“… I HATE THE ARMY AND WISH I'D NEVER JOINED.”
WEEK 1, DAY 1, IRAQ
2230 HOURS, MY ROOM
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
I'm tired. I don't want to get up. I want a day off . It's now the beginning of month two and I feel as though I can no longer hide the insanity. The constant change in sleeping patterns is really starting to take its toll. I can visibly see how the shift changes are affecting all of us in the unit. Denti chain-smokes and has heavy, dark bags under his eyes. Crade has gained weight and spends his day drinking coffee and snapping at everyone. I can't remember seeing Reto and Torres for days or weeks. During surgery I spend my time chewing gum to try and keep from falling asleep as my head bobs up and down. The doctors all think I'm a slacker because I keep dozing off . I see the first-shift doctors every third day. They all assume I only work every third day and have two days off . The doctors and nurses don't know we change shifts every day so they say nothing. This is the Army; we can't complain.
I have a different sleeping pattern every day. On the days that I do fall sleep, mortars constantly interrupt me. Yesterday or I think it was yesterday, I worked eleven hours and fifteen minutes. I know it was eleven hours and fifteen minutes because everyone else only worked eight hours and I keep track. I came home after work and fell asleep. Three hours later we were under a mortar attack. I grabbed my weapon and ran to a bunker. An hour later the base was all clear and we were told there was a mass casualty. After sitting around, we are told there really was no mass casualty and to go back to our rooms. Two and a half hours later I wake up and lie in bed thinking about everything that just happened. My sleep is no longer natural. When I lay my head down to sleep every night I am exhausted but I can't fall asleep. I can't get any sleep. My body isn't getting used to the changing shifts. It doesn't know when I'm supposed to be awake, so I take pills to make it sleep.
When I first started taking the pills I had to wait two days for the store to get more in — they're always sold out of sleeping pills. I'm not the only one with this problem. I only took half a pill the first time. Now I have to take two and a half. I know that I shouldn't be taking that much, but I can't sleep. The pills make my body sleep, but because of my constant fear of the mortar attacks and shift changes, my mind doesn't. My mind continues to race and I think about home. I think about why I'm fighting this war and my eyes tear up. I think of all the people we've killed. I think of all the people's families — mothers, fathers, siblings — and how they'll never see them again. I think of my parents, brothers, and sisters worrying about me. I think about my friends, all of them living their lives as if I've never existed — these are all the mediocre nights.
Sometimes I go into the hospital and have to do surgery just as the sleeping pills begin to kick in. I spend the rest of the night pinching myself and throwing cold water on my face. At night I tell myself it's not worth it. I tell myself I hate the Army and wish I'd never joined. I curse the war on both sides, American and Iraqi. I wish everyone would just … die … so that I could go home.
Other nights I lie in bed and think about everything and anything, and the only thing I can feel is nothing. I think about the war and I feel nothing. I think about life and death, mine and everyone else's, and I feel nothing. I think about myself and I don't care if I live or die. On these nights, mortars go off and I won't get out of bed. I'll lie in bed as the bombs go off. I tell myself it doesn't matter if I live or die, nothing matters — I like it when I feel nothing.
“Hey man, you just going to lie in bed, or you going to get up for work?” my roommate Markham asks. “Are you all right, man? I mean, seriously, you've been looking pretty bad lately.”Markham sits up in bed as he looks at me. I can tell he cares, but today I feel nothing. I stare at him and keep silent. Then I sit up and put my socks on.
“I don't know if you know it or not, but you were talking in your sleep last night. You started yelling at me. You didn't know what time of the day it was, what day, or when you were supposed to be working.”
I look at Markham and wish that today wasn't a day where I felt nothing but apathy. I wish it was a nice, caring day; one where I could sit down and talk with him about all my fears and concerns about fighting this war and missing everyone back home. I don't have the heart to tell him that I wasn't just talking in my sleep. I was wide awake and I really didn't know what day it was or if I had to be at work. That's how it's been for the last few days. During the surgeries, I can't remember if the surgery I just did happened the day before or only a few hours ago. The surgeries are routine and all blend into one another — pass this, pass that, cut here, cauterize there. The doctors and nurses don't care. As long as I pass the right instrument, what's it to them? They don't complain. I feel that being too good at my job is hurting me. I know that if I messed up a surgery just once I could blame it on the lack of sleep and Gagney would be in trouble. I know all I need is for one patient to die because an OR medic messed up due to lack of sleep. I know that one patient's death could force Gagney to have to make a new schedule.
Markham is staring at me. I don't know how long ago he stopped talking, but his face looks concerned. I've seen the look on his face before. I've seen it on the face of my older brothers every time I've gotten myself into trouble or a situation that was over my head. Markham wants to help me out. Why couldn't he have chosen a day to talk to me when I feel something? Why did he have to choose today when I feel nothing?
“All right, quit staring at me,” I finally say. “Everything's fine.”
Markham continues staring at me as I get dressed for work. It makes me uncomfortable. I don't understand how he could care about me more than he cares about himself.
2300 HOURS, OR
I walk into the OR and Sergeants Waters and Sellers are standing there. There are only supposed to be two people on shift, but three of us are standing here. I don't know what's going on. I know that I'm on third shift today. I look back at Sellers and Waters; I know that Waters is on shift, so Sellers must be wrong or just here to hang out.
“Ummmm,” Sellers says as she turns around and heads toward the break room and takes the schedule off of the door.
I grab the schedule from Sellers's hands as she begins reading it.
“FUCK!” I scream.
Sellers has the schedule flipped to a page showing three days. On one day I am working first shift, on another second, and the other third. I don't know what day today is.
“FUCK!” I scream again.
Waters, who has been a lot nicer to me since I yelled at her, leans over my shoulder and points at the right day.
I let the schedule drop out of my hands and I turn around to head back to my room. The sleeping pills have worn off and my screaming woke me up. It's 2300 hours. I need to be at work in eight hours and I am wide awake.
2315 HOURS, MY ROOM
Markham is already asleep and snoring when I get back to my room. Opening the door, I slam it closed and turn the light on. I am angry, but I don't know what to do with the anger. I don't know what day of the week it is. I'm angry at Gagney and his schedules and most of all angry at myself for not being able to do anything. I'm powerless — I'm weak — I'm not a man — I only do whatever I am told — I'm a sprocket in the machine of the Army, an easily replaceable sprocket. I wish I could go back to feeling nothing. I know what to do with nothing — nothing. I know what to do with nothing — nothing. I know what to do with nothing — nothing… .
I glance over at the bottle of pills on my nightstand. It's the middle of the night. I'm nowhere near sleep and I have eight hours to kill. I really have no choice but to take more… .
WEEK 1, DAY 2, IRAQ
0730 HOURS, OR
Gagney is at the door waiting for me as I head into the OR half an hour late:
“Hey Anthony, I heard you came in last night by accident. I hope I'm not working you too hard, am I? How you feeling buddy?” He smiles, but it looks awkward and forced. I think the only thing scarier than seeing your executioner would be seeing your executioner smile as he kills you. Gagney talks to me through his smile.
“I went to the Post Exchange and got everyone bagels. Go ahead and grab one.”
Elster and Reto are in the break room eating.
“So, I'm in Iraq and I no longer dream of being home with family or friends. Now I only dream of Gagney being nice to me,” I say in an attempt at humor.
“You ain't dreaming,” Elster tells me. “Gagney is being nice to you.”
The chief ward masters are having a meeting with us today. Chief ward masters are the ones that are in charge of the hospital. If there are any problems, they're the final word. Early this morning someone went and complained about Gagney and the way he's been running things. Apparently, our section looks like crap. All the other sections are on set schedules and ours is the only one that changes every day.
The day goes by slow. We have no cases so Gagney has us clean the entire OR. He sends Reto to tell everyone on all the other shifts about the meeting. It's going to be between first and second shift, but everyone from third shift has to be there as well.
1505 HOURS, OR
The chief ward masters ask us to tell them what's bothering us.
Torres is the first to start talking. “I'm not one to complain, but the way this man is treating us is disrespectful — ”
“Idiots, he treats us like we're idiots,” Hudge interrupts.
“We switch shifts every day. I am on second shift today. Yesterday I was on first, the day before that second, the day before that third. Tomorrow I'm back on third shift. How does any of that make sense?” says Crade.
“He doesn't do any work. All he does is sit around and play computer games and watch anime. He was sent here as an operating room technician, but why has he only done a handful of cases since he's been here? I do as many in one day as he does in a month,” says Sellers, who has obviously come to see the light.
Waters jumps in. “We need better leadership, someone who will stay on top of things. He yelled at me twice last week over nothing. There is no need for him to raise his voice to us.”
An hour goes by and everyone has something negative to say about Gagney. Hudge, Sellers, and Waters all have tears in their eyes. The chief ward masters look at Reto and me and ask if we have anything to add since we haven't spoken yet. Everyone in the OR is looking at us. I look at Reto. His eyes are red, not from the lack of sleep, but because he's going to cry. He can't control himself any longer.
“This is bullshit. I joined the Army to help people, not to be treated like shit. I understand that we're at war and that times are tough. But look at every other section… .” Reto has to stop to compose himself. “Every other section in this hospital is running fine. Gagney won't even let us try and change the schedule to get a better one. We mentioned it and he told us just to deal with it. He's a fucking… .” Reto stops talking. He knows he can't talk without crying. Everyone turns and looks at me.
I look back at them.
“I agree with Reto,” I say.
Everyone continues to look at me and I look back. Waters, Sellers, and Hudge look angrily at me, but I look back at them and with my eyes I try to explain that my body won't let me feel. I have nothing to say because I can't speak with the passion that they all just spoke with. I wish I could stand up and give a moving speech that would change our entire section and make us all friends and love each other, but I know I can't do this and if I could it would be all lies. I really can't stand up for myself. I know it's best for me to just sit here in silence.
The chief ward masters look at me as if I'm slow. I stare at their foreheads and they get up and say that they'll deal with the problem. When I get up, Waters seems especially disappointed that I haven't said anything. As I leave to go back toward my room, I overhear everyone trying to figure out who it was that complained to the chief ward masters. When I get back to my room I leave a note on Markham's pillow: “Thank You.”
WEEK 1, DAY 3, IRAQ
0640 HOURS, OR
I walk in early; I know I can't be late two days in a row. Gagney is already in. He's sitting at a desk and all around him are crumpled up pieces of yellow paper.
I get my room ready for surgery. There are four scheduled.
1500 HOURS, OR
When I get out of surgery the second shift comes in. Gagney is still sitting at the desk surrounded by even more pieces of crumpled yellow paper. He smiles when he sees Hudge:
“Sergeant Hudge, would you please come to the break room with me for a second?”
Two minutes later Gagney comes out lookin' free as a bird, grabs his coat and weapon, and leaves. Hudge walks over to me with a smile from ear to ear.
“Gagney wants me to rewrite the schedule.”
1700 HOURS, OR
Crade has a copy of Hudge's finished schedule.
First Shift: Gagney — Shift leader; Elster — In charge of supply; Crade — In charge of CMS (central material services, the place where we sterilize instruments.); Anthony, Chandler, Torres — Main OR technicians.
Second Shift: Hudge — Shift leader; Reto, Denti — Main OR technicians.
Third Shift: Waters — Shift leader; Sellers — Main OR technician.
It's mapped out for the next month. Hudge has our official days off scheduled, taking into consideration guard duty, so that when it's complete, we'll get the next day off. Bottom line: Every eleven days we'll have a day off.
Everyone is ecstatic, even the ones that weren't changing shifts in the first place — Waters, Elster, Hudge. Gagney walks in and notices the commotion. He studies the schedule and quickly throws it on the table. When he storms off, Hudge laughs.
“He asks me to make the schedule because he said that everyone can't be happy. He figured everyone would be mad at me instead of him… . It only took me half an hour.”
All we needed was a half-hour to make all the pains of the last month go away.
WEEK 1, DAY 4, IRAQ
0600 HOURS, MY ROOM
The new shift: Everyone is in a great mood when I arrive at work.
“Hey Anthony,” Gagney says enthusiastically as I enter the OR. His overly friendly, almost gay voice kind of freaks me out, but I brush it off . Today is a good day and I don't feel like thinking about the inner thoughts behind everyone's actions.
“Can you do me a favor?” Gagney asks, which is the first time I have ever heard him ask for something and not demand it. My ears perk up and I know that I am now obligated to do it no matter what, simply for the reason because he is asking and not ordering.
“Can you go tell everyone from all shifts to come in at fifteen hundred hours? And after you tell everyone you can go back to your room and have the rest of the day off . Take a break, here's my pager. If there's an emergency I'll get in touch with you.”
I know I am not dreaming. I tell everyone to be in at 1500 hours.
1505 HOURS, OR
Gagney is talking to us:
“I know that things haven't been easy this past month. I know that I may have been hard on a few of you, but after talking to the chief ward masters and seeing how easily Hudge was able to make that schedule, I realize that I may need to back off a little bit and become more of a reasonable and approachable leader. So if you guys have any further complaints, bring them up to me first. There's no need to go over my head to the chief ward masters. In fact, and I shouldn't even have to order this, but you are not allowed to go directly to the chief ward masters. You can talk to them and complain about me to them, but you are ordered to come to me first,” says Gagney.
Gagney finishes and leaves. We all know that he can't stop us from contacting the chief ward masters and that we don't have to tell him, but it's not worth getting into.
WEEK 2, DAY 1, IRAQ
1600 HOURS, MY ROOM
“You're not going to believe this!” Denti yells as he barges into my room. We're supposed to go to the gym but not for another ten minutes.
“Ah, what the hell, man. Knock next time.” I'm naked and changing into my clothes.
“It happened in the southern hospital.”
I put my underwear on as quickly as possible.
“This thing is huge.”
I'm looking around the room for clean socks.
Here's what he was telling me:
“When our unit went to Iraq, we split up. Half of the people went to run our hospital and half of our people went to run another hospital in the southern part of Iraq.
“Staff Sergeant North was on mailroom duty and it was slow, so he decides for fun to open up someone's mail and start reading it. He's just sitting there reading somebody else's mail, and the next thing you know the guy whose mail he's reading actually walks in and catches him.
“The guy starts yelling at North for reading his mail, and North just turns white as a ghost. He realizes that this guy is only a specialist, though, so North says that he shouldn't be talking to a superior officer that way.
“The guy then goes to his chain of command and tries to file a complaint against our unit and North. His commanders are outraged. But since the soldier and the rest of his unit are all leaving in two weeks, the commanders don't want to waste their time with complaints. They just want to go home. The soldier then talks to the unit that's replacing his, and they don't want to file a complaint against a unit either, bad politics and all.
“So this guy wants to file a complaint but no one will do it for him. No one wants to cause trouble. Eventually the guy decides to go to the IG (inspector general) himself.
“It then comes out that we have more complaints against us than any other unit in Iraq. I guess a bunch of people from our unit and other units complained about us when we were in Wisconsin and since we've been in Iraq.
“So the Good Ol' Boys hear about the complaint and they're livid.”
Okay, the Good Ol' Boys (GOBs for short):
They're a degenerate group of colonels and generals who, while in Wisconsin we ate rotten food, they ate at fancy restaurants and joked with each other, saying, “Let them eat cake.” These are the men who slept in two-man rooms while we slept in thirty-man bays. They get chauffeured around base while we walk everywhere. They also allow people in our unit to do whatever they want as long as they don't get caught. They're going to lead us into battle.
Colonel Tucker is the leader of the gang. The only way to describe him would be: a mad Russian scientist, without the charisma. Tucker's main lackey is our unit command sergeant major, Command Sergeant Major (CSM) Ridge. Ridge is the man in charge of the enlisted section of our unit. He's in his sixties, well over six feet tall, and has white cropped hair with the standard high-and-tight military haircut. Ridge is also an alcoholic. Even though we were not permitted to drink alcohol while on base in Wisconsin (or once we get to Iraq for that matter), Ridge has already been caught illegally drinking several times. He'll most likely never get in trouble, though, because of his connections and rank.
“Anyway, I guess this kid's complaint was the one that broke the camel's back. The Good Ol' Boys have a meeting down south and order all sergeants and above to attend. They tell CSM Ridge to have the meeting and tell everyone that they don't want any more complaints being filed against our unit from within our unit. If they do, they'll be reprimanded. CSM Ridge calls the meeting … but get this. He's drunk at the meeting. No one is allowed to drink in this entire goddamned country and this guy is totaled. He says that if anyone files a complaint against the unit or specifically him, he'll get them shipped to a frontline unit where they might not make it back.”
It also turns out that the meeting wasn't just about us having the most complaints. In Wisconsin, after our initial climate control meeting, which gauged how well our commanders were doing as leaders, a few people contacted the inspector general. We had some problems with morale, conduct, control, and chain of command. Other than that we were fine. It actually started when two of the highest-ranking people in our unit said that if this were Vietnam, someone would commit fratricide the moment we stepped in Iraq. Fratricide means to deliberately shoot at someone who's on the same team as you. So this one colonel, who looks like Geraldo Rivera, is actually suggesting we shoot our commanders (the GOBs). The other colonel, a frail old woman in her seventies, stands up and says mutiny would be a good idea as well. She implied that she might take control of the unit. Almost everyone at the meeting stands up and gives the two colonels a standing ovation and a round of applause.
The major who was conducting the meeting then went ballistic: “You people cannot be serious! You are going to war in two weeks, and you're applauding the idea of mutiny and fratricide?”
Since then there have been even more complaints. We are actually under an official investigation by the inspector general.
WEEK 3, DAY 1, IRAQ
2200 HOURS, MY ROOM
I'm beginning to like Markham more and more. We've been roommates for two months, and we're finally starting to hit it off . He's a skilled guitar player, and even though he's twelve years older than me, I feel as though we connect.
“Hey, you heard about the mail fraud and how our unit's under investigation?”
Maybe it has to do with my family, maybe I feel more comfortable around older people than those my own age: I grew up with four older brothers and two older sisters. All my brothers and one sister ended up joining the military, but in different branches. As a child, I heard stories of intense military training during the day and parties that lasted all night. I grew up watching military movies and playing GI Joe in my backyard. So when I turned seventeen the question never seemed to be if I would join the military or go to college. It was only which branch of the military will it be.
Markham is the opposite of me; he has younger brothers. When I thanked him about the schedule issues with Gagney, he told me it's what he would have done for someone in his family.
“The rest of the story involves that new girl that you said was cute, Sergeant Thurbid, and that guy in charge of the OR down south, Sergeant Plown.”
My curiosity is piqued as Markham continues to divulge the news of the day. Thurbid is a soldier who recently got sent up to us from our southern hospital, and I briefly mentioned to Markham that I thought she was cute. I may never hear the end of it, but I'm tired and could use a good bedtime story.
“First off, I will say this. I am not from this damn unit. I was cross-leveled into it. I'm from Washington State. All this drama that goes on is always because of you damn New Englanders,” Markham says.
I laugh knowing he's wrong because Captain Tarr is from his home state and she's got her own bag of drama, but I don't say this and instead I tell him to go on.
“So a few weeks ago that meeting went down with CSM Ridge. Well, when the speech was going on Sergeant Plown was taking notes. He wrote down everything that CSM Ridge said. He then typed up an anonymous letter and mailed it to every congressman in the U.S. The IG heard about the letter and started a new investigation into our unit. A general even went down south to personally check up on our unit, and he brought with him a few CID soldiers to conduct the investigation.”
The CID is the Criminal Investigation Division, kind of like a military FBI.
Markham picks up his guitar and starts strumming as he tells the story. I enjoy it. Even though what he's telling me isn't the most pleasant, the sound of the guitar in the background can make even the worst story sound relaxing.
“The GOBs are not pleased about the IG investigating them again. The next day, they're in the dining facility with Ridge having dinner and discussing how to get everyone in our unit to stop contacting the IG. They want to find a way to order us to do it without actually ordering — which is illegal. And here's the part you're not going to believe.”
“While the GOBs and CSM Ridge are having this discussion at the dining facility, they don't realize it but sitting behind them are three members of the CID who are part of the investigation against us. They hear their whole conversation.”
Markham stops playing guitar and begins tapping his cigarette pack against his palm. He's craving a cigarette, I can tell. So I get out of bed and we head outside.
He hands me a cigarette. I pause. I know I shouldn't — I've already had ten this week — but I light one up with Markham anyway, and he continues talking and playing his guitar.
2230 HOURS, OUTSIDE
All right, I'm listening to Markham:
“The IG does their investigation for a few days, gathers all the information they need, and then heads back to their headquarters to make a decision on what to do — if anything. So everyone leaves, except for one CID guy who is tasked to stay behind and investigate the charges of North reading someone's mail. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you. The GOBs found out that Plown was the one who wrote the letter to the senators. They fired him from his position as head of the OR and now he's working in the administrative section of the unit down south. This way they can keep an eye on him. But anyways, back to the mail fraud story… . So here's really why your cutie Sergeant Thurbid got sent up here: Staff Sergeant North approached her:
‘Thurbid, listen, I need you to do me a favor. I've been having some trouble with this guy. He's trying to get me in big trouble for reading his mail. My whole career could be ruined because of this guy.’
“Thurbid looks at North. They've been friends for years. She has three kids and Staff Sergeant North and his wife, Captain Dillon, even babysat for them a few times.”
‘I know; that's awful.’
‘This is a big favor and I understand if you'll say no, but this scandal could ruin both me and my wife's career. I could even go to jail. The specialist who filed the complaint is kind of a dork, but he's been here a long time. I was thinking that if you slept with him you could then convince him to drop the charges.’
“So Thurbid thought it over. ‘Okay, but you owe me …,’ she says.”
Markham stops telling the story and puts his guitar down. He looks me in the eye.
“Now here's the best part of the story… . Thurbid has sex with the guy, and while they're having sex they decide to get a little freaky. Thurbid lets the guy give it to her in the ass with no condom. Then after the guy is done she sucks his dick. The next day she has an infection in and around her mouth. She goes to the hospital assuming it's some type of STD but is relieved when the doctor tells her it's only an E. coli infection. When Staff Sergeant North comes to visit her, he has no idea what to say at first, but then he gets a plan. Later that day she goes to the guy and says that he gave her an STD and that if he doesn't drop the claim against Staff Sergeant North that she'll file a complaint against him. The guy says he doesn't have an STD and tells her to go ahead. The guy then says that he knows that she and North are friends and it's obvious what they were trying to do, and that if she does tell, he'll get them both in trouble for blackmail.”
I stare at Markham with my mouth wide open. This kind of stuff just doesn't happen back home. We finish up our cigarettes and head back into our room.
2300 HOURS, MY ROOM
“Staff Sergeant North and Thurbid were pissed. Their plan didn't work and she ended up having diarrhea and vomiting for a few days. Meanwhile the CID guy is still doing the investigation and is digging up more dirt on Staff Sergeant North. However, North and Thurbid concoct another brilliant plan. A few days later she's better and the infection is gone, and she seduces the CID guy, too. I kid you not. She starts sleeping with him.
“Oh, I almost forgot; as this is going on there's another scandal happening. First Sergeant Powell, from down south, is sleeping with a female soldier, but she's also sleeping with another soldier named Specialist Rubino. A week later Rubino finds out and starts a fight with Powell. Rubino is drunk and pushes Powell. They both start yelling at each other, and Rubino grabs Powell by the collar and pulls him to the ground. Staff Sergeant North hears the commotion and so does the CID guy — who comes running out of Thurbid's room — and they come running and break up the fight. Rubino gets arrested and Powell walks away scot-free, even though he shouldn't have been sleeping with someone in his chain of command. And speaking of scot-free, the IG does its investigation and says the way our unit is being run is appalling at best and illegal at worst. But — and this is the Army for you — they also say that although they know illegal things are going on, they can't actually prove any of it. Still, the GOBs decide they need fall guys, just as a sign of good faith that they're changing things. So Rubino was demoted to private and that's when they sent Thurbid up here.”
“The GOBs also needed someone to blame for the conversation that was heard in the dining facility and where Ridge threatened to send people to a frontline unit if they complained.”
I look at Markham. I nod yes.
“Well, CSM Fellows, from down south, objected to having the meeting in the first place. He knew it was illegal to order us not to report complaints and he told that to the GOBs. They ignored him then, but now they're blaming everything on him and they also sent him to us.”
Markham picks up his guitar and starts talking about something else. I actually feel bad for Command Sergeant Major Fellows. I liked him. He's short, stocky, and smokes such big cigars that he'd give Freud a phallic complex. He always seemed to be trying to sell you something and to make a quick buck. Now he's working in the OR as an anesthesiologist technician, a job usually done by some twenty-year-old specialist. All because he stood up and said that we should have the right to voice our opinions about our leadership.
I take two melatonin sleeping pills. Nothing happens and after a while I take two more. Slowly I drift off.
What an outfit: people in their thirties, married with children, all of them having affairs. One was a heroin addict; the other has slept with eleven men in the past three months. One guy tried to kill himself and another kidnapped a drug dealer. Alcoholics, chain smokers, compulsive gamblers — who am I to judge?
Maybe it wasn't such a good bedtime story after all. I don't want to imagine what types of dreams I'm going to have tonight. They'll probably involve some big, sweaty man with an E. coli infection….
WEEK 3, THANKSGIVING DAY, IRAQ
1130 HOURS, DINING FACILITY
I'll give the Army credit for one thing: they know how to do Thanksgiving. Turkey, ham, fish, mashed potatoes, corn, peas, carrots, squash, corn bread, apple pie, and blueberry pie. Torres even found a flier about the Dallas Cowboy cheerleaders, who are on base signing autographs. “I was actually in one of these programs down in Texas called Adopt-a-Soldier,” I'm telling Torres as we go through the food line. “I was doing my operating room training. It was Thanksgiving and we weren't allowed to go home, so the Army started this program where families could take two soldiers home with them for Thanksgiving and have them eat dinner with their families.”
Torres and I make our way to an empty table. He's trying to balance all of the food on his tray and he's not listening. I just keep on talking, though.
“There were thousands of us down there for training and we were certain that there was no way we'd all get families to go home with. We knew somebody would get stuck, and we'd have to eat at the D-fac. It was like freshman gym class all over again, some will get picked and some won't. But there ended up being too many families; the Army had to turn away hundreds saying they didn't have enough soldiers to go around. Thousands of families were waiting to pick us up and take us to their house for a home-cooked meal. Absolutely, it was one of the best Thanksgivings I ever had.”
Torres stops eating for a second and laughs.
“What are you trying to say Anthony, that you want an Iraqi family to take you home today?”
WEEK 4, DAY 1, IRAQ
0700 HOURS, OR
Denti and I are in the break room having lunch when Gagney kicks open the door.
“WHO THE FUCK DID IT! WHEN I FIND OUT — YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME….”
Denti and I sit there staring at each other, bracing ourselves.
“WHO WENT TO THE CHIEF WARD MASTERS — YOU TELL ME, ANTHONY!”
“I don't — ”
“DON'T FUCKING PLAY DUMB WITH ME — ”
He starts pacing back and forth, mumbling under his breath.
“IT'S A MILITARY CRIME TO GO OVER YOUR CHAIN OF COMMAND'S HEAD! YOU NEVER SAW ME TREAT A SOLDIER THAT WAY.”
Denti and I are staring at the ground.
“TELL THAT TO HUDGE.”
Reto comes around the corner, after Gagney leaves. We explain the shit storm that just happened.
0720 HOURS, OR
“I'm the one that went to the chief ward masters,” Reto says. “Hudge and I were on second shift and Gagney stops by last night. He forgot his computer game. Hudge decides it was a good time to talk about some of our complaints — the ones we talked about at the meeting. He starts screaming at her in the break room — I can hear it. He doesn't think we've got any problems; he thinks she's making it up. He tells her that people make fun of her behind her back. He tells her she's stupid and she's a liar and she has no idea what she's doing.
“I got her husband from the ER, she was crying. I went to the chief ward masters' office and told them. Hudge doesn't know any of it.”
I look at Reto and for the first time I feel respect for one of my fellow soldiers.
0730 HOURS, OR
I chuckle to myself. All it took for me to respect someone in the military was for that person to refuse a direct order. Reto was ordered — we were all ordered — by Gagney not to complain about him, but here Reto has refused to play the game and went ahead with what he thinks is right. Refusing an order takes a lot more courage than following one — I know that. I'm a little scared for him because I realize that if Gagney finds out it's Reto, he'll crucify him.
“Last night I went to the chief ward masters' office and told them everything about what happened between you and Gagney.”
Hudge looks at Reto and me. She thinks he's kidding.
Reto nods his head.
“Oh, my God.”
“Yeah, well….”
“That was really nice of you….”
Hudge smiles and hugs Reto.
“That's not the whole story,” I say, bringing the room down.
“Basically, Gagney's not going to take it lying down.”
The smile leaves Hudge's face.
Reto starts talking.
“Don't worry; we've got your back. Everything will be fine, and if anyone's going to get in trouble it won't be you. But you should probably see the chaplain or mental health officer. Just let them know what's going on, because they're the ones who usually intervene in these types of situations, that's really the best thing to do.”
If you could have only seen Reto talking to Hudge like that. She tells him she just wishes that everyone could forget the whole thing.
WEEK 4, DAY 2, IRAQ
0700 HOURS, HOSPITAL
The chief ward masters can't believe what they hear. Until Reto talked to them, they'd thought for sure their little meeting solved all of our problems. Gagney gets called into their office — and he gets reprimanded for being cruel to Hudge. For three days, he's felt great bringing her down. Now he doesn't know what hit him, and he's the one getting yelled at. It's just like Gagney, though: He loves to make people feel bad, but every single time he does it, he can't even help it, he gets in trouble. It's like a dog that loves jumping on the couch but is slapped every time he tries to do it. What happens with the dog, though, is eventually the dog's owners get tired of telling it no and just say “screw it” and let the dog jump on the couch.
0800 HOURS, HOSPITAL
Gagney gets out of the meeting with the chief ward masters and walks in the opposite direction of the OR.
1400 HOURS, HOSPITAL
Gagney has another meeting with the chief ward masters.
1500 HOURS, OR
Hudge enters the break room as Reto and I are playing our first game of Rummy 500. She doesn't realize it, but Gagney is right behind her. He leans down, whispers something in her ear, and walks out of the room. She gives us a quick glance and follows him.
1630 HOURS, OR
Reto and I are finishing up our second game. I'm about to lay down my final cards when Hudge walks in the room.
“Well … the chief ward masters had three meetings with Gagney in the past two days. One yesterday, one this morning, then another one this afternoon. After the morning meeting he went and talked to the chaplain and the mental health officer.”
Hudge stops and looks at Reto. She's looking to see if he had anything to do with it, since he mentioned the chaplain and mental health officer the day before. (The chaplain is an all-encompassing pastor for soldiers of every religion. A mental health officer is the Army's version of a psychiatrist.)
Reto shakes his head and puts his hands in the air to say that he didn't have anything to do with it. Hudge sounds frantic because she's speaking so fast, but she still has a slight smile on her face.
“Gagney orders me to go see them, so I head over to the chaplain's office.” The smile leaves Hudge's face as she begins describing what happened:
“Come in, come in, I've been expecting you,” the chaplain says eagerly.
“Sergeant Gagney told me to come speak to you. I'm not sure what this is about….”
“Yes, yes, I spoke to Sergeant Gagney earlier this morning. Good man. We had a long talk, and I must admit a lot of it was about you.”
“Um, okay, what do you mean you had a long talk about me?”
“Well, I can't get into the whole conversation because I keep my confidences, but Sergeant Gagney told me you've been having some problems with anger and that he's afraid you may be depressed.”
Hudge pauses at this part of the story. Reto and I are laughing. We can't believe what we're hearing. It has to be a joke.
Hudge says she doesn't even believe what she's saying took place.
“I just stared at the chaplain. I didn't know what to say. I couldn't believe it; the angriest man in our unit tells the chaplain that I've got an anger problem.
“He says that Gagney told him that I've been acting up, yelling at people, and that a lot of people have problems with me. I'm just staring at him in shock. I'm speechless. Then, all of a sudden, I started to feel this thing come over me. My body is heating up. I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. ‘I've got the anger problem? I've got the anger problem? He told you that I have the anger problem? That is insane!’ I'm yelling.”
“No need to raise your voice, Sergeant Hudge. Sergeant Gagney is just concerned about you and I think he might be right,” replied the chaplain.
“He only came in here so I couldn't come to you first. He blew up at me the other day. If I complain about him, it will only look like revenge.”
“Sergeant Hudge, you need to stop raising your voice.”
Hudge stops the story and lowers her head.
“He was talking to me like I was a lunatic and Gagney was a saint. My voice wasn't raised at all.
“I storm out of the chaplain's office after about twenty minutes of listening to this bullshit. Of course, not before he had a chance to give me pamphlets on suicide and depression.” Hudge throws the pamphlets down on the table.
“So I went to the mental health office. I figured there I'd at least be able to tell my side of the story, but once I got there … they're doing the same thing.”
“Sergeant Hudge, glad to see you. You look good. Can I get you a drink? How are you feeling? Are you all right? You look good.”
“I'm all right….”
“Good, good. I was expecting you. I'm not sure if you are aware of this, but Sergeant Gagney stopped by earlier to see me and I… .”
“Are you kidding me? This is harassment, this is bullsh… .”
“Sergeant Hudge, no need for any language. I know you've been having some problems and Sergeant Gagney is only trying to help. Maybe if we can just talk for a little while we can get to the bottom of what's bothering you and causing you to lash out at everyone. Sergeant Gagney and I just want to help.”
“He's the one who's been going around to everyone and telling them I have an anger problem — ”
“Sergeant Hudge, no need to yell. We're in the same room. Why do you think that you have a problem with anger?”
“I. Don't. Have. A. Problem. With. Anger. Gagney does! He's the one who has the problem….”
“Let's not point fingers or call anyone names. I'm right here.”
“This is a riot. We don't give Gagney enough credit. He's a genius. He's a fucking diabolical genius!” Reto is laughing uncontrollably.
“And here's the best part.” Hudge goes on, the smile back on her face. “After I see mental health, now I'm really steaming, but I've still got to go see the chief ward masters. I go there and try to tell them about what happened and how Gagney tried to set me up.
“He went to the chaplain and mental health and told them that I have anger problems and that I'm depressed….”
“Yes, we are aware that Sergeant Gagney talked to them. We suggested that he talk to them and that it might help. We're glad you both were able to work things out,” the chief ward masters reply calmly.
“Work things out?! Work things out?! He lied to everyone, he lied to us all. He made me cry…. I'm the one who has to go see the chaplain… . THIS IS INSANE!”
“Sergeant Hudge, just before you came in here, the chaplain stopped by. He said he was concerned about you and thinks Sergeant Gagney might be right.”
Hudge stops talking. Her cheeks are flushed.
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
WEEK 4, DAY 3, IRAQ
0545 HOURS, GUARD DUTY, EAST GATE
“And you, soldier, you will be guarding the East Side Gate,” Staff Sergeant Elwood says to me. He's the sergeant in charge of guard duty, and he always seems to be smiling, even at 0545 in the morning. We're way in the middle of nowhere at the far end of the airport. The gate is seldom used; it's only for incoming Iraqis who work on the base. The station is a tiny wooden box that has two doors and one window. Inside there's a desk but no chairs. The job is deceptively simple:
All we — I'm assigned with another specialist by the name of Boredo — have to do is check people's IDs.
Formerly active duty infantry, Boredo loves to tell stories of his unit fighting battles. He then joined the reserves to become a medic. Denti and Boredo are a little alike, although Boredo seems like a child who wants to look up to an adult for help.
0700 HOURS, GUARD DUTY, EAST GATE
It's only one hour into guard duty and I feel like shooting myself. Better yet, I feel like shooting Boredo. I have already seriously considered punching him in the face twice, but every time I look at him — and I see those deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes — I feel bad. I just can't do it.
“So then my unit ended up killing like twenty terrorists. Honestly, there's no feeling like the feeling of taking a man's life. It makes you feel alive. If you ever get a chance you should go outside the gate and see what it's really like, when you're not in the safety of your little hospital,” Boredo says. I try to be friendly and act like I'm interested, resisting the urge to slap him. I know all I've got to do is hit him once and he'll shut up.
“Really? So how many did you kill?” I say instead of punching him. This is like the tiniest room I've ever been in.
“Well … I wasn't really there — ”
“You weren't there when you killed them?” They really should give us a bench or something.
“ — with them.”
“I'm sorry. With who?”
“Okay, this happened when I wasn't there; it was after I left my infantry unit and joined this one — ”
“Oh.”
“But I heard all the stories, it was intense. One time my unit was held up in this alley — ”
“Ah, okay,” I reply.
“Well anyways, man, one time my unit was held up in this alley as they're getting ambushed…. ”
Punch him…. Do it now….
2000 HOURS, GUARD DUTY, EAST GATE
It's 8 P.M. and Boredo and I are back on shift. We have been back on since 6 P.M.
“… Then I ran into this burning building and pulled out five guys that were about to be executed. Well, I didn't so much as do it as one of the guys in my old unit did, but man, you've got to get out of the wire so you can experience that stuff.”
“Have you ever actually been outside the gate yourself?”
“Well, no, but….”
Hit him….
BAAAMMM. BAAAAMMMM. BAAAAMMMM. BOOOMMMM.
BUNKERS! BUNKERS! BUNKERS! is shouted over the loudspeaker. This is really happening. Boredo and I lock the doors of the gate and grab our gear: a bulletproof flak vest, Kevlar, weapon, gas mask, and radio.
We're under attack again. It's been happening so often that it now feels like part of our daily routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, eat lunch, have a mortar attack, mortar attack ends, eat dinner, go to sleep, then repeat. Lately all the mortar rounds have been hitting the edges of our base and not making it on base, but these rounds sound close. They're loud. I have never been on guard duty during a mortar attack before. We lock the door behind us and start running for bunkers. The closest ones are fifty yards away. All of our gear is cumbersome and hanging loose. It slows us down as we run. I accidentally drop my Kevlar. I stop but Boredo keeps running. I see another soldier running for the bunker. I quickly pick up my Kevlar and start running.
BAAAAAAMMMMMMM!!!!!!!
I see a flash of blue. The noise is so loud that my ears are ringing.
BAAAAAAMMMMMMM!!!!!!!
I see another flash of blue. The mortars are hitting close. I've never seen the light of one before. I run for my life because the mortars are only twenty yards away.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
I hear gunfire; it's just above my head. It's coming from an Albanian guard post that's twenty feet in the air. They're part of the multinational forces that are on our base. The Albanians are in charge of base defense, and their tower is just above my head. They're firing at something, but I can't see what.
I run faster. My heart is beating; I feel alive. I feel like this is what life is meant to feel like. I have a goal of getting to the bunker, and I am using all my might and force to get there. I run and use every bit of energy my body has and it feels … great.
When I get to the bunker, Boredo and Staff Sergeant Elwood — the one who always smiles — are already there.
“I think that was the closest I've ever been to a mortar going off. I mean the closest without being in a bunker. We better get a CAB badge for this,” says Elwood.
Boredo lights up at the mention of this.
A CAB badge is a Combat Action Badge — they're awarded to medical personnel for being in a combat situation. Elwood and Boredo are getting as excited as kids on Christmas morning because they think they'll qualify. The award isn't given for being in a bunker when mortars are hitting around you. You need to be within twenty-five yards of an unprotected area. Since we weren't in the bunkers when they started to hit, we qualify.
I'm trying to catch my breath as they yammer on, anxiously awaiting the ALL CLEAR from the loudspeaker.
Boredo is getting out of control. He now can tell a war story that he's actually in. “That was sooo intense. I can't wait to tell the guys from my old unit. But geez, I hope no one was as close to the mortars as us.”
I'm breathing deeply into my diaphragm, my adrenaline is still pumping. I have never felt anything like this. I've just run faster than I've ever run before, faster than on my first day here. I was within yards of mortars going off. Shrapnel was probably shooting all around me. I could have almost died or been wounded, yet it was a rush. The only difference is that I don't want an award.
Actually, I'm amazed and sickened; they seem unaware or don't care how close we just came to death. At this moment, I vow to never receive any ribbons. Why would I need an award for surviving an attack? If that's the case, all the survivors should get one. Is that a good word to call veterans, merely survivors?
WEEK 4, DAY 4, IRAQ
0730 HOURS, OR
I'm in a better mood than I've been in for a while. I feel rambunctious and a little mischievous, and I decide to pull a prank. My target is Hudge because she's having the toughest time right now. The plan is that Crade, who has also been looking a little downtrodden lately due to problems he's experiencing with his soon to be baby's mother — anyway, I don't want to go into it here; he's going to help me.
1430 HOURS, OR
While I finish up my last surgery, Crade is informing everyone else of our plan. The thought of an overweight Satanist on tiptoes whispering into everyone's ears, with all his BO after a shift, is cracking me up.
1500 HOURS, OR
I'm scrubbed in for surgery and we're about to begin a fasciotomy, a procedure to relieve pressure in the muscle or tissue, on the left leg of a patient. Since this wound is on the left leg, during surgery the only thing showing is the leg; everything else is covered with sterile sheets. I tell Reto to have Hudge scrub me out and take over my surgery so I can go home for the day. Immediately the doctor starts yelling at her, asking what took her so long to get scrubbed in. Giving him a look that says “Fuck off,” Hudge changes positions with me, and I hand the case over to her. As I'm telling her where all the instruments are — and what to expect for the case — the patient starts convulsing badly, his entire body shaking under the sheets.
The doctor looks at Hudge.
“Grab his legs; hold him down so that he doesn't fall off of the bed.”
The patient moans from beneath the blanket. His face is covered but we all hear it.
The doctor turns toward the anesthesiologist. “What the hell did you give him? He's still awake — get him sedated.”
Hudge grabs the patient's leg as best she can while still staying sterile.
The anesthesiologist pushes a few buttons and the patient stops shaking. The room is silent for a second. The doctor asks for a scalpel; Hudge hands him one.
Again, the patient starts convulsing. Hudge grabs the patient by the legs.
“I thought I told you to hold him down,” the doctor screams.
The doctor is yelling at the anesthesiologist: “I told you to sedate him. Shoot him full of something.” He tells Hudge to grab the legs tighter. The patient is shaking so badly he might fall. Hudge leans on the legs with all of her weight and grips them tight. The doctor tells her to move her grip up further on the patient to hold his waist down.
“AAARRRRGGGGHH,” the patient yells as he sits up in the bed and grabs Hudge by the waist. Hudge screams. She jumps back and hits the instrument table. I can tell she is scared. Her chest is heaving. She's looks around at everyone and no one is doing anything. She looks at the patient uncovered on the table, it's Crade, who is laughing an evil Satanic laugh.
Hudge rips off her mask and gown and throws it to the ground.
“Oh. My. God. You assholes!”
WEEK 4, DAY 5, IRAQ
0730 HOURS, OR
Captain Cardine is the hospital commander. She's stout with a dark skin tone and perfectly white teeth. When she smiles it can be seen for miles. I have no idea why I actually have to go to her office — Gagney wouldn't tell me. Like most people probably would, I immediately assume I'm in some type of trouble. When I walk in the door, I know it's good news, though, or at least not bad news. Captain Cardine tells me that she heard I was on guard duty the day of the recent mortar attack and I'm qualified for a Combat Action Badge (CAB) for being in a combat situation. All I have to do is fill out some paperwork, tell the story of what happened, and verify it with the other two soldiers, Elwood and Boredo. I remember the vow I made in the bunker.
“Ma'am. With all due respect, I would not like any awards.”
Captain Cardine looks at me a little confused.
“What do you mean, you wouldn't like an award? You're going to be one of the first in the unit to be awarded the CAB.”
“I understand Ma'am, it's just that … all I did was run to a bunker. I was following orders.”
Captain Cardine stares at me.
“Soldier, I'm not sure if we're on the same page here. This isn't a big deal, just fill out the paperwork so that we can give you the award.”
I look at Captain Cardine, and it is clear that we're not on the same page. I try to explain my feelings to her again, but she doesn't … she can't understand why anyone wouldn't want an award. Captain Cardine slides the paper toward me.
“Soldier, I don't think you understand. I want you to fill out this paperwork. I want you to get that award. It not only looks good on you to get the award, but it looks good on us as a unit to give the award. Besides, Elwood and Boredo already filled out their paperwork. They came to me the next morning. They were excited and they can't get the awards if you don't fill out the paperwork. To get the award you need at least two witnesses not including yourself. They need you to verify their stories. I don't know what the big deal is, soldier, just fill out the paperwork.”
I leave her office having signed the paperwork and written my story. I find Reto and tell him I just sold my soul.
WEEK 4, DAY 6, IRAQ
0440 HOURS, MY ROOM
I don't know if it's because of the last mortar attack and that being fearful for my death has given me new energy, but I wake up very early today. It's so early, it's still dark outside. It's that type of dark where the moon is gone from the sky and the sun isn't visible yet, but you can tell it will be shortly. When I usually wake up, I take a right down the road toward the dining facility, gym, and the Hajji stores. Today I decide to take a left. There are empty buildings, a fence, a dry cleaners, sleeping barracks for another unit, and sand everywhere. I keep walking, and down the road I see a red pickup truck idling at a stop sign. There's someone sitting inside the truck. He works for KBR, civilian contractors the Army hired to do odds jobs on base. There was no reason for anyone to be out — unless you're going for a morning walk. The chow hall doesn't open for breakfast for another hour, the Hajji stores also don't open for a few hours, and shift change isn't until 0700.
I am in the shadows of the street as I walk. There are no streetlights near me, but there is one directly above the pickup truck. My suspicion of all things odd, or I suppose voyeurism, gets a hold of me, and I duck behind a tree to see what's going on. The windows are dark and the truck is tall. The man is looking off into space. The truck just idles at the stop sign. The man in the truck and I are the only ones awake on the entire base, I bet. He's staring straight ahead, enjoying the silence. I notice that the light from the street lamp casts a small shadow into the truck, and the shadow inside the truck is bobbing: up, down, up, down, up, down. I see a head at the man's waist. It appears for a second and goes back down.
A damn cat's rustling the garbage. I turn around — the noise came from behind me. Then I look back. Captain Tarr's getting out of the truck. She looks both ways across the road to make sure no one sees her. She starts walking briskly back toward the sleeping area; I know she doesn't see me. The truck speeds off and I continue to stand there.
If this is what has gotten her to lighten her mood and stop yelling at everyone, then I don't care if she's breaking the rules. I tell myself I should run after the truck and tell the guy to keep up the good work.
I walk to the area where the old dining facility used to be. It's still dark, and when I get to the building I see that there are bright green lights surrounding it. Glow sticks. Reto and I had seen the same kind two nights before. We thought it was strange but we didn't say anything at the time. Now that I think about it, the night after we saw those lights, the area near the building got hit bad with mortars. Maybe our base has been infiltrated and there are spies placing the glow sticks around so the enemy combatants know where to aim. Nah, never mind. If that were the case someone else would have noticed by now. Still, I'm gonna tell Gagney — just in case.
0700 HOURS, OR
“Anthony,” Gagney is telling me, “Captain Cardine wants you to go to her office again. You better not be in fucking trouble. If you make me look bad, so help me God….” Gagney trails off.
“Before I go I wanted to tell you that I saw these glow sticks around the old dining facility, and Reto and I had seen them two nights before and then the building in the area got hit with mortars and….”
Gagney is walking away; he's not listening. He never listens, but there's nothing I can do about it, and besides, I'm sure I'm just being paranoid about the green glow sticks. I turn around and head toward Captain Cardine's office. Again, I assume that I'm in trouble, but the fear abates when I see her and she's smiling. She tells me that the CABs for the other two soldiers have been approved. Mine, however, has been denied.
“Michael …” Captain Cardine says, using my first name as if we're now pals. “When Elwood and Boredo wrote their stories, only Elwood said you were there. Boredo never mentioned you in his story.” Just like Boredo, I think to myself. “Since Boredo didn't mention you, you won't be getting the award.”
My mind spins. Boredo wants only him and Elwood to get the awards. No matter what, I need to make sure I get this award, if only to rub it in Boredo's face. I've already sold my soul by signing the paperwork; now, it's as if I'm not getting paid. I know this is childish and pointless, but I'm in Iraq, what else is there to do?
“Well, I was there, ma'am. Tell me what I need to do so that I can get that award.”
“I didn't think you wanted it.”
“I just want to help my unit look good. I mean the more awards we hand out, the better you and everyone else looks, right?”
Captain Cardine smiles.
“That's right, soldier, glad to see you're aboard. Find Boredo, tell him to include you in his story.”
After leaving Cardine, I find Boredo. I tell him I'll recant my story unless he includes me in his. He looks at me and frowns as if I have just told him I am the devil and I want his firstborn son, but he's not stupid. He grabs his coat and storms off toward Captain Cardine's office.
104 HOURS, HOSPITAL
He looks bad. An Iraqi patient. Machines to his left are breathing for him, raising his chest up and down. To his right is a pole with different liquids being fed into his veins. On his leg is a bag attached to a catheter in his penis; all of the liquids being fed into his veins come right out into the bag. He's brain dead and now merely serves as a vessel for the liquid to go from one container to the next. The doctors shine light into his eyes, and his pupils give no reaction. They hit him in the face with their hands and on the knees with their reflex hammers — no reaction, no nervous system, nothing.
We are a small hospital with limited resources. We get several new patients every day and we can't afford to keep them here that long. Often we have to ship the American patients to Germany or Texas, and we send the Iraqis to local Iraqi hospitals. The severely injured go to American hospitals either in different parts of Iraq, Germany, or back in the States. We only do this for Iraqis that have been hurt by us.
Everyone is gathered around the Iraqi. I know what they are all thinking and what decision is being debated.
When is a person really dead? When the heart is no longer beating? Or how about when the brain stops? This man is lying in a hospital bed, machines breathe for him, his right arm has a tube in it sending liquid into him, and through his penile shaft there is another tube draining the same fluid right back out. As long as the body is being fed oxygen, the heart will continue to beat and give the impression that the body is alive. The brain, however, is gone; there's no coming back.
We didn't injure him and we don't have the supplies, equipment, or the interest to send him to one of our stateside hospitals where he'll just exist for a few more moments, eventually die, and cost the taxpayers a million dollars in the process. The Iraqi hospitals don't have the equipment or supplies to take care of him. One of the doctors makes a decision and talks to a member of the Iraqi's family. He walks over to the machine and pulls the plug. The family member weeps; a small crowd gathers around; the chaplain is called. Some of the other patients that are close by bow their heads in solace. The patient's chest goes up one last time and then goes back down for its final breath; the man is officially dead, in mind, spirit, and now body.
I watch for a moment then turn and head back to the OR.
WEEK 4, DAY 7, IRAQ
0300 HOURS, MY ROOM
BOOMMM! BOOMMM! BAANNGG!
“Bunkers! Bunkers! Bunkers!”
I open my eyes as I lay in bed. I can hear mortars hitting the base and the loudspeaker yelling — we are under attack again. A few hours ago I took four sleeping pills to fall asleep, and now I'm supposed to wake up and run to a bunker. I know I need to get out of bed but I can't. I can't move my legs, or maybe it's just that I don't want to move my legs.
BBOOOMMM!!
Another mortar hits. I either don't want to get out of bed bad enough or I literally can't because of the sleeping pills — either way my legs don't move. They're so loud, the mortars. They're hitting the old dining facility and the area around it — I'm too tired or in a daze to care. I look over at Markham. He's getting out of bed and heading toward the bunker.
“Markham,” I yell, using all my might. “Come and get me when the attack is over, so I can be accounted for.” Markham nods and leaves. In the night not everyone makes it to the bunkers. They're extremely cold and many people opt for sleep in their own warm bed, despite the obvious risk.