What It’s Like To Survive An IED Blast
The Tragic Incident That Changed Everything
The following is an excerpt from River City One: A Novel (Knox Press; Nov. 7, 2023).
I can still vividly recall the image of him, with his helmet on and a chinstrap hanging loosely, as tobacco spit dripped from his lip. The right side of his face was swollen like a puffer fish. He purposely maintained an unkempt appearance, so filthy that even the bad guys wouldn’t dare touch him. Strangely, I found comfort in his presence, believing that it would keep me safe.
That day, I was walking fourth in line, just ahead of West who was in the middle. ”You’re in my world today, Sir — you know the drill,” he said. West was the guy everyone wanted to lead the patrol, so I followed his instructions without hesitation.
We proceeded in single file, resembling a group of schoolchildren crossing a muddy playground. The rain from the previous night had turned the ground into a thick, sticky mess. Each step felt like trudging through peanut butter, the mud clinging to the soles of my boots.
The point man cautiously waved the metal detector in front of him, scanning for potential dangers. We only ventured where the metal detector allowed, carefully placing our feet in the footprints of the person ahead. It was a slow and meticulous process, hoping the ground wouldn’t give way beneath us.
I can’t recall what occupied my thoughts before it happened. Perhaps it was the weight of my heavy pack, resembling a lifeless body on my shoulders. I wasn’t thinking about combat. I was uncomfortable, but not afraid.
“Keep up, Sir. Speed is the name of this game,” were West’s final words.
As we reached the top of the hill and approached the plateau, a sudden flash of white light blinded us, followed by an intense wave of heat. The explosion burned the hair off the back of my neck. Something struck the side of my head, and in an instant, I found myself sitting on the ground. The blast reverberated through my entire body, like a simultaneous blow to the head and ribs.
A second passed. My initial thought was, “I’m dead.”
Another second passed. I heard rocks and debris raining down around me, splattering onto the ground. The air turned a reddish-brown, a fog that enveloped me, forcing me to pick wet mud out of my nose and spit it from my mouth.
More seconds passed. My consciousness slowly returned, and I realized I was alive. I had memories. I remembered walking with my team, nearing the end of our mission when we were struck by something.
More time passed. My ears were ringing, and I felt a throbbing pain in my head, as if I hadn’t had a cup of coffee in months. A doctor later informed me that the explosion had shattered my eardrum. For now, I drifted in and out of focus. Voices echoed in the distance, gradually growing louder. I strained to see through the fog, but everything remained hazy until I turned to look behind me.
“I’m good!” I shouted at the figure emerging from the fog. I frantically checked my legs, my face, and my chest. “I’m okay,” I whispered to myself. I had made it. Glancing back, I finally saw the person holding something in their hands. It was a helmet turned upside down, with a bootlace hanging from it. It seemed peculiar. I pushed myself to my feet, standing above the figure, and then it hit me. West wasn’t sitting. His upper body was embedded in the mud, as if he had sprouted from the ground. And there, inside the boot he cradled in his helmet, was something black and red. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the boot in his hands.
My mind flashed back to a conversation I had overheard. “Sir, my orthotics don’t fit these issue boots, so I’m gonna need to buy a special pair. Check out this sweet-ass pair of boots.” He was the only one in the platoon with boots that resembled Air Jordans. It was his left foot he held in that helmet, the tan leather now stained a dark red, but otherwise in perfect condition. The boot’s toe box and throat were plump, and the laces were tied.
He couldn’t have been more than five feet away. Sometimes, I dream about it at night, reaching for his tourniquet from the front right shoulder of his plate carrier, my fingers brushing against the stump of his right thigh. Then, I tear my own tourniquet off my plate carrier, desperately trying to stop the bleeding from what remained of his left leg. In my dreams, I always do it perfectly, but reality didn’t unfold that way. Seconds passed, and I couldn’t move. More seconds passed, and I still couldn’t move. Eventually, the lead man in our column arrived, providing the aid that I had planned in my head but couldn’t execute.
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Have you ever had that dream where you steal the ball during a basketball game? There’s nothing but open court between you and the basket, with no defenders in sight. Sometimes, your legs feel like rubber, while other times they feel like wood. West bled out on the helicopter, his arteries sliced as cleanly as a well-manicured lawn, as the medic informed us. It was a “victim-operated IED.” Victim-operated, as if West had chosen to end his own life when he stepped on that pressure plate, when he stepped into my footprints.
We both triggered the explosion. Only West was able to operate the bomb that took his life.
This article was originally published by RealClearBooks and made available via RealClearWire.
What was the evidence of the impact that ended one man’s life?
Was slightly scuffed, evidence of the impact that ended one man’s life and forever changed the lives of those who survived.
The tragic incident left us stunned, our minds struggling to comprehend the enormity of what had just happened. We had been a tight-knit unit, bound together by a shared mission and a sense of camaraderie. But in that moment, everything was shattered, replaced by a profound sense of loss and grief.
As the days turned into weeks, we mourned our fallen comrade and tried to make sense of the senseless. We attended the memorial service, standing together as a united front, but the pain and emptiness lingered, a constant reminder of the fragility of life and the unpredictable nature of war.
In the aftermath of the incident, our mission shifted. We were no longer the same carefree, boisterous group. We had witnessed firsthand the devastating consequences of conflict, and it had left an indelible mark on our souls. We became more cautious, more vigilant, always on edge, knowing that our lives could be altered in an instant.
The incident also forced us to confront our own mortality. We had joined the military with a sense of adventure, a desire to serve our country and make a difference. But now, we had seen the consequences of that decision. We had seen how quickly life could be snuffed out, how fragile our existence was.
For some, the incident fueled a sense of anger and a desire for revenge. They sought justice, vowing to avenge their fallen comrade. Others retreated into themselves, grappling with survivor’s guilt and questioning the purpose of their own lives. And still, there were those who found solace in each other, leaning on their fellow soldiers for support and understanding.
Life went on, as it always does. We completed our mission and returned home, forever changed by the experience. We carried the weight of that incident with us, a constant reminder of the sacrifices made in the pursuit of peace.
The tragic incident that changed everything taught us the fragility of life, the impact of loss, and the resilience of the human spirit. It reminded us to cherish every moment, to hold our loved ones close, and to never take our own existence for granted. It was a painful lesson, one that we will carry with us for the rest of our lives.
In the years that followed, we
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