Victory Point - Ed Darack [65]
“We’re fuckin’ findin’ him!” Kinser roared.
“JOYCE!” the Marines bellowed into the night as they locked arms and waded chest-deep into the water, their breathing crushed by the water’s iciness. “JOYCE!”
“We got two Apaches and a Dustoff inbound to you guys,” Bartels passed to Kinser. The Dustoff, the call sign for the Army’s famed Air Ambulance units, was a UH-60 Blackhawk, and came equipped with a powerful spotlight. The mortarmen lobbed the illum rounds at perfect intervals; just as one died, another popped open hundreds of yards higher. Once the Dustoff roared in zone, the mortarmen ceased dropping, and under cover of the Apaches, the pilots of the UH-60 flew the craft just ten to fifteen feet above the river, beaming the penetrating spotlight into the water. But the air crew could see nothing, not at the site of the accident, or downstream, during their hours-long search. Lance Corporal Kevin B. Joyce, so young, vital, capable, and recognized by his peers and his commanders as such a great Marine, yet so reserved, kind, and utterly selfless, was gone.
“Sir, everyone’s gonna get hypothermia. We can’t keep goin’ into the water,” Doc Anaya told Kinser. Both soaked from head to toe, they struggled to keep from shivering. The lieutenant just stared at Anaya in the darkness, then nodded. Anaya—a member of one of the most important cadres of U.S. Marine Corps units (and most distinguished groups in the entire U.S. military)—attached Navy Corpsmen—who not only fight side by side with infantry, but stand ready to drop their weapons even in the thickest of battle to save Marines’ lives (as well as those of civilians, and even injured enemy combatants)—realized that each of the group had overtaxed himself, and might go missing in the torrent as well. Anaya’s struggles that night, shoulder to shoulder with the others, proved that although the letters on his camis spelled out U.S. Navy, he was a grunt through and through.
“Call just came in that we need to mount up in the convoy and get back to Blessing,” Kinser stated firmly. Kinser’s company commander wanted CAAT to keep moving. The Marines solemnly loaded up and headed back home.
But just a couple hours after arriving at Blessing, Bradley and Fish organized a foot patrol to continue searching for the missing Marine, keeping their hopes alive that he’d washed ashore and survived the ordeal. Under the steel-blue glow of an eastern Afghan dawn, the Marines passed once again outside the wire, and hiked down to the spot where they last saw their friend. Then again, with arms locked, they waded into the river, combing for the young Marine for hours. But no sign of Joyce.
Later that day, a local farmer noticed that the furrows in his fields, normally inundated with slowly flowing irrigation water, had gone dry—something had clogged a main feeder channel. Walking his land, the local noticed an odd bundle of items blocking one of his main canals. Up close, he found what he recognized to be gear from Marines he’d seen in the area. He gathered the gear—a SAW, a belt of 5.56 mm rounds for the weapon, a flak jacket, and a Kevlar helmet. The helmet had a name tape: JOYCE. The villager immediately brought the items to Blessing, dimming the Marines’ hope for the lance corporal’s survival. Days later, Joyce’s body was found twenty miles downstream. The Marines at Camp Blessing held a memorial; with no requisite trumpet available at the small firebase, one of the Marines used his harmonica to play taps. The moment was somber and wrenchingly emotional, but one that left the incredible Marines with ever-greater resolve for their still-long road ahead. Joyce would forever occupy a place in their hearts.
“So the intel hits died off again?” Tom Wood looked at Westerfield like he wanted to punch the intel officer