The Devils' Doc - A Short Story

The distant sounds of artillery and airstrikes echoed off the dusty walls of the abandoned mosque. The recent sandstorms had left the entire city blanketed under a thin layer of fine red sand. The inside of the mosque was no different, the shattered windows of the prayer room had allowed the desert sands to invade the holy sanctuary and erode the once vibrant murals on the walls.

Seems a good enough place as any…

Doc thought to himself as he and the marines finished sweeping the building. The platoon leader had instructed everyone to stand by in the main prayer room and await further orders while he spoke with the company CO. After a quick survey of all the entries and exits in the room, Doc found his temporary home near the podium at the far end of the room. Experience had taught him to pick a spot away from any windows as not to draw the attention of a sniper, but somewhere he could observe all his marines spread around the room. If there was a cross breeze too, well that was just icing on the cake.

Despite having been out in the sweltering heat of the Iraqi sun for the past five hours, Doc’s vigilant nature prevented him from resting, at least not yet. He ordered his Marines to drink their water and check their feet for blisters. It was a no-brainer of a reminder, but when dealing with marines, Doc knew better than to make assumptions. He made his patrol around the room, passing out a hearty supply of Motrin, Moleskin, and medical lectures to those that wanted them, as well as a few who didn’t. As he returned to his spot, he couldn’t help but let a small smile sneak onto his face. Doc knew that in all reality, most of the time, he was more of a parent to the Marines than he was a medical professional. Nine days out of ten, being a corpsman was the best job in the world. Doc spied the room around him, pausing to examine the faces of every marine. Doc’s stomach began to tighten. He understood that today wasn’t going to be one of the easy days because today they would be kicking the hornets’ nest. Today Doc would need to be a Blood Angel. Today, some of his beloved brothers would die, and there wasn’t a goddamned thing he could do to stop it.

Doc was no stranger to death, his first deployment in the Triangle of Death forced rapid acclimatization to the fragility of life. Sniper fire, RPGs, Ak-47s, and IEDs, had claimed far too many marines and friends. Corpsmen weren’t immune from the carnage either, a point well understood by Doc. During his first week downrange, his supervising corpsman was killed by a sniper while he was standing three feet away. He remembered frantically performing CPR on the corpsman’s body, every compression spewing gore from the fist-sized hole in the corpsman’s mangled face. He remembered how the eyes of every marine in the room looked at him for guidance, unknowing of how helpless he felt as he vainly beat against his mentor’s lifeless chest.

Get your fucking shit together Devils; we’re moving in ten!

The platoon sergeant’s bearish voice returned Doc’s mind to the present, and he decided that he would get a final inventory of his supplies before their move into the city. Doc kept his bag well organized, so it didn’t take more than two or three minutes.

Having nothing else to do for the next few minutes, Doc removed his helmet and leaned back against the wall, his legs spread-eagle in front of him. The wall felt cool against the back of his head, and for the first time all day, he felt just how tired he was. Suddenly, his uniform had weight, his feet throbbed in protest of his boots, and his head felt heavy on his shoulders. His chest armor was stifling, so opened the flaps and immediately felt the pocket of heat trapped underneath dissipate. It wasn’t the safest idea, but he only needed a moment. He let out a long breath, reveling in the temporary relief. He looked down towards his legs, his eyes fixating on his M4 propped up against his Aid Bag. The sight seemed curious to him, both the rifle and the bag were critical assets to his job, he would be useless without one and helpless without the other. In a way, his rifle and aid bag were the twin serpents of his caduceus, a bloody marriage of the dichotomy of life and death; hypocrisy of the Hippocratic oath. It’s the curse of the modern corpsman, to be a bastard of the battlefield, perpetually trapped in two worlds. Doc understood better than most that the role of the “Doc” is a critical one, he is a mentor, a leader, a brother, and occasionally a boot in the ass. A Doc would gladly take a life or give his own if it meant he could save the life of one of his marines.

Sensing that the time for relaxing was nearing its end, Doc dutifully rose to his feet, redonned his protective equipment and brushed off as much dirt as he could manage. He grabbed his aid bag and his rifle, both seeming lighter than before he sat down. The day was still young, and he knew that he would be challenged before it was all over. Today was going to be hell, but luckily for the marines, they had him, and hell is where blood angels fly.

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