Marine Commander Refused Help… Until the Nurse Showed Her Unit Tattoo

He appeared to Lieutenant Colonel Mike “Iron Man” Sterling to be a shy, middle-aged civilian nurse.

She simply stood in the way of him getting the medical attention he need. Weakness was evident in the soft voice and graying hair.

For two hours in the dusty heat of Sangin, he did not see the woman who had once used her bare fingers to hold a dying Marine’s artery closed. He was unaware of the legend that was being discussed in the First Marine Division barracks.

Barking for a “real” corpsman, he turned down her assistance. He was unaware that the woman in front of him was not only a member of the Corps. It had been saved by her. The hospital would come to a complete stop when she eventually rolled up her sleeve because of the tattoo on her skin.

With a harsh hiss, the automatic doors of Naval Medical Center San Diego, fondly called Balboa, slid open. A gust of unusually warm November air and a man who appeared to be carved out of rock and regret were allowed. Instead of walking, Lieutenant Colonel Mike Sterling marched.

But the pain coming from his hip was revealed by the hitch in his left stride. With eyes the color of a stormy Atlantic Ocean and a jawline that could break glass, he was a Marine’s Marine, a man of the old school. He exuded authority even in casual attire, such as tactical cargo pants and a tight-fitting polo shirt that pressed against his biceps.

As the commanding commander of the storied “Dark Horse” Battalion, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, he was not used to waiting. His knuckles became white as he grabbed the reception counter.

Looking up, the young Petty Officer behind the desk—a Hospitalman Apprentice who had just graduated from high school—swallowed hard.

“Sir?The youth gave a little squeak.

“I require a consultation. orthopedics. “Now,” snarled Sterling. His voice sounded like a tank sitting in a garage, rumbling quietly. “It feels like someone put broken glass in place of the hip joint.”

“Colonel, do you have an appointment?”

Sterling leaned closer. In three weeks, my battalion will deploy, son. I’m too busy to attend appointments. Fallujah shrapnel is shifting in my hip and is deciding to move south today. Get a doctor for me.

For emphasis, he hesitated. “Ideally, someone who understands the distinction between a femur and a fibula.”

There was a lot of activity in the lobby. The “witching hour” for military hospitals was Friday afternoon. Weekend warriors, aged veterans, and training mishaps came together to create a chaotic symphony of suffering.

“Sir, I’ll see who’s available. Please sit down.

Sterling refused to sit. He paced. He felt a shock of electricity with each stride, but he didn’t show it. It was once said that pain was simply weakness leaving the body.

However, this anguish felt more like a hot poker twisting in his bone marrow than it did like weakness leaving. Ten minutes went by. Next, twenty. Never one for patience, Sterling’s patience was unraveling like an old rope.

At last, a side door opened. A woman stepped out. Her form had softened with age, and she was short, maybe five feet four. Her scrubs lacked the crisp folds Sterling liked in his Marines, and they were a generic, faded blue.

Strands of silver were struggling against the dark brown of her hair, which was tied back in an untidy bun. She wore reading glasses balanced perilously on the end of her nose and cozy, shabby clogs.

She appeared to Sterling’s perceptive and biased eye to be a replacement instructor or a cookie-baking granny. She didn’t appear to be a fighter or someone who could manage a Marine Commander’s broken equipment.

“Colonel Sterling, Lieutenant?She yelled. She pierced through the clamor of the waiting area with a serene, even lyrical voice.

Sterling turned and stopped pacing. Expecting a Chief Petty Officer or at least a doctor, he peered over her shoulder.

“My name is Sterling.”

With a little, courteous grin, she introduced herself as Nurse Sarah Jenkins. Before the surgeon sees you, I will handle your intake and initial evaluation. If you’ll accompany me to the third triage room.

Sterling remained stationary. His gaze hardened as he glanced at her outstretched palm and then back at her face.

Sterling tested the name like a dubious piece of meat and said, “Nurse Jenkins.” Do you serve in active duty?”

Startled by the question, Sarah blinked. “Colonel, I work as a civilian nurse. I’ve spent fifteen years with Balboa. Now, if you

The word tasted like ash in Sterling’s mouth as he interrupted, “Civilian.” He exhaled sharply and mockingly. “I expressly asked for a military supplier. Instead of someone who is accustomed to bandaging dependents’ bruised knees, I need someone who understands war trauma.

The lobby fell silent. A few people looked around. Slowly, Sarah lowered her hand. Her piercing, hazel eyes seemed to evaluate him with a fresh intensity, yet her demeanor remained unchanged.

“Colonel, urgent suffering is indicated by your status. Commander Halloway, an orthopedic surgeon, is undergoing surgery. The senior triage nurse is myself. Until he recovers, I am completely qualified to evaluate your injuries and use pain management techniques.

“Have pain?With a sneer, Sterling moved closer, looming over her. “Neither a civilian guessing game nor medications are necessary for me. I have pieces of metal stuck in my iliac crest.

He bent in. “Are you even aware of the long-term effects of an IED blast on bone density?”

“Colonel, I know a lot about blast injuries,” Sarah remarked quietly.

Sterling angrily said, “I doubt that unless you picked that up watching Grey’s Anatomy.”

He looked back at the young corpsman at the desk, who was frightened. “Get a corpsman for me. A chief. Someone who has worn the uniform in real life. I will not be touched by a civilian.

Sarah refused to back down. She didn’t recoil. She didn’t back down. She just put her hands together in front of her.

“You have the right to refuse care, Colonel Sterling, but at this moment, I am the only person who can assist you. Your pupils are dilated, you are perspiring, and you are favoring your left side to the extent that it is putting additional strain on your lumbar spine. You’re hurting. Allow me to assist you.

Sterling growled, “I said no,” as his voice reverberated through the linoleum floors. “I’ll hold off until Halloway arrives. Get me someone who has a rank on their collar rather than a union card in their pocket while I wait.

With a grimace that revealed his pain, he turned away from her and limped violently toward a row of seats, where he sat down. Sarah observed him for a while. It’s possible that a younger nurse fled to the break room to cry. A more self-assured nurse could have countered.

Sarah didn’t. She casually took up her clipboard, adjusted her glasses, and approached him.

“Colonel, I’m not leaving,” she whispered, lowering her voice to a velvet-wrapped steel tone. “Because you’ll need assistance just to stand up after that hip completely locks up in ten minutes or so. I will be here.

Sterling narrowed his eyes and scowled at her. “Nurse, you are dismissed.”

“Colonel, this is a hospital, not a parade deck,” she said coolly. “And you are my patient until you check out.”

She sat down right across from him, folded her legs, and bided her time. They drew the lines of war. For forty-five minutes, there was a stalemate in the Naval Medical Center waiting area.

It appeared to be nothing more than a man sitting in a chair and a nurse reviewing charts across from him. However, there was enough tension in the air to choke. Mike Sterling was becoming worse.

He was aware of it, and he detested the fact that she was as well. A throbbing, white-hot nausea was taking the place of the exhilaration that had propelled him through the front doors.

A memento from a roadside bomb in Ramadi in 2006, the shrapnel had probably moved millimeters. However, millimeters felt like miles inside the hip joint’s tight design. A gasp escaped his lips before he could control it as he attempted to change his weight.

Sarah kept her eyes on her clipboard. “Seven out of ten?She inquired nonchalantly.

With perspiration trickling down his brow, Sterling clinched his teeth and said, “Mind your business.”

She turned a page and said, “Looks like an eight, maybe a nine.” “You’re becoming stiff. Spasms in the muscles are beginning. We will have to cut off your pants since you won’t be able to stand to remove them if we don’t provide you an anti-inflammatory and a muscle relaxant quickly.

Sterling growled, “I have survived worse than a stiff leg.” “I walked three klicks to the evac point after taking a round through the shoulder in Garmsir. In San Diego, I believe I can manage a chair.

Sarah repeated, “Garmsir,” the word slipping off her lips with an odd familiarity. At last, she raised her head. “2008.” It was not a good summer. People were dying from the heat alone.

Sterling stopped, staring into her eyes. “You read my file so fast?”

Colonel, I didn’t read your file. I am aware of the past.

“A fan of the History Channel?He scoffed, although his tone had weakened.

“That kind of thing.” She got to her feet. “Please, Colonel. Set away your pride. The Dark Horse is under your authority. You must be functional for your men. You are currently a liability to yourself.

She pointed to the corridor. “Allow me to return you. Start an IV and get ready for Halloway. He is now recovering from a knee replacement. In twenty minutes, he will arrive.

Sterling checked the time. It was getting blindingly painful. The borders of his eyesight were becoming blurry. He detested civilians because he believed them to be weak, unfaithful, and devoid of the discipline that characterized his life.

He was pragmatic, though. If he fainted, he wouldn’t be able to lead a battalion from a hospital floor.

“All right,” he spat. However, you perform the fundamentals. You hang the bag and insert the vein. You’re done if you miss the vein once. I have a corpsman. Deal?”

Sarah’s expression didn’t change. “I will not miss.”

She motioned for a wheelchair to be brought by the orderly.

“I walk,” Sterling commanded, holding onto the armrests.

“Colonel…”

“I walk,” I said.

He sprung up, forcing his legs to straighten with sheer effort. His left leg gave out after he had taken two steps. But he didn’t fall to the ground.

Sarah had moved with a speed that defied her appearance before the orderly could even respond. Stepping into his falling weight, she locked her stride wide and braced her shoulder beneath his good arm. Without a grunt, she caught a Marine deadweight weighing two hundred and twenty pounds.

“I’ve got you,” she said in a whisper, speaking directly into his ear. It wasn’t a civilian nurse’s voice. It was the authoritative voice of someone who had previously transported corpses. Turn to the right. Depend on me. Sterling, don’t fight me.

He was in too much agony and too shocked to argue. She helped him get into the wheelchair that the orderly pushed forward when he leaned on her. He stared up at her as he sagged onto the seat, panting.

She wasn’t even breathing heavily. Her face reverted to its pleasant, grandmotherly mask as she brushed her scrub top.

She addressed the orderly, saying, “Triage three.” “Stat.”

The examination room had a chilly, sterile tone. Sarah snapped on gloves and moved quickly. She prepared an IV for his arm. Sterling kept a close eye on her.

He grudgingly said, “You have steady hands.”

“When people stop screaming at me, it helps,” she said icily.

The inside of his elbow was swabbed by her. “Big breath.”

She inserted the needle. The ideal stick. A flash of blood. Put tape on it. Ten seconds to complete.

“Skilled,” Sterling whispered. “For a civilian.”

The saline bag was hooked up by Sarah. She logged the vitals on the computer interface.

“Colonel, you’re quite angry. Your blood pressure rises as a result. Not conducive to healing

He retorted, “It keeps me alive.” “It keeps my men alive.” You wouldn’t comprehend. At five p.m., you clock out. and return home to what? Cats? A garden?”

Sarah’s typing paused. She took a while to turn around. With the exception of the air conditioner’s hum, the room fell silent.

“I don’t own cats,” she muttered. Additionally, I no longer truly have a place to return to. Five years ago, my spouse passed away.

Sterling responded, “Sorry,” as his natural courtesy kicked in. “I guess there are tragedies in civilian life as well.”

Sterling noticed a glimmer of fire in Sarah’s eyes for the first time as she turned. It unnerved him, but it vanished as swiftly as it had appeared.

Colonel, do you believe that a soldier is defined solely by their uniform?She inquired.

He doubled down, saying, “I believe the uniform represents a sacrifice you can’t comprehend.” “Yeah, you tend to the wounds, but you have no idea how we got them. The snap-hiss of a gunshot and the scent of blood and burning diesel are unfamiliar to you. You repair us and return us. You work as a mechanic. The race vehicles are us.

“A mechanic,” she said again. A faint, melancholy grin appeared on her lips. “Do you believe that I am?”

Sterling boldly challenged, “Prove me wrong,” as the painkillers began to wear off. Tell me if you have ever been this close to a kill zone while watching it on CNN.”

Sarah went to wash her hands at the sink. She used a paper towel to gently dry them. Sterling’s arms’ hair stood up as the room’s air seemed to get heavier and more charged with static electricity.

The courteous customer service expression she had previously wore was gone from her face as she turned to face him.

“Colonel, you requested a corpsman,” she remarked. “You requested someone who is able to distinguish between a femur and a fibula under pressure.”

She grabbed her scrub top’s collar. Sterling opened his lips to protest when he briefly believed she was undressing, but she didn’t remove the top. She lifted up the left sleeve of her undershirt, a white thermal with long sleeves that she wore underneath the scrubs.

She rolled the cloth past her elbow and beyond her wrist. Sterling’s gaze expanded. A tattoo covered the pale skin from wrist to elbow on the inside of her forearm. However, it wasn’t a flower or a butterfly.

It was a mural of black and gray ink, wild, gorgeous, and horrifying. The Marine Corps’ sacred emblem, the Eagle, Globe, and Anchor, was positioned in the middle. However, the Medical Corps’ caduceus was placed on top of it, and the sharp, jagged lines of a map were interwoven with the anchor chain.

That map was one that Sterling was familiar with. It was Fallujah’s Jolan District street grid. The words “So Others May Live” were written beneath it in bold Gothic style.

However, it wasn’t the map that caused Sterling to gasp for air. It was the Dark Horse 3/5 unit crest, a modest, recognizable insignia inscribed just next to the ditch of her elbow: a skull with a spade. There was a date next to it: November 2004.

Sterling gazed. Phantom Fury, the bloodiest combat of the Iraq War, occurred in this year.

“You,” stumbled Sterling as his mind tried to make sense of the middle-aged woman and the ink on her arm. Did you have a bond with Three-Fifths? in 2004?”

Sarah took a while to respond. She rolled the sleeve up an additional inch. A scar, a rough, unsightly pucker of flesh that resembled a deep crater, was visible there.

Sarah continued, “I wasn’t just attached, Colonel,” her voice descending to a whisper that sounded like a thousand graves. “I was assigned to the Hell House as the lead surgical nurse for Bravo Surgical Company.” We scraped you off the pavement, not just fixed you.

Pointing a finger at his chest, she moved closer to him.

“I didn’t wait for a doctor when your Sergeant Major—Gunny Miller at the time—came in with his legs cut at the knees. We ran out of CATs, so I used my own bootlaces to tourniquet him. Therefore, you have no right to sit there and claim that I am unaware of the stench of blood and fuel. Every night, I still wash it out of my hair.

The only sound in the room was the IV drip while Sterling sat still. Not only had she served, but she had served in the very hell on which he had based his reputation.

Sterling muttered, “Miller.” “You kept Gunny Miller alive.”

“He passed away,” Sarah stated bluntly. He asked me to inform his wife that he loved her before he passed away while holding my hand. The last thing he saw was me. Not a Marine. Me. A civilian wearing scrubs

The ensuing hush was overwhelming. Compared to Sterling’s previous Kevlar vests, it was heavier. The sound of the computer fan appeared to vanish, engulfed by the emptiness of the realization.

Sterling gazed at the map of the Jolan area, the death zone where the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines had fought for every last bit of dust, on Sarah’s arm. He glanced up at her face from the tattoo. He had written off the lines around her eyes as the weariness of a middle-aged housewife, but now they appeared to be something quite else.

They were sorrowful etchings. They were a witness’s marks.

With the understanding striking him like a physical blow, Sterling said, “You are the angel.” “The Jolan Angel.”

When he was a young Captain, he had heard this myth. The Forward Resuscitative Surgical System (FRSS), a mobile trauma unit that traveled with the front lines, had a Navy Nurse, according to the grunts. They said that because it limited her range of motion, she refused to wear a flak jacket during surgery.

They claimed that for three weeks in a row, she had blood up to her elbows. They claimed that after the morphine ran out, she hummed lullabies to Marines as they passed out.

Slowly, Sarah slid her sleeve down to cover the history, the map, and the skull.

“I detest that name,” she muttered. “Colonel, there are no angels in combat. Only survivors and ghosts.

With a hoarse voice, Sterling remarked, “I thought you were a myth.” “We have learned that the FRSS was directly impacted. mortars. They said that the medical staff was completely destroyed.

Sarah turned back to the computer and remarked, “Most were,” but her hands were quivering a little. “November 12th was the date. We were put up in a schoolhouse that had been abandoned. The mortars were walked in from the north.

She inhaled nervously. The generator was removed by the first one. The triage tent was struck by the second one. I was cleaning a wound on my chest at the back.

She stopped, her gaze adrift, gazing through the hospital’s pristine white wall and envisioning a blood-red, smokey tent in Iraq.

“I worked on triage by flashlight for the next six hours,” she added. “We lacked sufficient hands.” Colonel, I had to make a decision. Red or black tags. Who receives a hand to hold while they pass away and who receives the plasma? Miller, Gunny? He was a red tag that changed to black. I made an effort. God, I made an effort.

Sterling had a surge of embarrassment that almost overshadowed the ache in his hip. This woman had just been chastised by him. She was described as a soft civilian by him. He had made fun of her for not being able to detect the smell of blood.

Sarah responded to his unanswered query, “I got out in ’05.” “I was no longer able to wear the outfit. I could smell burning every time I put it on. I couldn’t fully leave the Marines, so I came to Balboa. I simply have to treat them without regard to their status or politics.

Her expression hardened once more as she turned to face him. All I wanted was to be Sarah. Only a nurse. Yes, I am now a civilian, Colonel. However, don’t assume that my lack of rank means I’m incapable. More Marines have been reassembled by me than you have ordered.

Sterling took a deep breath. His ego was destroyed, but the ache in his hip had become a dull, thumping roar. He made an effort to sit up more straight, putting a degree of deference into his stance that he typically saved for generals.

“I’m sorry,” Sterling said. The terms were unfamiliar but essential. “I didn’t belong there. I figured.

Sarah softly interrupted, “You assumed what you saw.” Assessing dangers is what Marines are taught to do. Colonel, I’m not a threat. I am your lifeblood.

She stretched out and changed his IV’s flow. Now describe the anguish to me. the actual suffering. Not the “I’ll take it” kind. The reality

Sterling gave her a serious glance before nodding. It’s more than just the place. There is a pulse behind the hip bone and it feels hot, as if someone had poured boiling water into the marrow. deep within the stomach.

Sarah’s eyes immediately narrowed. The grandmotherly tenderness was gone, replaced by the combat clinician’s razor-sharp, predatory focus.

“Pulsing,” she said again. Does it have a rhythm? Is it in sync with your heartbeat?”

Sterling wiped perspiration from his top lip and mumbled, “Yeah.” “It’s becoming more audible.”

Sarah remained silent. She went to his side right away and put her touch on his lower abdomen, just above the groin, rather than his hip. She applied a hard pressure.

Sterling let out a guttural cry that he was unable to control.

Sarah said to herself, “Rigid.” Lowering her hand, she felt for a pulse in his left foot. She scowled. She examined her right foot. Next, the left once more.

“What?Observing the shift in her attitude, Sterling inquired. “What is it?”

Sarah replied in a clipped, businesslike manner, “Your left pedal pulse is weak.” Additionally, your abdomen is protecting. When did you last get an X-ray, Colonel?”

“Six months beforehand. routine examination.

What about the shrapnel? In what precise location was it seated?”

positioned within the ileum. According to the doctors, it was encapsulated. secure.

Sarah stated somberly, “Encapsulated shrapnel doesn’t pulse.”

Trusting her ears over the machine, she physically wrapped the Velcro blood pressure cuff around his arm after tearing it from the wall mount. She used her stethoscope to listen closely as she pumped the bulb. She kept an eye on the gauge. Next, she opened the valve.

“BP is declining,” she declared. “90 more than 60.” When you entered, you were 130 above 85.

Sterling lolled his head back against the headrest and said, “I feel… tired.” It was beginning to swim in the room. “Just a minute, please.”

Sarah didn’t wait for him. She whirled around and pressed the wall’s red “Staff Assist” button. An emergency was indicated by the alarm’s harsh, rhythmic screech that echoed across the hallway.

“Nurse Jenkins?Looking frightened by the alert, the young corpsman at the front desk stuck his head in.

“Now get a gurney in here!Sarah growled. It wasn’t a request. The order was given with the authority and volume of a drill instructor. “And the Vascular page. Inform them that there may have been an iliac artery rupture. “Code Three.”

Vascular?The corpsman stumbled. “But Ortho is the reason he is here.”

“Petty Officer, did I stutter?Sarah’s eyes blazed as she whirled on him. “Go!”

Scrambling, the corpsman did. Sterling’s eyes narrowed as he stared at her.

“Rupture?He muttered. “That sounds awful.”

Sarah leaned over him and put her face against his, saying, “The shrapnel moved.” Mike, it didn’t simply migrate. Something was cut by it. Internal bleeding is occurring. We must relocate.

She had never used his first name before. It was the final sound he heard before being carried away by the darkness.

The world returned in bursts of dazzling brightness and frantic cacophony. Lieutenant Colonel Sterling was on the go. He was gazing up at the fast-moving acoustic ceiling tiles. There was a shout.

“BP is in a terrible state! 70+40. The radial pulse is disappearing. wide-open fluids. Squeeze the bags!”

“The surgeon is nowhere to be found.”

Sterling’s body felt like lead, and he attempted to turn his head. The voice yelling commands was one he recognized. Sarah was the one.

They stormed into a trauma bay through a pair of double doors. This place had colder air. Rough hands gripped the sheet beneath him as he was lifted and placed on a rigid trauma table.

Overhead, the PA system said, “Trauma team to Bay One.”

Looking at the monitors, a young resident in a white coat hurried over. “What have we got? I mistook this for a hip consultation.

Through the commotion, Sarah’s voice said, “Retroperitoneal bleed.” She was controlling the airway from the head of the bed. The patient has a post-operative battle injury. Twenty years. movement of shrapnel. He has hypovolemia. Instead of saline, he needs blood. O-neg. Two pieces. Stat.

The resident looked at Sarah and paused. “Nurse, before we—” we need a CT scan to confirm.”

“Observe his stomach!Sarah yelled, snatching the resident’s hand and pressing it to Sterling’s swollen belly. He is as inflexible as a board. He will die in the elevator if you send him to CT. It’s a blowout. You must either get him to the OR or clamp the aorta.

The resident panicked, “I can’t open him up down here without an attending.” “Dr. Halloway continues to scrub out.

“Then get someone else to come!Sarah shouted.

Sterling’s gaze wavered. He was chilled. So very chilly. It was exactly like Garmsir. Similar to the ditch where he had waited for the bird for three hours while bleeding.

He thought, This is it. Twenty years late, taken out by a piece of metal. at a San Diego waiting area.

A hand seized his shoulder. A warm, powerful hand.

“Mike! Remain with me!Sarah was bending over him. The monitors were out of her line of sight. She had her eyes on him. “Marine, don’t fade on me. You didn’t make it out of Fallujah to pass away during my shift.

“Sarah,” he exclaimed. “The map…”

“Ignore the map. Pay attention to my voice.

A constant, high-pitched scream started coming from the monitor.

“V-fib! He is a coder!The inhabitant shouted. “Paddles for charging!”

“No!Sarah pushed the occupant out of the way. He is not under any strain. Nothing needs to be pumped. It is hypovolemia-related PEA (Pulseless Electrical Activity). Compressions should begin. Push Epi.

Sarah immediately clambered up onto a step stool. She placed herself over Sterling’s enormous chest, put her fingers together, and started pumping.

One, two, three, and four.

“Come on, Mike!With the effort, she grunted. “Combat!”

Sterling drifted. He was in a gray corridor. He saw faces at the end of the hall. Gunny Miller caught his eye. He noticed that the boys from 3/5 had not returned home. They were resting against a HESCO barrier, smoking cigarettes, and waiting.

It appeared that Miller said, “Not yet, sir.” “She still has feelings for you.”

There’s a thump, a thump. Sarah’s compressions had terrible force. Her ribs were cracking. She was unconcerned. She was pumping what little blood he had left through his heart by hand.

“I must get that blood!Sarah yelled at the nurses as they rushed into the room. “Get it in! A pressure bag! There’s blood hanging!”

“Dr. Halloway is out in two minutes!”

“We’re running out of time!In order to examine the pulse, Sarah halted the compressions. Nothing. She gave the resident a look. “REBOA.” Do we possess a REBOA kit?”

A specific tool was the Resuscitative Endovascular Balloon Occlusion of the Aorta, or REBOA. To halt the bleeding beneath the chest and save the blood in the heart and brain, a balloon was inserted up the femoral artery to seal the aorta from the inside. It was sophisticated, dangerous, and often performed by a surgeon.

With a pallid face, the inhabitant confessed, “I’ve never done one.”

The crash cart caught Sarah’s attention. The dying Marine on the table caught her attention. She took a decision that would ruin her career. A decision that, if she didn’t succeed, may land her in jail.

Then she said, “Open the kit.”

Nurse Jenkins, you’re not able to.

She yelled, “I was FRSS certified in vascular access under fire.” “During Ramadan, I performed three of these in a ditch. Get out of my way or open the dang kit.

There was silence in the room. There was tremendous authority emanating from her. The Angel of Jolan was emerging. The kit was opened by the resident.

Sarah’s speed was frightening. She took the access needle with her right hand and the ultrasonography probe with her left.

She said, “Compressions, hold.”

She checked the femoral artery on the right side. The good leg. I located it. She inserted the needle. A flash of blood. The wire was strung by her.

“Catheter.”

She received it from the resident. Visualizing the anatomy in her mind, she blindly guided the long, thin tube up Sterling’s artery by feel and landmarks. In order to prevent blood flow to the kidneys, she had to raise the balloon just high enough to obstruct blood flow to the hips.

“Deploying balloon,” she remarked coolly. Within Sterling’s aorta, she inflated the apparatus.

Everyone’s eyes were fixed on the monitor. Nothing happened for ten excruciating seconds. The line didn’t change. Then a blip. Then another. The previously nonexistent blood pressure suddenly registered.

More than sixty-four. Then 80 above 50. She had forced the remaining blood back to his brain and heart by sealing the leak.

“Sinus rhythm,” the resident exhaled while gazing in wonder at Sarah. “There is a pulse in us.”

Sarah didn’t rejoice. Sweat trickled from her nose onto her mask as she sagged a little. “He is steady. Take him to the operating room. Now that he is not bleeding out, Halloway can repair the tear.

The doors flew open. Still fastening his surgical mask, a tall, silver-haired man named Dr. Halloway hurried in. He observed the scene: Sarah standing there with her chest heaving, the crash cart, the blood on the ground, and the REBOA catheter protruding from Sterling’s thigh.

“Status?Halloway insisted.

“Shrapnel migration caused a ruptured iliac,” the inhabitant said, his voice trembling. He wrote code. A REBOA was put by Nurse Jenkins. She returned him.

Halloway paused. He examined the gadget. He gave Sarah a look. Although he was aware that Sarah was a skilled nurse, he was unaware that she was even familiar with the concept of a REBOA, much less how to administer one to a patient who was coding.

Sarah, did you place this?Halloway inquired.

“He was dead, Doctor,” Sarah murmured, her voice quivering as the rush of excitement subsided. “I had no other option.”

Halloway looked at the screen. “The placement appears ideal. His life was saved by you.

He looked at the group. “One is prepared, so let’s move. We have a window. Let’s avoid wasting it.

Halloway stopped and touched Sarah’s shoulder as they wheeled Sterling out. “We should discuss this later,” he stated gravely. “Well done, Lieutenant.”

He made use of her former rank. He was aware.

Sarah was by herself in the trauma bay. Sterling’s blood was all over her hands. She went to the sink, pulled up her sleeves, and turned on the water. As she cleaned, the water turned red. She examined the Fallujah map tattooed on her arm.

She muttered to the skull and spade, “Not today.” “Today you don’t get him.”

The trauma bay’s cacophonous din contrasted sharply with the quiet cathedral of technology that was Balboa’s intensive care unit. Although the tube had already been taken out, Lieutenant Colonel Mike Sterling awoke to the steady whoosh-click of a ventilator.

His left side felt like a thick, numb block of ice, and his throat felt like he had swallowed shattered glass. His eyes adjusted to the low light by blinking. At the foot of his bed, a man was examining a chart.

Sarah wasn’t the one. Dr. Halloway was there.

“Colonel, welcome back to the land of the living,” Halloway remarked softly. He appeared worn out. “You really scared us.”

Halloway brought Sterling some ice chips, and he coughed and attempted to speak. “The hip?He rasped.

“Repaired,” remarked Halloway. “We took the shrapnel out. It resembled a fragment of an old Soviet artillery round and had sharp edges. Your common iliac artery was cut by it. About two liters of blood leaked into your retroperitoneal region. To be honest, Mike, you ought to be dead.

Sterling had a disjointed recollection. He recalled the agony. He recalled the waiting area. He thought of Sarah.

Sterling said, “The nurse.” Sarah. She was present.

Halloway’s face became tense. He drew a chair near the bed and closed the chart.

That’s what we should discuss. Your life was spared by Sarah Jenkins. There’s no room for doubt. You wrote code. Your heart stopped. She carried out a REBOA operation. In order to bring you to surgery, she stopped the bleeding by inserting a balloon into your aorta.

“So? Sterling, perplexed by the doctor’s somber tone, remarked, “She did her job.”

Halloway told him, “She did my job, Mike.” “REBOA is a surgical treatment. For a civilian nurse working at this facility, it is outside the scope of practice. She doesn’t have the necessary credentials. She didn’t hold off on attending. According to the hospital’s management, she operated on a senior official without authorization and in an invasive manner.

Sterling attempted to sit up but was pushed back by the agony. “I was saved by her.” I would be in a box if she waited. I am aware of that.

“You are aware of that. Stephen Caldwell, the hospital director, has a different perspective. He believes a huge liability case is just on the corner. If you had died as a result of her aortic perforation, the hospital would have been sued to death for allowing a nurse to “play surgeon.”

A wave of the old fighting rage swept through Sterling. “Where is she?”

Halloway sighed and said, “She has been placed on immediate administrative leave.” A review board hearing is scheduled for tomorrow morning. Mike, they’re going to fire her. They may also report her to the State Board of Nursing so that her license can be revoked. They refer to it as “cowboy medicine” and egregious negligence.

“Cowboy medicine?Sterling snarled. She is a veteran of combat. In the dirt, she discovered that.

Caldwell seems unconcerned about the events in Fallujah. Protocol is important to him. Sarah is standing by herself at the moment.

Sterling’s eyes scanned the IV lines that were inserted into his arm. He turned to face the window, where the San Diego sun was attempting to penetrate the mist. The tattoo came back to him. in order for others to survive. They were crucifying her because she had lived out her creed.

“What time is this hearing?Sterling enquired.

“In the administration wing tomorrow at 0900. But Colonel, you’re not free to relocate. Just twelve hours have passed since your surgery.

Sterling’s eyes, as hard and cold as steel, were fixed on Halloway. “You fixed the tire, doctor. Get me out of the garage, please. I will attend that hearing.

“You can’t walk, Mike.”

“Then locate a wheelchair for me,” Sterling ordered. “And bring my uniform to me.” They will have to face me directly if they choose to prosecute a Marine for protecting another Marine.

The Naval Medical Center’s top-floor meeting room was air-conditioned, sterile, and reeking of bureaucracy and lemon shine. The space was dominated by a long mahogany table.

Director Stephen Caldwell, who had never experienced a day of war in his life, sat at the head in a spotless gray suit. The director of nursing and the hospital’s chief legal counsel stood by him.

At the opposite end of the table was Sarah Jenkins. Today, she didn’t wear scrubs. She was dressed simply in jeans and a navy blue jacket. Still and calm, she folded her hands on the table. In the context of the organization she had worked for for fifteen years, she appeared diminutive.

“Ms. Getting his glasses adjusted, Caldwell said, “Jenkins.” “The incident report has been examined. There is no question about the facts. Without a doctor present, you used a REBOA device on a patient. You performed an operation for which you are not licensed in the State of California, disregarded the chain of command, and circumvented hospital procedures.

Sarah stated in a calm but steady voice, “The patient was in PEA arrest.” He was exsanguinated. The tank was empty, thus compressions were useless. He would have died of irreversible brain damage in three minutes if I hadn’t blocked the aorta. Two minutes had passed since Dr. Halloway left.

The legal counsel said, “That is conjecture.” Dr. Evans, the resident, was there. You overruled him.

“Dr. “Evans froze,” Sarah answered. He said that he had no idea how to operate the gadget. I did.

“Where did you get this instruction?With a doubtful tone, Caldwell inquired. “Because it’s not in your file here at Balboa.”

“I discovered it in the Iraqi region of Al Anbar. 2004,” Sarah remarked. “Under the direction of Navy Commander Dr. Ares. At the time, we lacked the upscale equipment. We made use of guessing and Foley catheters.

Caldwell groaned and removed his spectacles, saying, “But it worked.” We honor your prior service, Miss Jenkins. However, this is not a triage tent in a combat zone; rather, it is a civilian hospital in San Diego. We have regulations. These regulations are in place to safeguard patients. Improvisation is not an option. This constitutes careless endangerment.

He took a moment to collect his paperwork. “We are forced to refer this matter to the Board and terminate your employment with immediate effect.”

Sarah glanced at her hands. She refrained from crying. She didn’t plead. She was aware of the guidelines. She was aware of her breach. She was aware that Sterling was still alive, though. That must have been sufficient.

“I get it,” she muttered.

Do you have anything more to say?Reaching for the termination documents, Caldwell inquired.