Ok. The other day I was takin a peak at my finger and pulled on the tip of it fairly hard but wasn't expecting much as I still could not feel that spot.
Much to my dismay, no bodily juices went squirting out all over the place or anything cool like that. Instead, the entire tip (The part I couldn't feel) came off! Now, my fanger is nice and tender, so typing is kinda fun.
At least I can feel my finger tip now, unlike my dumb brother who cut his off a while back...
Friday, November 9, 2007
Friday, November 2, 2007
Update on the finger
Well, as it seems, my finger isn't too bad after all.
The right side of my finger nail is embedded into my finger and the tip of my finger is white and redish in color. There is nothing oozing from it so as it stands right now, there is no infection - I hope.
I still can not feel my finger. Fanger if you are from the South!
The right side of my finger nail is embedded into my finger and the tip of my finger is white and redish in color. There is nothing oozing from it so as it stands right now, there is no infection - I hope.
I still can not feel my finger. Fanger if you are from the South!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
A Day Off
Finally, I get a day off. I haven't had one in 6 weeks. Working from 6:30 A.M. to about 7:00 P.M. every day, except today, 31 OCT 07.
Whew, I am tired. But that's OK. See, I am in the U.S. Army. So I can say that it could be a lot worse. I am currently in America, not Iraq. So, it could be worse. But, that is what I signed the dotted line for.
A little bit of sleep deprivation never did hurt anyone. Now, I have 4 days off before I do it again. So, I guess I will get a little more sleep now. :)
Other then that, not too much has happened. I did re-enlist for another 4 years and changed my 'job' as well. I am going back to school to be a helicopter mechanic.
I just got back from the field. We were there for a good while. Averaging 2-4 hours of sleep a night. It's amazing because when I am in the field, I can do that with no problem. When I go home, I can't do it. I get too tired.
In the field, I would wake up and be ready to go out the door before 'lights on.'
So, not that I am back in my own home, 6 hours of sleep and I am tired. Don't ask me to explain it.
Also, on a different subject, I got a boo boo today. See, I was hooking up a trailer to a truck today and part of the trailer (The jack) fell and smashed my finger a wee bit. Not too bad. I thought that my finger nail met the other side of my finger! I am glad that I was wearing my gloves or it would have been a lot worse.
Instead, I just can't feel the tip of my finger, which is a funny color. I do, however, have my fingernail currently attached to my finger by natural methods. So I must be good!
I will let you know when the feeling comes back!
Whew, I am tired. But that's OK. See, I am in the U.S. Army. So I can say that it could be a lot worse. I am currently in America, not Iraq. So, it could be worse. But, that is what I signed the dotted line for.
A little bit of sleep deprivation never did hurt anyone. Now, I have 4 days off before I do it again. So, I guess I will get a little more sleep now. :)
Other then that, not too much has happened. I did re-enlist for another 4 years and changed my 'job' as well. I am going back to school to be a helicopter mechanic.
I just got back from the field. We were there for a good while. Averaging 2-4 hours of sleep a night. It's amazing because when I am in the field, I can do that with no problem. When I go home, I can't do it. I get too tired.
In the field, I would wake up and be ready to go out the door before 'lights on.'
So, not that I am back in my own home, 6 hours of sleep and I am tired. Don't ask me to explain it.
Also, on a different subject, I got a boo boo today. See, I was hooking up a trailer to a truck today and part of the trailer (The jack) fell and smashed my finger a wee bit. Not too bad. I thought that my finger nail met the other side of my finger! I am glad that I was wearing my gloves or it would have been a lot worse.
Instead, I just can't feel the tip of my finger, which is a funny color. I do, however, have my fingernail currently attached to my finger by natural methods. So I must be good!
I will let you know when the feeling comes back!
Sunday, September 9, 2007
The Never Ending Story...
Ok ya'll, this is a chain story so let's keep it going and see what happens to all these people.
It does not have to be as long as mine, I am just setting up a base. Two or three paragraphs is fine.
Some Simple Rules:
1: I do reserve the right to edit your section accordingly.
2: Keep it clean enough for children.
3: No profanity or sexual content.
Email your submissions and I will decide if it goes up or not.
Include your name and/or email address for credit, if you want. Otherwise, it will be credited to anonymous.
I will start, so someone email me a section.
Happy writing!
--------
The chopper landed, violently to say the least, and SGT. McOwens jumped out, running to the smoke. Smoke: used to mark a landing zone, the casualty, and his next job.
Another wounded soldier, he thought to himself. What will it be like this time? Who is it? Is it too late? He wanted to know, he needed to. One of his comrades was down, and that bothered him.
Running from the chopper always felt like an eternity, time stretching on, but in-fact, it was only a matter of seconds. However long it took, he was still highly visible to the enemy. A helicopter flying into enemy territory, approaching a smoke signal, would definitely give his position away. Who other than a medic would an enemy want to pick off, to kill on the battle field? Perhaps maybe a chaplain in order to drop troop moral, or an officer with hopes of scattering the troops, then picking them off one by one. Regardless, he was the main target right now, and he was well aware of the fact that enemies are in the area, and it is not secured.
As SGT. McOwens approached the men that were gathered in the woods, he could see the casualty on a small, make-shift stretcher. He was conscious, bleeding, and breathing. That was the best they can hope for.
“Sergeant, he took a direct hit to his chest, right side, and one to his lower leg. We patched him up as good as we could, gave him an I.V. and called ya’ll in. We could not stop the bleeding and feel that he is almost gone,” SPC. Allen told him.
SPC. Allen has previously gone through the Combat Life Savers Class, or CLS for short. He was taught by the military to give an I.V. and other first aid services like a tourniquet, which he has already done – two inches above the wound, not on a joint, just like they taught him in class, the same way that he practiced while in the field, for a moment just like this.
From what SGT. McOwens could see, SPC. Allen has done everything he was supposed to do, and did it very well. He would have to pass this information on to his superiors. When he saw a job well done, he always tried to inform those that matter. “Give credit where credit is due,” his motto.
He stooped next to his current patient; his ACU top was off as well as his shirt. They had to do that in order to patch the wound. The patch job was sufficient. He looked down his body and saw the leg wound, nasty but okay. No bleeding there, just the chest, which was not good; you can not put a tourniquet on a chest, neck, or head. That would defeat its purpose.
“Private Jonhson. He’s new to our unit, Sergeant. He got too close to the edge of the woods and a sniper got him,” SPC. Allen told him. McOwens could hear the fear in his voice. “Can you save him?”
“I don’t know yet, but it doesn’t look good.” He checked PVT. Johnson’s pupils, breathing, and pulse. “He’s in shock, as would be expected. We need to load him up and run him in to TMC.” TMC, The Medical Center, there was nothing he could do here.
SGT. McOwens grabbed one end of the stretcher and SPC. Allen grabbed the other. “We’re going to have to run to that chopper as fast as we can. He has got to get in there,” SGT. McOwens shouted. Why he shouted he did not know, perhaps a habit, or just pure adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Regardless of why, he did. There is a lot of yelling on the battle field, along with confusion, noise, and fear.
They ran with the stretcher, as awkward as it was, but they did it. Someone’s life depended on it. They were almost there, the doors were open, waiting for the next patient, Private Johnson.
SGT. McOwens felt the other end of the stretcher drop, “Dang it!” he shouted. “Pick it up and run!” he shouted, without stopping or looking back.
He was dragging the make-shift stretcher behind him, hoping that his patient, PVT. Johnson, was not falling off. He could tell by the weight of the stretcher that he was still on it, however uncomfortable it is to be dropped and dragged. He looked behind him but did not see SPC. Allen. He kept running, knowing that right now his priority, with or without help, was to get this victim into the chopper, to safety, as safe as it could be at the moment.
He made it to the sliding door where another medic was waiting for him. He handed his side of the stretcher in and grabbed the other side, lifting and pushing it into the chopper, patient head first.
He looked behind him, SPC. Allen was not there and it was his job, as a medic, to make sure he was okay. He turned around and ran back toward the woods, where he had met up with the squad just moments before.
He was nearing the point where SPC. Allen dropped the stretcher when he saw it; SPC. Allen on the ground, gunshot wound to the head. His body was lifeless, eyes opened. The exit wound from the round took the back half of his head off and his brain had been spread across the area where he laid.
Saddened, but determined, SGT. McOwens reached down and placed one arm under SPC. Allen’s leg, reached around with his other arm and grabbed the arm on the same side. He hoisted SPC. Allen’s dead body onto his shoulders, turned back to the chopper, and began to run. There is a sniper out there, somewhere, that has his sights placed on him. Although he did not know where, he still knew it was somewhere. He had to get back to the bird, it was his job.
He reached the open door and threw the body in. Comfort did not matter to a dead body, especially when a sniper is watching and waiting. It could come at any second, or not at all.
He climbed into the chopper and shut the door. Now it was the pilots turn, time to go home. Home, he longed for home, but this was a different home, a home away from home. He was to call it that for several more months, until he got back to his own.
He shouted up to the pilot, giving his signal that he was ready for flight, so was the other medic. Nothing happened.
They peered to the front of the helicopter and saw a small hole in the front window, the pilot was dead, shot by a sniper.
The other medic, SPC. Leafton, jumped up front and grabbed the radio.
“This is alpha seven seven niner, stand by for a nine line.”
A nine line, the steps used by the Army to call in for medical help, dispatching a helicopter or ambulance, whichever was required. This is how they got into this situation to begin with.
“Alpha seven seven niner, we are ready for your nine line.”
SPC. Leafton never got the nine line out. A bullet from a highly trained sniper flew through the air with grace, speed, and power, striking SPC. Leafton’s head, killing him instantly. Blood flew through the cockpit, soaking everything.
SGT. McOwens ducked, knowing that at any second, he was next. He crawled up to the cockpit and grabbed the blood soaked microphone.
“Stand by for a nine line,” he started.
“Standing by,” was the response.
This is as far as SPC. Leafton had gotten before he was shot, thankful that he has gotten further, he continued, “Line 1, 18233746 break. Line 2, 223mhz, Alpha seven seven niner, break.”
The chopper door slid open.
“Line 3, four…”
The bullet struck his arm, burning, pain. He winced and yelled out in protest. He could feel the warmth of his own blood flowing down his arm. He knew what it felt like, to have warm blood flowing on his body, but not his blood. As a medic, he was exposed to this almost daily since he was deployed, but never his own.
He reached for the mic, ready to continue. He already told them of his location, and by the call sign, they would know it was a medical helicopter.
He grabbed the mic with his left hand, “Line 3, four…” he repeated but would never finish.
The bullet hit his neck and sent a burning sensation through his body and he felt limp, he could taste his own blood now and knew he would soon be dead.
He raised his arm in protest...
---- End From Tokrum
It does not have to be as long as mine, I am just setting up a base. Two or three paragraphs is fine.
Some Simple Rules:
1: I do reserve the right to edit your section accordingly.
2: Keep it clean enough for children.
3: No profanity or sexual content.
Email your submissions and I will decide if it goes up or not.
Include your name and/or email address for credit, if you want. Otherwise, it will be credited to anonymous.
I will start, so someone email me a section.
--------
The chopper landed, violently to say the least, and SGT. McOwens jumped out, running to the smoke. Smoke: used to mark a landing zone, the casualty, and his next job.
Another wounded soldier, he thought to himself. What will it be like this time? Who is it? Is it too late? He wanted to know, he needed to. One of his comrades was down, and that bothered him.
Running from the chopper always felt like an eternity, time stretching on, but in-fact, it was only a matter of seconds. However long it took, he was still highly visible to the enemy. A helicopter flying into enemy territory, approaching a smoke signal, would definitely give his position away. Who other than a medic would an enemy want to pick off, to kill on the battle field? Perhaps maybe a chaplain in order to drop troop moral, or an officer with hopes of scattering the troops, then picking them off one by one. Regardless, he was the main target right now, and he was well aware of the fact that enemies are in the area, and it is not secured.
As SGT. McOwens approached the men that were gathered in the woods, he could see the casualty on a small, make-shift stretcher. He was conscious, bleeding, and breathing. That was the best they can hope for.
“Sergeant, he took a direct hit to his chest, right side, and one to his lower leg. We patched him up as good as we could, gave him an I.V. and called ya’ll in. We could not stop the bleeding and feel that he is almost gone,” SPC. Allen told him.
SPC. Allen has previously gone through the Combat Life Savers Class, or CLS for short. He was taught by the military to give an I.V. and other first aid services like a tourniquet, which he has already done – two inches above the wound, not on a joint, just like they taught him in class, the same way that he practiced while in the field, for a moment just like this.
From what SGT. McOwens could see, SPC. Allen has done everything he was supposed to do, and did it very well. He would have to pass this information on to his superiors. When he saw a job well done, he always tried to inform those that matter. “Give credit where credit is due,” his motto.
He stooped next to his current patient; his ACU top was off as well as his shirt. They had to do that in order to patch the wound. The patch job was sufficient. He looked down his body and saw the leg wound, nasty but okay. No bleeding there, just the chest, which was not good; you can not put a tourniquet on a chest, neck, or head. That would defeat its purpose.
“Private Jonhson. He’s new to our unit, Sergeant. He got too close to the edge of the woods and a sniper got him,” SPC. Allen told him. McOwens could hear the fear in his voice. “Can you save him?”
“I don’t know yet, but it doesn’t look good.” He checked PVT. Johnson’s pupils, breathing, and pulse. “He’s in shock, as would be expected. We need to load him up and run him in to TMC.” TMC, The Medical Center, there was nothing he could do here.
SGT. McOwens grabbed one end of the stretcher and SPC. Allen grabbed the other. “We’re going to have to run to that chopper as fast as we can. He has got to get in there,” SGT. McOwens shouted. Why he shouted he did not know, perhaps a habit, or just pure adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Regardless of why, he did. There is a lot of yelling on the battle field, along with confusion, noise, and fear.
They ran with the stretcher, as awkward as it was, but they did it. Someone’s life depended on it. They were almost there, the doors were open, waiting for the next patient, Private Johnson.
SGT. McOwens felt the other end of the stretcher drop, “Dang it!” he shouted. “Pick it up and run!” he shouted, without stopping or looking back.
He was dragging the make-shift stretcher behind him, hoping that his patient, PVT. Johnson, was not falling off. He could tell by the weight of the stretcher that he was still on it, however uncomfortable it is to be dropped and dragged. He looked behind him but did not see SPC. Allen. He kept running, knowing that right now his priority, with or without help, was to get this victim into the chopper, to safety, as safe as it could be at the moment.
He made it to the sliding door where another medic was waiting for him. He handed his side of the stretcher in and grabbed the other side, lifting and pushing it into the chopper, patient head first.
He looked behind him, SPC. Allen was not there and it was his job, as a medic, to make sure he was okay. He turned around and ran back toward the woods, where he had met up with the squad just moments before.
He was nearing the point where SPC. Allen dropped the stretcher when he saw it; SPC. Allen on the ground, gunshot wound to the head. His body was lifeless, eyes opened. The exit wound from the round took the back half of his head off and his brain had been spread across the area where he laid.
Saddened, but determined, SGT. McOwens reached down and placed one arm under SPC. Allen’s leg, reached around with his other arm and grabbed the arm on the same side. He hoisted SPC. Allen’s dead body onto his shoulders, turned back to the chopper, and began to run. There is a sniper out there, somewhere, that has his sights placed on him. Although he did not know where, he still knew it was somewhere. He had to get back to the bird, it was his job.
He reached the open door and threw the body in. Comfort did not matter to a dead body, especially when a sniper is watching and waiting. It could come at any second, or not at all.
He climbed into the chopper and shut the door. Now it was the pilots turn, time to go home. Home, he longed for home, but this was a different home, a home away from home. He was to call it that for several more months, until he got back to his own.
He shouted up to the pilot, giving his signal that he was ready for flight, so was the other medic. Nothing happened.
They peered to the front of the helicopter and saw a small hole in the front window, the pilot was dead, shot by a sniper.
The other medic, SPC. Leafton, jumped up front and grabbed the radio.
“This is alpha seven seven niner, stand by for a nine line.”
A nine line, the steps used by the Army to call in for medical help, dispatching a helicopter or ambulance, whichever was required. This is how they got into this situation to begin with.
“Alpha seven seven niner, we are ready for your nine line.”
SPC. Leafton never got the nine line out. A bullet from a highly trained sniper flew through the air with grace, speed, and power, striking SPC. Leafton’s head, killing him instantly. Blood flew through the cockpit, soaking everything.
SGT. McOwens ducked, knowing that at any second, he was next. He crawled up to the cockpit and grabbed the blood soaked microphone.
“Stand by for a nine line,” he started.
“Standing by,” was the response.
This is as far as SPC. Leafton had gotten before he was shot, thankful that he has gotten further, he continued, “Line 1, 18233746 break. Line 2, 223mhz, Alpha seven seven niner, break.”
The chopper door slid open.
“Line 3, four…”
The bullet struck his arm, burning, pain. He winced and yelled out in protest. He could feel the warmth of his own blood flowing down his arm. He knew what it felt like, to have warm blood flowing on his body, but not his blood. As a medic, he was exposed to this almost daily since he was deployed, but never his own.
He reached for the mic, ready to continue. He already told them of his location, and by the call sign, they would know it was a medical helicopter.
He grabbed the mic with his left hand, “Line 3, four…” he repeated but would never finish.
The bullet hit his neck and sent a burning sensation through his body and he felt limp, he could taste his own blood now and knew he would soon be dead.
He raised his arm in protest...
---- End From Tokrum
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