Paradise General (14 page)

We weren't given an estimated arrival time so I just told the crew to take off in shifts to the latrines, empty their bladders, and run back if they heard the choppers coming in. Since our whole hospital shook with a landing, an arrival was impossible to miss.

Ten minutes passed, then twenty. When the clock on the wall hit thirty, we started wondering what might be up, hoping the birds weren't
involved in any firefights. Finally, at a nerve-stretched fifty minutes, we heard the whomp-whomp of the blades. Our medics sprinted out with their stretchers to the landing pad … then calmly walked back in, accompanied by two
walking
soldiers with
hand
injuries. I let my intestines return to the inside of my body and got out of the medics' way. It was always good news when the injuries were minor compared to what you dreaded they were going to be.

The two patients had been in a small firefight; though I'm not sure it's ever fair to call a firefight small, especially when the bullets are aimed at you. These two guys were scared and needed a little TLC and a joke. The joke was key, since it let a wounded guy know he was going to be okay. And a joke was my weapon of choice in defending myself from the horrors of the war, especially when I had a young one slowly bleeding to death in the ICU, but still needed to take care of other patients.

I typically took off my uniform top when I worked, simply wandering around in a T-shirt, with a nice little nametag made of surgi-cal tape … by order of the hospital administrator.

“Major, I know it's hot and you can get bloody in that job of yours, but you need to wear a nametag so we know who you are and you look professional.”

I thought the stethoscope was all I needed to make me authentic, but using a surgical tape nametag did allow me to change identities quicker than Superman. I could be anyone as long as the brass didn't catch me. Major Whiner. Major DeZaster, Major Jack Cass.

Today was a slam dunk.

“Good morning, gentlemen. I am Dr. Petraeus. I see you both have been given some lead injections by our friends, the enemy. Doesn't look too bad. We'll give you something for pain. Take some X-rays. You'll then get a visit from Iraq's favorite orthopedic surgeon if the bones are hit, otherwise we'll just clean you up and give you a nice comfortable bed to spend the night.”

The nervous soldiers' eyes went even wider.

One blurted, “Did you say Dr. Petraeus? Like, are you related to the
General
Petraeus?”

“Yes, I am his father,” I answered solemnly. “Say, have you ever seen
Star Wars
? You know Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker? Well, it's not like that for us. We get along great and never sword-fight. Now let's fix you guys up.”

The soldiers were chuckling as the wheelchairs took them away for some X-rays in the nearby radiology tent. I sat down to drink, and then spit out, a cup of the morning's coffee: Pumpkin Spice. Who drinks this kind of stuff—especially in a war? And what idiot thought up Pumpkin Spice? Instead, I grabbed a Red Bull from the mini-fridge. A few minutes later, the two dinged soldiers returned from X-ray, feeling no pain from the morphine we had loaded them with before the trip. The films looked clean and the wounds superficial. Good news. All they needed was a “wash-out”—basically a power wash of the bullet holes—and a clean dressing.

As they were being wheeled away to the ward, one babbled in a drug-induced fog, “Doc, say hi to your son the general when you see him.”

I laughed. “My pleasure. You can expect your medals within two weeks, sooner if they come UPS. May the Force be with you.”

Okay, it was an insane asylum, but it was our insane asylum. Designed to make the soldiers feel at home while away from home and allowing us to act like nuts to keep from going nuts. And we needed that 24/7, because no sooner had the chuckles stopped than we heard a whomping sound and felt the ER start to vibrate. Another chopper. No warning, no heads-up.

This time when the medics sprinted out, they sprinted back in, pushing a stretcher occupied by an Iraqi policeman spurting blood in all directions. And the medics were doing CPR. Shit. My surgeons had left. The anesthesia people were busy and nowhere to be seen.

I went to Alpha bay and took my place at the head of the stretcher as the medics jostled into their assigned areas around the wounded soldier. It quickly became a contest to see who wouldn't puke first. He had no jaw. It was gone. Blown off. Yet he was still alive. There was a collective swallow of bile as we all kicked into our personal auto modes. I had seconds to get an airway in to help this poor guy breathe. Blindly probing with my finger, bubbles soon appeared from the middle of the bloody mass of unrecognizable flesh, and I found what used to be a mouth.

“Guys, I think we've got one good shot at this. Get me some suction. Hold him steady now.” In went the airway tube—sliding smoothly along my finger, down the throat, and into the windpipe. Pure luck.

A medic grabbed my stethoscope and listened to the lungs.

“Good breath sounds both sides, sir. Very nice.”

The medics got their IV lines in and poured in fluids and blood. X-ray came and shot a series of films. We watched as his blood pressure climbed and the patient began to stabilize. He might actually have a chance.

Now I asked for more details. “Who is this guy?”

The chief nurse answered, “Iraqi police.”

“What's the story?”

“No clue.”

I wanted to get him to a reconstructive specialist before something went wrong and he tanked on us, and told the chief nurse, “What do you say we get Balad on the line and spin up a bird to get this guy on the road? Time to say hi and goodbye.”

Twenty minutes later the “Man Without a Face” was on his way. Odds were the docs at Balad would jigsaw-graft back together a human face. I'd seen their work and it was good. Our time with the patient was just twenty-eight minutes, and we'd never see him or his new face again.

As the medics swabbed the blood from the floor, I snuck out to
sneak a peek at our kid in the ICU. Rick and Bernard were hovering like nervous parents.

Rick was somber. “Look at that blood. Still leaking. Pressure is dropping. We've gotta go back in, Bernard.”

Bernard stood staring at the bandage that was soaking red. “You're right man. Need a hand?”

“Twenty, if you've got them.”

Rick looked up, saw me at the foot of the bed, and said, “Dave, we could use you, too.”

I answered quickly, “I'm in. Let me get someone to cover
the ER.”

I paged Mike to see if he could take over for a few hours. While I waited, it was back to work seeing patients. Fortunately, there weren't many waiting, which was unusual, and those who were waiting had problems just like the ones I typically saw back home. One guy who strained his back lifting a bag of something, another with a headache, then one other with chest pain. The one with chest pain was only twenty-two years old, so I wasn't too worried about heart problems. Nonetheless, I had the medics do the million-dollar workup: EKG, chest X-ray, lab work, the whole nine yards.

The headache guy was simple. A migraine, which was typical for guys working in 130-degree temperatures and not getting enough fluids. He needed a little pain medication to take the edge off and a lot of IV fluids to refill his tank.

As I worked my way to the next stretcher to see the patient with back pain, the train pulled in to the station, filled with a group of soldiers who had hit a small IED an hour before. Nothing too serious at first glance, but they all needed to be checked and cleared before being sent back to duty. There were five of them, so that was going to take some time.

I told one of the medics to tell the guy with back pain it might be a few minutes before I could see him.

The young specialist stammered, “But, sir, he's a sir.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Meaning … ?”

He continued to stammer. “A colonel. And he says he's in a hurry. All he wants is some Vicodin.”

With sprouting irritation, I quickly responded, “Tell the colonel to take a number. I don't give narcotics without an exam. And I need to see the IED guys before anybody else.”

“He's really pissed, sir.”

I could feel myself getting hot.

“Then give him a urinal.”

We now had a full house and I was squirming for Mike to show up so I could hustle over to surgery in time. I made my way down the rows of stretchers once more.

The IED guys weren't in too bad shape; some ringing ears, a couple of headaches, and one bloodied eardrum whose owner couldn't hear very well. As I looked at the ruptured eardrum with my otoscope, I was blasted by a shouting voice less than an inch away from my face.

“I AM FINE, SIR. JUST A LITTLE HEADACHE. MY EAR HURTS BUT NOT TOO BAD.”

Fighting the need to shout back, I evenly replied, “Okay, you don't have to yell. I can hear you just fine, even if you can't hear me very well.”

“WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“I said we captured Osama, the war is over, and we can all go home now.”

“I'M FINE, SIR. JUST A LITTLE HEADACHE. MY EAR HURTS BUT NOT TOO BAD.”

That clinched it. My young ruptured eardrum bought himself a night in our medical hotel.

Looking into his confused eyes I said, “Son, welcome to Paradise General Hospital. You will be our guest for the night and you will not go back to duty until you can hear every single syllable I utter.”

For good measure, I wrote it all down for him to read. He was
going to be fine, but he wasn't going anywhere until we were sure he was fine. Too many concussions and head injuries had been missed or ignored, and none of us wanted a soldier to carry home the scourge of a hidden brain injury. When it came to IED blasts, we were cautious to the max, even if it pissed off commanders who were shorthanded on troops to send out on missions.

My motherly ways were rudely interrupted by a whining screech from a couple of stretches down the line.

“I need someone here NOW!”

The asshole colonel.

I took my time strolling to his stretcher. As I pulled back the curtain, I told myself to be calm.

“Yes, Colonel, what can I do for you?”

“I need to get back to my office and get some work done. I don't need to be wasting my time sitting here waiting all day,” he barked.

“Well, sir, maybe we can get the official war referees to call a time-out,” I responded calmly, “you know, take a little break from the game so we can all catch up. Maybe we can make a phone call or something to the people in charge.”

His face turned bright red and the veins on his forehead took on a dangerously explosive appearance.

“Wise guy, huh? MAJOR.”

I now answered through gritted teeth, “No, doctor-guy, COLONEL. And I've got five guys who hit an IED in line ahead of you. And I know your back had a fight with your duffel bag, but they get to go first. Rule of the hospital. Rule of my ER.”

He continued to push me to the edge with a sternly toned, “Well, hustle it up. I don't have all day.”

Bowing at the waist, I quickly backed away from the stretcher.

“Yessir, yessir, yes—sir.”

I would now go sweep the sidewalks and take out the trash before I'd examine him. Important rule: Never piss off the staff of an emergency room, or any medical office for that matter. It made me wonder
what this self-important desk jockey would think about our young trooper who was slowly dying, one drop at a time. The one whose blood still stained my boots.

As I walked away cursing under my breath, Bernard came in.

“We're in a holding pattern. Bill is sticking a rod in some guy's tibia and then has to clean up a wound graft. Dude says he's hurrying.”

I shook my head and pictured the steady drip from the unknown leak in the kid's neck.

“All right—just let me know. I'll be here. How's the kid doing?”

“Sinking. I think Rick is taking this one hard. Man, we're all taking this one hard. Even the Angels are hovering extra close. Shit, that leak is going to do the kid in. He's going to die no matter what, but we've got to try something.”

Die no matter what. Damn, I didn't need Bernard to confirm what I already believed.

I looked over at the clock. Eleven
A.M.
here, which meant the middle of the night back home. Was his wife up? She had to have gotten word by now. I thought about what went through her mind as the pair of soldiers came to her front door to give her the news her husband was critically wounded. She probably didn't want to open the door because she knew why soldiers in dress uniforms travel in pairs to the homes of soldiers. The neighbors watch in sadness, yet are secretly relieved the soldiers passed by their houses.

She had no idea about us, a group of doctors—strangers thousands of miles away, feeling crushed by the pressure of fighting a battle destiny told us we would lose. We couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and couldn't get our minds off her husband. I wonder if she knew how much we really cared? How the Angels hover around his bed, talking to him about his beautiful children, and making sure he is comfortable? And what about those kids? They'd never see their dad again, but they didn't know it yet. The waiting, that dreaded and powerless unknown, is one of the greatest tortures a soul can ever know.

Once again, I flashed back to Littleton. The night of the shootings, scores of parents were herded to a nearby elementary school, waiting as the authorities sorted through long lists of missing students. Who was found at a friend's or neighbor's house, who was wounded and in the hospital, and who wasn't on either list. Those not on a list were still lying in the school. Vibrant teens who left for school that morning, like any morning, now lifeless under desks and tables. The frightened look in the eyes of a parent waiting for news, but dreading it.

What did the eyes of our soldier's wife look like? Sleepless, red, and tear-stained, filled with dread and anxiety as she waited for word that lay in our helpless hands. Seven thousand miles away and we couldn't comfort her, couldn't reassure her, couldn't hold her hand and tell her we were going to try somehow to make everything right. The questions and images racing through my exhausted mind were making me nuts.