Save One Love

He had very little experience with children. He went onto his knees and elbows, rifle slung around back, and scooped the child into his hands. She was tiny, only five weeks old, he remembered, and she was whimpering. She had a small strip of cloth in her mouth-to pacify? To gag? To prevent noise? He removed it. She was wrapped around with a light towel and a small blanket-not swaddled tightly but wrapped with a hood effect and it was tucked to keep her from getting out. The night was not cold-perhaps mid-fifties, and Jack thought she was in no danger from that, although maybe uncomfortable.

He knew she needed food or water to keep quiet-but he doubted she was weaned, or if it was even possible to be weaned so young, she only suckled at the breast, probably. He needed to find food for her, or something, so that he could keep her alive until rescue could be arranged. He needed food, milk, for a child, or they would risk the danger of her cries. The only place he could get some was in the house. Perhaps canned milk, or formula for water, or what else did he have? What was possible? He was a Marine in southern Syria, with dedicated jihadists around. What does a Marine feed an infant?

He had an MRE, extra instant coffee and creamer powder, sugar-he always had extra coffee and creamer packets.

He looked around. The hiding place was well situated. He softly placed her back in her hollow, made sure the cloths covered her, and softly over her face, and he crawled back, back up over the hill, down to the house, quiet and dark. His knees were painful from the stones he crawled on, but there was nothing for it. He avoided his light, saved his night vision goggles (he had no more batteries). He moved slowly, thanking the instructors of Shayetet for their insistence on patience in stealth. There was movement to the left of the house, and then a flashlight, and he backed out slowly. He heard voices. There would be no resupply from the house. He was quiet and low, and slowly found his way back over the hill.

He could not find her. He was frantic for a moment-he felt for her. No rock seemed right, and then one did but was not, and another. He panicked and forced himself to be calm. Oh my God I lost her, he thought. He heard sound of some sort, and went left. He was quiet and smooth and his hearing was paramount, and he heard noise. It must be her. He found a depression between two rocks. He heard cooing, and breath, and he touched a warm wrapped child. Again on elbows, he lifted her in his rough, calloused hands. He held her to his ceramic-plated, kevlar vest. Of course he could not feel her nor she him through all that. But he held her as if they could. He moved them farther from the house, finally between rocks that provided cover and shade when the sun would come up, and he hoped the bad guys did not happen by.

Sitting among the rocks on a cloudy night, he opened his vest and jacket and held the child against his tee shirt so she could feel his warmth, perhaps feel his heartbeat. He could feel hers. He listened for sounds of people and held the child, who mostly slept. She was warm and he felt her. He did.

*

SEALs were usually secretive, but the disappointment Mr. Aglai felt when he was told of the deaths of the Haddad family was wrenching and soon the whole flight deck knew of the mission and its failure. He latched onto the hope for the infant, who he'd only seen once two weeks before. He did not know her name. His heart broken, his hope focused, he spoke to people on the flight deck where he'd been awaiting the return of the Haddads. Seeing the bodies, sailors and the chaplain saw also his anguish, heard him speak. He felt the guilt of one who had coaxed a family to its demise. Word got around quickly: The SEAL Squad leader stayed behind to search for an infant. For once, the morbid attitudes of military men and women were subsumed as all came to hope that Baby Haddad survived, and that the lost Marine found her.

It was three hours before Leslie called Captain Miller.

"Captain, SEAL Squad Detached Six. I found the package, alive and well. We are evading."

Miller knew a morale motivator when he heard it. He turned to those nearby. "He found her alive and well."

Suddenly there was cheering and clapping. There was smiling on the flight deck, middle of the night, somewhere in the eastern Med. The mission suddenly overwhelmed all other purposes. Sailors going through the motions were more aware of their tasks, more careful loading those rounds, checking that Jesus nut, adjusting this cannon. Everyone assumed an extraction would be attempted next night.

Miller allowed himself a smile. Jack and a baby, lost in the desert. Now he had to figure a way to save their asses.

*

Extract was finally arranged for the next night, a klick away from the house, in darkness.

She'd had two dirty diapers which he'd mostly ignored, then rubbed the old cloth on the rocks under scrub and moved away. She was developing a rash, so he wet a strip of his tee shirt with water and wiped her, then let her bottom naked to dry. He thought, Sarah, you have to hang on just a few hours.

Every sound he feared an enemy. Every few hours he moved farther up the hill, looking for shade, getting away from the house, moving slowly to the extract. But they were still hundreds of meters from the top of the hill.

He did not drink much, trying to save one of his two canteens-one liter-for her drinking, her cleansing. He gave up on the whole canteen for her because she drank so little and he needed so much, but he kept some for her. He poured water on another strip of his tee shirt as the strip that had been in her mouth was too small, and let her suck on that, did it quite a while, then made a paste of the coffee creamer, and dipped the shirt into the creamer, wrapped it around his finger. She sucked on that some with his finger inside. He felt no teeth in her gums. When do kids get teeth, he wondered?

He surveyed the area as best he could, but he had a child to defend, to clean, to care for, and how much can one learn at Shayetet? Perhaps a course in infant care in the field? He smiled. The mission was a child. They were prone in the shade of some rocks, and it was hot. The sun beat so much shade was only slightly better, but October was not summer and it was bearable.

He checked his map. The terrain was downhill after cresting the hill to the south, then a straight run to the LZ. The best thing about operations in Syria was the plethora of landing zones. He waited out the day, trying to please the child, playing, tickling, giving her water and creamer paste... He rubbed his nose in her tummy beside her shrivelling umbilical cord. He made little sounds he had never made before, mostly under his breath. He sought her smile, which she gave occasionally. He feared her cry as a danger to them both. He considered his two drugs... NO. He would not drug her. He'd die fighting for her, but he would not kill her by an accidental overdose. By the late afternoon, he would not go more than ten feet from the child.

He wondered at his feelings. It mattered that she was American for the mission to be approved, but it was not his motivation. If she were Palestinian or Tutsi he'd have sent that helicopter away-what mattered to him was that she was threatened, she was innocent, and only he could save her. It was an awesome responsibility, an awesome opportunity, and Leslie wanted the end of the story to be happy despite its horribly tragic inception.

Sarah-he called her Sarah for her mom. "They died for you, Little One," he whispered. "Your mom and dad, your big brothers, they all died for you. I will get you out of here if I live. They deserve your survival."

Four hours before extract Leslie notified Captain Miller he was moving to observe the extract LZ just as the sun went below the horizon. The Captain said, "SEAL Squad Unnumbered will provide security at extract." Leslie smiled. Ortiz would be there, and he felt better. He wondered what the team thought of him, so recently their commander and then leaving them. He looked up for a drone but saw none-perhaps it was too high, or too small, or not there.

He carried her in his left hand, her face down, barely reaching his elbow with her curled legs. He had access to his pistol, his M4 rifle, his bayonet, and the sat phone with his right. He had been frugal in use of the phone and its batteries; he didn't know how long the batteries would last. He walked more slowly than usual, sometimes carrying the child in both hands. The walk was not long to the top of the hill, which should afford a view of the LZ. He reached the top after a half an hour, having travelled only about 250 meters. With several more hours to extract, he watched the LZ and the way they'd come. It was almost dark.

He heard noise behind them; they were not alone. He found a spot and waited. On the phone, he heard. "Drone overhead. You have at least three enemy nearby. Nearest is...120 meters west. None south. One 200 meters east." The report continued. "All are static."

He did not think they followed; rather, they had placed a wide perimeter, and had perhaps discovered him walking to the hilltop. Perhaps they only suspected, or it was their method to throw a wide perimeter in case the Americans came back. He thought the child and he were in a good place. He heard movement below, but not talk. Perhaps it was just one sentinel. The child slept in the early evening heat, and Leslie watched as the sky gradually darkened. The twilight lingered but finally ended.

She woke. He gave her more water, plain water. She sucked on his finger wrap, which he kept saturating with water. Make no sound, Baby, he thought. If you can stand it, Sarah, do not cry. But he was ready. If she cried, he intended to snatch her and run for that LZ. Hell or high water, he thought, smiling.

At twenty minutes to extract, he reported sounds but no movement near the hill he now occupied, and informed them he and the child were 400 meters away and moving to the LZ using a zigzag. The movement jostled the child and she began to cry. Jack decided the hell with it and, using his night vision, they moved fast, jogging when he had a good view of more open land. Her little cries stopped with the activity.

He went to his knees and checked his gps as he reached the field he thought the LZ. Then prone, the child tucked in safely below him, he said to her, "You are Sarah Haddad, for your mother and father, who loved you. God save us. You will live much longer, if I have any say in the matter." He heard choppers in the distance. Suddenly tracers flew, a recon by fire, probably, but in the wrong direction, and Leslie swivelled his M4 around his body for action. Sarah was on the ground beneath him. Everything happened very quickly then, and some things simultaneously.

*

Leslie was sure he'd killed at least one, perhaps two of the fighters in the ten seconds he was firing. Their recon exposed their positions. He fired at some flashes from the hilltop he'd just left, and they stopped. Silence followed, and after some seconds a chopper was coming in, and he heard another circling. He scooped Sarah comfortably into his left hand, she looking down through his fingers, he hoping he did not irritate that withering, drying shrivel of an umbilical cord, and he ran for the chopper before it put down 75 meters away-when an RPG passed him and the child, impacting beyond the chopper.

He was yelling now, not wanting to die of friendly fire, yelling. Fifty yards, running... how long could it take? Twenty... He saw Unnumbered dispersed around the chopper, firing past him. He had only feet to go to the Chinook when he felt a blow to his thigh, his right thigh, and suddenly it didn't matter that he wanted to walk or run or crawl. His right leg would not work. He had the child under his body, along his arm, and he fell shielding her, left elbow in the rocky soil, left hand holding her face from the rock, falling with a twist onto his right to protect her. He pushed up with his left, good leg and his right hand. He was mostly erect when he felt another round impact his right leg, his calf, and he thought, Come on, give me a break! That side's already hit! He was half kneeling, his right leg useless, right knee bent but holding no weight. But he stiffened, right hand on the ground, and pushed with his left leg, every muscle requiring extraordinary effort.

He hopped up, toward his goal, heard someone yelling "Mr. Leslie!" and he finally reached...Ortiz, by the ramp, and his guys were backing in and firing into the brush, the chopper had a heavier gun firing, and that good man Ortiz was reaching toward Leslie, and Leslie swung with his left hand and felt Ortiz grab the child, saw the wonder in his eyes as he received a gift of God from his Six, and the world went dim and Leslie didn't care any more as he fell forward.

Sometime during his momentary relief, Leslie thought, I accomplished my mission. I did. I hope to God the kid's okay. I hope to God...

He saw his guys pile into the chopper and it was up, machine guns firing, and he heard a Cobra burping away. "Ortiz," Leslie yelled in the noise of the flight, "take care of the kid." Ortiz, cradling her awkwardly but almost like a first-time parent, gave him a thumbs up. Leslie looked at his guys as Varmint put a tourniquet on his leg, and they were all smiling. He felt them about him, satisfied in some way. They all said something to him or patted his shoulder, and there was the camaraderie of missions accomplished and this time-this time-they all knew the purpose. Someone gave him a shot of painkiller and he felt the warmth sweep over as they headed out to sea.

After the chopper landed on the Bataan, there was clapping from however many sailors were present as Ortiz handed Sarah to a nurse on the flight deck, and then Jack was lifted onto a stretcher.

*

Chapter 10: Save One Life

"Sarah," Leslie said.

"She's gone," he heard, but it couldn't be, 5 weeks, she was alive, she was sucking and crying and cooing and he almost screamed but..."

"Sarah Haddad, she died before the raid," he heard.

"No, the child, the child," he said, hoping they heard, hoping for understanding, feeling relief they'd mistaken him.

He heard nothing.

"Mr. Leslie, you there? Mr. Leslie?"

He heard and did not want to hear.

"Wake, Mr. Leslie. Jacob!! Awake!" a voice said. There was a surreal aspect to the demand, Biblically surreal, as if a command to rise from death. Jacob, AWAKE!

"Yes?" Jack said.

Did they hear? He opened his eyes but he could not focus, and he forced himself to settle but the child, the child...how was the child? Was she safe?

He felt a hand on his shoulder and noticed also a throbbing in his leg, and instantly his memory cleared and he remembered practically throwing her toward Ortiz and the helicopter, the blows to his leg, the leg that throbbed now. He saw clearly, finally, saw a woman in scrubs smiling at him.

"Where..." he got out.

"You're on the Bataan, Captain," she said, misunderstanding his question.

"No...no, where is Sarah? The girl?" he said, knowing it was just a loud whisper until the last word.

"Oh," she smiled, approving, "the child is here, fine. She's in great shape. Your team is here, Ortiz had to go to a meeting but he was here all night. I'm your nurse. It's been most of a day you've been here."

Leslie fell back into his pillow, relaxed now. Sarah was fine, she's okay, he'd gotten her out, safe... Darkness overwhelmed him, and reality was debatable.

*

"...an email message from an Israeli Colonel Meier," Leslie heard, and pulled, yanked, slid, and finally hoisted himself to his senses, his awake, his world. He felt himself groan then. "Meier," he said, and he felt someone close, a woman, her ear, next his mouth. "Colonel Meier," he said, hopefully louder.

"Yes," Leslie heard quite loudly, as the reader made effort for him to hear, "Colonel Meier writes, 'You are S-13, Mr. Leslie,' she says. What does that mean?"

Leslie felt honored. "It means she's proud of me," he gasped out, tracks appearing on his face, suddenly breathless, and he was thinking, how did she know?

He heard a woman's voice, "I think every woman on this ship-and that includes a few pilots-has paid a visit to that kid over the day she's been here. She certainly doesn't lack for cuddling."

Leslie was smiling at that image in his imagination. "I couldn't hug her much with my vest," he said.

"She's great," the voice said, and Leslie read a woman's name tag, Smith. He saw a woman above him, clearly. Smith.

"So, we're awake," a man's voice said on the other side of him.

"I'm Bill Johnson, Captain." He was taller than Ensign Smith, and a commander. "I operated on your leg. We took an AK round out of your thigh-it smashed your femur, I'm afraid, and it took us quite a while to pin it all back together. That is bad news. Good news is it should work, but you'll probably have a tough time jogging or walking without a limp. The other bullet was through and through, soft tissue damage, a good scar but it should heal more or less completely."

It's never easy to hear your career has been given a drastic come-uppance, and Leslie realized his active life in the Marines was likely ended.

"Will I have to leave the Marines, Doc?" He felt the doctor's hand on his shoulder.

"I've never heard of a better reason, Captain," the doctor said, "no one has."

Leslie did not feel smug in the knowledge his career was likely over and life as a cripple begun. He felt the tear sneak out, and the doctor looked away.

"Can I see her?" Leslie asked. "Sarah? The baby? I had to call her something that day, and I didn't know her name..."

Ensign Smith did not see Leslie as the crying type, so his silent weep was a surprise. He was not embarrassed, she saw. She said, "I think I can arrange that for you." She looked at the surgeon. "By your leave, Sir?"

"Of course."

Fifteen minutes later, propped up in his bed, he held Sarah again. It felt natural, right. Fifteen minutes later, he had a truly crazy idea...

"Ensign?" he called out as she came beside him to take the baby back to her place. "Could you send me the chaplain?"

"Of course."

The chaplain, a Navy commander, came to see him several hours later. The medical personnel were loathe to listen in on the conversations of the chaplains aboard the Bataan. Such conversations were considered most private, even holy. Several of the dying had made last confessions in that public place with only a curtain, and no one ever discussed these most private things should they be overheard.

But Ensign Smith was near when a word was mentioned, and she listened in longer than she should have but she knew it was not a religious ritual in progress.

Suddenly the chaplain-known for a dour countenance on most occasions-was laughing uncharacteristically. Everyone looked over at the curtained bed, and Ensign Smith was there, smiling, shaking her head. It was quiet for fifteen more minutes. The chaplain pulled the curtain back then, and smiling, said, "Jack, this is my first. I've helped in my parish at home but not in deployment. You've made my day. Maybe my whole tour. Get the letter written, and I'm going to give the captain a warning order."

*

"Mom, put me on speaker."

"But Jack, it's the middle of the..." when she realized something must be wrong. Jack had called many times at night from across the world, usually to let them know his mission was over and he was okay. This call was different. Leslie imagined her turning on the light, finding the button on the landline phone he'd called them on, his dad waking beside her. Dad had said he couldn't sleep during his overnight calls anyway.