...That Others May Live

The dust was a shroud, the heat an unforgiving furnace. Seventy-two hours. Three days since the Blackhawk became a fiery pinwheel against the stark Middle Eastern sky. Airman First Class Samuel "Slick" Simmons, Air Force Pararescue Jumper, a PJ, was running on fumes, both physically and mentally.

His canteen had been empty for a day, and the last magazine for his M4 was long gone. All that remained was his trusty Paraeagle knife, a sliver of cold comfort in his increasingly fractured reality.

"I can't sleep! I can't stop! They'll find me!" He spoke to himself, driving himself forward. "I have to keep moving!"

He stumbled, his vision blurring. He could feel his mind starting to fray at the edges, his grip on sanity loosening. He needed to focus. To stay present. To hold on.

He started to whisper, the words—a dry rasp in his throat.

"It is my duty as a Pararescueman to save lives and to aid the injured." The words were a prayer, a reminder of who he was.

"I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts." That phrase was a knife twisting in his mind, a constant reminder of the sleep, water, and rest his body craved.

"These things I do, that others may live." His sacred oath, now an impossible weight.

"I failed." His guilt and grief threatened to consume him.

The crash. It was a film reel of fire and screams played on repeat behind his eyes. Chief Warrant Officer William "Wild Bill" Marcus, his hands frozen on the controls, a look of grim determination on his face. Warrant Officer Timothy "Chopper" Davis, ejected on impact, his body a broken doll in the sand. And "Doc."

He’d reached Doc, Staff Sergeant Kenneth Miller, his mentor, his friend. Doc was pinned beneath a mangled section of the fuselage, his legs a bloody mess.

"GO, SLICK!" Doc had roared over the crackling flames and enemy gunfire. "GET OUT OF HERE!"

But Slick hadn't gone. He’d fought like a demon, using a piece of twisted metal as a makeshift pry bar, ignoring the sting of shrapnel and the whine of bullets passing too close. He’d managed to shift the debris just enough to see the extent of Doc’s injuries—too severe, too much blood.

Then they came. Enemy fighters, their dark shapes closing in. Doc saw them too. His face, pale with pain, hardened with grim resolve.

"Simmons," he’d said, his voice strained but firm. "That was an order! You can't help me."

"No can do, Doc. No one left behind!" He stated as he tried helping Doc. "You taught me that!"

"Slick... you can get out. You can make it back. Tell them… tell them we went down fighting." He’d gripped Slick’s arm, his eyes locking onto his. "That others may live... that's what matters now. GO! NOW!... THAT'S AN ORDER, AIRMAN!"

It was a death sentence either way. Stay, and they both die. Leave, and live with the ghost of Doc's last order. With a grunt and a nod, Slick obeyed, scrambling away as the enemy swarmed the wreckage. He’d seen them reach Doc, their weapons raised. He hadn’t seen the end, couldn't bring himself to look, but the image was seared into his mind.

Now, 72 hours later, the desert was a reflection of his shattered psyche. The sun was a malevolent eye, and the horizon shimmered with heat mirages that morphed into enemy patrols and Doc's accusing stare. He kept moving, a stumbling silhouette against the endless sand, driven by a primal need to survive and the crushing weight of guilt.

He saw a cluster of rocks ahead, a potential haven from the relentless sun. As he drew closer, the rocks seemed to shift, to coalesce into familiar shapes.

Wild Bill and Chopper were there, leaning against a boulder, phantom grins on their faces.

"Rough flight, huh, Slick?"

Slick blinked, his eyes burning with fatigue. "Wild Bill?… Chopper?... you're not…"

"Just checking in," the hallucinations replied, their voices echoing the easygoing tone Slick remembered so well. "Don't forget about us, now."

Wild Bill and Chopper faded, the rock solidifying back into its inanimate form.

"I won't," Slick whispered to the empty air. "I promise."

He reached the rocks, collapsing in their meager shade. His mouth felt like it was full of sand, his head throbbing with each pulse. He saw a canteen lying on the ground, its metal surface glinting in the sun. Water. Sweet, life-giving water. He reached for it, his fingers brushing against the cool metal. He lifted it to his lips, but as the first drop touched his tongue, the canteen dissolved into sand, the grains slipping through his fingers.

He groaned, burying his face in his hands. It was happening more frequently now, the line between reality and his tormented imagination blurring. He had to stay focused. He had to remember his training.

He started the litany again, the words a low rumble in his chest.

“It is my duty as a Pararescueman to save lives and to aid the injured. I will be prepared at all times to perform my assigned duties quickly and efficiently, placing these duties before personal desires and comforts."

The phrase was a form of penance, a stark reminder of his failure, but it was also a shield. He held onto it, repeating the words like a desperate chant.

Then he saw Doc. He was sitting a few feet away, his legs mangled and bloody, but his eyes were clear, filled with a familiar mixture of concern and stern disapproval.

"You should have tried harder, Slick," the hallucination said, his voice low and accusatory. "You left me."

"No!" Slick cried out, scrambling backward. "I didn't! You gave me a direct order!"

"Did I?" the phantom Doc replied, his gaze unwavering. "Or did you just want to leave? Was I too much trouble?"

The words were like a knife twisting in an open wound. The guilt, always a dull ache, intensified, threatening to consume him. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to banish the image.

He started reciting again, the words a desperate shield against the rising tide of his own self-recrimination.

"These things I do,... that others may live." Not just an oath—an unbreakable vow.

The repetition of the words he had lived by, now a source of unbearable pain.

He had to move. Staying still was dangerous, both physically and mentally. He pushed himself to his feet, his body protesting with every strained muscle. He stumbled forward, his vision swimming. He saw a village in the distance, a cluster of low buildings shimmering in the heat haze. Hope, fragile but persistent, flickered within him.

Maybe there was water there.

Maybe…

As he drew closer, the village seemed deserted, eerily silent. The mud-brick houses stood like empty shells. He moved cautiously through the narrow alleys, his knife held ready. The silence was unnerving, broken only by the whisper of the wind.

Then he heard it. A child's whimper. He froze, his senses on high alert. The sound came from one of the huts. He approached cautiously, his heart pounding. He pushed the rough wooden door open and peered inside.

A young boy, no older than five, sat huddled in a corner, his eyes wide with fear. His clothes were torn and dusty, his face streaked with dirt and tears. He looked malnourished and alone.

The sight of the child jolted Slick back to reality. This was real. This was someone who needed help. His training kicked in, overriding the exhaustion and the lingering hallucinations. He knelt down, speaking in a calm, reassuring tone, using the few Arabic phrases he knew. The boy flinched, but didn't run. Slick reached into his empty pack, pulling out the last of his field dressing, a small, unopened package. He offered it to the boy.

The child stared at it, then at Slick, a flicker of curiosity replacing the fear in his eyes. He reached out a hesitant hand and took the dressing.

Just then, a shadow fell across the doorway. Slick whirled around, his knife raised. A man stood there, his face hard, his eyes narrowed. He held a rifle.

Time seemed to slow down. Slick knew he was in no condition to fight. He was outgunned, exhausted, and deep behind enemy lines. But he wouldn't back down. Not now. Not when this child needed him.

The man raised his rifle. Slick tensed, ready to lunge.

"Wait!" a voice called out in broken English. An older woman appeared behind the armed man, her face etched with worry. She spoke rapidly to the man, gesturing toward the child and then toward Slick.

The armed man hesitated, then slowly lowered his weapon. The woman approached Slick, her eyes searching his face. She pointed to the field dressing in the boy's hand, then to Slick, a question in her gaze.

Slick nodded, understanding dawning. They weren't all enemies. They were people, caught in the crossfire, trying to survive just like him.

The woman spoke to him again, her tone softer now. She gestured for him to follow her. He hesitated, his instincts screaming danger, but the sight of the frightened child and the woman's seemingly genuine concern swayed him.

He followed her out of the hut and into a small courtyard. Other villagers emerged, their faces a mixture of fear and curiosity. The armed man kept his distance, his rifle still held loosely in his hands.

The woman led Slick to a well, its stone worn smooth with age. She offered him a clay cup filled with cool water. He drank deeply, the liquid a welcome relief. She then offered him some dried fruit and bread. He ate slowly, savoring every bite.

As he ate, the woman examined his torn uniform and the grime on his face. She spoke to him in gestures, indicating that he was injured and exhausted. She pointed toward one of the huts, offering him shelter.

Slick hesitated. Trusting these people was a risk. But he was in no condition to continue on his own. And the memory of Doc’s last words echoed in his mind: "That others may live." Doc died so he could live. Maybe, just maybe, by accepting their help, he could honor that legacy in a different way.

He nodded his thanks and followed the woman into the hut. It was small and simple, but it offered a respite from the harsh desert. She gave him a rough blanket and gestured for him to rest.

He lay down, his body aching, his mind still racing. But for the first time in 72 hours, he felt a flicker of hope. He wasn't alone. He recited the creed one more time, not as a desperate plea, but as a quiet vow. The words weren't a source of torment now, but a promise. The words weren't a burden; they were his purpose. He was a PJ. He had to make it back. For them. For Doc.

He closed his eyes, the image of Doc's face, no longer accusatory but strangely serene, drifting into his thoughts. He still couldn't sleep, but for the first time, the darkness was not a torment. It was a shelter. He was A1C Samuel "Slick" Simmons, and he was finally, truly, in the fight to survive, for himself, for his brothers-in-arms, and for the promise of "That others may live."