The power had been out on the base for nearly six weeks. With no working fans to stop the sand flies, their bites peppered our legs, itching mercilessly and swelling into tiny welts. At night our concrete barracks, which withstood incoming mortars with impressive strength, became brick ovens with more than one-hundred-degree temperatures and no moving air. Our sleep was interrupted when the water we sprayed on our arms and legs had evaporated, along with its temporary relief. At that point, we awakened to respray and flip over, like rotisserie chickens. Deep shadows circled our eyes. We rested our chins in our palms between bites of breakfast.
My eleven o’clock patient on this particular day was a no-show. I wandered out of the office and bought a cold Coca-Cola Light from the Iraqi vendor in the theater, who had ice in large coolers. I held it to my cheek before cracking it open. Sometimes, heaven was redefined.
There was a knock on our office door, which was ajar. The Marine standing there glanced around uneasily before entering.
“Good morning, ma’am.” His baritone voice was raspy. “I’m looking for Dr. Kraft.”
“That’s me.” I stood and extended my hand.
“Master Sergeant Boone.” He grasped my hand firmly. “Do you have a minute, ma’am?”
The master sergeant wore a dirty desert-tan flight suit with a pistol strapped to his thigh and attached to the green web belt that hung loosely from his waist. His gray hair was shaved so short he was nearly bald. His brown, leathery skin was etched with deep grooves. I considered offering him one of the samples of sunscreen I had in my pocket but decided against it, quite sure of his answer. Oil and dirt were caked onto his hands, and grime stuck under the remnants of his fingernails, which were chewed to the quick. He raised a fist to cover a cough.
“Doc Green sent me,” he began, and coughed again. I took a sip of my Coke Light.
“He said you might be able to do hypnosis to help me stop smoking.”
I nearly spit out the entire sip. “I beg your pardon. Did you say stop smoking?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I cleared my throat and covered my mouth to hide a smile. “Well, I do use hypnosis to assist with smoking cessation in the States — um — okay, how long have you been smoking, Master Sergeant?”
“Thirty-one years. I started when I was twelve.”
“I see. And how much do you smoke?”
“I’ve just cut down to two packs a day.” He seemed genuinely proud of himself.
“And you are absolutely sure that you want to try to quit out here, in Iraq?”
“I don’t want to try, ma’am. I want to do it.”
I smiled. He would succeed.
The master sergeant was on flight status, so he could not be prescribed Zyban, an antidepressant medication that helps some people with nicotine cravings. Otherwise, he embraced the entire behavioral program I established for him, including the monitoring of his smoking, identification of associated factors in his life, and daily practice of self-hypnosis techniques I taught him. I suggested to him under a trance state that Gatorade, his drink of choice with a cigarette, would lose its flavor while he was smoking. Two weeks later he arrived with a huge grin on his face. His teeth were badly stained, but his smile was contagious.
“I’m down to three cigarettes a day!” He beamed at me, sitting down.
“Congratulations! That is wonderful news. Have you noticed any other changes?”
“Well, now that you mention it —” He looked at me sideways and grinned. “Did you say something to me when I was under last time about Gatorade?”
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, it doesn’t taste good anymore. At first I was bummed, because sitting on the porch of the squadron with the boys after a long day of flying, having a Gatorade and a smoke, was one of the only things I enjoyed about this place. Then it suddenly got this bizarre taste. So I figured, maybe you’d been messing with me, so I’d try it without a smoke. And what do you know — it tastes fine. Is that you doing that, Doc?”
“No, Master Sergeant. That’s you doing that.”
Word traveled fast in the staff noncommissioned officer network on our base. Within three weeks, five other senior enlisted Marines approached me for help with smoking cessation after they’d heard the master sergeant’s success story. Five out of my group of six motivated smokers became smoke-free during our deployment. Only one Marine left treatment, explaining that after trying, he was more convinced than ever that people need to start smoking in Iraq, not stop.
The other five became very vocal about their victories. One saw me in line at the chow hall one day and loudly introduced me to his buddy. As we were parting, he called after me: “Hey, Doc — what do you call a Marine in a combat zone who smokes two packs a day and is worried about getting lung cancer someday?”
“I don’t know. What do you call him?” I asked.
“An optimist.”
HOME
During my sister’s midsummer visit to my family in Florida, she took out the video camera and filmed the babies for me. A few weeks later, she edited that footage, burned it to a DVD, and sent it to me in a care package.
I waited several days before watching the DVD, in part because of an unusually busy clinic schedule and the fact that we had two patients on our ward. The other part I blame on my own hesitation to face the reality of what was taking place half a world away: my babies were becoming toddlers before everyone’s eyes but mine.
One day after clinic, Karen joined me on our walk back to the barracks, and I asked if she wanted to watch the DVD with me. She enthusiastically agreed. We sat down together on my cot.
My children looked so happy.
They responded to their daddy, their grandparents, and their aunt Steph with that wonderful expression of joy that can only be found on the face of a twenty-one-month-old. Every little detail in their lives was extraordinary. I sat, mesmerized, staring at a little blond boy and a still-nearly-bald-but-becoming-blond girl, both of whom I almost did not recognize.
At one point in the film, Meg pulled herself up onto the sofa and sat there proudly, grinning for the camera. Brian followed her. When I left, nearly six months ago, they were nowhere close to accomplishing such a feat.
Everyone waved bye-bye to the camera on cue. Steph loudly proclaimed from behind the lens, “We love you, Mommy!” and the children joined in a cacophony of happy squeals. The screen of the DVD player went to static.
Karen looked at me with wide eyes. I pressed the stop button, avoiding her gaze.
“I don’t know how it is that you are not crying right now,” she exclaimed, wiping her eyes. “They’re not even my babies, and I’m crying.”
I looked at her and managed a small, closed-lipped smile as I placed the DVD back in its case.
“I decided five months ago that I couldn’t let myself cry about them,” I told her. “What good would it do to start now?”
Godspeed, Marines
Even an insurgent must draw the line somewhere. The last three weeks of July, we experienced consistent temperatures in the low 130s — and not a single rocket attack. We decided this was no coincidence. Despite the fact that the people actually doing the shooting were acclimated to the desert heat, we figured there must be a point at which even they decided it was just too hot. Regardless of the reason, we felt thankful for the reprieve; it was wonderful to become accustomed, again, to sleeping in silence.
We now carried our flak jackets and Kevlar helmets to work, stacking them in heavy piles in corners of the hospital. And we hiked the three quarters of a mile to chow without them, thirty pounds lighter. It was cause for celebration.
We should have known it was too good to last.
One of the last days in July, I was in a therapy session talking with a young lance corporal who suffered from recurrent nightmares. He had just begun a progressive muscle relaxation exercise by focusing on the muscles in his forehead when we heard a familiar, distant boom. He opened his eyes and we both loo
ked out the window. In the next second, four explosions followed in rapid succession, each one louder — and closer to the hospital — than the one before it. The Marine and I got to our feet.
We retrieved our flak jackets and helmets quickly and moved away from the windows. We slid down the wall and sat on the tile as the windows rattled and the ground trembled beneath us. After a few minutes, the explosions ceased. We waited in the silence. It was over.
“Well,” I said cheerfully, taking my patient’s extended hand as he helped me up. “That was interesting.”
The Marine grinned at me. “I better get back to my unit, ma’am. They’ll be accounting for everyone.” I nodded. We rescheduled his session.
After an attack, each unit conducted roll call to ascertain the whereabouts of all personnel. I penned a quick progress note for the session with the lance corporal, smiling ironically to myself as I wrote the words session terminated due to incoming rockets.
Nearly an hour later, wing headquarters sounded the all-clear, and everyone returned to work. Soon after, a walk-in patient arrived at our door.
He was a Seabee. I recognized his tanned face and graying crew cut; he was one of the Sailors who had attended our groups several months before. I introduced myself, aware of the tremor in his hand as he shook mine. I asked what I could do to help.
“Well, ma’am, I have been away from Al Asad since our unit met with you,” he began. “I’ve been at a remote base, helping the Marines there with some projects. I just returned two weeks ago.
“I thought getting back to the battalion here would be good for me. I thought these things I’ve been dealing with would take care of themselves. And so far, I’ve been doing okay, until just about two hours ago.”
“The rockets.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He sighed. “I guess I didn’t realize how much they would bring back everything we did up there, everything we saw, everything . . .” His voice trailed off and he lowered his head.
“What can you tell me about being up there?” I asked quietly.
He looked up. “There was just a small group of us there, and a small group of Marines. We got really close to them. I think we told you our average age is thirty-eight? Well, their average age was not a day over nineteen.” He smiled. “I think they looked at us almost like dads. It felt so great to be needed like that.” He shook his head and pinched at the corners of his eyes, inhaling deeply.
“About three weeks ago, we had gone on a convoy to support some combat construction. When we returned, we got within about a half mile of our base, and the convoy stopped. I could see a plume of black smoke ahead, and several vehicles had obviously been hit by an IED. Lots of Marines were standing around them, looking up. They were watching a Phrog* as it came in to land. Our convoy had been stopped so it could set down. Once the helo was on the ground, six Marines walked over together, stopping and looking down at a spot on the ground that I couldn’t see. While we watched, they bent over and picked up a Marine’s body. One of them took his head, two the arms, one the midsection, and two the legs. He was totally limp, like a rag doll. They pivoted around, walked to the bird, and loaded him in. Then they turned around and went back, leaning over to get another one. While we sat there, those Marines picked up the bodies of four men.”
Tears welled in his brown eyes. He chewed on the inside of his cheek.
“It wasn’t gruesome or anything, ma’am. That’s it, what I just told you. But now, now that I’m back, I can’t get that image out of my head. I see it whenever I’m alone; whenever it’s quiet. It comes and I can’t make it go away. I keep seeing it over and over and over. I keep seeing them putting those Marines’ bodies in that helo.” He blinked and allowed the waiting tears to run down his face.
“This was a tremendous loss for you,” I stated simply. I swallowed, expecting a familiar lump in my throat. I found none.
The chief nodded.
“They were my friends, my little brothers, my — my sons,” he whispered.
“How old is your own son, Chief Fitch?” I asked.
“My son?” He raised his eyebrows. I nodded.
“Almost seventeen, ma’am. He wants to enlist in the Marine Corps.”
“Have you told him about this experience?”
He shook his head. “I wanted to protect him from stories like this.”
We spent the rest of the hour talking about his family. As he left, I asked him to consider writing a letter to his son, describing his grief over the deaths of these young men. He said he would.
Chief Fitch returned in one week.
“The image has stopped, Doc,” he said. “I don’t see it anymore.”
“Well, that is certainly good news. I know it was painful for you to keep seeing it. Can you attribute this change to anything?”
“Two things. First, I wrote that letter you suggested. I told my son that now I knew I was actually afraid of losing him. I told him he was everything to me, and that he had my support, whatever he wanted to do. I said if he wanted to become a U.S. Marine, nothing in the world would make me prouder.”
I smiled.
“Second, I said good-bye to those Marines.”
“Really? How?”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep a couple nights ago. So I walked outside, lit a cigarette, and just sat there and looked at the stars. I waited for the image to come, which it did. I watched that Phrog land, and watched those Marines pick up those bodies. As much as I hated it, I forced myself to watch the whole thing without trying to stop it. And for the first time, I let the image keep going. I sat there and watched the helo actually lift off, tip its nose forward like they do, and fly away. I watched it fade away into the stars until I couldn’t see it anymore.
“And I said out loud, ‘Godspeed, Marines. It’s time for me to let you go.’ ”
HOME
Late in July, I received an e-mail from Mike that caused my stomach to flip over. He told me that one of my colleagues at the hospital had called to say I was being extended for three additional months in Iraq, until December. I tracked down the message, which had originated from the Marines and asked for the extension of the deployment of medical augmentation personnel.
I found Cat and handed her the message. She began making phone calls.
As the day dragged on, I felt physical pain just thinking about having to stay longer. Tears welled in my eyes with no warning. Sometimes I thought of Mike and my babies and how much I wanted to see them in September. Sometimes I imagined the intense loneliness I would feel watching the people of this surgical company — who were all I had out here — go home without me. A sinking, heavy sensation of depression followed me throughout the day. I could not shake it.
At 2100, the guys and I sat in their barracks room watching The Sopranos. I figured I might as well be distracted. Cat knocked on the door.
“You’re coming home with us, ma’am.”
It had been a mistake, a technicality. The message was sent by the Marines to all units who supported them, a blanket request for extension. Everyone else in my company had received the same message; the medical mobilization officers at Jacksonville simply did not understand it. They had told my department that I was staying without making sure they were correct.
I was furious. I was relieved. Most of all, I was thankful. I collapsed on my cot that night with prayers of thanksgiving. Several times throughout restless dreams, I bolted straight up, gasping for breath, my heart pounding.
Once again, the war invaded my sleep. But the feeling was different that night. Through those nightmares, I realized what I feared most.
It was being out here, alone, while my friends — who were now my family — went home without me.
One Hawkeye
After sunset, the entire base sank into deep shadows, but the Marine Air Wing compound didn’t have the benefit of the inconsistent and wobbly street lights found around other areas. I depended on my squeeze flashlight as I walked around the headquarters building that ni
ght. I had met a pilot named Paul earlier that day, at the Internet café. He had noticed my flight psychologist wings, and after we’d been talking for a while about flying and people we both knew, he invited me to movie night. A group of the aviators who worked at the wing were planning to watch a DVD after their shift. I looked forward to the change of pace.
Following his directions, I walked along the makeshift wall that formed a perimeter around the wing barracks. Out of the darkness and silence I heard a voice. I jumped. Ten feet above the ground, in a watchtower, a Marine sentry talked on the radio. I murmured a silent prayer that he wouldn’t see me and ask what the hell I was doing in the dark by myself. I had no idea what my answer would be.
Paul met me at the end of the perimeter wall, and I followed him to their barracks. The room he shared with another aviator was tiny, but unlike our living arrangements — in which nearly fifty women shared nine heads and six shower stalls — they had their own bathroom. His mini–DVD player was already set up with small computer speakers attached, and a pile of movies had accumulated on the dusty tile floor.
I sat on one of two cots in the room and leaned back against the wall. Paul rummaged through a footlocker and retrieved a plastic Listerine bottle that now held a clear liquid. He poured it into a plastic squadron coffee mug and added a packet of powdered Gatorade and some bottled water. He stirred it with a plastic knife, handed it to me, unfolded a canvas stadium chair, and sat down facing me.
It tasted absolutely horrible, but I had to admit the numbing effect of the vodka on my throat was comforting. For me, because the helos could arrive at any time, a sense of dread surrounded the idea of drinking alcohol. I was off duty tonight. I hadn’t tasted a drop in more than five months. I figured I deserved it.
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