Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (15 page)

WEEK 3, DAY 2, IRAQ

0215 HOURS, MY ROOM

BBBBAAAAMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

I sit up straight in bed.

BBBBAAAAMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

BBBBAAAAMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

BBBBOOOOOOOOOOMMMMM!!!

BUNKERS. BUNKERS. BUNKERS.

It's an attack and the rounds are hitting close. I look at my clock; it says 2:15. I look over on my nightstand at the half-empty bottle of Nyquil. I know I should get out of bed but I don't feel like moving.

BBBBAAAAMMMMMMMMMMM!!!

The rounds are really close. I don't think I've heard them this close, hitting inside our barracks.

I know I should get out of bed; they're hitting inside our sleeping compound. I look back at the clock: 2:17. I look at the half-empty bottle of NyQuil that Steve finally gave me. I look at the inside of my eyelids.

BBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!

2:20. I know I need to get up. I look over at Markham to see if he's out of bed. He's gone and our door is wide open.

BBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!

I know I've got to move fast, so I grab my weapon and head to the closest bunker, which luckily is only a few feet away. My heart is pounding but I'm not sure if it's from the rush or the NyQuil. I run to the bunker. By the time I get there everyone from my street is already there —
BBBBBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAAAAMMM-MMMMMMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!!

BBBBBBBBBBBAAAAAAAAAAAAMMMMMMMMMM-MMMMM!!!!!!!!!

BBBBBBBBOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM-MMMMM!!!!!!!!!

CCCRRRAAAAASSSSSHHH!!!!

Everyone in the bunker looks at one another; those last two hits sounded like they hit someone's room. It's freezing outside. It's the beginning of winter. I'm only wearing a T-shirt and shorts. It is almost Christmas.

0325 HOURS, BUNKER

It takes over an hour for the bombings to stop and the base to be all cleared again. Because it's a few blocks closer to our rooms than the hospital, Gagney lets us check in at his room.

On my way back I see a huge crowd of people gathered around a Chu (sleeping quarter) that's on the street after mine. Everyone is crowded around Sergeant Elster's room.

Sergeant Mardine comes through the crowd telling everyone to back up a hundred feet.

“There is an unexploded mortar on the ground.”

Elster sees me and makes his way through the crowd.

“What the hell happened?” I ask.

“Man, I'll tell you, Anthony, that was crazy. When the second one hit I got up and the next one went through the room. It went through my damn wall!”

The mortars are directly hitting our sleeping barracks now. Before I couldn't sleep because of the fear of being mortared, but now it's not even a fear, it's a reality.

WEEK 3, DAY 3, IRAQ

1100 HOURS, HOSPITAL

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the world, not a creature was stirring … except in Iraq.

Elster is in the back part of the hospital and looking in big military shipping containers — one of the supply conexes — and doing inventory of what he has and needs to order.

“Gagney wants you to come inside; he's having a meeting.”

“Gagney just told me to come out here ten minutes ago,” Elster yells from inside the conex.

“Whatever, man, that's what he told me.”

Elster comes out of the conex and we go back toward the front of the hospital. We're clearing our weapons —

BBBBBAAAAAAAMMMMM!!!

BBBBBAAAAAAAMMMMM!!!

BUNKERS. BUNKERS. BUNKERS.

Ninety percent of the mortars are hitting directly on top of the hospital, which is reinforced with two feet of cement. It starts exploding again:

BAAMMM … BBBBAAAAMMMM …

Some people, like Reto, seem to get used to working through it.

BAAAAAMMMM!

When I help Elster finish the supply inventory later, three people are staring at the ground where we were talking about Gagney at the conex.

Two mortars hit right there.

Elster and I examine the ground. There's a hole the size of a football. One of the guys that was standing around takes out a camera and begins taking pictures of the other conexes in the area. They're made of solid steel, and now, from the mortar, they have shrapnel peppered throughout them.

Both of us are thinking the same thing. Two times in a row, incredibly close calls, saved by only seconds. Maybe he's not so lucky.

1145 HOURS, HOSPITAL

This is what Reto knows about the hospital roof:

“Like two seconds ago I went to the roof of the hospital to check out what type of damage had happened. And it was hit pretty bad, all kind of indents everywhere. That's what I was expecting to find, but do you want to know what else I found? The whole roof, littered with condoms and condom wrappers. It looks like there was literally an orgy up there.”

A few nights ago Crade was telling me how he took his girlfriend to the roof of the hospital to look at the stars.

WEEK 3, DAY 4, IRAQ

1100 HOURS, OR

Christmas. We do a secret Santa. I don't get the warm pajamas I wanted; instead I get a VHS movie called
Air Bud
. Just what I wanted: an old movie about a dog that plays basketball, and best of all it's in Spanish. I think the person who gave it to me must have confused me with Torres, but I laugh it off and put a fake smile on my face.

Everyone hands out presents and tries to have a good time, but really we're all just depressed and miss our families. It's Christmas but it doesn't mean anything. We're still thousands of miles away from our families and in the middle of a war.

In the end we spend the rest of the day doing as little that's memorable as possible. No one wants to be able to remember Christmas in Iraq. All we want is to pass the day as quickly as any other. We want to chalk it off on the calendars so that we can say one more day has gone by that we won't remember and we are one day closer to being back with our families.

WEEK 4, DAY 4, IRAQ

2300 HOURS, MY ROOM

In all the war movies I've ever seen, no one calls home or goes on MySpace. They write emotional letters, and even though I can't do the emotional part, I still send the letters. I've heard from about half the people I've written.

I read stories about friends celebrating their twenty-first birthdays, twenty-one shots in twenty-one bars, the typical crazy animal house college stories — the drama, this guy, and this girl, who's doing what and with whom. It just depresses the hell out of me. I remember watching movies about people growing up, going to college, meeting girls, having a great time, and becoming mature adults. My friends that do write tell stories of going to bars and drinking all night. I spent that same night working a twenty-four-hour shift. I read stories of one-night stands and empty hookups. I spent that night operating on someone only to have them die the next day in the ICW. I read stories of friends going to concerts and frat parties. I spent that night cowering in a bunker for my life. I should be home with my friends. This isn't how a twenty-year-old should be spending his glory years. When I graduated high school the keynote speaker told us the next few years would be the best years of our lives. Yet here I am, six thousand miles from home and fighting a war. Of course, I don't regret my choice. But only when my tour's over will I find out if it was the right one.