all things considered. The amputee was his first check, ensuring that the tourniquet was still effectively preventing a bleed out and that none of the shrapnel wounds had developed into massive bleeds. A shot of pain killer and an IV run relaxed the man and Jarvis moved to the female with the gunshot wound to the abdomen. Unfortunately for her he had to lean her up towards the center of the cabin, he only had so much room. The younger woman was in obvious pain and grit her teeth as she held a wad of gauze in place.

Jarvis leaned in close to her ear and had to practically yell for her to hear him.
“Listen I am going to get handsy with you, I need to get a better look at that wound for you, DO NOT freak out on me okay?”
The blonde nodded at Jarvis as he was already working to pull her clothes away from the wound. The bleed was a slow flow, and aside from the fact that she had a gunshot wound to the abdomen it was seemed to Jarvis that she was very lucky, there were no signs of internal organ or bone damage. Jarvis dug out a new dressing and some gauze and started to work on the entry and exit wound. After tightening the bandage he leaned back in.
“It looks like a through and through with no serious damage, it’ll hurt like shit for now but just hang on.”

The woman nodded back at Jarvis and then he turned to his fellow medic who was working on their third patient. Siemens had the patient hooked to IVs, and laying on his side so that both chest seals could be seen. There was always a debate on wound side up or wound side down when it came to sucking chest wounds but no study could ever come up with a definitive answer as to which was better for the patient. Jarvis and Siemens both preferred injured side up so that the wound and seals were easily seen and accessed.

Jarvis and Siemens were able to speak easily through the headsets and microphones on their helmets. Jarvis held down the “Push To Talk” button as he moved next to Siemens.
“Those two are stable, hows this one?”
“Stable, and lucky as fuck, the bullet managed to go between the ribs on both entry and exit.”
“Lucky is right, how are the seals holding?”
“Holding well, I replaced the seal on his chest with a vent chest seal. His blood pressure and heart rate are both as expected.”
“Good work, we are almost to the base so keep an eye on the kid.”
“Roger”.

As the Blackhawk reached its final stretch to the field hospital Fisher made the call to the airfield established at the base.
“Tower, Dustoff Three One”
“Dustoff Three One, go ahead”
“Tower, Dustoff Three One is five minutes out, requesting landing at Hotel one with urgent care patients.”
“Dustoff Three One you are cleared for landing at Hotel one.”
“Dustoff Three One copies all, out.”

Thanks for the update!  I pointed out some things that I noticed above.

fixed, thankyou!

Damn fine writing, OP. Great job!

I managed to blast through it way too quickly, though, and as you might imagine, I'm wanting more.

You've got talent, for sure! Hoping you got your elk and will be back at your keyboard soon!

ETA: @2T2_Crash

Standing by

(it's not much, but restarting is proving very damn difficult. -Crash-)

The Helicopter flared and came down for a soft landing, the second that the wheel’s touched down a crew of Army medics rushed to the aircraft, instinctively ducking to keep low as the rotor blades turned above them. This was not something new to the hospital, the NCOs had all been deployed at least once and their OIC had been through multiple tours. They had their patients off loaded and being transferred to the hospital tents as the medic briefed the teams on the wounded.

Major Johnston had kept aware of the inbound casualties and their injuries, while the types of injuries were not uncommon to her the patients were a bit perplexing. Why were civilians being flown in with combat wounds? The Blackhawks were already buys as hell either transporting casualties from the Snoqualmie Pass AO or being patched up from the incoming fire they took while doing so, to divert military lifesaving assets away from their own people was an unknown.

 As she saw the patients coming in, she put together a bit of the picture but would file it away for a later time. Saving lives comes before curiosity, especially since the Army didn’t ask for insurance information before treating the wounded.

“Take the abdominal GSW to trama-1, the amputee to surgery tent, and the chest wound to trauma 3. These patients are to be handled exactly as we handle our own, all gear and weapons are to be set accounted for and secured. Get to work.”

The bustle of activity in the field hospital tents would appear chaotic to an outsider, but to any professional working within their own environment the chaos is actually a well-practiced routing. Medics checked established IVs and bandages, double checked charts and rechecked vitals while the Doctors went about treating the wounds.

Long hissed in pain as the Lieutenant poked around the entrance wound in her abdomen. It leaked a little bit of blood which the LT wiped away.

“You are lucky as shit that this didn’t hit anything major. I need to clean it, and make sure no clothing is inside, we’ll get some images to make sure but I’m certain you’ll be alright.”

Long nodded, not even a little self-conscious about having been stripped of her shirt and camouflage blouse, they had at least not cut her bra off during the rush to see her wounds. “No problem, Doc.”

“I gotta ask, who are you guys? You’re not active military, and by the mix of uniforms and ages you don’t look like Guard.”

Long shook her head. “No, neither though two of us are former military. I was Air Force. We are with the 1st Mountain Minute Men, out of Camp McCoy.”

“The what?”

“We’re the unit of mostly Vets that are keeping the fucking Commies from funneling in through Salmon Pass.”

The LT’s face showed continued confusion then he shrugged, he was paid to fix the injured, not worry about shit outside his lane.

Three hours after the arrival of Dustoff 31 Major Johnston stepped outside the tent and lit a cigarette. Before everything went to shit it was highly frowned upon for a medical officer to smoke, and to smoke outside the entrance of any building or tent was against regulations. Luckily it was her tent and a new military, she didn’t give a shit. The first deep inhale of the sweet smoke gave her the calming feeling you get when you indulge a nicotine addiction.

She took another drag to clear her mind for a brief moment.

A kid. Why was a kid in a combat uniform and gear flown into her hospital with a chest wound? Who the hell was this unit of mixed civilians? The amputee had an Anchor tattoo, the female was in older Air Force cammies, and the kid didn’t look even 17. The thought of the injured boy started getting her angry again. When the people these patients are with finally arrive, Major Johnston was going to give them a piece of her mind for using kids!


Three hours after the arrival of Dustoff 31 Major Johnston stepped outside the tent and lit a cigarette. Before everything went to shit it was highly frowned upon for a medical officer to smoke, and to smoke outside the entrance of any building or tent was against regulations. Luckily it was her tent and a new military, she didn’t give a shit. The first deep inhale of the sweet smoke gave her the calming feeling you get when you indulge a nicotine addiction.

She took another drag to clear her mind for a brief moment.

A kid. Why was a kid in a combat uniform and gear flown into her hospital with a chest wound? Who the hell was this unit of mixed civilians? The amputee had an Anchor tattoo, the female was in older Air Force cammies, and the kid didn’t look even 17. The thought of the injured boy started getting her angry again. When the people these patients are with finally arrive, Major Johnston was going to give them a piece of her mind for using kids!

As she snubbed out the last bit of her smoke she cursed again, and spit on the ground, only to see a pair of boots on a set of feet that weren’t there a second ago… had she been that lost in thought? The tired Major looked up and immediately snapped to attention and rendered a perfect salute.

“Apologies Sir!”

Brigadier General Moore saluted and gave a tired, knowing smile. “At ease Major, no apologies needed.”

The Major relaxed, though still uneasy… nobody liked being the asshole who didn’t realize the base commander had just walked up to them.

“How are you doing Major?”

She shifted a bit, looking at her boots… she was fucking tired, beat down and unsure of a lot of things but that wasn’t typically what the BG wanted to hear. “I’m fine Sir.”

General Moore lifted his cap off his head and ran his hand through his hair before putting his cover back on before giving a sigh. “Are you sure, Tenisha? You look beat, frankly I’m pretty wore out so if I am, I’m sure the Officers in charge of the main combat field hospital in the Pacific Northwest are getting worn thin.”

Major Johnston was taken aback, The General knew her name? She hadn’t had any interaction with him before the abandonment of JBLM, nor much since then save for seeing him swing by the hospital during a routine inspection. The look on the General’s face was one of sincere concern which pushed her to do what most rarely do when caught in conversation with an inquiring Commander: she told the truth.

“I’m wore out Sir, more importantly so are my troops. I have a mix of Soldiers and Airmen who are doing a phenomenal job, but there are only so many of us. At the rate the casualties are coming in from the Striker Brigade and the others holding Snoqualmie we will be out of IV fluids in four or five months. The unease of this civil war has many troops on edge”. The tone in her voice got harder. “And then today we receive a flight of combat wounded civilians, including a child. I have no clue who the hell they are”.

The General nodded, pleased with himself. He had always had a knack for getting a candid response from his people, and he always cared about what they had on their plate. “You are doing excellent work here, and I truly understand the strain. The supply issue is being worked on, we are expecting medical supplies to include fluids and drugs to arrive in the next few months. With no FDA to set regulations our new nation had to establish one. As for your troops, start working a schedule with days off, we are operating like we are deployed but the pace is not sustainable. We can also see if there are local professionals that can talk with the folks who need someone to chat with.”

The General shifted his feet and looked towards the field hospital and back again. “As for the Civilian fighters they are a more… complex situation. They are a part of civilian military force, a Militia for lack of a better term. President Hale has authorized Federal support to functioning civilian combat units, termed the MinuteMan solution. They started organically forming in various spots around our new nation, particularly in combat prone areas. Most have been highly effective units of former military; most too beat up to serve actively again. So we give them weapons, ammunition, and whatever aid we can.”

Major Johnston pulled out her pack of smokes again, looking at the General with a raised eye. “Sir do you mind?”

“Not at all.”

As the Major lit her cigarette the General continued. “The local unit we are supporting is the 1st Mountain Minute Men. They are the first in the Northwest to have received our backing. They are also the most successful of the civilian units, they have completely secured our flank. As for the young age, I’ll have to look into it. Sixteen was not an uncommon age for men to fight, it was not uncommon during World War 2 for a 16 year old to lie about their age, before that it was just considered acceptable. I guess we’ll have to get used to seeing some of that again. Does the boy have any identification and what is his condition?”

Sir his name tape said McCoy, other than that he didn’t have any tags or physical Identification. He came in with a sucking chest wound, he got lucky in that the round managed to miss ribs on the in and out, but his lung will need time to heal. As a matter of fact the female brought in was lucky as hell too.”

“Luck of the Irish”

“Sir?”

The General smiled. “McCoy is an Irish name, it’s a joke. Anyhow: Major I want you to make sure you are taking care of yourself, and keep taking care of your troops. I understand this is not easy, but we will endure. The struggle this continent is going through has been a long time coming unfortunately, and I feel it is just getting started.”

“Yes Sir.”

As Brigadier General Moore shifted and looked to leave, Major Johnston gave a salute. “Thankyou Sir.”

With a return salute the General smiled. “Carry on Major.”

Excellent update, thank you.

Now, back to the writing desk

Thanks for the chapter!

29.

As the old Willy bounced and bumped down the trail my body rocked and rolled with it, like a sailor on a boat. Mind numbingly I remembered a ride in the back of a Duece and a half almost 20 years ago. In 2003 I was deployed to Jordan for operations in support of the beginning of Operation Iraqi Freedom, at one point I had been loaned to the Security Forces there, tasked with base security. Every morning an old Technical Sergeant would climb into the back of that old ass truck with a Styrofoam coffee cup 3/4 of the way full. That hunk of shit truck would bounce and bump all over the place, and as it did so the old Sergeant would smile at the amazed faces of us young pups. His arm would loosely move around in a mystical way with that coffee, not spilling a drop as he sipped it.

Trying to mimic his methods helped alleviate strain in my old, fucked up back. It was killing me now thanks to the firefight. That pain along with the image of my wounded son burned into my mind occupied my head as I sat in the back of the Jeep, my brother and our RTO in the front seats.

How did I miss him getting into the truck?

Why wasn’t he wearing his plates?

Why couldn’t he had just listened and waited less than a year? Would more training have helped?

Did I fail to train him well enough?

Did I kill my only son?


As I sat there head down, tears in my eyes and rifle in hand I was literally knocked back to the here and now with a blow to the head. Looking up to see my brother looking in the rearview mirror I focus on him.

“Hey, Jimmy is going to be okay man!”

I nod my head in agreement, appreciating Brad’s words of comfort. Brothers know what the others have going on in their head, at least they should if they had been raised as tight as we had.

Brad took his head off the road and looked back at me. “No dumbass, He IS going to be okay, Camp Petry called the TOC, Uncle Leo says all three of our casualties are stable.”

I look up. “Thank God!”

Brad gave a weary smile. “Thank the Lord indeed.”

“How far out are we?”

“About 20 minutes, you’ve been out of it for a bit. Do you want to go back to base or be dropped off at home?”

I sigh, explaining this shit to Raquel is going to fucking suck and I’m not looking forward to it.

“To base, I need to see to my troops before personal business.”

Brad shakes his head no. “Nah bro, we can handle that. Casualty notification is different than just wanting to go home. We’re dropping you off on the way.”

I nod my head. “Alright. Any advice?”

“Hell if I know man, just tell her how it happened... try not to get stabbed.”

That is the tricky part, I know that for a fact.


     Looking at the grenade launcher attached to the pintle I remember Tiny mentioned it had gone down, I might as well see what I can see with it. I examine the big, ugly and bulky weapon. What an ugly chunk of steel. Damned beautiful too, it’s no wonder the USMC loved these so much. The belt of grenades fed from the ammunition box to the receiver. Checking the safety, I grab the spade grips and turn the weapon so that the muzzle is facing to the side.
How the fuck do I open this thing?
I start fiddling with the top cover, it cant be that damn hard to figure out. A tug on the charging handle: stuck.

My exploration is interrupted by my younger brother. “Hey quit fucking with that thing before you kill us all, we both know you have never used one of those… dipshit.”

I mean… he WAS right. I set back into the bench seat and close my eyes, I might as well get a quick nap in before I get my ass kicked.

My eyes open as the jeep comes to a stop in front of my house. My body protests as I stand up and step over the side of the jeep and down, to hell with jumping. “Thanks for dropping me off.”

I look down at my myself, fuck I am a mess. My plate carrier is stained with blood and dirt, pouches half empty and my hands are in the same state. As the Willys leaves I take my helmet off and enjoy the feeling. As I take the helmet off the front door opens, Raquel must have heard us arrive. I can see her eyes go from my boots, to my legs and as she sees my vest she wrinkles her nose, then her eyes go wide when she sees my face.

“You look like hell… and you fucking stink.”  As she says this she cocks her head a bit and gets a serious look on her face. “Are you okay?”

I take a long breath. I guess you rip the bandaid off all at once.

“I’m okay, but a lot aren’t.” I rub my hand over my face and take a deep breath. “Our son got shot in the firefight, he was taken by medevac to the hospital at Petry.”

Before I can say anything else all I can see is stars as I stumble back from a punch I knew coming. I don’t like getting hit, but sometimes you deserve it. Nobody can tell me I don’t deserve this.

My wife is a fearsome woman, the only reason she isn’t on the lines with us yet is because we both knew risking both of us would potentially leave our kids without parents. Risking ourselves was one thing, putting our kids at risk was entirely another. We had talked long and hard before agreeing upon sixteen as combat age. Her Grandparents were that age when they fought as rebels against foreign invaders during World War II. Her rage was understandable.

“And why in the FUCK was he in a damned COMBAT ZONE?!”

I raised my hand to deflect another strike, I get she’s pissed but I don’t feel like a broken nose.

“He snuck onto the last truck as we were leaving.”

She stops and looks at me, I can still see the rage in her eyes but at least its waning so I keep going.

“Corey found him in the back of his truck, on the middle of the bridge as they set demolition charges. Jimmy took a round while driving the truck, he didn’t have his plates in.”

I can see her eyes change to concern. “And?”

“He had a sucking chest wound; I don’t know how bad but Cloe kept him alive until the Medevac arrived. Camp Petry contacted us, he has come through surgery and is stable. We need to go there and see him.”

Fantastic story so far...keep it up!

I am sorry to do this but it might be a while before I can write.
My cousin, represented here as Corey, passed away yesterday. He was as close to me as my brothers and I need to process it. I havent figured out how yet.
Im devastated as is the family.

Have a shot for Corporal White, USMC. Please say a prayer for his three kids and pregnant wife.
Attached File

Dunno why it is sideways but i cant think right now

Sorry for your loss.

We'll be here if you decide to pick it up again.

Godspeed Corey.

I'm sorry for your loss 2T2_Crash. I'll raise a glass to him this evening.

Same, sorry for your loss. Live your best life in honor of his memory.

I tried to write more, it's still not coming to me well enough. This may be a bit out of order, but forgive me because it's what I could write.

     Corey bounced on the truck’s seat as the vehicle hit yet another bump and cursed, his ass hurt. His ass hurt and so did his head. He didn’t realize it but he looked like a horror show, he had smashed his face against the side of the truck and it had cut him a bit. He had worse and wasn’t worried to much about the cut it’s self but to the others in the vehicle with him he looked pretty fucked up. But that’s the thing with a head wound: they bleed.  A Lot. Direct pressure and a bit of gauze had stopped that bleeding but it was still down half his face.

Corey didn’t care about the blood, he’d clean it later. His ass was another oddity, he felt the impact, hell it had knocked him down a bit. But there was no blood, no wound so he must have been hit with a ricochet or a rock or something else that got kicked up. Whatever… just another funny story to tell. There wasn’t much in life Corey took overly seriously, why worry when you can smile and enjoy all you can?

     Corey shifted how he was seated again… he might not have been shot but the big knot on his ass DID hurt.
   
     He gave a laugh and smiled. The curious looks from the others in the truck made him laugh louder and he grinned. “Dude… did you see that fucking bridge!”
Corey brought his curled fingers together, finger nail to fingernail making a circle, then expanded it outward “BOOM!”

The rest of the truck’s passengers shook their heads or rolled their eyes.

      They weren’t killing Corey’s mood.
“What? Fuck you guys… that bitch dropped PERFECTLY! Both sides, then the center.. Bam, Bam… BAM! Down she went, no more bridge for those assholes.”

Corey slapped the shoulder of the man next to him.. “Then we cut them to pieces!”

      He looked around the truck and took in their somber mood and shook his head. “What the fuck is wrong you guys?”

The driver looked in the rear mirror “man we just flew three of our people out for medevac. We lost dudes too; your cousin’s son was critically hurt. How are you not worried?”

     Corey was quiet for a second then shrugged. “Junior will be okay, he’s a tough kid and Doc had him stable by the time the clearing was cut for the birds. This is war, we didn’t start this shit but by God we need to do all we can to help finish it. I love this fucking country and we need to stop these communist assholes.”

     Corey thought about the words he had tattooed on his arm and said them out loud. “Duty is Ours, Consequences is God’s.” It was his mantra, do the best you can to do your duty to your family, to your country, and to God. The consequences of those life choices whether good or bad was decided by God. That’s what made it so easy for him to live his life perpetually upbeat, it’s also what had reinforced his habit of going all in when Corey did something.
Sure, Corey was concerned about the injured, maybe a bit concerned that he could have died. Corey knew he could die any moment of any day, as could anyone else. But that was life.
Corey grinned and elbowed the man next to him again. “Hey… did you see that fucking bridge blow?!”

Thank you for picking it back up!

So sorry for your loss, OP. Damn that sucks.

I'll raise a glass for sure.

Thanks for the update!