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Ward felt lucky... he had woken up around noon, and the sun was beginning to melt the snow. Through the thinning, wet snow, Ward saw three black prongs poking though just in front of his face. He rolled over painfully and carefully, seeing the blood on the snow under him. He winced, aware of the pain for the first time. He had a small wound just below his left kidney; again he was lucky; whatever passed through him didn't puncture any of his organs. He looked at the wreckage of the overturned ATV that lay in the snow a few feet away and saw that it was full of small holes. He had run over a claymore, an anti-personnel mine that exploded like a shotgun, sending buckshot in all directions. He was lucky that it wasn't anti-vehicle, and he was also lucky that the ATV stopped any of the metal balls from hitting him in a vital area.
Ward stood very carefully, looking around for any more mines that had been revealed. He clutched his side as a little more blood soaked through his white coat. Ward fell to his knees; he had never felt such intense pain, and it was doubled by the urge to urinate. He wasn't shot through the kidney, but his side burned. He had to relieve himself in the middle of the minefield.
He slowly stood and unbuckled his belt. He was going to use his urine to melt the snow and check for more mines, but the pain multiplied tenfold and he noticed blood coming out. He gritted his teeth, trying his hardest to avoid crying out, and finished up. He then sank to his knees again, quickly pulled off his ski mask, doubled over and vomited.
Maybe he wasn't so lucky after all, he thought ruefully, noting that there was some blood in his vomit. Using the white mask as a makeshift dressing for his wound, Ward carefully walked to the wrecked ATV and picked up his M-16, which was thankfully undamaged.
Making his way through the minefield was a slow, painstaking process. He had attached his bayonet and probed the snow in front of him before taking a step. After an hour and one hundred feet of slow travel, Ward was satisfied that he had cleared the minefield.
Looking to the west to get his bearing on the mountains, Ward started toward the slightly revealed bit of asphalt that was I-25.
By the end of the day, Ward was tired, bleeding and despaired. He had no supplies left save what he carried; some flares, two field rations, and his weapon with two extra clips. The last bit of sunlight disappeared over the mountains, leaving Ward in the dark and the cold. He ate little, and later vomited it up. He tried looking for wood to build a fire with, but found none. He tried to figure out what had happened to give him so much pain in his left side, aside from the wound, and settled that he had driven a rib into his kidney when he fell. It didn't matter much what had happened, the only thing that mattered was living, but that was becoming a quickly fading possibility.
Finally, still bleeding and half frozen, Ward lay down in the snow to die. It seemed that his luck had run out.
Ward stood very carefully, looking around for any more mines that had been revealed. He clutched his side as a little more blood soaked through his white coat. Ward fell to his knees; he had never felt such intense pain, and it was doubled by the urge to urinate. He wasn't shot through the kidney, but his side burned. He had to relieve himself in the middle of the minefield.
He slowly stood and unbuckled his belt. He was going to use his urine to melt the snow and check for more mines, but the pain multiplied tenfold and he noticed blood coming out. He gritted his teeth, trying his hardest to avoid crying out, and finished up. He then sank to his knees again, quickly pulled off his ski mask, doubled over and vomited.
Maybe he wasn't so lucky after all, he thought ruefully, noting that there was some blood in his vomit. Using the white mask as a makeshift dressing for his wound, Ward carefully walked to the wrecked ATV and picked up his M-16, which was thankfully undamaged.
Making his way through the minefield was a slow, painstaking process. He had attached his bayonet and probed the snow in front of him before taking a step. After an hour and one hundred feet of slow travel, Ward was satisfied that he had cleared the minefield.
Looking to the west to get his bearing on the mountains, Ward started toward the slightly revealed bit of asphalt that was I-25.
By the end of the day, Ward was tired, bleeding and despaired. He had no supplies left save what he carried; some flares, two field rations, and his weapon with two extra clips. The last bit of sunlight disappeared over the mountains, leaving Ward in the dark and the cold. He ate little, and later vomited it up. He tried looking for wood to build a fire with, but found none. He tried to figure out what had happened to give him so much pain in his left side, aside from the wound, and settled that he had driven a rib into his kidney when he fell. It didn't matter much what had happened, the only thing that mattered was living, but that was becoming a quickly fading possibility.
Finally, still bleeding and half frozen, Ward lay down in the snow to die. It seemed that his luck had run out.
