He had carried that rabbit through three forward operating bases, two helicopter transfers, and one close call with a mortar round that had landed fifty meters from his tent. Next to it was a manila folder. Inside lay his Bronze Star citation.
Four months ago, that medal had changed everything. A convoy had hit an IED outside a forward operating base in Syria. Aaron could still see the smoke rising black against the stark blue sky.
The screaming cut through the ringing in his ears. The burning vehicle was flipped on its side, fuel leaking into sand already too hot to touch. A lieutenant was pinned under the twisted metal.
He was young, twenty-six years old. His femoral artery was severed. Blood was pooling faster than anyone could stop it. Aaron didn’t think; he simply moved.
He pulled the lieutenant free. He clamped the artery with his bare hands. He held the pressure for eleven agonizing minutes while the man screamed and the medevac circled overhead, searching for a safe landing zone through the blinding smoke.
Eleven minutes. His arms cramped. Blood soaked through his uniform, hot and sticky. The lieutenant’s eyes went glassy, then focused again, then glassy.
«Stay with me, man. Stay with me. I’ve got you. James. My name’s James. Please don’t let go.»
