"Sergeant! They got us pinned!" Simon once again yelled over the constant stream of lead being traded by both sides.
Gloved and ungloved hands repeatedly pulled the triggers of firearms. Whistles of bullets passing over and the cracks of rifles being fired kept drowning out the voices of the insurgents, while the Rangers were lucky enough to have local communications to hear each other.
The AT-4 that was fired by the now KIA Private Jackson had good effect on target, yet it wasn't enough to completely eliminate the gunner of the M-2 Browning. The now "ancient" anti-material round was being shot at the Americans in short bursts providing cover for the insurgents to move forward.
The situation was getting desperate.
As the men in suits pressed the attack, Randall shifted right as his location in the rubble was being targeted. "Fall back from the windows! Shift right towards the cavities in the walls!" He yelled in an attempt to warn the others.
The gunfire intensified to the point of where it sounded like three packets of popcorn being made at the same time at a movie theater.
"Captain! We need support, I got one moving towards ou-" The last man of the Ranger squadron, PFC Ramirez, the medic of the squadron, attempted to shout at Captain Thompson over the chaos.
"Ramirez!" Lowering his rifle, Green let out a shrill squeal as he watched Ramirez's right forearm separate from his torso. "Randall, someone! Medic!"
In just a moment the gunfire being expelled from the Rangers stopped, the continued in a blink of an eye. Ramirez's body had hit the ground and the young Corporal shifted and wailed from the spontaneous shock a pain. Taking off his pack and climbing up the rubble, Randall threw his pack on the ground and retrieved a trauma kit.
"Green, get the hell over here!" Randall shouted.
Disengaging and climbing up the debris, Green quickly rendezvoused with his Sergeant. As he knelt next to the fatally wounded Ramirez, and the panicking, but quick minded Randall, a torch was placed on the ground in front of him.
"I'll apply a tourniquet, but I need you to get ready to cauterize his wound just in case!" Randall said as the Rangers continued to suppress the enemy making the M2 fall silent.
"Where the fuck are they!?" Ramirez suddenly shouted in a half-dazed voice, "Someone give me a fucking gun! I need a weapon!" Unaware that half of his arm was blow off, he attempted to use his right arm as is he was patting the ground looking for his M5.
"Hang on brother I'll get you one soon!" On the verge of tears, Green placed the blowtorch down and brought out a small white cloth from his plate carrier; In turn the young man used it to keep pressure on the wound to prevent Ramirez from bleeding out, he nearly threw up from seeing a bloodied bone sticking out from the arm.
In a blood curling scream Ramirez leaned back after he had stared at his right arm, "I'm fucking hit! I-Shit-Fuaaa!" He continued to squeal in pain as his mind and body had finally registered the wound he had obtained.
Staring at the stream of blood and body matter on the ground, Captain Thompson desperately spoke into his radio as he attempted to break through what was believed to be a communications jammer, "Overlord this is Kilo Six, requesting immediate QRF and MEDEVAC, over!" He spoke again as his face drained of all color, "I say again, we have a man down and are requesting immediate MEDEVAC!" Straining his throat, Thompson kept on repeating the two same sentences.
Just ahead of Randall's burning brown eyes, the Rangers continued to fire under pressure, yet it seemed luck was on their side as both Simon and Richard were able to see several dead bodies along the street. What even surprised him was that Richard called out that three of the men in suits had been killed.
Something was off about the timing of the opposition's deaths, yet it didn't matter as there were more pressing issues at hand.
"They're dropping like flies!" Simon said with a bright smile on his face while pushing his glasses back up his face.
"Don't stop! Push the advantage!" Patterson ordered while leading the counterattack with a hail of accurate bullets.
With some morale regained, the other Rangers not treating Ramirez pushed forward with Lieutenant Patterson and Staff Sergeant Baker at the forefront. With a coordinated effort, the remaining rank-in-file rebels began to drop.
"F-Fuck! Fuck-Fuck-Fuck!"
"Hey, you're going to be okay!" Randall said attempting to assure Ramirez as he tightened a tourniquet. "It's fucking disgusting but pack the fucking cloth inside the arm! Stop the bleeding!" Randall refocused his attention on the hesitant Green as he followed the order.
"You a medic Sarge!?" Green asked trying to take his mind of the sight he had.
"I failed EMT school." Randal responded gaining a faint chuckle from Green.
With the bullets being exchange beginning to dwindle, Captain Thompson began to run checks on those that were still pressing the assault. "Simon, Patterson, Malkovich!" He gained silent nods or a small grunt from the three. "Randal, Ramirez, Green, Richard!"
"Ramirez is hit, we're providing aid!" Randal shouted back as he supported Ramirez's head on his lap. "Green, check his pack for morphine, should be in the front most pocket."
Almost tripping over himself Green scrambled across the floor as he crawled his way to Ramirez's medpack. He ripped the pack open and practically threw the contents out as he frantically searched for the small white syringe. Randall kept Ramirez's only hand in his own; it was a comfort to both the injured and caretaker, a sign that they would be okay and if passing on was a possibility, they wouldn't be alone.
Suddenly the gunshots stopped. The firefight was long over.
"I think they're dead!" Simon called out as he reloaded his carbine with a fresh magazine.
"Confirm you don't see anyone else?" Patterson asked Simon as he cautiously looked around the window.
"Get back inside the fucking building!" Thompson chastised, "I am not sending you all back in caskets!"
A few meters from where the trio was, the Rangers slowly pooled into the covered section of the debris. No one spoke as they saw Randall comforting the dying Ramirez. He had long removed Ramirez's helmet and now all Randall was doing was patting the boy's blonde hair. His bloodied hands mired and dirtied Ramirez's hair, but it didn't matter.
With the echoes of war seemingly disappearing far away, Simon and Malkovich collapsed to the ground, while the others found a position of rest or knelt. Ramirez attempted to speak, but blood had painted his mouth and he slowly turned pale.
As no one dared to move, Ramirez had long passed; his skin was now a ghost white pale, and he no longer shook. Green hung his head low once more as tears escaped his eyes, while the others watched silently hiding their emotions.
There was no crying, no sobbing, no signs of obvious sadness like those seen in common media. There was no need for such exaggerated means of mourning. With a steady bloodied hand, Randal reached inside of Ramirez's collar and pulled of his dog tag. The small silver tag was covered in blood.
"Captain..." Patterson whispered as he stepped next to Thompson, "-we need to go. We need to get the fuck out of this city, Jackson and Ramirez are now dead."
Laying the body on the ground Randall stood up with the help of Green. The young E3 gave Randall his M5.
"Simon, Patterson, take Ramirez's and Jackson's weapons. We won't leave them for the enemy." Thompson ordered almost chocking on his words.
"Sir." Patterson simply said as he took up the carbines while Simon packed their handguns in his assault pack.
Publicly Available Information: Sixty-Eight-Whiskey (Combat Medic):
68Ws are primarily responsible for providing emergency medical treatment at point of wounding on the battlefield, limited primary care, and health protection and evacuation from a point of injury or illness.
Known administratively as "Combat Medic Specialist" (formerly "Health Care Specialist"), the primary role of combat medics in the U.S. Army is to provide medical treatment and, if necessary, combat casualty care to injured soldiers and their dependents. 68Ws serve as the first echelon of care, accompanying units as small as platoons and as large as battalions during training and deployments.