The Embankment Wounded Shoulders – 15

Diary of a Rescuer

Sabah Piri
Translated to English by M.B. Khoshnevisan

2025-7-20

The Embankment Wounded Shoulders – 15
Diary of a Rescuer

Sabah Piri
Translated to English by M.B. Khoshnevisan
Persian Version (1990)
Sooreh Mehr Publications

***

The PMP carrying the members of the relief post set off, and I prayed that they would arrive safely. A mortar hit the PMP near the embankment, but by God's will, nothing happened, and it continued moving. I started walking as the mortar shells were exploding a few meters away. As I passed the three-way intersection, I saw a burned and disintegrated ambulance. I searched around it, but found nothing but a few crushed bodies and skeletons, with plaques hanging from their neck bones. Continuing on, I passed another three-way intersection of Shahadat and saw several more burned ambulances, but I couldn't find the Givehchi. The ambulance driver had his head on the steering wheel and was nothing but a skeleton. I passed by everyone in despair and did not find Mehdi Givehchi. He had been constantly reciting the Quran the day before, as was his usual practice. Even if he did not have ablution, he would push aside the trench blanket and perform his tayammum with the dirt from the ground. He had a great love for the Samat supplication, especially on Friday evenings. Yesterday, he told me, "All my friends are gone. I no longer have any friends that I want in this world. I wish for martyrdom. By God, pray for me to be martyred. I can no longer bear to hear news of the guys being martyred."

I saw Givehchi... My God... Torn to pieces, burned, and oppressed, lying in the Shalamcheh plain, with the troubled eyes of the revolutionary martyr looking up at his Imam. Today was the day he met God.

After taking a bath, I turned back and went to the cooperative manager. I compared Givehchi's ID and plaque with that of the body that I thought might be Givehchi, but they were different. Many people were crying there, mourning the loss of their friends who had been martyred. We spent the night in tears.

The next day at noon, Haj Mojtaba contacted us through the radio and requested a rescue team to meet at the crossroads. The area was under heavy fire, and wounded individuals were scattered on the ground on the other side of the crossroads. We quickly divided into two groups, with the first group heading towards the crossroads immediately. Our group followed about fifteen minutes later. We had to abandon the car about a kilometer away from the crossroads as it was impossible to proceed further. The enemy had the coordinates of the area and was continuously destroying the roads ahead of us.

Upon reaching the crossroads, which had become a site of martyrdom, we were met with intense gunfire. Helicopters were constantly swooping in and attacking. Many of the guys were trapped near the crossroads, unable to move due to the heavy gunfire. The air was filled with the sound of bullets. There was no sign of the guys from the first group. I informed the guys in my group that I would proceed ahead and they would follow me. I began crawling forward. Five meters ahead of the three-way intersection, the embankment merged with the ground, and there was an ambulance that had been struck by a cannonball, resulting in the martyrdom of all the guys inside. Only one person remained, their leg amputated, pleading for help. As I turned to the other side of the embankment to assist them, I noticed the guys from the first group lying beneath a tank. One of the guys was wounded, the RPG had misfired, hitting them in the leg. I instructed them to stay put while I sought help.

At this moment, a helicopter arrived and everyone immediately lay down on the ground. It was hovering right above the fortress and easily targeted the three-way road. As I tried to throw myself into a hole, another piece of shrapnel went into my back, causing a warm sensation. When I managed to get back up, several mortars had exploded around me. We were all disoriented and confused. Although my injuries were not serious and I could still walk, the blast wave was more bothersome than the wound itself.

I was transferred to Tehran and admitted to Najmiyeh Hospital. Two days later, as I was about to be discharged, I noticed one of the guys in the hospital. He seemed agitated and worried.

When I asked how he was, he responded with concern: "Sabah! I'll tell you something, but don't be upset!

" And then he continued, "Ghiyassi has been martyred!"

 My legs went weak, my knees buckled, and I couldn't stand. I couldn't believe it. Just a few days ago, I had seen him myself. Three days ago, Ghiyassi's gaze and whispers at the Shalamcheh crossroads came to mind. He had said, "Sabah! I really want God to take me to Himself. All this shrapnel and bullets flying around... won't one of them lift you off the ground eventually? Maybe we don't deserve it yet... But I'm tired."

I began to cry. Ghiyassi had not been hit by any shrapnel up until that moment. The first bullet that struck him was also the final one.

When I returned to the Shalamcheh area two weeks later, they informed me, "Just a few hours before his martyrdom, he had mentioned to one of the guys that it would be the last time he saw me. He was driving towards the front line on his motorbike when a cannonball hit him, sending him to heaven with a broken body; dirty and bloody, torn away from the earth, in the garden of God."

A few days before his martyrdom, Ghiyassi moved his family from Andimeshk to Songhor. All the guys were wondering why he had transferred all his means of living to his hometown. He wrote three letters, and in the third letter he wrote: "The last letter."

In the letter, he asked his wife to raise their child, who would be born in a few months, with all due respect. He knew that in a few days he would go to meet God.

Many other friends of mine were martyred in this operation. I wish the sacrifice of the guys and their oppression could have been shown in some way. No matter how much I think, I see that it is absolutely impossible. Maybe it is especially so. You show such selflessness and become martyred in such an oppressive way and then want to show it to the people of the land! All of this is beyond the thoughts and ideas of the people of the land, may it be for generations! After a while, another operation took place, Karbala Eight. We went to the aid post with three of the guys. Maysam became our neighbor, it was a pyramid-shaped hill about 10 meters high, in front of the hill was an embankment and below, the embankment were two trenches where we were stationed, the trenches were in a state of disrepair, there was no news of any wounded. Occasionally, one of the guys would be brought to the aid post.

Around noon, wounded people were brought in. We were waiting for an ambulance when suddenly a mortar hit the shaking roof of the trench. The timber on the trench collapsed and dust covered everything. When the dust cleared, I saw that the timber on the roof had broken and fallen in the middle of the trench. Thankfully, no one was hurt, only a small piece of shrapnel hit one of the wounded guys. After two or three hours, the enemy fire suddenly increased. We decided to build a trench, gathered some timber, and prepared some plates. Near dusk, when the fire subsided, we got to work.

It was nighttime and we were waiting in case they brought in a wounded person so we could quickly bandage them and send them back. Suddenly, the enemy fire intensified once again. Bullets were constantly exploding around the trench, making us fear for our safety. We anxiously awaited for the trench roof to open and an enemy bullet to enter at any moment. Occasionally, someone from the next trench would shout, "Are you still alive?" to which we would respond, "Yes, still alive!"

 The coordinates of the hill were then revealed.

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, someone shouted from outside, "Is anyone here?"

We responded to him as he entered and said, "Jihad wants to level the hill!" The hill had become a strategic point for the enemy, using it to attack the area. We quickly gathered our belongings and moved behind the embankment, where we pitched a tent. A loader arrived and flattened the hill, creating space for our tanks to maneuver, shoot, and retreat behind the embankment.

An hour later, the wounded arrived, looking like children from Shiraz. They kept repeating, "Kaku... Kaku..."

"Don't worry, Kaku, you'll be okay. Get back in line."

The night was peaceful, a time for reflection on life, fear, and death.

Suddenly, in the middle of the night, the enemy's gunfire intensified. Bullets were exploding all around our trench, and we waited anxiously for the roof to collapse.

In this operation, the successor of the martyr Ahmad Nowzad was Jazmani, who commanded the Meqdad Battalion. Pour Ahmad and Haj Amini were also deputies of the Ansar al-Rasoul Battalion. They were all good and great individuals. They met God together and at the same time, and all three were martyred together. Another important figure was Mohammad Khani, who played a significant role in the growth and development of the army's medical service from the beginning. He was martyred in the same operation and was the courier of the Hamzeh Battalion. Mohammad Khani's pure body burned like a butterfly in the fire of the front. He was identified by a missing combatant's ring, Amir Hussein Qanbari, that was on his right hand.

The next morning, when Haji arrived, I asked, "When will the operation continue?"

He replied, "It is unknown."

He then sent us back and the operation was not carried out. Whatever we had practiced dying the night before ended without a test.

Some time passed, and the days of our separation from the land of Shalamcheh arrived.

To be continued …