Heidi, everyone is doing well, but they miss you so much. Mike and I stayed up late talking on Friday night and he is very lonely. He misses talking to his best friend every night. I only tell you this because I want you to know how much you are loved and missed and how we are all counting the days until you come home.
P.S. Tomorrow Leilani’s playgroup is having an Easter Egg Hunt. I stuffed 12 plastic eggs tonight with stickers, fruit gummy candies and toys.
P.P.S. Happy Easter.
Hero,
Part I
Catholic Mass in Iraq was a fascinating phenomenon. Each Sunday at 0900, hundreds of young men and women filed into a huge auditorium that Iraqi soldiers had once used as a movie theater. Inside the vast, dark room with its total lack of moving air, they fanned themselves with small hymnals, rested their rifles on the seats in front of them, and bowed their heads. The priest, whose desert tan boots peeked out from under his white vestment, asked God for strength and courage of conviction on their behalf. They sang hymns off-key, with no accompaniment. And they filed out, were blinded by the sudden Middle Eastern sunshine, and went back to work.
Ten days after the people of Alpha Surgical Company met Corporal Jason Dunham, I found myself filing out of Mass, blinking into the bright April day. Chief Tan, our medevac coordinator, waited for me as I shook the priest’s hand and laid my hymnal on a table.
“Ma’am, Corporal Dunham died last night at Naval Medical Center Bethesda.”
“Oh.” I felt my eyes glaze over.
“His parents were there, and the Commandant of the Marine Corps. His parents made the decision to withdraw life support,” the Chief went on.
“I see. When did you hear this?”
“Bethesda called this morning. They know we’ve been following his progress. I wanted you to hear first.”
I lowered my head. “Thanks, Chief.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
I nodded, biting my lip. “Yeah.”
Forcing my feet to move, I found my way to a thick concrete bench outside the decrepit movie theater. Behind Marine Corps–issued ballistic sunglasses, I remembered the intense excitement in the air as Corporal Dunham started squeezing my hand that day. I recalled the past week and a half as we tracked his progress from Baghdad, where he had surgery to relieve pressure in his brain, to Germany, where he had a second operation and stayed for almost a week, to Bethesda, where his parents were waiting for him. I even thought of my idealistic fantasy that he would recover fully and someday we would meet him again. I did not know him at all, yet my eyes brimmed with tears for him and for his heartbroken parents. I lowered my lids, and the tears spilled down my cheeks. The stinging sensation was an odd relief. I lowered my face to my hands and wept.
Nearly a week later, I was on the ward late one evening, finishing paperwork for the medevac of a Marine who had escalating manic symptoms, indicating a serious bipolar disorder. Still reeling from a contentious discussion with the patient’s CO, who had mistaken his Marine’s mania for “boundless energy” and “outstanding efficiency” and was not happy about losing him, I rested my head on the table in the nurses’ station, mentally exhausted.
“Ma’am?” I looked up. Although most personnel in a Marine Corps surgical company, including the commander, are Navy medical personnel, the executive officer is typically a Marine. Ours was First Lieutenant Catalina Kesler, a former staff sergeant who had gone on to college and Officer Candidate School. Cat loved the Marine Corps, and it showed. Our Sailors and Marines would have followed her anywhere. Cat stood in front of me in physical training, or PT, clothing, holding a sheet of paper.
“Hey, Cat,” I said. I continually tried to convince her that since we were two of only five female officers in the entire company, we should use first names. This argument is a losing battle with a Marine.
“I was wondering if you’d seen this article on Corporal Dunham, ma’am,” Cat said, passing me the sheet. I looked down and saw a black-and-white photo of a Marine kissing the top of a Kevlar helmet that was perched on a rifle stuck in the sand.
It was a story about his unit’s memorial service for him. “Thank you for printing this out for me, Cat.”
“Ma’am, it appears that Corporal Dunham threw himself on a grenade,” Cat went on.
“What?” My tired eyes flew open.
“He placed his helmet over a live grenade and tucked it under his body, according to that story” — her big brown eyes filled with tears — “to save his men. He’s been nominated for the Medal of Honor.”
My throat swelled and I struggled to swallow. I looked at Cat and knew there was no need to talk. She understood.
We were not the only people inspired by his story. A reporter embedded with Corporal Dunham’s unit wrote about it for America to see, and it was printed on the front page of the Wall Street Journal. Mike forwarded it to me simply as a piece that touched him, with no idea of our part in it. My reaction to his e-mail was intense relief — because it was in the press, I could finally share my incredible experience with my family and friends. I wrote an e-mail home, telling everyone about our small role in this young man’s fight to stay alive and about how honored I felt to have held his hand.
My e-mail had barely reached the States when we had the opportunity to meet the author of the Wall Street Journal article, Michael Phillips, as he transitioned through our base on his way home. He had been contracted to write a book about Corporal Dunham.* After learning that the Marine had received care at our hospital, he arranged to meet us. During the interviews he had with everyone who interacted with the corporal, Karen and I told him that we had both written recent narratives home about our experiences with Dunham. Michael asked for copies of them, which we provided, and he promised to be in touch as the book progressed.
HOME
I pushed the Indiglo button on my plastic digital watch. A bright green hue illuminated the numbers 0214. I could not sleep. In the week after I returned from TQ, the Marine colonel who commanded our larger group in Iraq read my assessment of mental health services there. He ordered Alpha Surgical Company to send its junior psychologist and one of the psych techs to TQ. My friend Jen and my convoy partner Petty Officer Blythe had left for TQ that day. I missed Jen dreadfully already and felt horrible about her departure.
I sat up, strapped my headlamp on, grabbed my little Ziploc bag of stationery and a pen, and wrote a letter to my parents.
It’s hard to be the OIC, Dad. I know you remember, and understand. I worry too much about my people and protecting them from unnecessary risk (like the convoy we took to TQ) to really care about the bureaucracy of it all. I guess I’m not cut out to be the Surgeon General.
Seriously, though, I’ve made an important decision out here and have run it by Mike, who supports me. I love being in the Navy. I am so proud to serve the United States, and feel like right now I am doing exactly what the mission of Navy Medicine describes. It is an honor and privilege to be part of it — really. The reality is that if I stay in the Navy, I will be sent back here again. It’s just the way things are for us (mental health, surgery, ER, anesthesia, and orthopedics) — we are needed here and there aren’t enough of us to go around. But I just cannot let that happen. When I get back, I will be submitting Release from Active Duty paperwork. My Bri Baby and Mini Meg come first, for the rest of my life.
Believe me when I say that before I left for Iraq, I struggled with what the future would hold for my family — I have loved the Navy, as you know. But then I arrived here, and coincidental with the first attack on our base (and then several times since then), I realized how precious each day truly feels. I want to be there for my children, for everything, from the moment I get home.
All this being said, I have no regrets about serving on active duty and about deploying with the Marines in this war. I feel a sense of purpose and of being needed here that is much larger than I am, or than I will ever be. I feel a pull by my country to care for its brave children who are n
ow in harm’s way. And I’ve never been more proud of anything I’ve ever done in my life. I hope that you are proud of me too — and proud that I am here to serve these absolutely amazing young men and women we call the Marines. If you are, I need nothing else in the world.
Cheeseburgers,
Part I
Even at 0900 in late April, daytime in the desert had developed teeth. The members of the Combat Stress Platoon, only four of us now, were already drenched in sweat. We hitched a ride in the back of one of our ambulances, which was clearly not designed for people who sit upright. We balanced on the edges of metal benches as the Humvee lumbered along; it sent a blow straight through our spines to our teeth with each rock we hit.
Our destination was a huge warehouse located in a remote corner of the base, its front hatch camouflaged under green netting. The perimeter fence of the base snaked along a hill of dirt only a few feet from the building, and watchtowers were visible in all directions. Inside, makeshift partitions on concrete floors created haphazard work spaces, and trailers along the side of the warehouse provided portable barracks.
This was Mortuary Affairs.
We had been summoned there to conduct the first of what would be many group interventions during our deployment. The intent of these groups, which are an important element of combat psychology, was to work with units who had shared a common traumatic experience. The hope was that, together, Marines could process the trauma early and avoid later complications.
I grew nervous as I waited for their officer in charge to meet us. Despite my experience with group therapy in my career thus far, I felt like a novice. I was thankful to have Jason with me.
Jason had deployed as the psychiatrist for First Marine Division during their invasion of Iraq, less than one year before. Despite his resentment at returning to Iraq so soon (especially since his wife was due to deliver their first baby in June), he never compromised patient care. Jason is the most empathetic doctor I have ever known. He reminded me every day of the reason I became a psychologist. He still does.
We worked fast to form a circle out of a pile of folding metal chairs in the corner of the room. I chose a chair across the circle from Jason. The Marines of Mortuary Affairs filed in, eyeing each other bashfully with embarrassed smiles. A slight murmur hummed in the room. Jason straightened his rectangular glasses, crossed his boot over his knee, and nodded at me. The Marines responded to his cue and found seats.
“Good morning. I’m Dr. Bennett. These are my colleagues, Dr. Kraft, Petty Officers Gob and Patacsil. We are the Combat Stress Platoon over at Alpha Surgical. Your OIC asked us to come and talk to you today. He told us that things have been really tough for you as a unit recently.”
The group sat in total silence.
“When people have been through difficult experiences, sometimes working through them as a group is best,” I added. “The hope is that, together, you’ll feel able to discuss anything.”
“So, the way we’ll proceed is to go around the circle, with everyone having the chance to talk. Everything that is said in this room stays in this room. We expect you to wait your turn and treat your colleagues with respect. That’s it. Any questions?”
We got more blank looks than a seventh-grade algebra teacher.
“Let’s start with what it has been like for you lately. Who would like to start?” Jason asked.
After a few moments of silence, an olive-skinned lance corporal with black hair and huge shoulders raised his hand. Some of his comrades snickered. He glanced at them sideways before speaking in a hushed tone.
“Well, sir . . . I think the big thing here is that all of us have different MOS’s [Military Operational Specialties]. I am a jet-engine mechanic. We have truck drivers, comms guys, supply clerks, even aircrew. Our captain is an infantry officer. But not one of us is a mortician. So here we are. At first, it didn’t seem so bad. But then . . .” He looked around. The giggling stopped.
“Then everything changed. Marines started dying. Last week we processed the bodies of those four American contractors who were burned and hung from that bridge.”
I swallowed hard. That event was the catalyst behind the captain’s call to us. We had heard that those bodies had been sent to this base. My heart ached for this group of men, who had had to take care of the bodies four days after those men had been killed.
The lance corporal’s eyes filled with tears.
“It sounds like things have been very intense lately,” Jason said softly. The big Marine nodded and wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. Jason looked at the thin blond man next to him, who had raised his hand. “Corporal?”
They were a unit of about twenty-five. They worked in twelve-hour duty shifts of six to eight men; each group was on call to drive the Mortuary Affairs truck to recover a body, prepare it for processing, inventory the personal effects, and fill out paperwork. Unlike the hospital staff, who also cared for people who were going to be all right, the MA unit’s work was always about death. They felt fatigue, burnout, and genuine concern about their next five months.
I asked the question that started the second rotation of the circle.
“What has been most difficult for you?”
“The nightmares. They’re getting worse. Sometimes I wake up in a cold sweat.”
“A few nights ago I dreamed that MA was processing me . . . and it scared the shit out of me.” Tears crept down the junior Marine’s tanned face and his lips trembled. No one laughed.
“Not being able to talk about it with my fiancée,” a dark-haired sergeant said. Several others nodded.
“No one wants to hear about what we do over here.”
“Even people who love us. They think they do, but they don’t.”
“It’s just too much for people. My friends on the base from my MOS — I see them at chow sometimes. They ask how things are. But as soon as I start to really tell them, they change the subject.”
“Other Marines kind of ignore us. Or they laugh at us. I think we make them uncomfortable.”
“It’s not like we chose this.”
“It’s like we’re all alone out here. On a base with thousands of people.”
“Looking at the personal effects of Marines is the worst,” a corporal added. “We’re supposed to read their letters and look at the pictures they have in their pockets, to inventory them . . .” His voice trailed off. We waited. He shook his head in a silent no, and we moved on to the next person.
“Once, I was going through this Marine’s pockets, and there was an ultrasound picture in there,” a young lance corporal spoke up spontaneously. “An ultrasound picture. He was going to be a dad.” His voice cracked and he looked down, twisting his wedding ring.
Several men lowered their heads, and several others pinched at their eyes. I battled my own tears and sinking internal sensation, blinking away memories of sharing ultrasound printouts of my twins with their father. I did not allow myself the image of that Marine’s young wife.
I glanced quickly at Jason, concerned about the effect this discussion might have on him, with his first baby on the way. He seemed fine.
One of the senior men of the group, a staff sergeant, broke the tense mood.
“For me, the worst thing is that I can’t eat cheeseburgers anymore. I can’t stand the smell.”
“Yeah, me too!” several others chimed in, some of them laughing.
“And that pisses me off, Doc, because I really used to love cheeseburgers.” Heads around the circle nodded in understanding.
“Other Marines will come home with other problems. I’ll come home a fucking vegetarian.”
The Marines shared their final comments, one theme emerging again and again.
“They say combat units understand each other like no one else in the world. You know, like Band of Brothers.”
I had not seen Band of Brothers. I made a mental note to do so. Maybe just not out here.
“But in our case it’s more than that. This is all we did out h
ere.”
“No one else did anything even close to it.”
“This is all we did. And we’re the only ones who did it. We will have to count on each other and no one else.”
“I guess we’re all we have.”
Light Discipline
The hospital was totally dark.
I trudged through the endless dirt that surrounded the building on all sides, focusing intently on the ground to avoid the deep holes and large rocks in my path. I reached the entrance and extended an arm to open the door.
“Evening, ma’am.” A deep voice startled me.
“Oh!” I exhaled. “Good evening, Corporal.”
He sat easily in the hard chair just outside the entrance to the building. The Marine’s long legs stretched straight in front of him, boots crossed at the ankles and his M16 rifle balanced across his lap. His gray eyes pierced the darkness. I smiled at him.
“Quiet tonight?”
“From where I’m sitting — yes, ma’am.”
“Well. That’s a good thing.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I opened the heavy, hazy glass door, across which a thick strip of silver duct tape covered a large crack. As I stepped in, my boot caught the corner of one of the gurneys stacked in a pile just inside the door. I stumbled, and it crashed loudly to the deck. Pulling my dog tags out of my shirt, I squeezed the tiny blue-beamed flashlight hanging on the chain. The corporal got up to help me put the gurneys back. I grinned at him. “Pretty dark in here, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am.” White teeth gleamed in the night.
The commanding general of the Marine Aircraft Wing, on whose sprawling base our little field hospital functioned, ordered mandatory light discipline once the rocket attacks started again. Sandbags shrouded every window in the decrepit and cracking concrete facility we occupied, and the various lamps we hauled with us from the States sat unused in the darkness. Red or blue lens covers rendered everyday flashlights nearly useless by normal standards. We had learned about this combat phenomenon called light discipline from our Marines.
Rule Number Two Page 7