Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (27 page)

1425 HOURS, OR

“I don't know what to say. The man will do whatever it takes to keep his position,” Hudge says as she walks in the door. Reto and I are sitting down in the break room.

“He's like an alligator: He doesn't do anything all day and saves his energy only to hunt his prey and bite their heads off . Meanwhile, I get irritable bowel syndrome. I did tell him to fuck off and left to go talk to one of the chief ward masters. When I get there, Pyne was the only one there. Gagney follows behind me, slamming the door shut as he does. As soon as the door is closed he starts verbally attacking me. I try to defend myself, but Pyne says I'm just saying it as retribution for the counseling statements that Gagney gave me — but I hadn't mentioned the counseling statements so he must have already known Gagney was going to give them to me. I couldn't talk about it anymore, we'd been talking for ten minutes, it was already planned — I've officially been relieved of my position as second shift leader.”

WEEK 2, DAY 7, IRAQ

1300 HOURS, OR

Here's what my days are like: I wake up in the morning and smoke to get rid of my headache, then I walk to work, in a hundred and twenty degrees of heat, and then spend all day covered in blood. Then I go home, take some pills, and fall asleep. It's as if everything is piling up, and after trying to make myself dead to emotions for so long, they're finally starting to catch up and I don't know what do with them.

“How are you feeling Anthony, are you all right? You look worn down.” Gagney looks at me and puts his hand on my shoulder. We make eye contact for the first time in months.

“I'll be fine … thanks,” I say to Gagney.

“If you need anything, or ever need to talk, you can talk to me.”

I don't know whether it's because I've been filled with such emotion lately, but hearing Gagney say this makes me want to forget every nasty thing he's ever done.

“Yeah I know, thanks,” I reply.

Gagney turns and leaves while I am left here in shock.

I want to continue to hate Gagney; it's all I know and I'm good at it. I've grown accustomed to my hate — it's comfortable, it's my friend, and it's always there for me. But now it feels as though it's slowly leaving, and I'm not sure I want it to leave because I'm afraid of what I'll be left with.

I am reminded of a story I once heard about the explorer Marco Polo. Whenever he was going on an expedition he would take a team of people with him, and in this team he would always bring one person that everyone disliked or hated. They said it gave everyone else in the group a common enemy and a way to relate to each other, a way to get all their anger off of each other and off of the conditions and channel all of it toward one person. I now feel like I lost that one person, but everyone else still has him so now I'm the outsider.

Denti is sitting in the break room eating potato chips and drinking orange soda. He complains about some floor cleaning job Gagney had given him and I already feel like an outsider.

Gagney walks in as Denti is telling me about the floor mopping assignment.

“Damn it, Denti! I told you to go mop the floor an hour ago,” Gagney says then looks at me. “And look at you. You were there when I told him; you were going to just let him sit here stuffing his fat mouth with chips and soda instead of moping the floor! Now both of you can stay here an extra hour and mop the entire OR. All the rooms!”

Denti and I look at each other. We're connecting again. I can feel my anger and hate coming back as his anger also rises. I feel relieved; my old friend is back. Even though he'd only been gone for a few minutes, it still felt good to have him back. Gagney storms out of the room, but before he does he gives me a look. Denti and I spend the next hour mopping the floor and complaining about Gagney.

Second shift comes in, and even though they don't help us with mopping the floor, they do join in the complaining about Gagney. All of us standing around there, making fun of Gagney, having a good time. I think about all the times we all stood around like this laughing and cracking jokes and how it has helped us bond. Maybe Marco Polo was onto something, maybe even Gagney is onto something.

WEEK 3, DAY 4, IRAQ

2000 HOURS, SLEEPING AREA

Proust picks up a plastic bag filled with chopped up green leaves.

“Hey Johnson, tell Anthony the story you just told me.”

“I don't feel like it,” Johnson yells back and lies down in bed.

“He just fucked one of the interpreters,” Proust says. “He fucked the big girl, the one with the big hips and nice ass. He just found out she's a prostitute, too, and people on base have been paying her hundreds of dollars to sleep with her.” Proust laughs. “Now he's worried that he might have an STD or something.”

“Shut UP!” Johnson yells, throwing a pillow at Proust.

Proust ignores it and looks at me.

“You ever heard of
Salvia divinorum
?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“It's a totally legal drug. Native Americans use it in some type of shaman rituals so the government can't outlaw it.”

Proust goes on to tell me that salvia is comparable to LSD in the type of high it gives you. He explains that several people from the ER have ordered it online and are smoking it.

“Take some so you can meet your spirit animal,” he says.

The thought of soldiers with an M-16 and three hundred rounds of ammo, tripping on a drug that makes them talk to spirit animals…. I get up and leave, telling Proust I'll be back in a few days for more Vicodin or Percocet.

WEEK 4, DAY 6, IRAQ

0100 HOURS, MY ROOM

As I lay in bed, staring at my computer and browsing the web, I come across a quote: “Not all scars show, not all wounds heal. Sometimes you can't always see the pain someone feels.”

It makes me think about our hospital and what we're doing here. The real wounds of this war are going to be the ones that we can't fix, the ones that our medical equipment and training have nothing to do with. The Iraqi child growing up without a mother or father, the Iraqi widowed husband or wife, the American child growing up without a mother or father, the American widowed husband or wife — these are the real wounds of the war. These are the ones we can't heal. Everyone in our hospital is going through their own things. We are not just fighting this war in Iraq; we are fighting it within ourselves.

We are a hospital, but I think we're working on the wrong wounds. I don't think we can heal the wounds of war with mere medical care. I think about the speech my drill sergeant once gave when I was in basic training. I now understand what he was talking about. “
And for the real unlucky ones, you will come home so emotionally disfigured that you wish you had died over there.”

We are going to leave Iraq, and since we're not an infantry unit, most likely all of us are going to get home safe and sound without any physical injuries. I doubt that any of us will be so overwhelmed that we'll wish we had died. But I feel a pang of emotional shrapnel as I watch the countless number of husbands and wives having affairs. The war goes on. Crade looks for a way out of his pain and twice he finds suicide attempts as the answer. The GOBs then had a decision to make — what to do, what not to do — and they did nothing. The war goes on. Specialist Meade, Captain Tarr, Lieutenant Hamilton, and countless more — all of them looking to fill this hole they feel in themselves, and they choose anonymous sex to fill it. The war goes on. Sergeant Hudge and Staff Sergeant Gagney and all of us have to deal with our own blood, our own lives, our own anger, and each other. The war goes on.

MONTH 10

“IF SOMEONE FEELS AN EMOTION BUT DOESN'T ALLOW THEMSELVES TO EXPRESS IT, WHERE DOES IT GO?”

WEEK 1, DAY 5, IRAQ

1600 HOURS, OR

“Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a big round of applause for Colonel Jelly,” one of the GOBs says. The GOBs and Colonel Jelly are holding an award ceremony for themselves and some of the doctors. The MDs have only been with us for three months, but they're getting awards.

“You've got to help our buddy out. He's hurt very badly. We went to the ER, but the doors are locked,” two Marines say to a specialist in the ICW as they hold their friend and fellow Marine up and place him in a nearby chair. A specialist, Linhorst, a medic who works in the ICW looks at the patient: young, twenty years old, holding his mouth and jaw. Linhorst looks at the two Marines that brought him in.

“What happened to him?”

“We were working on a machine when part of it combusted.”

“He's an engineer?”

“He passed out for a second, and when he came to he was crying from the pain but he couldn't talk. Then the ER was locked.” The Marine looks around. “I mean, the only person we saw….”

“I'll see what I can do,” Linhorst says as he turns and heads toward the ER.

“Excuse me, sergeant,” Linhorst whispers as he touches Staff Sergeant Blett's shoulder. “We have a patient that needs to be seen.”

Blett turns partially around, only exposing one cheek to Linhorst. “What's wrong with him? Is he awake? I didn't hear the chopper land.”

“I'm not sure what his injury is. He's holding his mouth and his friends brought him in.”

“I'll see him after the ceremony,” Blett says as she turns her head back around, hoping that maybe one of the awards is for her.

Linhorst turns and walks back to the ICW. The soldier is still holding his mouth, and tears are running down his cheeks.

“She said she'll be here as quick as she can.”

Linhorst looks at the patient, though, and he can tell something is wrong. Marines are trained to deal with all types of pain, but this soldier is screaming, he is screaming through his eyes.

1617 HOURS, OR

“Where the hell is everyone? This is a hospital.” One of the Marines is beginning to get frantic; his friend hasn't been seen by anyone besides Specialist Linhorst.

Linhorst turns again and goes back toward the ER.

Colonel Jelly is still giving out awards and congratulating another one of the GOBs.