by K. Sue Roper
RUFF'S
WAR
RUFF’S
WAR
A Navy Nurse
on the Frontline in Iraq
Cdr. Cheryl Lynn Ruff
U.S. Navy Nurse Corps (Ret.)
with
Cdr. K. Sue Roper
U.S. Navy Nurse Corps (Ret.)
Naval Institute Press
Annapolis, Maryland
This title was converted into an eBook by a gift from
The Society for the History of Navy Medicine
Naval Institute Press
291 Wood Road
Annapolis, MD 21402
© 2005 by Cheryl Lynn Ruff and K. Sue Roper
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
First Naval Institute Press paperback edition published 2013
ISBN 978-1-61251-381-2 (eBook)
The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:
Ruff, Cheryl Lynn, 1958–
Ruff’s war : a Navy nurse on the frontline in Iraq / Cheryl Lynn Ruff ; with K. Sue Roper.
p. cm.
1. Iraq War, 2003—Personal narratives, American. 2. Iraq War, 2003—Medical care—United States. 3. Ruff, Cheryl Lynn, 1985– 4. Nurses—United States—Biography. 5. Nurses—Iraq—Biography. I. Roper, K. Sue, 1952– II. Title,
DS79.76R84 2005
956.7044'37—dc22
Print editions meet the requirements of ANSI/NISO z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).
987654321
All photos are from the author’s personal collection.
To my sister Jeryl Dean Kellert
for her steadfast love and support throughout my career.
In memory of my cousin Kathy Lynn McKently
who fought the most heroic battle.
Contents
Acknowledgments
Abbreviations and Acronyms
Prologue: 3 April 2003
1Early Inspirations
2It’s Not Just a Job, It’s an Adventure
3Being All That I Could Be
4Anchors Aweigh
5Deployment
6Our New Home
7Gearing Up for War
8A Battle with Mother Nature
9Settling Back In
10Growing Weary
11Heightened Alert and Final Preparations
12War Is Declared
13Moving North into Iraq
14Camp Anderson: The Other Side of Hell
15Saving Lives
16Caring for Jeff
17We Are “Devil Docs”
18Surviving in the Wake of Death
19Camp Chesty
20“Nesting” in Camp Chesty
21Stuck in Iraq
22Back to the Beginning
23Welcome to the “Holiday Inn”
24There’s No Place Like Home
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Ruff’s War: A Navy Nurse on the Frontline in Iraq would not have been successful without the hard work and support of many individuals.
Special thanks to the writer K. Sue Roper, whose persistence and dedication made this book a reality.
To those who relentlessly insisted that my story be told: Phyllis Shelton, Betsy Nolan, Sandra Lindelof, Sam Yerkes, Nancy Lundquist, Peggy Dolan, Melinda Tankersley, Jan Reiff, James L. Roper III, Chic Lisitano, and Shirley Cornell.
To my family, friends, and all the employees and their families from Blue Ball National Bank, Blue Ball, Pennsylvania. Your encouragement, love, and support provided the strength I needed in the darkest hours.
Abbreviations and Acronyms
Alice
All-purpose lightweight individual carrying equipment
Ambu bag
Airway mask breathing unit; self-inflating bag that helps a patient breathe during resuscitation
AMMAL
Authorized minimum medical allowance list; medical and surgical equipment, supplies, and medications required by medical personnel to render care during conflicts and other contingencies
CAT scan
Computed axial tomography scan; an advanced non-invasive imaging technique that creates a full three-dimensional computer model of internal bones, organs, and body tissues and the ability to examine one narrow slice at a time to pinpoint specific areas; more advanced and revealing than conventional X-ray imaging, which reveals only the outline of bones and organs
CPR
Cardiopulmonary resuscitation
CRNA
Certified registered nurse anesthetist
CVN
Multipurpose aircraft carrier (nuclear propulsion)
DDG
Guided missile destroyer
EMF
Expeditionary medical facility; facility with more staff and equipment than the field surgical companies
EPW
Enemy prisoner of war
EST
Eastern Standard Time
FITREP
Fitness report; a performance evaluation/appraisal for navy officers
FRSS
Forward resuscitative support system
FSSG
Force service support group
ICU
Intensive care unit
ISO
International Organization for Standardization
LHA
Amphibious ship, multipurpose
LHD
Amphibious ship, general purpose
MOPP
Mission-oriented protective posture; clothing and special gear consisting of protective hood, battle-dress overgarment, overboots, butyl rubber gloves, gas mask, and gas mask filter
MEF
Marine Expeditionary Force
MRE
Meal ready to eat
MRI
Magnetic resonance imaging; a technique used primarily in medical settings to produce high-quality images of the inside of the human body; based on the principles of nuclear magnetic resonance (NMR), a spectroscopic technique used by scientists to obtain microscopic chemical and physical information about molecules
NMC
Naval Medical Center; formerly designated as Naval Hospital
NNMC
National Naval Medical Center (Bethesda, Maryland)
NSHS
Naval School of Health Sciences
OIS
Officer Indoctrination School
PACU
Post-anesthetic care unit
Stix
Transport grouping of twenty to twenty-four individuals
STP
Shock trauma platoon
T-AH
Hospital ship
RUFF'S
WAR
PROLOGUE
3 April 2003
We had no sooner set up the tents of our field hospital in Iraq than the helicopters began arriving with the dead and the wounded. We, the Bravo Surgical Company, were ready to go—prepared to triage, to perform surgery, to render all the medical and surgical care we could to those who were brought to us.
The first to be removed from a helicopter was a young American marine. He was carried off in a tarp, not in a body bag. One guy was holding one side of the tarp, and another was holding the other side as they carried him toward a large box that served as a morgue. I could see the top of this young marine’s head. It was sticking out beyond the length of the tarp, and I could see his light brownish-blonde hair. He could not have been any more than nineteen years old. I could also see his feet sticking out from the other end of the tarp. He was dead, and one of his boots had been removed in order to collect the dog tag
that had been affixed to his left boot.
As he was carried past me, it hit me. This was war. People were shooting at us, trying to kill us. This was medical triage like I had never seen it before. Our young Americans were being shot and killed, and I knew that I was in a situation where I was just as much a target of the enemy as were the combat marines. Still, what frightened me more than my own mortality was the question of my ability, and I could not help but think, “Will I be able to handle, within my own mind, body, soul, and spirit, the horrendous devastation of humanity that I will not only be a witness to but also a primary player in offering healing and comfort? God give me the strength to make the right decisions for my patients. These guys need us now.”
1
EARLY INSPIRATIONS
While I was growing up in Fleetwood, Pennsylvania, during the 1960s and 1970s, war was the last thing on my mind. I was too busy being a child, trying to discover who I was, and wondering where my life was going to ponder such major mind-boggling, incomprehensible issues as war and death. I never thought I would one day be in the middle of a war, directly witnessing its horrors and doing everything in my power to save the lives of the men, women, and children who would be brutally wounded as a result of fighting in a place halfway around the world. Yet, in many ways, my relationships with family and friends, my cherished memories, and the lessons I learned as I grew and matured to young adulthood would prepare me for and provide me with comfort and support throughout my journey of sacrifice and survival in the bloody, turbulent, and war-torn sands of Iraq.
I was born on 21 January 1958 in Reading, Pennsylvania, just twelve miles from Fleetwood. Fleetwood was no different from most other small rural hometowns. Everyone knew one another and often would be related to each other, because many would marry the girl or boy next door, have children who grew to adults, who would also marry the girl or boy next door, and they, too, would have children. Several generations of one family resided in Fleetwood and would continue to remain living there throughout their lives. Both my mother’s and my father’s parents lived there, as did several of my parents’ siblings, and I was fortunate to be surrounded by grandparents, uncles, aunts, and cousins throughout the growing-up days of my first seventeen years.
Both my maternal grandparents (the McKentlys) and my paternal grandparents (the Ruffs) lived less than two miles from our home, and although they were polar opposites in the ways they showed their love and affection, I did feel their love and support of me as a child and for many years beyond.
My father’s side of the family was open, warm, and demonstrative. Hugs, generous snacks, gifts, and various other forms of love and affection were readily offered and exchanged. My sister and I, along with several of my cousins, would spend many hours at Grandma and Grandpa Ruff’s home, visiting, playing, and simply basking in the love and adoration we felt from them.
Coming from a strict German Mennonite line of descent, my grandparents on my mother’s side were closed, rigid, and highly disciplined, and they did not readily show their feelings or affections. Generally noncommunicative, neither my Grandmother McKently nor, especially, my grandfather talked very much, and we found it almost impossible to determine what they were thinking or feeling most of the time. My most vivid memory and image of Grandfather McKently, and one I would often think of as the years of my navy career passed by, is a simple one, and recalling it would always bring a smile to my face. One day while he sat, seemingly focused and concentrating only on rubbing off the salt from a hard Pennsylvania Dutch pretzel using his massive sausage-like fingers, he turned to me and said, “So will you be making the navy a career?” I had only been in the navy a few months and had no real answer to his question. Because he was a man of few words, I was so surprised by his interest in me and of my future that I do not really know what I said to him. Had I known then what I know now, and had I not been so startled by this lengthy verbalization from such a quiet, closed man, I would have responded, “Yes, I think I will make it a career, and I believe it will be a good one.”
My mother, Esther, was a self-employed hairdresser. Her beauty shop was connected to our house, and her regular weekly customers watched my sister and I grow up as my mother diligently cut, permed, curled, and colored their hair, all the while listening to their stories and helping them solve problems. Her customers would arrive for their appointments at the same time and on the same day every week throughout the fifty-two weeks of the year, and they would leave Mom’s shop with the same hairstyle week after week. Viewing these women through the eyes of a child, I thought they all seemed old. Still, they all left feeling good about themselves, and as I watched my mom work her magic, I began to learn some very valuable lessons.
As Mom would work in her shop, or when she would go to the hospital and even periodically to the funeral home to coif the hair of one of her regular customers, she instilled within me the values of hard work, customer service, honesty, integrity, the importance of caring for others, and even the independent strength and willpower that was gender neutral. Mom may have been a female, but she was also strong willed and very determined to do anything and everything for the good of her family. Whereas many in her generation would be passive, dependent victims and would choose to embrace the housewife role that was prevalent throughout the sixties and seventies, my mom was anything but passive and dependent. Mom was our family’s breadwinner, the disciplinarian, the cook, and even “the dad.” Well ahead of her time, she possessed tremendous strength and a sense of “woman power” that would grow to be popular and readily accepted later in the eighties and nineties. As I watched her work day after day, I developed and embraced the notion that I could grow up to be an astronaut, a jet pilot, or just about anything else I desired. I was bound only by my own physical limitations, my desire, my drive, and my personal resolve.
My dad, Lester, made storage containers on an assembly line in the town’s local factory. Because my mom and dad divorced when I was two years old, I have no memory of him living with us, but, along with my sister, Jeryl, I would continue to see, visit, and share many adventures with him throughout my childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood.
Dad was a World War II navy veteran who had served as a gunner’s mate on a tanker. He loved the navy and would often delight us in singing every verse of “Anchors Aweigh.” It amazed us that he knew every word of every verse of that song, and Jeryl and I would always join him in singing the chorus. To this day, after having served twenty-five years in the navy, I can say that Dad has been the only person I have ever known who could sing every word of “Anchors Aweigh” by heart. His singing, his sea stories, and his love of the navy significantly influenced me to join the navy later in life and to make it my career. I will always remember him telling me that, unlike life in the U.S. Army or Marine Corps, life in the U.S. Navy would guarantee a roof over my head and never having to sleep on the ground outside in the open—a true guarantee for his days in the navy, perhaps. I would eventually discover life in the navy to be very different, especially once I entered the war-torn nation of Iraq, where there would be no real guarantees.
When I was seven years old, my mom remarried. Her new husband’s name was Bud, and he was a salesman of beauty supplies. Mom and Bud met when he came to the shop marketing his wares. He would remain a permanent fixture in my home as my stepfather, supporting and reinforcing Mom’s established rules by which my sister and I were being raised.
My “big sister” has been watching out for me, giving me advice, acting as my protector, and always being there for me, no matter what, throughout my forty-seven years of life and especially during my harrowing, dangerous, and unsettled days spent in Iraq. My mother had always dreamed of having twin daughters, and so she gave Jeryl and me same-sounding names, even though our birth dates are separated by fourteen months. Throughout our childhood years we forged a solid, indestructible, loving bond that honored and respected our individual and unique differences.
When Mom named us, s
he had no idea that Jeryl and I would be polar opposites in our interests, our activities, and even our appearance. We definitely were not the identical twins for which she was hoping. Where Jeryl sported long dark hair, had dark eyes, and was tall and of medium build, I was light haired, had hazel eyes, and was much shorter in stature. Jeryl hated to get her hands dirty or her hair messed. She often spent hours coloring her nails, coifing her hair, applying makeup, or just primping in front of the mirror. She was the little girl most mothers probably dreamed of and desired most. I, on the other hand, was the tomboy, caring little about what I looked like and always wanting to be outside playing, climbing trees, riding my bike, or being involved in whatever rough-and-tumble activity I could find. The dirtier I got, the happier I was.
I would never be able to understand why Jeryl or anyone would want to spend a beautiful sunny day indoors when Mother Nature was providing me with bugs to dissect, trees to climb, and a beautiful big sky under which I could launch my homemade rockets during the day and peer up at the brilliant twinkling stars at night, imagining all that lay beyond. I would often spend hours in the yard with my telescope watching the stars and dreaming of becoming an astronaut.
As Jeryl and I grew older, our radical differences became even more apparent in our dreams and desires for the future. Jeryl had no desire to attend college. Wanting to enter the workforce quickly and begin making money, she took the “commercial” route of subjects and studies during high school, excelling in math, shorthand, and typing. Jeryl was a true businesswoman in the making and was born to be a banker. As little sisters did then and continue to do now, I was relentless in my attempts to disrupt her focus, serving as a constant pest and distraction as she devoted hour after hour practicing and refining her shorthand skills and techniques. I just simply could not understand her desire to sit inside the house scribbling on a steno pad as she listened to 45-rpm talk records designed specifically for shorthand practice when it was so warm, sunny, and beautiful outdoors. The summer weather was perfect for playing, exploring, and simply having fun!