Medevac part 2
The cargo plan was full. The wounded are in stretchers. We are stacked four high and there are four rows. One on each bulkhead, and a row on either side of the center beams. Some are unconscious. We are each bandaged to suit our particular wounds. The front of the plane is full with a mixed crowd of assorted uniforms and civilian attire. I assume they include a combination of non-combat injuries and personnel taking leave. They look back at us sheepishly. As my stretcher is being locked into place a flight nurse asks me if I need something for the pain. I am hurting but I tell her no, I am fine. Looking back it’s difficult to explain why I said no. I felt guilty. As though I didn’t deserve to be relieved of the pain when so many others were worse off than I. Perhaps a bit of vigilance remained, that I needed to be alert and ready to respond should a dangerous situation arise. These were instincts and emotions, not rationale thought. The pain increased when we were in the air, it was searing, throbbing. I got the nurse’s attention and asked her for something. She snapped at me “I already asked and you said no!” Through clenched teeth I replied “It’s worse now, I…” My words trail off, emotions swirl, I cannot effectively communicate. She injects something into my IV and I feel a wave of drowsiness wash over me. I sleep.
I wake sometime later and we are still in the air. The IV pumping fluid into my body result in my need to use the bathroom. I get the nurse’s attention once more and she hands me a jug. I immediately say no. This time it wasn’t a matter of modesty. I was third high on a four tier stack of stretchers locked in close together. Even if I was able to relieve myself lying on my side I imagined spilling the contents onto the wounded asleep below me. No way. I climb out and clumsily make my way to the front of the plane. All I am wearing is a skivvy shirt and a pair of nylon athletic shorts Marines refer to as “silkies”. I have a bandage on my left arm, and right leg. I step over those seated. They avoid eye contact and look down. Inexplicably I look at them with scorn. I find the small urinal. The only privacy I have is that my back is facing them. I return to my stretcher, climb aboard, and sleep until we land.
We arrive in Germany. The non-casualty passengers file off. It appears “all hands on deck” has been ordered as a multitude of people in various uniforms come in to carry our stretchers. Others form two long lines between which we are paraded as they clap and smile. I lean up on my elbow and wave. I see greenery and the air is noticeably not dry and dusty. We are carried into a bus, which drives from the runway to the hospital. Once in the hospital we are triaged. My two Marines, Santos and Sosa, are taken in one direction. I am seated in a wheelchair and taken in another direction. I’m taken into a waiting area in one of the hospital’s clinics. They tell me someone will be with me soon, then depart. I glance up at a clock and see it’s about lunchtime. I see people walking by in the hallway outside carrying Subway sandwiches and eating ice cream. I don’t know why that makes me angry. I feel like I am on a green and alien planet. I sit there for two hours. Less than forty-eight hours ago I was in a firefight with gunshots and explosions all around me. Now I am forgotten in a waiting room as though on a routine dental exam. I want to lash out but rationalize so many others are wounded worse than me, they must be receiving the priority for attention. Finally once lunch is over I am wheeled into an examination room. I am filthy and woefully underdressed. I feel very out of place. The pain medication has long since worn off. My arm and leg ache.
The doctor reads my file and asks a few questions. He begins to remove my bandages. The hole in my left arm is dime-sized and packed with gauze. There are two holes in my right leg, in the hamstring. Technically it’s one hole, an entry and exit wound from an AK-47 round. It too is packed with gauze. The gauze has dried and stiffened. As he pulls it out the pain is excruciating, deep, and penetrating. I ask him if he can give me something to dull the pain, maybe a shot of something local. He says no, not until he examines the wounds. It takes almost twenty minutes to rip out the gauze which has both dried blood and torn flesh attached to it. My wounds look like an open, raw, cut of meat. I am exhausted.
After examining the wounds and satisfied there’s no sign of infection, he prepares to apply fresh bandages. He casually says “We’ll get you home soon.” This statement arrests my attention. I had no intention of going home. My preconceived idea was that after having my wounds treated, and perhaps two weeks in Germany, I would return to my unit in Iraq. I stated matter-of-factly “I’m not going home, I’m going back to Iraq.” I held back tears and my heart raced. Looking back at the scene I must have appeared a madman. The doctor looked at me calmly and paused before he spoke. I expected him to refute my assertion and I was prepared to stand my ground, to press my case. Instead he gently said “Do you think you can change your own bandages?” I responded “Absolutely”, though I didn’t really know what it would entail. He then proceeded to demonstrate and explain.
I was to cut strips of clean gauze and soak them in saline. Then I was to pack the wet gauze deep onto the wounds. Finally I would wrap them in strips of dry gauze and a compression bandage. I would do this every twelve hours until the wounds closed. I would learn that after twelve hours the bandages would be dry, extracting them would tear dead flesh away, leaving only a bright, red, clean wound. The pain would be such that I would have to take a Percocet thirty minutes before the bandage change in order to endure the ordeal. He told me if I could do this then I was to come back and see him at the end of the week. If I was progressing well he would arrange for my transport back to Iraq. I thanked him profusely and was mildly encouraged. He gave me several pints of saline, bandages, scissors, and a plastic bag. I limped away awkwardly, carrying these contents with the same hand gripping my cane. He watched me silently, knowingly, and said “See you Friday.” I was then directed to a patient liaison office.
Here an interesting detail caused me to temporarily fall between the cracks. This all occurred in the spring of 2004. At the time the market was not flooded with wicking, performance, athletic attire. My platoon commander had received a care package which included a couple of t-shirts from a new company called “Under Armour.” They appeared to be marketed toward the military, and these two shirts were brown. The Marine Corps only authorized green undershirts. The Lieutenant and I jokingly referred to these as our “game day” shirts. We were interested in their wicking properties. Since they would be worn underneath camouflage utilities (which were underneath our flak jackets) we discarded any concern for a “uniform violation.” As we threw on our gear to head into the Battle of Husaybah, we grinned at each other and said “game day shirt.” Because I was wearing this brown skivvy shirt some of the medical personnel in Germany erroneously assumed I was in the Army, therefore they directed to the Army liaison office after my wounds were treated. I thought it was a patient liaison office. I had already interacted with Navy, Air Force, and Army personnel in the last forty-eight hours of the medevac journey so sitting in the office of the Sergeant First Class did not seem odd.
As he filled out some paperwork he directed me to a large cardboard box and told me to find some clothes. I slipped on some running shoes, sweatpants, and a sweatshirt. He then told me the hospital was full, so I would be assigned a barracks room on another base nearby. This surprised and irritated me, but I reminded myself there were a lot of others in much worse condition than me. He then gave me a hygiene kit, a bottle of water, and a couple of Pop Tarts. A Specialist walked me to a bus stop. I had instructions to return in the morning. It took me a while to limp to the bust stop where I was once again left alone. I thought of Kilo Company and Third Platoon still fighting in Husaybah. I felt very much alone.
The bus finally came. It was some short of shuttle bus between the bases in Germany. I now know that the hospital was in Landstuhl. I have no idea where the barracks was, but the bus ride seemed about forty-five minutes away. When I was dropped off I was directed to a four story building on the far side of a large parking lot. I slowly limped there with my cane and my plastic bag. I asked a passing soldier who told me the transient rooms and the duty I was to check in with were on the fourth floor. I felt dejected, exhausted, but not surprised. A few soldiers outside smoking yelled “Hey! You need some help?” I appreciated the gesture, but what could they do? I yelled back “I’m good, thanks.” Once I finally made it to the fourth deck I was assigned what appeared to be an eight to twelve man room. There were various bunks and wall lockers. The room hadn’t been cleaned in a very long time. A few personnel napping. I grabbed a bunk, sat down and surveyed the area. I learned none of the motley crew in this room were combat wounded. There were various ailments from back issues, kidney stones, and high blood pressure. I seriously wondered what I was doing here. I laid down and slept like a dead man.
The next morning I limped to head, shaved, then went downstairs to the bus stop. Reversing my course from the afternoon before I made it back to the patient liaison’s office. There the Sergeant First Class said asked my name. After I responded he said “You’re a Marine!” I returned a blank stare and simply said “Yes.” He then began to ramble on how I should be with the Marine Liaison. Soon a Master Gunnery Sergeant came in and escorted me to his office. He was helpful, kind, and very apologetic for yesterday’s mix up. He provided me with vouchers for the PX to buy clothing and a backpack. I was also given one hundred dollars. He then directed a Marine to take me to the PX where I bought a pair of slip-on loafers, a backpack and some civilian attire. After returning I talked with the Master Guns. I wanted to see my Marines. I then went to visit Santos and Sosa. In the hallways of the hospital I ran into a few other Marines from the battalion who I vaguely knew. As a Staff Sergeant I was the senior Marine from the battalion. I checked on the Marines to see if they needed anything but the Marine liaison had taken good care of them. Next I wanted to visit one of our Kilo Marines in the ICU. He was in bad shape.
Corporal Jason Dunham had been wounded three days before I was hit. He was a squad leader in my buddy Ferg’s platoon. His selfless act saved the lives of two of his Marines. Later he would posthumously receive the Medal of Honor. I limped upstairs and the nurses directed me to his room. He was not conscious but I spoke to him anyway. A few steps away from his room was a stained glass meditation room. I barely made it inside before I broke down in tears and wept bitterly. The broken and helpless form of this strong young man triggered a torrent of pent up emotions I had been holding in for so long. I had not cried with such brokenness in my adult life, and I had never felt more alone than that moment. When I was spent I gathered myself and walked away, feeling the compassionate and helpless eyes of the staff follow me.
Sitting in the barracks room several hours later I was approached by an Army Specialist in a neck brace who appeared to be several years older than me. He had injured himself falling out of the back of a 7 ton vehicle. He was very chatty and asked about my injury. I was in no mood to talk and gave short answers to his inquiry hoping he would take the hint and leave me alone. Initially I didn’t understand his question when he asked “Did you get him?” Perplexed I said “What?” He continued “Did you get him? The guy that shot you? Hey, what does it feel like to kill someone?” I exploded with an intensity of anger that mirrored the scope of my grief earlier that day. I cleared the table’s contents as I stood and pointed my cane at him. I roared “Get the expletive away from me and never speak another word of the English language to me again! Go!” He scurried out of the room. Exhausted, I laid down and tried to rest my body while my mind continued to race. I had to get out of this place.
Each morning the personnel in the outpatient/transient barracks had a morning formation, roughly two platoons assigned alphabetically by last name. It appears there was nothing more than a roll call by an Army Platoon Sergeant. The formation included personnel from all service branches and a combination of uniforms, PT gear, and civilian attire. I noticed Marines in the formation I hadn’t seen the day before, they all appeared to be junior to me in rank. Remembering how lost and alone I often felt in this environment I was compelled as a leader to assume some responsibility of them. During the formation the Sergeant First Class yelled at us. He informed us “You WILL be in uniform during working hours!” He obviously was out of touch with his audience. As soon as we were given the command to fall out, I stepped behind the formation, raised my cane in the air as a visible marker and yelled “If you are a United States Marine get over here!” The Marines all dutifully gathered in a circle around me. Some were wearing flight suits, some camouflage utilities, some athletic attire, and some civilian attire. I identified myself as a Staff Sergeant and asked if anyone there outranked me. There was a Lieutenant and a First Sergeant. They both said “You got it Staff Sergeant.” I then instructed each Marine to identify themselves, state their parent unit, and why they were here. I reminded them that they were all Marines and to act accordingly. I corrected two who had not shaved that morning, then instructed them all to go upstairs and conduct morning clean up. I would inspect the rooms in one hour. They all seemed to stand a little taller and I could tell it made them feel that they were a part of something and not lost in the crowd. I dismissed them and then asked the Lieutenant and First Sergeant if they needed anything from me. They did not, and that was the last I saw of those two. The Army Sergeant First Class watched this all unfold, curious about my self-appointed authority. I approached him and identified myself. I said “Some of these Marines including myself, do not have uniforms. It was cut off my bloody body seventy two hours ago. We wear what we have.” He then stated we could draw camouflage utilities from supply. I stepped closer and raised my voice slightly. “Marines wear an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor above the left breast pocket of their cammies, we have an eight-pointed cover, and you do not have our rank insignia. That won’t work! If you have an issue with any of the Marines you come see me.” I then headed back to the barracks to inspect the Marines. I reviewed their appointments and schedules, instructed them to be where they were supposed to be on time, and reminded them they were Marines. I also told them if they had any issues to find me. I then departed for the hospital intent on briefing the Master Gunnery Sergeant in the Marine liaison office in order to garner his support in this situation. He was encouraged by my actions and took things from there.
I did not recognize it at the time, but the doctor to whom I adamantly stated I would be returning to Iraq had remarkable perception. The few days I limped around Germany with my cane, unable to lift anything with my left arm forced me to realize I was unfit for duty back in Al Qiam. I would not be able to put on my body armor, carry my rifle, or conduct foot patrols. The last of my illusions vanished during a phone call home. I had spoken to my wife and told her I would be returning to Iraq as soon as I could. She was several months pregnant while caring for our four year old son and almost three your old daughter. My daughter who had just began to talk earlier that year had ceased to talk when I deployed. My wife put her on the phone so she could hear my voice. In response I heard a sweet little voice cheerily say “Hello Daddee.” In that instant I melted and resolved to give in, to go home. At my follow-up appointment Friday I told the doctor I understood that I could not return to Iraq at this time. He arranged for my transfer without the slightest air of “I told you so.” He was a compassionate and intuitive professional.
A few days later, Santos and Sosa were flown to Balboa Naval Hospital in San Diego on a military transport. I was given a commercial plane ticket and a ride to the airport. I called Gunny McCloud, an old mentor from my first tour in Iraq. He agreed to pick me up at the airport in San Diego and drive me back to 29 Palms. The duty driver dropped me off at the international airport and I began my return to the US carrying a backpack full of bandages. Security confiscated the scissors and the shrapnel in my arm caused the wand to beep. They accepted my explanation and waived me through. It was going to be a long trip.