American Sniper - Boekje Pienter

329/439
Suddenly, shots flew through our position. I ducked down as a
round hit the cement nearby, splattering chips everywhere. This was
an everyday occurrence in Ramadi, something that happened not once
a day but several times.
I waited a second to make sure the insurgents were done firing,
then got back up.
“You guys all right” I yelled, looking down the street toward the
soldiers on the ground, making sure they were okay.
“Yeah,” grunted the other sniper.
Ryan didn’t answer. I glanced back and saw him, still down.
“Hey, get up,” I told him. “They stopped firing. Come on.”
He didn’t move. I went over.
“What the hell” I yelled at him. “Get up. Get up.”
Then I saw the blood.
I knelt down and looked at him. There was blood all over. The side
of his face had been smashed in. He’d taken a bullet.
We had pounded into him the fact that you have to always have
your weapon up and ready; he’d had it up and scanning when the bullet
hit. It apparently got the rifle first, then ricocheted into his face.
I grabbed the radio. “Man down!” I yelled. “Man down!”
I dropped back and examined his wounds. I didn’t know what to
do, where to start. Ryan looked as if he’d been hit so bad that he was
going to die.
His body shook. I thought it was a death spasm.
Two of our platoon guys, Dauber and Tommy, ran up. They were
both corpsmen. They slipped down between us and started treating
him.