Pow! Pow! I am under fire. Not good. I duck into a ditch that has been right behind me for most of the war, without me even noticing. I stick up my half plastic half metal Pulse R72 Airsoft sub-machine gun, and scout out some hidden enemies. Then I hear Haydn’s cry for a medic. “Help! Help! I’m out! I need a medic!” It takes me several seconds to realize I am the medic, and I have to get to him to revive him to bring him back in the game. Pine needles poke into me. I decide to wait until the other team brings their guard down so I can rescue Haydn. So I camp in my ditch, out of sight from the enemies. The large oak trees around me offer sufficient cover. I keep my eyes open, waiting, waiting. Then I begin to get restless. Haydn calls for help again, so I decide to make a move. I contemplate my course to get to him the quickest. Pop up, couple of quick rounds, run, dive into next ditch, call Haydn over, revive him. I really hope I don’t get shot. I’ve already got one shot on my plate. Two more and our team’s done. I am huffing and puffing uncontrollably- the adrenaline talking, I assume. I’m ready to go. I jump up, fire a 3-round burst toward Timmy, and set off at a dead sprint towards the next ditch. I hear the shots whizzing past my face, and I realize it’s now or never. I spring into a not so graceful dive, at least in the general direction of the ditch, yelling as I fall. As I am about to land, I fire 5 rapid rounds towards the enemy. Right before impact, I feel a searing pain in my right lower shin. I land, and I twist my head backwards to see what the object was that scraped me. What catches my eye is a pointy stump sticking out of the ground, red splattered all over it. Daring to look down, I incline my head. Whoa. The blood is streaming down into my sock, then beginning to clot. Fat is sticking out of my leg, like a piece of intestine. I know what my dad would call this: A hamburger. And just for a second, when the blood slows, I see a flash of white. Oh my God. Ow. OW!
Waves of pain rush over me, like the ocean lapping at the sand. But lapping is too serene of a word. Each wave is worse than the next as my body begins to realize something is wrong. Very wrong. What will happen to me? Will I go home and put a Band Aid on it and it will get better? I don’t think so. Will I get stiches? More likely. Will I need surgery? Oh, God, I hope not. I yell, “TIME OUT! TIME OUT!” Before I almost vomit. Nick comes sprinting over, and he yells, “OH MY GOD! GUYS GET OVER HERE! KYLE’S LEG IS SCREWED UP!,” which does nothing to comfort me.
Everybody comes charging over, worried looks on some, excited looks on others. Nick hefts me up, and I begin to realize how much it hurts. I am surrounded by a convoy of 12 year-olds with metal airsoft guns, all asking questions that remain unanswered as we limp towards Timmy’s. When we reach his doorstep, Timmy’s mom hurries out and helps me get on the couch. Before I know it, I am out like a light.
When I wake up, I’m in a soft bed in the ER with blue strings sticking out of my leg. I already know the answer, but I ask anyway. “What are those?” I ask myself. “Stitches, Cheifer. 8 of ‘em.” I look, and I see my dad sitting in a chair right next to me. “Don’t worry, buddy, it’s all over.” I look down at my leg. It hurts. Still. But I like the pain. Well…that’s a lie. But what I really like the idea that I have just received my first battle wound. Something to talk about with my friends. I will remember this war forever, that’s for sure. I can’t play sports for a week. I have to be on crutches for two days. And, IT HURTS. But I don’t regret it.