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.»
«I won’t, James. I promise.»
The lieutenant lived. Aaron moved on. That is what medics do. You save who you can, you don’t dwell, and you don’t ask for thanks. You move to the next patient.
He never learned the lieutenant’s last name. Just James. Just a promise kept in the sand.
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