This article first appeared in the Stars and Stripes Europe edition, Aug. 26, 2002. It is republished unedited in its original form.

CAMP BONDSTEEL, Kosovo — On a hillside blanketed by scraggly underbrush, a squad of soldiers hugs the ground, grunting and groaning.

The sounds of incoming gunfire are everywhere — none of it nice.

“Doc! Doc!” they cry out in unison to a young first lieutenant.

Although the registered nurse is busy providing emergency medical treatment to one of their comrades, they continue to badger her.

Some wonder what is taking so long. Others say they are dying. Spc. Shannon Thomason, 23, of Carrollton, Ga., says he’s hungry. Then he says he’s thirsty.

“Bring me a beer,” Thomason bellows.

A moment later, Thomason, a heavy-equipment operator from Hohenfels, Germany, chortles at the chorus of cries echoing off the backside of a nearby rise the U.S. Army calls Radar Hill.

Thomason shows off his make believe injury, a sucking chest wound. He relishes his role-playing status, an essential part of the five-day test medical personnel voluntarily undergo for the chance to earn the right to wear the Expert Field Medical Badge.

“And,” Thomason says after enumerating a couple of the benefits, “you get to yell at higher ranking officers. That’s always fun.”

The higher-ups want it no other way.

The screaming, the badgering, the grunting and groaning, the gunfire, the explosions, the mud, the water, the tears, the long hours, the days — if not the weeks and months—of preparations, are all intended to test the physical and mental limits of those schooled and trained in the business of saving lives on the battlefield.

As a testament to this training, one needs only to recall the heroic efforts of Spc. Eddie Rivera, a 10th Mountain Division medic who saved several soldiers earlier this year in eastern Afghanistan during Operation Anaconda.

“We want them trained up for future operations,” said Command Sgt. Maj. Craig Layton, the ranking noncommissioned medical officer for Task Force Falcon. “The badge is a nicety, but the training is the focus.”

The medical badge test consists of many facets: weapon qualification, a physical fitness test, a written exam, day-and-night land navigation, radio communication, survival skills, cardiopulmonary resuscitation, emergency medical triage and treatment, a litter obstacle course and casualty evacuation. The gauntlet of challenges culminates with a 12-mile road march that candidates must complete in three hours or less.

When Capt. George Johnson completed the grueling test a few years ago at Fort Hood, Texas, another captain finished the march one minute over the allotted time. Sixty lousy seconds kept the guy from getting the badge.

“He was inconsolable,” Johnson said.

Established in 1969, the badge is awarded to those who have mastered medical techniques and methods that have been used and refined by Army medics for more than 200 years, Johnson said.

As soon as the current rotation of U.S. forces arrived in Kosovo in May, its commander, Brig. Gen. Douglas E. Lute, asked if staging such a test were possible, given it hadn’t been done before in Kosovo. His staff said it was, and gave Johnson the responsibility of making it happen.

Aside from all the normal preparations associated with a medical badge test, of which there are many, Johnson had the added burden of developing a course from scratch. That meant blazing trails and building props.

“We had to call in a lot of favors,” he said.

In the end, the lure of earning one of the military’s most coveted badges drew 131 candidates. Many were trying for the second and third time, while one soldier was hoping his 13th attempt would be the charm.

One of the first-time candidates was Sgt. 1st Class Robert Boler, 31, a Detroit native assigned to the 45th Medical Company, an air ambulance unit based in Ansbach, Germany. Boler already sports an impressive collection of wings and badges on his uniform, but he said the EFMB is special.

“Only a few people have that badge,” Boler said later after successfully completing the survival course. “That’s why I’m out here.”

The medical marathon began last Wednesday morning with a written exam.

Those who passed moved on to the day-and-night navigation phase. By Thursday, half the field was sent packing.

“The tasks are just flat difficult,” Johnson said Saturday. “It’s that tough. Statistically, it’s more difficult to get than the Expert Infantryman Badge.”

By Saturday morning, the field of candidates had been whittled down to 34. On average, only about 15 percent to 20 percent of each class get the badge.

“We try to make it as realistic as possible,” said Sgt. 1st Class Danny Hassan, a course evaluator who is based in Würzburg, Germany. “Beginning of next year, we could be in Afghanistan or Iraq.”

Such a possibility wasn’t on Sgt. Kevin Van Horn’s mind as he paced back and forth waiting for his turn on the survival course.

“He’s trying to concentrate on every little detail,” Johnson whispered as he looked over at Van Horn.

At about this time, the audio to the movie “Black Hawk Down,” began to play. The combat noises lent an air of authenticity to the scene.

“It’s all attention to detail,” explained Sgt. Brian Johnson, one of the course evaluators.

In the end, after the smoke, the sound of gunfire, the constant threat of a gas attack and a litany of tasks were met by Boler and Van Horn, the two briefly compared notes. Both soon learned they passed the survival course, meaning all that stood between them and the badge was the obstacle course and a 12-mile stroll.

“It’s the prestige,” said Van Horn, still wired with adrenaline. “Only high-speed medics get this badge.”

The 28-year-old medic from Cumberland, Md., seemed ready to jump out of his skin, he was that pumped.

“Once I get to the 12-mile road march,” Van Horn said, “I’m not stopping.”