RICHMOND, Va.      (AP) -- Inside the medevac helicopter in Afghanistan, U.S. Marine Cpl.  Burness Britt bleeds profusely from his neck. He and two other Marines  have just been hit by shrapnel, with Britt's injuries the most serious.  The medevac crew chief clutches one of Britt's blood-covered hands as he  is given oxygen. I take hold of the other.
 With  my free hand, I lift my camera and take some pictures. I squeeze  Britt's hand and he returns the gesture, gripping my palm tighter and  tighter until he slips into unconsciousness. His shirt is ripped, but I  notice a piece of wheat stuck to it. I pluck it off and tuck it away in  the pocket of my body armor.
 In my 20 years as  a photographer, covering conflicts from Bosnia to Gaza to Iraq to  Afghanistan, injured civilians and soldiers have passed through my life  many times. None has left a greater impression on me than Britt.
 I  knew him only for a few minutes in that helicopter, but I believed we  would meet again one day, and I hoped to give him that small, special  piece of wheat.
 As Britt underwent surgeries  and painful rehabilitation, I returned to my job with The Associated  Press, yet Britt was never far from my mind. I searched for him on the  Internet. I called hospitals. I wondered if he remembered me.
 It's  been just over six months since that day in the wheat field not far  from his small combat outpost "Kajaki Dam," named for a mammoth  structure the U.S., British and NATO troops have been trying to protect  and repair to help produce electricity.
 Afghanistan  was Britt's first combat deployment and he was in Sangin, a town in  Afghanistan's southwest Helmand province that has seen some of the  bloodiest fighting. He knew the mission was dangerous.
 He  was leading a group of 10 Marines through a wheat field when there was  an explosion. He doesn't know how far away, maybe a few yards. He was  thrown into the air, and landed with a thump in the field, a searing hot  pain raging in his neck. He had been hit by a huge piece of shrapnel  from a bomb and a major artery was cut. Britt believes the improvised  explosive device was hidden and somebody triggered it from a distance,  though he can't say for sure.
 "My only thought  was my wife," he said recently from his hospital bed in Richmond,  Virginia, where the 22-year-old Marine has been recuperating and  rebuilding his life and health.
 His speech  comes with a great deal of difficulty these days, and sometimes he is  hard to understand. During the many surgeries that followed his injury,  he had a major stroke and is partially paralyzed on his right side.
 His  smile, though, is unchanged. The nurses at the Hunter Holmes Medical  Center in Richmond, where we met for the first time since the helicopter  ride, call him "Sunshine" because their youngest patient is always  joking and in a good mood.
 It was his courage  and smile I remember so vividly. After he was wounded, he smiled briefly  when he reached the helicopter, as if to reassure us he would be OK.
 It  was June 4. I was embedded with the U.S. Army "Dust Off" medevac unit, a  group that moves quickly, with little concern for their own safety.  When the call came that Britt had been hit, the description of his  wounds let everyone know it was serious. Within five minutes, the unit  was at his side.
 Marines from the 2nd  Battalion 12th Marines, 3rd Marine Division rushed out of the nearby  bushes carrying Britt. We were quickly airborne.
 In the helicopter, the scene was one of quiet courage. No words were spoken, no screams of pain. Blood was everywhere.
 Britt  was moving his legs, checking to see if they were still there. When he  realized they were, he smiled once again. The crew chief, Jennifer  Martinez, of Colorado Springs, Colorado, held Britt's hand. Another  wounded Marine, Lance Cpl. Joshua Barron, looked at his buddy and cried.  I had Britt's other hand in mine.
 We left  Britt at our small outpost called Camp Edi, where medical staff provided  the first round of treatment before transferring him to Camp Bastion.  From there, he went to the U.S. Military Hospital in Landstuhl, Germany.  He was then taken to Bethesda Hospital in Washington and finally to  Hunter Holmes McGuire Medical Center in Richmond.
 I  traveled to Germany, and then to Switzerland where I am based for AP. I  kept the piece of wheat with me, carefully stowed away in a small  jewelry box.
 My search for Britt started  almost as soon as I got back to Geneva. I emailed the Marines and the  Army, but all they said was that Britt was still in serious condition.
 I  got in touch with patients at Walter Reed Hospital, where many of the  seriously wounded were taken, but they didn't know Britt.
 I  searched the Internet for his name for weeks. Then one evening, like so  many before, I was on the Web and I thought I would play around with  the spelling of his name. I immediately discovered I had his first name  wrong. That day in the helicopter, I was told his name was Burmess. It  was actually Burness.
 When I entered the  correct name, I found articles about Britt. His local paper in  Georgetown, South Carolina, had done a story on him.
 I  wrote the newspaper several times but got no reply. Then I called the  AP bureau in South Carolina. The news editor there gave me the phone  number of Britt's father, Neal.
 I thought my perseverance had paid off, but there was another setback - the number was out of order.
 I  refused to give up. A few weeks later, the news editor found another  phone number. This time it rang, but no one picked up. I kept calling,  every evening for about a week.
 Eventually, I  found Britt on Facebook. He accepted my friend request and at last, it  looked like I we would finally be able to connect. But when I sent him  messages, there was no reply.
 I worried that he didn't want to reconnect. Maybe he wanted to forget that day in Helmand and everyone involved.
 I  soon found out that wasn't the case. His paralysis made it nearly  impossible for him to chat over the Internet, but I noticed on his  Facebook page that he was at the hospital in Richmond. I tracked down  the number with the help of an AP photographer in Richmond and when I  called, a nurse answered.
 I heard her yell:  "Britt, there is a phone call for you from a photographer in Switzerland  who was there in Afghanistan when you got picked up."
 The  next thing I heard was Britt's voice. He sounded relieved that I had  found him by phone. The memories of Helmand flooded through my head. I  fumbled my words. I wanted to come to Richmond, meet him, interview him,  show him the images of that day, give him the wheat sheaf and talk  about his recovery. I had so many questions.
 He listened and in a gentle, soft voice, he said: "Yes, ma'am, I would like to see you. Come."
 When  we finally met Dec. 13 at the hospital, I saw him in the distance. He  walked with difficulty, trying to control his right arm and leg. He was  wearing a plastic helmet to protect his head where part of the skull had  been removed. His brain had swollen to nearly twice its size because of  his injuries and doctors had to open the skull to relieve the pressure.
 His helmet had a camouflage cover on it emblazoned with the 3rd Marine Division emblem on its side.
 He  saw me and that warm smile crossed his face again. He hugged me. Like  that day in the helicopter when I held his hand, it seemed he did not  want to let go. He kept repeating: "Oh man, it is so good to see you."
 In  his room, his dark brown eyes sparkled and he tried to tell jokes. He  explained what he had been through since we had last seen each other.
 Doctors put him into a coma for a month and when he woke up, he was he was at the hospital in Virginia.
 He  had just started to regain his speech, working his way back from months  of "thumbs up, thumbs down conversation," says his 22-year-old wife,  Jessica.
 He will undergo more surgeries next year to rebuild his skull.
 Sitting  on his bed, he looked at me and asked: "Did you bring some pictures  with you?" He wanted to see those moments in the helicopter.
 He studied each photo. When he looked up, he had tears in his eyes. "Thank you so much," he said.
 I pointed to one of the pictures with the piece of wheat. I told him I had brought it with me. He couldn't believe it.
 We  reminisced about Afghanistan. He talked about his Marine buddies, those  he had served with and friends who were seriously injured or killed.
 He lifted his left arm to his chest, where he has a Marine Corps tattoo.
 "The  love for the Marines is deep in my heart, they are my family," he said.  "I want to return immediately back to Afghanistan to help them keep  fighting."
 I left the piece of wheat with Britt. He said it was his new lucky charm.