Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (20 page)

WEEK 3, DAY 2, IRAQ

0900 HOURS, OR

I can handle doing surgeries on Iraqis and Americans because we put ourselves in this mess … but a dog? After seeing it lying on the table, brought over from the K-9 unit, its big brown eyes wide open, I almost start crying. I forget to block my emotions. Then a nine-year-old Iraqi child is brought in. She's got shrapnel wounds to the stomach and leg. I wasn't prepared for this.

WEEK 3, DAY 7, IRAQ

1600 HOURS, OUTSIDE THE OR

As Laveled approaches, I get into the position of parade rest — hands behind my back, legs shoulder-width apart.

“Good evening, command sergeant major.”

“Good evening, soldier. Hot day out today. Good thing I'm not wearing any underwear.”

I know that I should laugh as a sign of respect, but I can't. Command Sergeant Major Lavaled says nothing. We both stare at each other, holding the other's eye contact. I'm in no mood to play this game.

Twenty seconds goes by:
What the hell is going on? Is he going to just stand here staring at me?

Thirty seconds:
Why didn't I just laugh at his stupid joke?

Forty-five seconds:
It's too late now. I can't laugh; I'll just look like an idiot.

Fifty-five seconds:
I'm insane. I need to do something.

“At least I don't get any wedgies this way,” he says after almost a minute of eye contact.

I continue to stare at him.
Why is he just staring at me?

Twenty seconds:
What is this guy's fucking problem? Leave me alone you freak show!

Thirty seconds:
Maybe I don't understand the joke.

Forty-five seconds:
I wonder what he's thinking. Is the whole underwear wedgie thing some type of gay code?

One minute:
If it is some type of code, then maybe I shouldn't be staring at him. He'll think I'm leading him on. I'm sure Gagney will love that. The CSM will think I'm a tease.

“I mean sometimes I get swamp ass, so I just do lunges and dry it up,” he says.

What the fuck is going on? This doesn't even make sense. I don't think he's gay.

Ten seconds:
I can't believe I'm having a staring contest with the new CSM.

Twenty seconds:
Does this fucking guy really need my approval that bad that he'd have a staring contest with me until I act subservient and laugh?

Thirty seconds:
Oh my god, my eyes are watering. I can't let him see me cry or avert eye contact. I heard somewhere that in prison that means you're someone's bitch.

Thirty-five seconds:
I've got to do something.

Forty seconds:
I've got it!

I move the right side of my mouth up a half centimeter into what could be called a smirk.

Five seconds….

Lavaled looks at me and smiles.

“All right, very well, soldier; carry on with the day's work.”

Oh dear God, I need to get out of here.

WEEK 4, DAY 4, IRAQ

1400 HOURS, OR

I notice that if I smoke four Camel Light cigarettes one after the other and try to walk, I get all woozy and I feel like I'm drunk. Although it's been a while since I bought my first pack of cigarettes, I just bought my first carton. The feeling that I get when I down four Camel Lights is amazing. It relaxes me and puts me in my head — but there's really no point unless you're going to smoke a few right in a row.

“Hey, you want to go grab a smoke?” Reto asks me, already knowing the answer. I love smoking a cigarette and writing in my journal. I love smoking during smoke breaks. I love smoking after a good meal. I love smoking before I go to bed. I love smoking in the morning.

Reto and I take a ladder outside at the back of the OR and go up on the roof.

“Hey, someone give me a hand up,” Denti yells up to Reto and me. We help him up and finish our cigarettes. We call this our clubhouse.

1445 HOURS, OR

“Did you step in something?” Reto looks.

“I didn't step in anything.”

We're emptying a small trash bucket from the bathroom into a larger one.

“Eww — ”

“What is that, toilet paper?”

Inside the trash barrel there are dozens of rolled up pieces of toilet paper with shit on them.

“Who's been throwing their toilet paper into the trash? Why don't they just flush it?”

MONTH 6

“WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF FIGHTING A WAR AND OUR LEADER HAS GIVEN HIMSELF A MONTH-LONG VACATION.”

WEEK 1, DAY 4, IRAQ

1445 HOURS, OR

A conversation between Dr. Bill and Colonel Reke:

“Are you sure they're the right patients?” Colonel Reke's face is stone, but her wavering voice gives her away: She's concerned about something.

“No, they're all dead. Every single one of them. Routine wounds and we saved their lives.”

Dr. Bill has just finished a follow-up call on nine of his Iraqi patients that he's done surgery on.

WEEK 1, DAY 6, IRAQ

1450 HOURS, OR

“You have got to be kidding me. Not again.” Reto holds up a trash bag and inside there are rolled up pieces of toilet paper with shit on them.

“What the hell is going on here?”

“I don't know, man, but whenever we empty out the trash — I'm sick of smelling this.”

Reto and I grab the trash and double bag it, vowing to catch whoever is doing this. We know it's neither of us, because, A, we're the ones who have to clean it up, and, B, we both agreed that if we had to take a shit we'd go in another section's bathroom so we wouldn't smell up ours.

Reto and I throw the trash in the trash bin and walk back into the hospital.

I go into the bathroom and put on a teeth-whitening strip. I bought a box of thirty-day teeth whiteners, and I use them at the end of every shift to counter the effects of cigarettes and coffee. Some of the top strips have gone missing. Who would steal teeth-whitening strips? I make it my mission to notice who has noticeably whiter teeth.

WEEK 2, DAY 2, IRAQ

144 HOURS, OR

Today: three surgeries, four amputations, and two GSWs. Reto and I are vegging in the break room.

Lieutenant Hamilton sticks her head in the door.

“Hey, have you guys seen Colonel Jelly?”

Reto's eyes are closed and his head is nodding up and down.

He's trying not to fall asleep.

“There was a huge herpes sore across Lieutenant Hamilton's lips,” I say.

“You're crazy, man. I didn't see anything,” Reto says. His eyelids fall back down and he starts lightly snoring.

WEEK 3, DAY 1, IRAQ

2230 HOURS, SLEEPING AREA

I put down the book that I'm reading. It's
A Long Walk to Freedom
, by Nelson Mandela. I need to take a break; it's the longest book I've ever read, and it's too much to take in all at once.

I look over at my roommates. Markham is sitting on his bed. He's got huge earmuff headphones on and he's playing the guitar. I stand up and look over at Denti. He's lying in bed with tiny headphones on watching
Family Guy
. Denti is laughing, and as he laughs I check out his teeth to see if they possibly look whiter than normal. I turn toward Torres. He and Cardoza are snuggled up together on his bed. Neither Torres nor Cardoza have headphones on, and I can hear that they're watching a movie. I look once more at the three of my roommates. I need something to do.