The clap of the explosion shattered the calm of the forest. The blast, not meant to shatter trees or carve a crater, exploded hundreds of tiny steel fragments in all directions. A hypersonic scythe designed to maim rather than kill.
Eliasson, standing closest to the device, had borne the brunt of the blast. The explosion had tossed his body like a rag doll, hurling him backward through the air before crashing in a heap. His body hit the ground ten meters away, immediately screaming a raw, primal sound that cut through the ringing in everyone’s ears.
“Medic!” someone shouted. Then a second voice shouted a call for help, urgently pleading and screaming in pain.
Through the smoke and dirt, Mercer rolled onto his side, picking himself off the ground. Surveying the situation around him. He saw soldiers, his and Bertil’s, scattered, some still standing, their weapons trained outward, others picking themselves off the ground like him.
Turning his eyes toward the screaming, he saw Private Eliasson, torn branches and leaves around him, his face contorted in agony. His training kicked in and he moved with purpose as he approached the gravely wounded soldier, assessing his wounds and determining what to do next.
Eliasson’s body was a torn and bloody mess. His left leg was gone below the knee, nothing but shredded meat and exposed bone, blood oozing with each beat of his heart. His right leg, while still attached, was torn open from hip to ankle, spurting arterial blood. His torso seemed OK, the body armor having absorbed the worst of the shrapnel, but both his arms were peppered with fragments. Deep gashes had found the gaps in his armor.
Corporal Gustav Holm, who’d been moving to pull Eliasson back, was on the ground clutching his right thigh. Dark blood seeped between his fingers. “Holy crap, I’m hit! Oh God, I’m hit!” he shouted through gritted teeth.
“Hang on, I’m coming!” Mercer heard Specialist Rodriguez shout as he ran toward Holm, ignoring a piece of shrapnel sticking out of his left arm.
“Move! Move! Move!” Sergeant First Class Williams was shouting as he sprinted forward with his aid bag. “Tourniquets now! Control that bleeding!” he ordered one of the soldiers nearest him.
The training kicked in as the paratroopers and Home Guard soldiers converged on their wounded. Williams went straight to Eliasson, ripping the individual first aid kit from the man’s battle belt.
“Hold him down!” Williams commanded as Eliasson thrashed. Two soldiers pinned the screaming man’s shoulders down while Williams worked the IFAK. He quickly applied the tourniquet on the left leg first, positioning it high and tight above the knee. As he twisted it tight, the blood seeping out stopped, but his screaming intensified.
“Keep holding him! The first tourniquet’s on. I need to apply another!” Williams shouted. “Eliasson, I’ve got to apply another one to stop the bleeding,” Williams told him as he tightened the tourniquet.
“Here’s another.” Chen tossed Williams her IFAK, then grabbed her radio. “Blackjack Base, this is Blackjack Six-Echo. We’ve been attacked. I need an emergency medevac to our position. Stand by for grid. Break. Grid seven-tree-niner-four-two-eight. I have at least three wounded. One is urgent critical. Traumatic amputation and severe extremity trauma. How copy?”
There was a short pause after she ended her call before the radio chirped to life. “Blackjack Six-Echo. Good copy on last transmission. Medevac spinning up from Visby. ETA twelve mikes.”
“Twelve minutes!” cursed Williams. “Tell ’em to hurry, Chen. He may not have twelve minutes!”
Mercer watched as Williams now had both tourniquets on Eliasson, but it was clear he was going into shock. His screams had faded to whimpers, his eyes losing their focus. “I need more pressure dressings. Find me some more!”
While Williams worked on Eliasson, Bertil knelt beside Holm, helping to apply direct pressure to the wound on his thigh. The corporal’s face was clammy and ghost white. “Hey, Gustav, stay with me. Look at me, look at my eyes.”
“It burns,” Holm gasped. “It burns…”
“That’s good, man. It means you’re alive.” Bertil kept pressure on the wound while another soldier positioned a pressure dressing over the wound. “Just hang in there, Gustav. You’re going to be fine.”
Rodriguez had sat himself against the trunk of a tree. He’d cut away at his uniform, exposing his arm, revealing a six-inch gash. It had cut deeply, but it wasn’t life-threatening. One of the other soldiers was already wrapping it, his combat lifesaver bag sitting next to him.
“Who’s got morphine!” Williams called out. “We need one over here!”
One of the medics produced two auto injectors from his bag. He tossed one to Williams, then applied the other to Holm. Within seconds, the wounded men’s faces began to relax as the pain meds took hold.
