Bones of the Lost

patterns.
    Shout? But in what direction? How was I lying?
    Was anyone out there? Was anyone alive to free me? Had the others also been buried?
    I blinked sand from my eyes. Saw only inky blackness. Heard only stillness. No voices. No shovels. No movement.
    Again, the panic.
    Think. Forget the rubble. The dust. The deafening quiet.
    I tried rolling to my left. My right leg was pinned. I could feel a sharp edge pressing the flesh of my calf.
    I tried flexing my knee. A hot spike ripped up from my ankle.
    I tried rolling to my right. Got nowhere. My shoulder was jammed tight against rock. Rock that moments before had overhung the graveyard. Rock that now buried me like the dead we’d just raised.
    Think
.
    I willed myself calm. Willed my breathing steady. Willed the bulky armor to rise and fall.
    In. Out. In. Out.
    I tried yelling, but my mouth was too dry. I mustered what saliva I could and tried again.
    My voice sounded dull, muffled. And which way was up? Down? Was I yelling into the sky or the earth?
    My thoughts were again growing muddled. Oxygen deprivation? Or was it carbon dioxide overload? I knew the answer to that once. It was not coming to me now.
    Questions winged.
    An incoming mortar? A surface-to-surface missile? Launched by whom?
    What did that matter?
    Were Blanton and Welsted also buried? The two young diggers?
    I closed my eyes. Heard only the soft hiss of sand worming through cracks.
    Why was no one probing? Digging? Shouting? Had the villagers abandoned us? To let our people get us out or not?
    Would I die? Of hypothermia? Asphyxia? How long would it take?
    The thought of death filled me with a terrible sadness. In this place, so far from home, so far from the people I loved. Katy. Harry. Pete. Ryan. Yes, Ryan.
    A tear traced a path sideways across my cheek and dropped to my hand.
    My addled brain managed a deduction.
    Dropped. Gravity. I was lying on my right side. The earth was somewhere below it. Dirt, rock, and sky were somewhere above my left shoulder.
    I inhaled and began to test as far as my left hand could go.
    My fingertips described a Lego jigsaw, gravity and pressure holding the pieces in place. Disturbing the balance might cause a shift, might bring more debris crashing down.
    How much air did I have? The rocks were porous and most likely hadn’t compacted tightly enough to exclude oxygen. But how deeply was I interred? When would help arrive? To find a survivor or a body?
    Then I knew nothing.
    Then I awoke. Heard sounds. Watery, indistinct.
    Voices?
    I froze.
    Yes. Human voices. High and agitated.
    Desperate, euphoric, I maneuvered my left hand to grope the farthest recesses of the small vacuum in front of my face. My fingers closed on a stone the size of my fist. My heart raced as I moved it in the small arc the limited space would permit, trying to bang against the rock above my head.
    What was Morse code for SOS?
    Mother of God. Who gives a shit?
    I kept pounding with pathetically small strokes, desperate to make contact with the outside world.
    The shouting intensified. Drew near. I heard staccato commands. Answers. Grinding. Dull thuds.
    “Careful!” I bellowed. Or whispered. “I’m okay, just be careful.”
    The grinding continued. Separated into the sounds of individual rocks being shifted.
    After what seemed a lifetime, a single shaft of light pierced the darkness. More grinding, then bright needles entered from all directions, a kaleidoscope sparkling dust suspended in the air around me.
    Finally, a rock lifted and harsh, glorious sunlight poured in. I squinted up, blinded.
    Blanton’s face hung above me, skin flushed the color of boiled ham.
    “Sit tight. We’ll get you out in a jiff.”
    I could only smile.
     
    Three hours later we were on our way back to Delaram. Aqsaee and Rasekh lay in body bags in the back of the vehicle.
    When the mortar hit, both marines had been positioned behind the Humvee. Same for Welsted. Though scratched by flying shards, all three escaped injury.
    Ironic. Blanton’s need for nicotine saved his ass. He had also been standing clear of the impact zone. The diggers, being young and war-wise, heard the incoming round, understood, and ran.
    In other words, I was the only one dumb enough to get hurt. Parked on my knees, I’d been too slow or too green to bolt. The impact of the blast had knocked me into the grave. The debris that fell on me wasn’t that deep. Though it seemed an eternity, I’d been buried roughly ten minutes. The sides of