Paradise General (18 page)

Or a whispered warning to an unsuspecting patient.

“Ever hear that bad things tend to happen in threes? Well, Dr. Reutlinger has already killed his three patients this week, you're number four so you're safe. But first let him go outside and have a drink to steady his hands.”

Rick would just roll his eyes and say a two-syllable Oklahoma-twanged, “Da-ve.”

Maybe that's why we all got along so well—it was no harm, no foul. We'd slam each other, the staff would slam us, and no one got offended or acted like an arrogant asshole.

In honor of the holiday, a few of the female medics stuffed socks into their crotches for the “extra built” look. I decided I would wear an oversized “Uncle Sam” hat while working. And asked which doctor I was going to be for the day. The medics started scribbling on strips of adhesive that I'd tape to my shirt. The choices were many: Dr. Lance Boyle, Dr. C. Menn, and Dr. Jacques Strapp. The winner was a play on a common bumper sticker seen on the back of some tractor-trailers: “How's my doctoring? Call 1-800-TOUGH-SHIT.”

Rick shook his lightbulbed head in mock despair.

“You're going to get in big trouble one of these days, Davy-boy.”

Yet Rick couldn't claim total innocence in our world of pranks.

It was his idea when we were finished using the porta-potty to put
up a sign that said, “Mission Accomplished.”

And his idea to speak fake Japanese to the chow hall workers or other camp staff every Monday while making Tuesday fake Norwegian day. He even invented a new language—“Charabic,” a combination of Chinese and Arabic. We had no idea how to speak either language; then again, Rick couldn't speak decipherable English.

And it was his idea to develop a different style of walking for our daily treks to the hospital. His favorite was Wednesday, the day we “walked like an Egyptian” across the camp.

But not everyone had a healthy sense of humor. Especially some of the administrators, a group whom some of the medics referred to as the “Three Stooges.” Moe, Larry, and Curly just walked by the doctors as if we were invisible—and that was courteous treatment compared to what they offered the hospital staff. Worse, the pompous trio would often stroll around the ER with their pistols strapped on while we were dealing with a roomful of patients. For some reason they thought they were immune from the “all weapons must be locked up” rule. The medics would quip, “That guy thinks he's Dirty Harry or something.” I dreamed of the day one of them was going to shoot himself by accident and I would say, “Sorry, I'm not a proctologist so I don't know how to take care of someone like you.”

The Army pissed us off, too. There was one case in particular that boiled our eggs—a day Rick had worked for hours trying to save a kid with a bad belly wound. The case was a messy one and by the time Rick finished, he could literally wring his socks of the blood that had spilled off the body and run down his legs. Since all the squeezing in the world couldn't save those socks, they went straight into the trash, and Rick went off to meet me at chow. That's where he was turned away: no socks, no service. And no explanation in the world could grant him a reprieve and a meal. Even:
I'm a surgeon—long case—critical patient—lots of blood—you don't want that blood in here—you stop serving in five minutes—no time to go to the barracks and get a fresh pair.

Sorry, sir. Next time you'll plan ahead.

Right, and next time we'll tell the blown-up soldier to plan ahead.

Maybe that's why Bill wears big rubber fireman boots into his cases—the blood simply runs off like rainwater.

At times, a special stone in our boots was the active duty guys, a few of whom regarded us as kids with cooties on their schoolyard. Being a reservist was bad enough for some of the active duty elite—but being a
reservist doctor
was the equivalent of the military homeless. Holding signs on the corner of the hospital:
“Will operate for food.”

They were spit-and-polish, we were just … spit. And blood. I guess the bottom line for them was reservists weren't “real soldiers,” and doctors, well, we weren't even “fake soldiers,” an insult made worse by the fact most of us were handed the rank of major or lieutenant colonel simply by joining their army.

It wasn't all of the active duty folks who turned their noses at us; we actually got along with and genuinely liked most of the men and women who made the military their career. And vice versa. It was simply a small group, the
Lord of the Rings, Iraq Edition
fobbits that gave us the hardest of times. And on our base, we were overrun with fobbits.

Though I needed a translator for most Army-speak, even I understood the term given to those who never left the safety of a base in a war zone. Most of our camps were designated as a Forward Operating Base—or a FOB. Their home-bound occupants were therefore christened “fobbits.” The fobbits would usually spend their deployments never seeing or interacting with an honest-to-goodness Iraqi. And when you did the math, fobbits made up close to the majority of soldiers stationed in Iraq. They might just as well have picked a different desert for all the Iraqis they saw.

Tucked away in safe corners, or really the safe innards, of a large base, these soldiers just got up every day, walked to work at some office or shop, and never went outside the wire. It was like going to
work back home in the States, not that their sacrifices weren't substantial; after all, they were apart from their loved ones for twelve to fifteen months at a time. And that sucked. But when a small number of them shit on us, that sucked even more, especially for those of us who did get to see real Iraqis every day, usually bleeding ones.

We had a small and special group of fobbits who were our designated tormentors—sort of like schoolyard bullies, or in this case, more like pains in the ass since we usually outranked them. They would confront us in the mess hall with accusations of a sloppy uniform:
Sir, your pants aren't tucked into your boots properly and your shoelaces aren't tucked into your boots.
Or would admonish us for sitting with our enlisted coworkers:
Sirs, no fraternization allowed. You need to set a good example for the other troops.
We'd just shake our heads and walk away.

One day the fobbits went too far. An exhausted Ian had just finished a marathon surgery, changed out of a bloody uniform into his workout clothes, and headed to chow. As he stood in line, a group of sergeants surrounded him, saying his shorts and T-shirt weren't regulation, and that he should leave the mess hall. After he told them to screw off and sat down with steam coming out of his ears, we could see the fobbits sitting at their table pointing and laughing at us. We decided to pay them a quick house call on our way out.

“Gentlemen, we have sharp knives to cut your skin, thick tubes to stick up your dicks, and rigid tubes to shove up your asses. Sometimes we confuse what goes where. You ever talk to us again—even look at us again, we'll experiment with our tools until we get it right. Now your meals are over. Get up. Get out. And say, ‘Yes, Sir,' as you leave.”

They never bothered us again.

It was tougher when we had to deal with those who outranked us—so we could only make fun of them behind their backs. Like General Richard Head. He was the general you've probably never heard of, but General Richard Head was actually a pretty important guy in
this war. A generic make-believe leader for those of us who actually got our hands dirty every day. We loved him so much we even referred to General Head by his nickname, Dick. If we ever had a bitch, moan, or complaint, it was always nice to have a General Dick Head to blame it on.

Don't get me wrong, the Army had some great leaders we trusted and respected. I actually liked a lot of our generals. And rumor had it, a couple even thought I was okay as well, even though during my first deployment they seemed to take great pleasure in chewing big chunks out of my ass. But the man who wore the star wasn't always what he seemed to be, especially when his personal photographers were around.

Take the one general who the medics told me wanted to give some medals and commemorative coins to our brave troops wounded in battle. The problem was, at the time, we had no brave troops wounded in battle. Our beds were empty of wounded soldiers; they'd either been fixed or shipped off to Germany. The only American in the ward was moaning and groaning from a recent surgery. The general didn't care, he was going to give this suffering soldier a commemorative coin. Unfortunately, when he found out the poor kid was in pain from hemorrhoid surgery, the general wanted his coin back. Hemorrhoid Man wasn't going to give it up without a fight, pain in the ass or no pain in the ass. The tug-of-war must have looked great on camera.

Then there was the guy with stars in his eyes and on his shoulders who came to visit our hospital for his own photo op. We were ordered to dress nice, look sharp, and stay put in the ER. Under any circumstances, DO NOT LEAVE, you never know when he'll walk in. But after an hour of a painfully boring wait for an overdue general, my bowels decided they could wait no longer. So I headed to the latrine. And finished up my business just in time to bump into the general as
he
rushed in to use the facilities. I offered him my newspaper but all I got was a scowl in return, along with a dressing-down from an administrator as I walked out of the latrine. It was the first time I've been
yelled at for pooping since I was three years old.

The pranks and jokes and funny stories made up a potent prescription for sanity in the land of carnage. We hoped our self-prescribed Rx would especially be helpful on our nation's birthday. In many ways it was, but it wasn't enough.

When the first radio call came in, the Uncle Sam hat was flung aside, the nametags ripped off, and socks pulled out of crotches. The wrong kinds of fireworks were detonated that day, and the wounded came in wave after wave. It was one of our worst days, but it was hard to feel sorry for ourselves. The day would always be remembered by the wounded as
their
worst day; our job was to see them through it.

When the birds ceased their deliveries, the staff all seemed to wear vacant eyes, slack jaws, and slumping shoulders. The room displayed its own decorations: a floor slickened by blood, the litter of discarded bandages, and a mix of shredded and blackened clothes that once were the property of our guests.

It was not a happy Fourth of July.

I
JUST LAY IN
my bunk staring up at the metal support where my wristwatch hung. A not-so-glamorous Timex sports watch—I had worn this one for more than four years, and at the bargain price of thirty bucks, I'd more than gotten my money's worth. It's got a lot of timers, calculators, and stopwatches—though all I used were the basic “what time is it” function and the alarm. Not that I even needed the alarm on days I was scheduled to pull a day shift, as I always woke up early and thought about the great unknown called the ER and what surprises would be delivered by air.

It was only 5:15 when my eyes came to life—the alarm wasn't set to buzz for another hour and my work shift didn't start until 7:00. I rolled over and saw Mike was already up and out—for his daily run in the cool darkness of the morning. In this part of the country, that meant a chilly 90 degrees.

Next to my watch, I kept pictures of my family. It was only 3:15 in the afternoon
yesterday
for them—and I hoped they were having a decent day; I had no idea what mine would be like. Some days were quiet, others chaotic; but the war didn't publish a schedule of the wounds that will be suffered on a particular day, and it was the not knowing that
made me crazy. When I sat at my makeshift desk in the ER, I could never fully relax; it was a twelve-hour fidgeting exhibition that kept me from reading or watching a movie with the medics if business was slow.

I started every morning with a quick prayer that I would do a good job, and most importantly, that I wouldn't hurt anyone. I'd mumble the same prayer back home before going to work every day. A little bit of the Bible came next. I usually read from something called “The Message”—a version of the Good Book without all of the “thee's” and “thou's”; instead it was filled with simple language such as “Jesus told the moneychangers to take a hike.” That kind of religious talk I could understand.

Just as there are no atheists in foxholes, I doubted there were many in combat hospitals. Not that I experienced a sudden conversion when I got here; I spent a few minutes every morning back home reading and contemplating, as well as regularly asking God to cut me some slack for not always being His most faithful servant.

Bill told me he had found a nice, easygoing Catholic mass up at the 82nd Airborne, and each week he'd asked if I'd like to tag along. I should. But since joining the Army, organized religious services and I haven't gotten along very well. Seems like there's a lot of Holy Roller stuff, and I didn't do well with praying for God to gird my loins as a warrior. Military-style “Hooah church” gave me spiritual indigestion. Yet I hadn't been thrown into some deep morass of asking God why he allowed all this bloodshed, even with all of the gore we've had to wade into. After all, it wasn't anything new—mankind has been slaughtering each other since the Stone Age when we crushed each other over the head with rocks and clubs. Except now, the rocks explode and the clubs shoot bullets. Nice to see how much we've evolved and become civilized; at times, I wondered if this war would ever end. No matter, Bill's discovery sounded like a religious gold mine yet I still hadn't gone for an injection of spirituality. I would simply continue to pray I didn't hurt anyone.

By the time my morning musings had ended, the clock had fast-
forwarded to 0615. I shook out my uniform and boots free of any scorpions or spiders, grabbed my pistol, and headed down to pick up Rick.