166 Days: My Journey Through The Darkness (16 page)

20 August 2008

Just when I thought I couldn’t feel worse about this war, after dealing with the incident with the girl the day before, this day happened. The team had intelligence about the Taliban and decided to go out on a mission to pursue the information. As they prepared for departure some of the guys laughed as they listened to what they called their “theme songs” for missions. Doug’s song was “The Final Countdown”. He said he wanted to go out listening to that song “just in case” it truly
was
his final countdown. Another guy made a joke about making sure his boots were clean so they would look nice for his memorial service. Others, like Rod, preferred to listen to songs like “Simple Man” as he left, which helped him find the meaning in why he was doing what he did. Regardless of how they chose to prepare themselves to go, it was something they each had to do over and over again. As I watched them leave the safety of the gates, I couldn’t even begin to imagine what they felt time and time again.

Shortly after they left they got into a TIC, which we handled like every other one they had been in. As we listened intently to what was happening, and performed our duties as radio operators, I heard Kyle’s voice on the radio, “Requesting medevac for US Special Forces member! 9 line to follow.” I felt chills go down my spine as he read off the battle roster number, which was a way of identifying who the individual was by the first two letters in the last name and last four numbers of the social security number; it was Manuel. Becky and I stared in silence at the radio. Kyle went on to describe his injuries, “Be advised patient has GSW to left thigh with noted exit wound through the right lower back. Currently bleeding controlled. Patient stable. How copy?”

“Jenn, oh my God! That sounds really bad,” Becky cried.

“I know Becks, I know…” My mind instantly began to run through the anatomy and what could have possibly been damaged based on the path of the bullet. I knew his injury could be significant; the abdomen and lower back house a large number of vital structures and organs. Then I began to think of his horrible jokes, my birthday party he threw with the ponchos and sombrero, and of course the “Danger” cologne he continued to wear every day. He was often the one to find a way to make us smile when no one else could…I was speechless with worry for my friend.

Thankfully, he remained stable in the field and he was evacuated within thirty minutes of the injury. Hal later told me that up until they loaded him onto the helicopter he continued to laugh and joke speaking his characteristic profanities. This was typical Manuel and hearing this offered a sense of comfort. He was flown directly to TK where the FST could get him into surgery to stabilize his injuries. I called later and was informed he was stable but suffered from a perforated bowel and severe bruising of the sacral nerve plexus and therefore was unable to move the left leg. He was sent to Germany for further surgical intervention and eventually flown home to the States to recover. An update I received almost a year later was he was still recovering, relying on a cane to walk but eager to get back out to the field.

After Manuel was safely evacuated, the team continued to take fire for several more hours. We continued to monitor their radio traffic listening and waiting for any update we could receive. Sometimes just hearing the voice on the other end alone was enough reassurance to give us hope they were ok. As they were finally beginning their way back to the base we began to feel a sense of relief, knowing the mission was almost over. Then I heard the words, “ALCON [All Concerned], be advised VICTOR-1 has hit an IED. I say again, VICTOR-1 has hit an IED.” VICTOR-1 was Vehicle One; I quickly looked on the Task Org chart to see who was on the vehicle and realized the passengers were: Kyle, Ben, Curtis, Eric (the Air Force Tactical Air Control Party Specialist, also known as the TACP) and IG. Becky and I stared at the list in shocked silence. I felt a sense of panic; all of the feelings I experienced when Travis died began to resurface. I couldn’t help it; we lived, played, ate, and even shared toilets with these guys. We had become a family. We had no choice but to do everything together on our tiny firebase in the middle of nowhere. We were all each other had for the time we were there.

We waited in agony for a status update, forced to speculate on the worst possible scenario as we anticipated the injuries. “Do you think they are going to medevac or try to get the guys back to us?” Becky asked.

“It’ll depend on the injuries, but let’s start thinking through how we’ll handle the patients if they come to the clinic. Think about the types of injuries that could happen with this and we can talk about our plan to manage them,” I said.

“Ok, I am running through where to stage them and the supplies we may need now,” she answered. We had come up with a streamlined system of how we handled traumas over the last couple of months.

“Perfect, I want you to have airway, breathing, circulation on your mind as we see them come through the gate,” I instructed. This was a priority list of care we all learned on the very basic level of treating emergent patients. While it had become second nature to us, it is always a good idea to remind ourselves of the basics.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, the medevac request came. Kyle had a possible tibia/fibula injury; Ben (who had been the turret gunner) had a “spinal injury” with complaints of left leg numbness. The tears welled up in my eyes. It seemed as though the guys I had spent the most time with here were the ones getting injured. Kyle and I had our differences, and we battled them out on more times than I would have liked, but he was still part of the family, he was my “bully brother”. No news on Eric, the Captain or IG. I again felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness wishing there was something I could do to help, but all I could do was wait.

The medevac came and took both Kyle and Ben out. Due to the possible spinal injury of Ben; they bypassed TK and were sent directly to Kandahar, a bigger facility. We later heard Kyle suffered from a fractured fibula and Ben appeared to have a back spasm and Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI). They would stay for observation for several days to weeks. What could have been going through their heads as they had to leave the rest of the team after already suffering from one loss earlier in the day?

The entire front of VICTOR-1 was gone after hitting the IED; after looking at the pictures, showing the extent of the damage, it was evident how lucky these guys were that nothing more happened. The vehicle was not recoverable; therefore, they had to destroy it in the field which required permission from the Command Post. This request unfortunately was not answered in a timely manner. The rest of the team was forced to secure the remains of the vehicle for several more hours while they waited for authorization for the demolition.

“Are you kidding me? They have to sit there with a big fat target on their backs while they wait for someone all the way back at BAF (Bagram Airfield) to tell them it’s ok? That’s crazy!” Becky yelled.

“God, I hope they get an answer soon. You know Curtis, Eric, and IG are still out there,” I said.

“Jesus,” Becky said. After several more hours, the authorization was granted and the rest of the team finally made it back safely to the firebase. I ran up to each and every guy and gave him a hug, as tight as I could. As Doug took off his helmet, he realized he’d been shot in the head with 7.62mm round. It was wedged in the left side of his helmet, the tip of the bullet had just barely pierced the inside lining of the helmet.

He looked at me and laughed saying, “Better not tell the wife about this one.”

I couldn’t even speak. He then pulled off his vest and showed me where he got shot in the side plate of his armor. I looked at him and gave him another hug. I remembered the advice someone back at BAF gave before we left about not wearing the side plates, saying they were just extra weight…thank God Doug wore his.

“Don’t worry Jenn,” he said, “We’re fine.”

My last conversation with Travis resurfaced in my thoughts; he told me the same thing just days before he died. As they offloaded the vehicle I looked for the other guys injured in the explosion. I found Hal and ran over to him to ask what happened.

“What’s the status with Eric, IG, and the Captain?” I asked.

“Eric and IG are fine; they were in the back of the truck and suffered minimal injuries. I treated them in the field.”

“Thank God,” I replied. I saw them shortly after our conversation and did a quick exam and completely agreed with Hal. Shortly after I was done with them Roy came over and asked to speak with me.

“Jenn, I need to talk to you.”

“What is it Roy?” I asked.

“The Captain. He needs to be evaluated, but it’s going to be difficult to get him to sit still. He’s still out there trying to direct the guys.”

“Do you know what his injuries are? Where was he sitting in VICTOR-1?”

“He was in the passenger seat. While we were waiting for the medevac I heard him complaining of elbow and knee pain. He told me his head hurt and I saw he had a nosebleed.”

“Wow, that’s not good. I need to see him ASAP.”

“It gets worse Jenn. I talked with some of the guys and they say they saw him walking around and spouting out orders, when they asked him later what he meant, he didn’t remember it happened.”

“Can you get him to me?” I asked.

“Let me see if I can get him to calm down. I’ll be back,” he said and walked away.

Roy was finally able to convince him to get in to see me, and he was right, I did have a difficult time getting him to sit down and be evaluated, but I finally did. His knee and elbow were minimal soft tissue injuries, no fractures or dislocations. The nosebleed, which was initially quite a concern to me, thankfully turned out to be no more than a bloody lip. I performed a MACE assessment on him, which is a tool we use to determine whether or not the individual suffered from a TBI. Depending on the initial results, it can be performed over several consecutive days which is vital in making the diagnosis; a TBI can initially be masked, but over several days the condition can progress. When I sat down with Curtis that day his score was ok, but over the next several days his symptoms became more apparent. This progression made it very easy to determine in fact did have an injury and needed further evaluation.

“No way, I’m not leaving the team,” he insisted, as I informed him I was calling for a medevac to get him to Kandahar for a CAT scan of his head.

“Curtis…seriously? Let’s be real here…you’re getting worse every day. Your confusion and memory loss are getting worse, look at this,” I showed him his score on the MACE assessment that clearly showed change.

“Damnit! Ok. I get it. I’ll go,” he surrendered. We got him out that same day and thankfully the scan was normal and within a week he was back out at the firebase with instructions on conservative treatment for his TBI.

We continued to offload the vehicles and mend the cuts and bruises the guys endured during the day. As we took the gear off the vehicles the bullet holes and casings were an unavoidable reminder of the events that occurred several hours before. It was continually being demonstrated to me as each day passed that it takes a special breed of person to want to be in Special Forces. I admired their courage, but it served as a source of constant worry for me. I was so thankful that despite the casualties we had, the guys were all still alive and the only death we suffered that day was that of VICTOR-1…may she rest in peace.

23 August 2008

Ramadan starts at the beginning of September and lasts the whole month. This is a very significant time for Muslims, and therefore the Taliban, a radical Muslim group. They begin the month fasting, to show their devotion to Allah, which leads to inner reflection and self-control. This typically means fighting comes to a halt during this devotion. That said, the days prior to the start of Ramadan, and just after it’s over, tend to consist of heavy fighting due to the Taliban knowing they are about to enter into a significant cleansing.

Over the past several days, violence had become more prevalent and had hit its highest level of intensity since my arrival at the firebase. Almost nightly we were getting attacked with RPGs, mortars, and small arms fire. It was an indescribable feeling to be going about normal day-to-day business one minute and then in the next to be hearing gunfire, explosions and rockets impacting all around you. Becky and I would habitually retreat to the OpCen to operate the radios and security camera while the guys manned the walls of the firebase and the mortar pit to defend the base.

The first night we were attacked, during this predicted time of increased violence, we were caught relatively off guard; involved in our normal tasks of the evening when the bullets and mortars began. We scrambled to our areas of responsibility; Becky had control of the camera while I rushed to the radio. Over the span of an hour I could hear the bullets hitting the very wall that was separating me from the chaos outside. The guys were able to fend them off and eventually the firing stopped. After the small slip-up that left us vulnerable we made quick adjustments to prevent it from happening again.

The night of the 22
nd
we were ready. We stood on the roof with the interpreters listening to the Taliban voices on the scanner talking back and forth about their plan of attack. It was an eerie feeling to hear their voices. It made me so angry knowing they were plotting to kill us, but it prepared me for what was about to transpire. As soon as they began firing, I ran inside the OpCen and directed the camera to see if I could spot their location and tell the guys where they were. I scanned the camera over to a common location that I had learned they liked to attack from.

Sure enough, I could see five to six people firing AK-47s at us. I grabbed the radio and yelled, “Mortar pit, be advised! Location of insurgents with effective fire spotted. Standby for the ten digit grid!” I found the coordinates and called them over the next transmission. “I’ve got the laser on them for a visual, do you copy?” I yelled.

“We copy, hanging the round now,” the voice answered. Seconds later I watched the explosion on the camera and, as the dust settled, I could still see movement and I began to feel my blood boil with rage. I wanted every last one of them dead.

“Mortar pit! Be advised I still see movement. I say again, there is still movement!”

“Roger that, hanging another round,” they answered, and the second explosion followed. This time, no more movement. The attack continued for another three hours and I stood in the OpCen in absolute disbelief of everything that just happened.

I’d never been a person to
hate
or want anything bad to happen to anyone, but that night, when I saw them firing at us, every negative emotion possible seemed to fester inside of me. All of the hate they’d brought to Afghanistan, the depression, the poverty, the brainwashing, it made me so
angry
. So angry in fact, that at that point if I had been on the wall with the guys I would not have thought twice about firing my weapon, especially after losing three of our brothers due to
them.
I realized in that moment of reflection just what war can do to a person, and it was scary.

I was always telling Greg how I could not understand how people could actually bring themselves to kill another human being. But as I watched one of the Taliban men I located on the camera (who was clearly wounded from the first mortar round) move slowly to grab his rifle, I had no hesitation in telling the guys to hang another round, and I found an unexpected need to watch the man stop moving and it felt good. Who had I become?

The next morning was the first time in three days we had clinic and regretfully it was the saddest day I had dealt with yet. The numbers of patients had dwindled down to almost nothing, due to the locals’ fear to be around the base during such a violent time. Our first patient of the day was a little boy about ten years old who came in with a black cloth slung over his shoulder, like he was carrying a sack of potatoes. It clearly had something in it and when he came inside he plopped it down on the gurney and opened it up. I looked inside and saw he was actually carrying a tiny baby. As he pulled out the lifeless child I knew it was a terrible situation. The baby was his six-month-old sister. As he unwrapped her I looked at her tiny body and realized it was too late for me to help; she looked like nothing more than a skeleton with skin. Her pupils were fixed and dilated, she had blood coming out of her rectum and she was agonal breathing (medical term for the type of breathing you see in a patient in the last minutes of life). Hal and I couldn’t believe what we were seeing, a tiny innocent body trying to stay alive, but we both knew her little soul was already gone.

I looked at the boy, as tears welled up in my eyes, and asked him how long she had been like this.

“Since she was born,” he answered emotionlessly. I looked at him in disbelief.

“Why didn’t you bring her to us sooner?” I asked. He simply shrugged his shoulders.

“Well what made you bring her today?” Hal asked.

“My parents told me to, so I did,” he replied.

“She’s dying….minutes from now she will be gone. It’s too late for us to do anything to help her. You need to take your sister to her mother so she can spend her last moments with her,” I said. He nodded without any visible sign of emotion. He put her back in his “sack” and without remorse slung her over his shoulder like garbage. He looked at us and gave a slight nod of the head, turned and walked out. Hal and I looked at each other in shock and the tears started to flow from our eyes.

We had just witnessed a scene so devastating it even brought a Green Beret to tears. It was by far the most disturbing thing I’d seen in this country. We hugged and consoled each other through our tears; it took several minutes to pull ourselves together to continue to see the rest of the patients that had come in.

If that wasn’t enough, a man brought in his son who had fallen down a hill earlier that day who had been to see the bazaar doctor. His face was still covered in blood and dirt with bandages just placed over the filthy wounds. His eye was almost completely swollen shut. I looked down at his arm and saw another splint with hair and egg to his wrist.

We cleaned the area and confirmed with x-ray he had a distal radius fracture (a wrist fracture). We properly applied a cast to the arm and as I was explaining to the man how to take care of his son’s wounds, the gunfire began again. It was once again another day of fighting in this war-stricken country. We closed up clinic, ran up to the OpCen, took our positions, and the process started all over again.

My God I was ready to go home.