Ruff's War

by K. Sue Roper

  Within hours after the George Washington pulled into port, I was on my way to Pennsylvania, where I would spend the next two weeks with Kathy at the hospital, caring for her, talking with her, and just being there for her. On our last day together, 31 December 2001, I told her how very much I loved her and said, “I don’t have anything else that I feel I need to say that I haven’t ever said to you. Is there anything you need to say to me?” Kathy then expressed her love for me and thanked me for everything I had done for her. “Will I ever see you again?” she asked. I looked at her and said, “Yep! I’ll see you in heaven,” to which she readily agreed.

  Kathy’s young life came to its tragic end a few hours later. Although her death hit me hard and I deeply grieved for her, I was also able to perceive and feel the tremendously positive impact she had had on me as I grew, matured, and set my sail on a life’s course so radically different from her own. The memories I had of our times growing up together in Fleetwood and the love she had so freely and graciously given to me would remain with me, comforting my heart and making me smile as I charged forward determined to make every day and every experience truly count. Kathy’s death at the age of forty heightened my awareness of my own mortality and made me even more determined to live a full life, taking nothing for granted, cherishing each and every day, and doing everything in my power to help others.

  In January 2002, I reported to NMC, Portsmouth. Now back at the facility where I had trained as an anesthesia student and was being reunited with friends and colleagues I had known for many years, I assumed my assigned position as a hospital staff CRNA. I continued administering anesthesia and providing care to a variety of active-duty personnel, retirees, and military dependents, each of whom required surgical intervention.

  Navy Medical Department personnel were usually assigned to an operational platform as their primary billet, and their secondary billet was duty at a hospital or other military treatment facility. On being informed that my primary assignment was duty at the hospital (not an operational billet), I was very disappointed. I had served on board both of the navy’s hospital ships, two amphibious ships, and two aircraft carriers, and I believed I possessed real-world working knowledge, as well as a heck of a lot of operational medical/surgical experience. I had “been there, done that” and staunchly believed that my primary billet should be an operational one, not the stable, routine, and highly regulated stateside military treatment facility billet to which I was assigned.

  The world had entered into unsettled times; military action was being conducted in Afghanistan in support of Operation Enduring Freedom, and other troops were beginning to deploy to Kuwait in support of Operation Iraqi Freedom. If needed to provide surgical support for these fighting forces, whether it was assignment on board a ship or on the battlefield, I wanted to be there and could only do so if I my primary assignment was an operational billet.

  It would take several months of making numerous phone calls and constantly petitioning my chain of command for me to finally be assigned to an operational billet as my primary duty. In October 2002, I was notified that my primary billet would be the Second Force Service Support Group (FSSG), and I was thrilled. There was no way for me to know then just how much that assignment would change my life forever.

  5

  DEPLOYMENT

  On 22 January 2003, the commander of the Second FSSG came to NMC, Portsmouth, to talk with those of us assigned to his unit. After he spoke to our group of approximately eighty for more than ninety minutes, we were all very motivated and ready to go. At the end of his address, he said, “We have already picked the twenty-six people who will be deploying imminently, and I would like those people, and you know who you are, to come forward. The rest of you can go back to work.”

  Not having been previously notified that I was one of the twenty-six chosen, I left the commander’s briefing feeling disappointed. Since being assigned to the Second FSSG, I had diligently prepared for operational deployment, spending numerous hours with my family and friends to make comprehensive arrangements specific to my life affairs. I knew everything was in order. Still, I had no choice but to accept that my deployment with the Second FSSG was not meant to be. I left the briefing, proceeded to the retirement office, and obtained the required forms and checklists needed to begin the physical exam process for retirement. My request for retirement from the navy after twenty-five years of service had been previously approved, and my official retirement date was 1 August 2003.

  That evening, I called Jeryl. She was thrilled to hear that I was not among the twenty-six chosen to deploy and just kept saying “Thank God, thank God.” Those same sentiments were echoed in additional phone calls I made to friends. Still, I could not shake my feelings of disappointment. I wanted to go to Kuwait and then on to Iraq. I wanted to be there to apply my skills and to support our troops in the way I knew I was trained.

  As directed by the commander, I had gone back to work the following day and resumed my assigned duties as a staff nurse anesthetist. Twenty-three January started in the usual way in the operating room at NMC Portsmouth. We had several surgical cases scheduled and were meeting with our assigned patients prior to taking them into the operating room. While I was talking with my patient in the preoperative hold area, Cdr. Pamela Giza, associate director for surgical support, arrived. I could tell by the look on her face that something was up and that this day was not going to be a typical one for me.

  Intuitively, I knew what she was going to tell me, and for a moment, my heart sank. At the same time, I was elated. Since 11 September 2001, I had mentally prepared for this deployment, and I wanted very much to go. When she told me I was definitely going to be deployed with the Second FSSG, I felt a mixture of emotions: happy, sad, fearful, concerned, and excited. I did not know precisely how to feel, and I had no idea what to expect.

  Once again I called my sister. Hearing the news of my inevitable and immediate deployment, she just started crying. She knew this deployment would be very different from my previous ones, and she deeply feared for my safety.

  My mom, on the other hand, kept saying to me, “You’ll do fine; everything will work out,” the same words of encouragement she had spoken to me thousands of times throughout my life. This time, however, I wanted her to express more. I desperately needed her to comprehend that this deployment would be different from all the others in my career and far beyond the challenge of a simple math test. I was being deployed to the ground of a country with whom we would soon be at war, and I would be in harm’s way. This deployment would be a dangerous and brutal journey with no guarantees. Believing it was also one from which I might never return, I wanted my mother to be aware of all the preparations I had made in the event of my death. More important, I needed her to know how I appreciated everything she had given and sacrificed for me throughout my forty-five years of life and to comprehend fully the deep, profound, and resolute love I felt for her. Nothing else would comfort my soul or provide the sense of peace I craved.

  Despite my daily phone conversations with my mother during the seven days prior to leaving, nothing I said seemed to sink in. She continued to end each call with her famous reassurance. I grew weary of our conversations and frustrated with my inability to communicate my most urgent need and desire.

  By the eve of my deployment, I had become mentally and emotionally exhausted from attending to the myriad details associated with this upcoming deployment that could easily be my final life’s journey. I called Jeryl and began to cry. The reality of my leaving, perhaps for the last time, had finally hit me. Everything was in order except the assurance that would come only with my mother’s understanding of the danger and uncertainty I was facing. I told Jeryl, “I don’t want Mom to tell me for the zillionth time, ‘You’ll be fine; everything will work out.’ I need her to understand where I am going and that I might never come back.” Jeryl responded, “I know, Cheryl. Let me call Mom, and I’ll get back to you.”

  To this day, I have no
idea what Jeryl said to my mother, but later that night when I called her, Mom refrained from offering those same worn-out words I had grown so tired of hearing. Instead, she spoke words I had so longed to hear; words that indicated she finally understood the true gravity of this perilous journey on which I was about to embark. Being able to tell her how much I loved her and believing she now heard me and fully understood gave me the sense of peace I had been seeking. I did not know then, nor would I know for several weeks, that Mom’s inability to comprehend was not a result of either her eternal-optimist personality or denial. Instead, it was a result of progressive dementia.

  That night, after talking with Jeryl and Mom, I continued to experience a quiet sense of calmness and peace. For months, I had planned and prepared for this deployment. Everything—from when and how many tampons I would need to have sent to me, to where I wanted to be buried—had been carefully planned and reviewed with my sister. I had turned down the thermostat and cleaned my home. My neighbors had agreed to watch my property. I had done everything I could do for my sister, who would be the one to take care of any loose ends. My primary concern was not for myself or for my own safety; my worry was for those who might be burdened with my personal affairs if I never returned.

  We were told to be at the hospital at 3 AM on 29 January. I arrived with my two seabags, one of them empty and the other packed tight. We had been given guidelines as to what to take, but I knew that everything I took with me I would need to carry. The empty seabag would be filled with gear that would be issued to us once we arrived at the staging base at Camp Lejeune, North Carolina. Knowing that I would be required to carry both seabags, one on my front and one on my back, I established my priorities and packed the bare minimum: uniforms, clothes, and toiletries. I was depending on my family to help me replenish my supplies of tampons, toothpaste, shampoo, soap, gum, and even jellybeans.

  Approximately eighty of us waited to be loaded onto two buses. The original twenty-six mentioned by the Second FSSG commander only a week earlier had obviously increased. As I would realize later, this was simply the first example of the many times that what we were told the first time around would not always hold true.

  Without fanfare, we began boarding the Bluebird school buses. As I boarded, I was handed my medical and dental records, Geneva Convention card, and two dog tags. I attached one of these dog tags to my seabag, and I laced the other onto my left boot as we were directed to do. I also had the original dog tags that had been issued to me twenty-five years ago when I was in boot camp; those tags I wore proudly around my neck. I thought it ironic that I should wear those same dog tags at both the beginning and the very end of my career.

  I sat on the bus and watched families say their good-byes before boarding, and I wondered what it was like for them. Although I had no family to say good-bye to at the curb, my good friend and colleague Tamara “Tam” Cross Martin, whom I had known since nurse anesthesia school, was there to wish me well. Tam was assigned to Fleet Hospital Five, Portsmouth, and believed she would also soon be deploying to Iraq. I looked forward to the prospect of seeing her in Iraq, yet I also hoped she would not be required to go.

  The four-hour bus ride to the U.S. Marine Corps base at Camp Lejeune was cramped and quiet. All were tired and preoccupied with their own thoughts. I sat with a man named Steve, a family practice physician who was stationed at the Oceana Naval Air Station clinic in Virginia Beach. We were wedged into a bus designed for transporting small children to and from school. The seats were small and uncomfortable and offered very little legroom. Steve’s legs were bent up into his torso, and mine were extended into the aisle. It was impossible to find a position of comfort that would be conducive to napping, so Steve and I talked.

  We soon discovered we had many things in common, including our home state of Pennsylvania. He had a sister who lived in Oley Valley, where I had attended school throughout the twelve years of my primary education. He was wonderful company, and I thoroughly enjoyed our “gabfest” as we made our way south to North Carolina. Little did I know at that time that Steve and I would remain together throughout our Iraqi deployment and would even ride in the same bus seats from our last campsite in Kuwait to the Kuwait International Airport, where we would begin the final leg of our journey home.

  Arriving at the sprawling Marine Corps base around 9 AM, we were directed to a large room where we began filling out paperwork, such as notification of next of kin. Dog tags were also being issued to those who did not already have them. Each person had a total of three tags per person—one to be worn around the neck, one to be worn on a boot, and one to be fastened to the seabag. Our records were reviewed, and we received last-minute immunizations. A lot of downtime was spent completing paperwork, being briefed on an anticipated time line of events, and attending to last-minute details.

  We received our room assignments, and I had the good fortune of being assigned with Lt. Cdr. Kelly James and Lt. Maria Norbeck, two operating room nurses with whom I had previously worked. Our barracks were cockroach infested, and the room was absolutely filthy. The cockroaches remained alive and well despite our attempt to kill them by spraying the room every third morning with Raid. We began to believe the roaches were wearing gas masks!

  Although the barracks room to which we were assigned was less than ideal, I intuitively knew these stateside living conditions were nowhere near as dismal as what we would be facing once we arrived in the desert. I was just thankful to have been assigned with two benevolent, considerate, and optimistic women with whom I would be able to join forces to make it through this first leg of our journey. We quickly became a “battle buddy family,” and their safety and comfort became just as important to me as my own.

  We spent the day after our arrival acquiring our war gear. We literally went through a warehouse with shopping carts, loading each with a sleeping bag, liner, flak jacket, helmet, poncho, field jacket, Alice pack (an olive drab–colored backpack whose name is an acronym for all-purpose lightweight individual carrying equipment), web belt, canteens, and more. We were issued two sets of mission-oriented protective posture (MOPP) clothing and gear, with one gas mask and two gas mask filters. MOPP clothing consisted of a protective hood, battle-dress overgarment, overboots, and butyl rubber gloves. In the event of a chemical attack, this clothing, along with our gas mask, would protect us against nuclear, biological, and chemical contamination on the battlefield, or so we were told. All we could do was hope that the gear’s protection theory was true.

  We were also issued two empty ammunition magazines, pistol-cleaning gear, and holster. We completed a data card containing the serial number of our assigned 9-mm pistol. This card would be used to check out the pistol for the purpose of firing it on the practice shooting range while we waited in Camp Lejeune. Our ammunition and pistol would not be fully issued to us until the morning we departed for Kuwait.

  The impossibility of fitting all the issued gear into the one empty seabag we had brought quickly became apparent. We had no other choice but to discard many personal items from our second seabag in order to make everything fit. Our war gear was our number one priority, for it was also our survival gear.

  Three days after arriving at Camp Lejeune, we watched the television and were stunned by the images of the space shuttle Columbia disintegrating as it made its reentry into the earth’s atmosphere. Here we were, a nation on the brink of war. We had a plan and total faith in the leaders of the United States. We believed we had the power, the ingenuity, and the technology to defeat our enemy. Still, as we watched the lives of those brave astronauts end in a fiery blaze, we began to have doubts. Fear for our own lives and the lives of our shipmates increased. Because I had aspired to be an astronaut throughout my youth and adolescence and had maintained a keen interest in the U.S. space program, the loss of these lives was especially tragic for me.

  During those seventeen days at Camp Lejeune, I spent a lot of time packing and repacking my gear, working out in the gym, attending lectu
res, and practicing shooting my pistol on the range. I also spent hours breaking down that pistol into five parts in an attempt to refine my pistol-cleaning skill. Once we arrived in Kuwait, we would be required to clean our pistol daily, for we knew that the sand and dust of the desert could easily cause our weapons to jam or misfire. Each time I cleaned this weapon, I thought, “Will I truly be able to use this pistol to kill another human being?” It was a question for which I had no firm answer, at least not at that time. When I looked at this pistol, I knew it might be the only thing that would determine whether I would live or die. It had the power not only to take the life of another but also to end my own. Although I did not know whether I could take the life of another, I did know that if I faced the prospect of being captured, I would use my pistol to kill myself before I would become a prisoner of war. I had already made this decision before leaving my home.

  At times, a group of us would get together to practice putting on our gas masks and MOPP gear. We used practice sets of MOPP gear for this exercise because the protective integrity of the gear was good for only a few days once the special seal and wrapping were removed. We soon became proficient, able to don the cumbersome hood, overgarment, boots, gloves, and mask within four minutes.

  I also received intensive instruction specific to the field anesthesia equipment I would be using. Cdr. Mike Harrison, an anesthesiologist assigned to the Second FSSG, took me over to the base’s Naval Hospital, where a replica of the field anesthesia machine and a small portable vaporizer were maintained. I was unfamiliar with this equipment, so Mike showed me how to assemble and disassemble it. Knowing that time was of the essence and could be the determining factor between saving or losing the life of a soldier once we were on the battlefield, I practiced and practiced assembling this equipment, both in light and in darkness. Eventually, I was able to master the equipment’s assembly in slightly more than six minutes.