The counterassault from the air and, crucially, the coming of night, brought a relative calm. Still, the fog of war remained thick. The soldiers, who had endured three days of persistent ambushes before this engagement, were bordering on shock, "sputtering, just cooked. They seemed like ghosts," Sparks said.
The guardsmen had essentially taken command of the platoon. Soldiers who could still move brought the injured to the collection point.
Sparks worried that the position might be overrun at any time. He removed weapons and armor from the dead and sorted it for use by the living.
He and Bailey had now been on the ground about two hours. They struggled to keep their traumatized patients alive, performing triage while "pot shots" continued to fly.
The temperature had dropped to near freezing when the refueled helicopters returned with medical supplies and help -- including the injured Jimmy Settle. The Alaska PJ had had the shrapnel stitched in place in his scalp so he could get back into action. He would get it removed a week later.
The most critically injured were hoisted into two helicopters and flown out first. Another chopper lifted the dead, along with Bailey and Sparks. The PJs had to ride sitting on the bodies of four men killed in action.
"We wanted to treat them with as much respect as possible," Sparks said, "but we were just crammed in the back of the chopper."
Sparks said he felt overwhelmed by a sense of personal responsibility and guilt.
"These were men who were counting on me and died," he said. "I have to live with that. That's not something that goes away."
Upon landing, they somberly placed the dead men into body bags and draped them with flags.
Though it was night, there was no rest. Thirty minutes after delivering the bodies, the 212th PJs took off on another mission. During the week of Bulldog Bite, team members averaged no more than a couple of hours of sleep a day.
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