A muzzle flash lit up my tent. The shotgun erupted again without warning, from just a few feet away. Flattening myself to the ground, I remember three rapid-fire thoughts: “I don’t want to get shot!” Then: “I’m the medic. I don’t want anyone to get shot.” And, as another blast shattered the night, and men shouted and raced across a meadow littered with volcanic boulders: “Someone is at least going to get cut or break a leg on those rocks.”