Medic! Medic!"

I could see that my platoon sergeant was shouting, but strangely, the sound of his voice seemed muffled, as if I was in a neighboring room rather than out here in the open.

I was lying on the dusty ground with my back up against a low bank so that I was actually half sitting. Sergeant O'Leary was kneeling beside me on my left.

"Medic!" he shouted again urgently, over his shoulder.

He turned his head and looked me in the eyes.

"Are you all right, sir?" he asked.

"What happened?" I said, my own voice sounding loud in my head.

"A bloody IED," he said. He turned away, looked behind him, and shouted again. "Where's that fucking medic?"

An IED. I knew that I should have known what IED meant, but my brain seemed to be working in slow motion. I finally remembered. IED-improvised explosive device-a roadside bomb.

The sergeant was talking loudly into his personal radio.

"Alpha-four," he said in a rush. "This is Charlie-six-three. IED, IED. One CAT A, several CAT C. Request IRT immediate backup and casevac. Over."

I couldn't hear any response, if there was one. I seemed to have lost my radio headset, along with my helmet.

"CAT A," he'd said. CAT A was armyspeak for a seriously injured soldier requiring immediate medical help to prevent loss of life. CAT Cs were walking wounded.