Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (17 page)

There have been several reported deaths in the United States about kids dying from Dust-Off (it's the stuff you clean your keyboard with). The gas that gets you high in Dust-Off is called R2. It's used in refrigeration. It's a heavy gas that weighs more than air, which means as you inhale it; the gas pushes all your oxygenated air out. It's similar to doing whip-its. It gives people a dizzy, light-headed feeling, and it's why kids use it to get high. But it also decreases oxygen to your heart and your head, and it can kill you. When you use it, you don't suddenly do too much and overdose. Death can happen in one hit. There are reports and stories of kids dying with their eyes open and the Dust-Off straw still in their mouths.

“Maybe he was just trying to get high,” I say to Denti after a few minutes of awkward silence.

“He was a heavy partier, maybe he was just looking for a quick high. I mean if he wanted to kill himself we have weapons with hundreds of rounds. It would only take one shot.”

My answer seems to perk Denti up for the moment; the possibility that it could have been just an attempt to get high lightens both our moods. But in the back of my mind I can't help but think of the possible events that led up to this: Crade reading the Satanic bible, acting distant the past few days… .

I chose to listen to Denti's story the other day rather than go ask Crade how he was feeling.

Maybe this is my fault?

WEEK 2, DAY 4, IRAQ

0700 HOURS, OR

Crade is back in the OR working on the sterilizers. Denti and I are talking in a hushed whisper; we don't want Crade to hear us.

“The GOBs don't want to do the paperwork because it will make them look bad that one of their soldiers tried to commit suicide. It's like it never happened. I think all he had to do was see the chaplain once.”

At the mention of that I laugh. I know it's inappropriate, but sending a suicidal Satanist to a priest to make him feel better doesn't seem like the best thing to do.

“That's it?” I whisper back to Denti. “The man tries to kill himself and they don't even take his weapon away? They're just going to let things go on as usual?”

Crade walks in the room and Denti and I shut up. Crade looks at us and we give him a head nod. He grabs a notebook from the shelf and heads back to where he was. Denti and I look at each other; neither of us knows what to say to Crade.

Denti grabs a cinnamon bun off my plate.

“He's working fourteen hours every day, too; Gagney's making him. No more days off or time off.”

“So instead of giving a suicidal man the attention he needs, he's given extra duty and told to move on.”

“That's right …” Denti says back to me. “And I heard Gagney talking to someone saying that he thinks Crade probably just did it to make him look bad.”

“That narcissistic….”

Crade walks in and puts back the notebook he got a minute earlier. We both nod at him again.

2345 HOURS, MY ROOM

I look over at my nightstand and see: a bottle of sleeping pills, a full container of NyQuil, and a pack of cigarettes. My first pack of cigarettes. I went to the store today and they were fully stocked because they just got a big shipment in. I bought two bottles of NyQuil and Marlboro Reds. Lately I've been noticing that I crave cigarettes more often, and that I sleep a lot better after I have a cigarette, a sleeping pill, and a shot of NyQuil. Tonight, though, I don't feel like taking my sleeping pills or NyQuil. I feel like just being with my thoughts about what's going on. I stay up all night playing guitar and thinking about life and death. Eventually my mind grows tired and I begin to sleep.

0145 HOURS, MY ROOM

I can barely see their faces. I wake up from my dream and grab my photo album. In my dream I could no longer see the faces of my family and friends. I'm scared. I can't picture a single person from my past, from my life before the war. I can't see a single face. I look at my pictures and suddenly they come back to me. My mind fills with nostalgia from the times I'd spent with them. Everything and everyone seems so distant, no more real than a movie or a TV show. My head becomes filled with a cloud of haze as the drowsy night air tries to force me back to sleep. I slowly concede and lay my head down and drift off, but I now have the faces of my family and friends visible in my head again. I can only imagine how much worse it must be for Crade. To dream of the face of his child that he has never seen and may never see. I have pictures, but he has nothing. Who wouldn't go into a slight depression?

WEEK 3, DAY 1, IRAQ

2000 HOURS, AUDITORIUM

The MWR (morale, welfare, and recreation) group has decided to throw another talent show, this time with a PG rating. No dancing allowed; it's strictly a talent show with a few singers, a few people on guitar, and a few comedians thrown into the mix.

Captain Tarr is on stage singing a Peter, Paul and Mary song. She's quite a good singer, too. And even though she's not the best-looking woman in the unit, there is a group of young men hooting and hollering in the back.

“And next up will be Specialist Wilson,” the person announcing the show proclaims.

Specialist Wilson, the mentally challenged soldier whose dick Colonel Lessly said he wanted to suck, is now on stage singing a Britney Spears song “Baby One More Time.” He is wearing a suit that makes him look like a combination of a Jehovah's Witness and an accountant. His diet of snow cones and popcorn seems to have given him twenty pounds since the last time I saw him in Wisconsin. His singing is horrendous, but he's so bad that the crowd loves it. By the time Wilson is done, everyone is screaming for an encore. Wilson bows and I can see his face is bright red, but he is smiling. He thinks the applause and shouts are genuine so he looks pleased.

“And next up will be Colonel Lessly …” the announcer proclaims.

I'm not sure if it was planned that way or if Lessly set it up, but Wilson rushes off the stage and the smile leaves his face as Lessly is announced and walks on the stage.

Lessly begins singing “Can't Get Enough of Your Love Baby” by Barry White. Lessly is also a great singer, and his years of sucking down … cigars … have given him a thick, raspy voice that makes him sound just like Barry.

2100 HOURS, AUDITORIUM

The show is just ending and everyone is yelling and screaming for more. They want Specialist Wilson to come back out and sing another song.

“Wilson. Wilson. Wilson. Wilson. Wilson.”

He walks over to the soldier running the karaoke machine and whispers something in his ear.

“Anyway You Want It,” by Journey, starts playing in the background and the crowd goes wild. Men start screaming, women throw their hands in the air, someone lights a lighter and holds it high.

Wilson gets on stage and starts singing. He starts dancing, too; he doesn't care about the no-dancing rule.

Wilson is moving and shaking his hips while the seams of his clothing hold on for dear life. He takes off his sports coat and throws it to someone in the audience. The audience is cheering; everyone is singing along, and he's dancing all over the stage. Everyone loves it, and we all stand and sing along.

Somehow he got by the censors.

WEEK 3, DAY 4, IRAQ

1600 HOURS, SLEEPING AREA

Mardine yells, “He must have jammed something into the other side of the door, or broke his key off in it.”

One of the medics pushes past all of us. He takes the butt of his rifle and swings it like a baseball bat into the window.

The glass falls to the ground and the medic clears it all from the sill so that he can climb through the window.

Ten seconds later the door is kicked open. Ten seconds after that, he is dragging Crade's body from his room. It's limp, like a rag doll, and his face is ocean blue; he's not breathing.

“Clear the way!” First Sergeant Mardine yells as the ER medics load Crade onto the stretcher. A group has now formed around the area and everyone parts like the Red Sea as the stretcher and the ER medic run for the hospital.

“Nothing to see here. Everyone go back to what you were doing. Everybody get out of the way,” First Sergeant Mardine yells trying to disperse the crowd.

1800 HOURS, HOSPITAL

I'm angry. Angry at Crade for doing this to himself. Angry at myself for not seeing the signs. Angry at Denti and me for only giving him a head nod when we should have asked him how he was feeling. Most of all I am angry at the GOBs and Gagney. A man is suicidal and the GOBs don't want to do the paperwork and send him home because it will make them look bad? Instead of giving him the help he needs, Gagney gave him extra duty and said that Crade was only doing it to make him look bad. People are only worried about themselves. I'm disgusted with their apathy.

Denti and I step into the hospital. He looks sad, but not like he's going to cry. I would say at this moment it would be impossible for him to cry; we're both carrying so much anger. Hudge is leaning forward in a chair with her head in her arms on the table. She looks up as we walk in.

She's been crying, but the tiniest of smiles spreads across her face when she sees us.

“He's going to be all right. The doctors said that if we weren't a hospital unit and didn't find him when we did, he'd be dead.”

Denti and I sit down with Hudge. None of us talk; there's no need to. For the past two hours we've all heard every part of the story. We've all learned more about Crade than we have in all the past months.

He was depressed. He had been depressed for the past few weeks, and if there were any doubts about the first time being a suicide attempt there were none now. He broke his key in the door so no one could get in and was expecting to lay there and die in peace. He hated it here in Iraq. He hated Gagney. He hated the GOBs and the way they were running things. He missed his family, he wanted to see his son, and he and Hernley had been having relationship trouble.

I guess I can't say I was surprised that Crade tried to kill himself again. He was given extra duty and had to work longer hours than any of us. Hell, if I wasn't depressed I sure as hell would be after being given extra hours and longer days.