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After I got the door closed and barricaded it with furniture, I looked at Cremator’s wound. He had a 2-inch shard of shrapnel sticking out of his neck, but it had mostly stopped bleeding. “I think we should leave it in if it’s not bleeding,” was my non-medical advice.
“What do you mean leave it in? What in?” was his confused inquiry.
“That piece of RPG sticking out of your neck,” was my matter-of-fact reply.
He reached up and gingerly touched it for the first time and screamed, “Get it out, get it out, I’m gonna die!” With my LCD light, I looked carefully at the wound and the metal did not look like it was embedded too deeply.
“Okay, but be quiet for a minute, I gotta check out the rest of the house. Keep an eye on the door,” was my shred of comforting advice as I stood up to scout out our new digs. An interior row house, it was probably abandoned during the early phases of the fighting, but it had not been looted. I looked around the kitchen and located just what I wanted. We both had Israeli-type battle dressings, which I thought would staunch any bleeding when I performed my “surgery.”