Word: wolcott
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...only record of the club that survives in Harvard's archives is a note by Wolcott Fuller...
...fusillade increased, the Rangers ripped up the bulletproof Kevlar mats from the floor of Wolcott's Black Hawk to fashion a makeshift bunker. The shield, however, provided only the barest protection, as Master Sergeant Scott Fales, 36, swiftly discovered. An Army special-forces medic who has saved 88 lives during his career, Fales was working on several wounded men when he felt himself slammed to the street. A bullet had ripped through his leg. Hunkering down next to the wreckage, he quickly bandaged the wound and then resumed tending his comrades...
While Fales divided his attention between saving lives and fighting off the Somalis -- "I'd fire a few rounds to push them back, then put my rifle across my lap and turn around to do my medical duties" -- several Rangers pulled at the crumpled wreckage to free Wolcott and the copilot. To no avail: it would eventually take a humvee with a towrope to pry the bodies free. Meanwhile, Somalis pressed ever closer, poking their weapons around doorways and firing blindly into the street...
...casualties rose, the medics were forced to dart from one stricken soldier to another. Crouched near the wreckage of Wolcott's chopper, Fales suddenly spotted five grenades sailing over a wall in his direction. Yelling to warn his comrades, he threw his body over two wounded soldiers to shield them from shrapnel. Meanwhile, Technical Sergeant Tim Wilkinson, 36, a Special Forces medic, also nestled next to the downed helicopter, heard a call from the other side of the street. It was Bray; his men needed medical attention. Yelling across the street for them to "lay down some cover," Wilkinson grabbed...
...punched its way through to the cornered troops. One by one, the Rangers and Delta Force men slipped from doorway to doorway to reach the comparative safety of the rescue vehicles. As Black Hawk pilot Jerry Izzo headed for his bunk in the room he had shared with Cliff Wolcott, he glanced at his fallen friend's bed. The blankets were turned down, and on the pillow lay a paperback novel, still open at the page Wolcott had been reading the previous afternoon. "I closed my eyes," Izzo remembers, "and I could hear Cliff's voice...