Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (13 page)

0300 HOURS, MY ROOM

BOOMMM! BOOMMM! BAANNGG!

“Bunkers! Bunkers! Bunkers!”

I open my eyes as I lay in bed. I can hear mortars hitting the base and the loudspeaker yelling — we are under attack again. A few hours ago I took four sleeping pills to fall asleep, and now I'm supposed to wake up and run to a bunker. I know I need to get out of bed but I can't. I can't move my legs, or maybe it's just that I don't want to move my legs.

BBOOOMMM!!

Another mortar hits. I either don't want to get out of bed bad enough or I literally can't because of the sleeping pills — either way my legs don't move. They're so loud, the mortars. They're hitting the old dining facility and the area around it — I'm too tired or in a daze to care. I look over at Markham. He's getting out of bed and heading toward the bunker.

“Markham,” I yell, using all my might. “Come and get me when the attack is over, so I can be accounted for.” Markham nods and leaves. In the night not everyone makes it to the bunkers. They're extremely cold and many people opt for sleep in their own warm bed, despite the obvious risk.

MONTH 3

“IT 'S THE SILENCE THAT DRIVES US MAD.”

WEEK 1, DAY 1, IRAQ

0800 HOURS, OR

When I first heard that Sergeant Waters's boyfriend was coming to our hospital as an ICU nurse I was determined not to like him. Then just a few minutes ago I met him — Staff Sergeant McClee. He jokes around with me and Reto; he fits right in. He's an unassuming 5′6″, 160 lbs., red hair and freckles. The spitting image of an old Irish boy. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure Waters filled his head with pre-existing prejudices, just as our heads are filled with pre-existing prejudices of anyone who would go out with Waters; but I like him. He's filling in paperwork now and is going to take a few classes to get himself acquainted with our hospital, find out the way we do things.

2000 HOURS, AUDITORIUM

“And this is why I will be going away on leave, soldiers. I don't want to leave ya'll behind, but I have family business I need to take care of.” Command Sergeant Major Ridge — the leader for the entire enlisted section, the man who got drunk in Iraq and threatened to send his sergeants to the frontline if they complain — is giving a speech to all of the enlisted soldiers. I'm not sure what it's about yet, but Ridge seems emotional and sober so it must be important.

“I will be taking leave because, like many of you, I have family issues going on back home. My son has just tried to commit suicide.” A hush falls over everyone in the audience. Even the people who don't like Command Sergeant Major Ridge are quiet. “Thank God his attempt wasn't successful, but I've talked to Colonel Tucker and we both feel that I should take some time off and fly home to be with my son and help him through this ordeal. I want you all to know that I will be thinking about you while I am gone. I think of you all as my sons and daughters and I will miss you, but for a few weeks I need to be with my family during this hour of need.”

I can't help but feel, as I walk out of the auditorium, that with all of Ridge's faults and even being the lackey of Colonel Tucker (actually everyone refers to him as Colonel Jelly because a two-star general once called him a spineless asshole), he is still only a human trying to survive in the world.

WEEK 1, DAY 6, IRAQ

2000 HOURS, OR

“I don't give a shit what he has. When he's in my OR, I make the rules. I'm not going to treat anyone special just because they are ‘special,’ says Dr. John, one of the surgeons from the FST.

“Well, back home I work with children with autism and there's a certain way you have to deal with them,” says Captain Tarr.

They are fighting over Lieutenant Quinn, a 6′4″ Caucasian man. His jet-black hair and squinty eyes make him look like he could be a tall Asian man. He also, according to Captain Tarr, has undiagnosed Asperger's, which is a mild form of autism.

“This is bullshit. If he does have Asperger's, then how the fuck did he even get into the Army? And besides, that doesn't excuse him from screwing up my surgery and almost getting a patient killed,” John yells back.

Captain Tarr doesn't want to have this argument, but she knows she's already in too deep. She can't back down now.

“Listen, it's something to be dealt with. I've had family members with this problem. He's just having trouble adjusting to the change of atmosphere.”

Chandler walks in just in time to hear them yelling. “What are those two fighting about?”

I look over at Chandler and the Pepsi in his hand. He drinks so much, he now only has a few teeth left.

“They're yelling about Quinn screwing up a case.”

Chandler laughs. Lieutenant Quinn has been acting strange lately. The type of strange where if you asked him why he was rubbing honey all over his body he'd reply with, “Oh … I thought it was vinegar.” On a good day you avoid him; on a bad day Colonel Reke would send him home telling him to take the day off. The last nurse is Colonel Reke. She is in charge of the nurses for the OR, as well as Staff Sergeant Gagney. She is in her late fifties and still has golden blond hair. With her tiny figure and rosy red lipstick, she also reminds me of my grandmother. She is a former Special Forces nurse and CEO of a hospital. She never seems to be around. It's as if she's always doing something else besides being in the OR.

“I was the scrub tech and Lieutenant Quinn was my nurse for the case,” I say to Chandler.

“When the surgery started, Quinn was nowhere to be found. Twenty minutes into the surgery, he walks in the room. Then he leaves again and ten minutes later he comes back in and starts mopping the floor — while our surgery is still going on! Dr. John then started yelling at him saying, ‘You can't mop during surgery! You'll kick dirt into the air. Get the hell out of here!’

“Lieutenant Quinn stares back at him and walks out of the room like a little kid that's been told no more cookies before dinner. Quinn then walks back in and stares at the doctor, just stands there — staring. John doesn't notice and asks him for some saline, and then, out of nowhere, Quinn starts freaking out:

‘What kind of saline? Do you want normal saline? What percentage sodium? What size bag … large, medium, small? I need to know these things before I leave the room or else I'll be walking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Or is that what you want, you want me to go back and forth, back and forth, just for your … amusement … huh, is that it…?’

The one we always use,' John yells, and he goes back to focusing on the patient.

“Next John asks for suture and Quinn lists every type of suture we have. Quinn does the same thing every time the doctor asks for something, so eventually Johns starts to make do with what he has. Out of the corner of my eye I see Quinn fooling around with the bovie machine. I don't say anything because I don't want him freaking out on me. Captain Tarr then comes in to relieve Quinn so that he can go get some lunch.

‘Bovie,’ John yells at me to hand it to him.

‘Why the hell isn't this working?’ John yells when the bovie doesn't turn on.

“The patient is now bleeding profusely and we can't stop the bleeding because the bovie machine — which is used to cauterize — isn't working.

‘Mosquito clamp and suture,’ John yells out at me, as we clamp off the blood vessel and tie it off to stop the bleeding, giving us time to find out what's wrong.

“Tarr starts frantically pushing buttons on the machine. Then she says, ‘Someone unplugged the machine and the switches are in the opposite direction.’

‘This is bullshit,’ Dr. John screams, throwing a pair of scissors to the ground. I hand him the bovie tip and he cauterizes the skin. The surgery ends and John rushes off, saying that he's got some business to take care of and he tells me to finish up. John finds Colonel Reke, tells her what happened, and Reke tells Quinn to go home for the day.”.

“John wants Lieutenant Quinn kicked out of the military.”

WEEK 2, DAY 1, IRAQ

2000 HOURS, AUDITORIUM

Four women from my unit had decided to dress up in sexy lingerie and sing “Lady Marmalade” in a talent show. If I didn't know them, I guess I'd say they were sexy; the only problem is that I do know them, and they've been sleeping around ever since they got to Iraq. The men in the audience all clapped, smiled, and yelled to the ladies. The women in the audience shook their heads in disapproval. The flier for the show clearly says: “Be warned, explicit content.”

The next day one of the women in the audience — an old woman who probably hasn't had sex in ten years — complains that the evening was too provocative. She said she saw a poster for the show and read the warning that it might be a little graphic and adult oriented. But she never thought that it'd be anything like that. Now we're not allowed to have any more shows like that.

Six thousand miles away from home and our only entertainment is gossip and the occasional PG-rated show we put on in the theater.

WEEK 2, DAY 5, IRAQ

0700 HOURS, OR

“So do you want the bad story or the worst story?” Denti asks as I place my breakfast tray on the OR break room table. I have discovered that since surgeries don't start until 0800 and I normally have to wait from 0700 to 0800 for the doctors, instead of waking up at 0600 to eat, I can wake up at 0630 — a half-hour later than I was previously — and eat at the OR. The downside is I have to listen to Denti talk as I eat — or as he steals a bagel off my plate.