Well Coffeelove has dome my work for me again, writing up an example of what he thinks a cleric would look like Down Below. This is based on his post, so head over there and have a look around.
It was a beautiful day. Traffic in and out of the building was normal, with little children begging the soldiers at the front gate for candy and money. They never needed the money that they asked for, but they could con just about anybody out of five bucks if they really wanted to. Around two in the afternoon the children and the visitors left, just like they do everyday for the mid-afternoon meals and naps. Unlike any other day though, they did not return as dusk.
This alone should have warned all of us that something was wrong, since the children normally terrorize the front gate until just before nine at night, which was the curfew we had imposed on the town. Instead of thinking something was wrong though, we were grateful that the children had been kept home. We had lost one guy for the day due to illness, so just after nightfall my shift on the M60 machine-gun nest came up. After a long, uneventful, and much too quiet a shift, my replacement showed up on time. It was nearing midnight and I was tired, so off came my body armor and helmet so that I could lay down and get some sleep on the third floor.
A thunderous crack, a flash of orange and blue light awaken me from too little sleep. The effects of such a concussion so close make everything foggy and incoherent, more so than normal from waking up. Screams, where are those coming from? Two more explosions, one after another bring me to my senses. At once everything snaps into focus, the screams are my fellow soldiers crying out for my help! I roll to the side of the door I was sleeping near to look outwards to see where they are. One of the team leaders has been it with a fragmentation from the second set of blasts. Rushing, I high-crawl to him. He’s been hit in the face with a chunk of concrete, no other wounds. Fighting with him all the way, I drag him to the interior of the third floor and rip open my Aid-Bag. Practically sitting on him with my back to the enemy, I bandage his face with a field dressing. I turn away for a second to grab some tape, and he’s gone back to the rooftop to destroy whoever did this to him.
More screams echo up to me from the lower floors, I can barely hear them over the M60 barking it’s threats of death to whatever is stupid enough to come within range. Moving as swiftly as possible, I put on my armor and take to the stairs with my bag in hand and pistol on my hip. I know that there are forty steps between the third and first floor, but my feet find only two between landings during my decent.
Another team leader, shrapnel wounds peppering his body like a ground chuck steak. Bandages loosely wrapped on the worst ones, scissors become a second set of fingers as I cut these blood-soaked wrappings loose to apply compression dressings. Through the dust clouds from the most recent explosion I see a… female?!? She’s pointing to under the stairs I just flew down, another wounded soldier, small but bloody shrapnel wounds cover his legs. Again, more dressings that need to be replaced, and again more explosions outside the building bring new screams of ‘MEDIC’ to my ears.
As I regroup my equipment for the mad dash outside, I also prepare myself for the worst I could imagine. They don’t teach you how to conjure up bravery in Combat Medic School, but stupidity is something that they harp on to no end throughout the course. My next actions would be considered stupid by most, if not all the instructors I had. But what was I supposed to do?
On the near side of the barriers close the road, there is a soldier on his back on the ground. Continually dodging left and right on my rush to him, I can see that the other soldiers near him have treated his many wounds with their personal first-aid kits. While arguing with a casualty is the last thing any medic is willing to do, this guy just won’t listen to common sense and let me move him inside the building where it’s safer. I drop a chem-light near enough to him that whenever the evacuation team arrives, they won’t miss him; and hopefully the hail of bullets and RPG’s will keep him from retrieving the chem-light and throwing it somewhere else.
Everything drops to absolute silence. Am I dead? No, the enemy has started to run away; and the evacuation team is en route to our location with plenty of backup to wipe out whatever is left. The joy of seeing our M113 ambulance is uncontrollable. I rush to the third floor to get the first casualty and escort him to the transport. when we return to the first floor, my squad leader has the unharmed soldiers moving the wounded to the vehicle and is giving one of the wounded some morphine. We load up the last of the casualties and my squad leader leaves with them, ensuring they will survive to the Battalion Aid Station.
Those of us that are left, gather together on the first floor to reassure each other through hearty handshakes and boisterous jokes about the enemy we faced together.
Except on those few days when those that were wounded came back to fight along side us, and in a few cases gave their lives for us, we never spoke to each other about that night.