Medevac part 3
I don’t remember much about the flight back to the U.S. except for one event. I had to change planes somewhere and I also needed to change my bandages. I received some strange looks in the middle of the airport bathroom tossing bloody gauze in the trash and trying to reapply fresh bandages without touching anything. I stood on one leg with all of my supplies stuffed into a backpack hanging in front of me. Finally I patched up well enough to limp to the next gate and make my connection. When I arrived in San Diego Gunny McCloud stood there smiling at the bottom of the escalator. It was really good to see a familiar face, and someone who I looked up to so much. He grabbed my bag and we walked out to his vehicle. Later he told me how incredibly sad he felt when he saw me in that condition, but he put on an upbeat disposition for my benefit.
On the drive back to 29 Palms we pulled into the parking lot of a non-descript little building. It was a place called Carl’s Tavern. I asked “What are we doing here?” Gunny McCloud smiled and said “You don’t recognize this place? Boot. This is the bar where they filmed Heartbreak Ridge. Come on, you’re not a boot anymore.” He laughed and put his arm around my shoulder. When we walked through the door he belted out “Listen up! My name is Gunnery Sergeant McCloud, U.S. Marine Corps. This is my little brother, he was shot in Iraq. He just came home and he is thirsty!” Several old timers came up to shake my hand and welcome me home. Someone bought me a beer. They offered more but I declined. I was concerned about drinking while taking prescription pain medication. I was tired and wanted to go home. Gunny and I took a photo together then continued our drive
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It was late when I got home. The kids were asleep, my wife met us at the door and thanked Gunny profusely for picking my up. The dog bit me. Just what I needed. I kissed the children and fell asleep feeling safe but unsettled.
I reported to 1st Lieutenant Huerta, the officer in charge of our battalion’s remain behind element the next morning. There were no duties for me but I felt restless. I wandered down to our sister battalion who was scheduled to relieve our unit in a few months. I offered to talk with their Marines. I spoke to several platoons and shared with them our lessons learned in country so far.
In roughly thirty days my wounds healed. My leg remained stiff, as though I had a permanent pulled hamstring. The dime-sized piece of shrapnel remained in my arm. It was uncomfortable but not painful. There was no expectation that I would return to Iraq. It was unheard of for someone to be medevac’ed to the U.S. then return in-country on the same deployment. None-the-less I felt compelled to return to the guys. It was a very difficult decision to make. My wife was in the third-trimester of her pregnancy while caring for two toddlers. I felt guilty for wanting to leave, but even more guilt for staying. She voiced support for my attempts to return though I knew she would rather I stay. I was so unsettled.
I convinced the medical officer to write a note on my evaluation stating my fitness as “worldwide deployable”. I scanned and emailed the document to Kilo Company in Iraq and told them I was working on getting back there. Lt Huerta seemed hesitant of the feasibility, but I knew there were stragglers or those on emergency leave who were flying back to Iraq. I presented myself to the Regimental Headquarters and found the individual who controlled the roster and flights. I boldly stated I was the priority for the next flight out. Without asking for any proof they accepted my assertion. During this time I met a young Corporal named Hammock from Weapons Company who had likewise been wounded and returned home. When he heard I was trying to get back to Iraq he said “I’m coming with you Staff Sergeant.” I recognized the look in his eye and I told him I would make it happen. It felt good to be leading again and to be moving towards a goal, to have a mission. Day and night I thought about Kilo Company and my platoon. I felt that I should be with them. I enjoyed and appreciated the time with my family, but there was this undercurrent of gloom and of guilt.
It was during this time I started drinking each evening. I was driven to be productive during the day, but at night I rationalized that I deserved a drink, and that I should have one for the boys who could not. I exercised a measure of caution by throwing away my prescription pills. I feared a dependency that would wreak havoc. Like many who self-medicate with alcohol I did not view drinking in the same light. It was a habit I continued for many years which indeed led to issues which almost cost me my family. I could not see that far ahead at the time.
While waiting for a flight window Lt Huerta approached me one day and asked if I was up for some traveling. When I asked where to, he responded “San Antonio, Detroit, New York, and D.C.” Division had directed that each unit was to conduct a command visit their wounded Marines at least once a month. This was well before organizations such as the Wounded Warrior Battalions were established on each coast. The wounded Marines to be visited were all casualties from the Battle of Husaybah on April 17th, the same fight where I had been wounded. I agreed and with the help of my wife begin to plan my itinerary. It was a ten day whirlwind event. I travelled in my service uniform, visited the hospitals by day, and drank alone in hotels by night. I managed to locate a Marine buddy I had formerly served with in each of the cities I travelled. It helped ease the sense of isolation. Soon I was back in 29 Palms. Corporal Hammock and I had a flight date of July 5th. Less than 90 days after being wounded I was heading back to Iraq to finish the deployment with my unit.
The night of July 4th I sat with my family in lawn chairs watching the fireworks display. I truly thought this would be our last night together. I had not told anyone but I had a deep conviction that I would be killed in Iraq. Though not theologically sound, I had convinced myself that God allowed me to be wounded and sent home to see my family one more time before my death. I was saddened to think that I would leave my wife alone, that I would not see the birth of my third child, nor raise my family. It is difficult to explain how I could believe my death was imminent yet still feel such a strong compulsion to return to Iraq. It must suffice to say that the esprit de corps amongst Marines combined with the burden of leadership are an incredibly powerful combination.
The next morning Corporal Hammock and I were driven down to March Air Reserve for our flight. Santos escorted us there. Before departure we received a phone call from Lt Huerta who informed us that Kilo Company had been hit last night. The three Marines killed were all from my platoon. I should have been there. I prayed that I would be able to return and take my place once again as the Third Platoon Sergeant, leading them through the last two months of the deployment. I arrived back in Al Qaim the night before the memorial service, where I had the honor of speaking. I assumed my position as platoon sergeant. Several days later my wife gave birth to a beautiful little girl and Corporal Hammock was wounded a second time.
The medevac journey brought me full circle back to Kilo. I think my mental and emotional health may not have endured the devastating loss of the three Marines had I not been enroute to assume my post. I am confident my return had a positive impact on the platoon and company. I don’t have false allusions of superior capabilities as a platoon sergeant or infantryman, but I was family. Kilo has always been a family, and families stick together. Before finishing the job Kilo lost more Marines, including our Company Gunny, the same guy who came running up with stretchers the day Sosa, Santos, and I were wounded. We all took it hard. Before returning home Ferg and I were selected for promotion to the rank of Gunny. This tour with Kilo shaped our perspective and conduct for the remainder of our years in service. It affects us to this day.