by K. Sue Roper
It did not take long before a relatively “typical” daily routine was established. I would crawl out of my sleeping bag at 5:30 AM. Carrying my toothbrush, toothpaste, and gas mask, I would find a buddy, and we would head for one of the johns. It would be pitch dark, and our route would be illuminated by nothing more than the red flashlight I wore on my head. Returning to the tent, I would change my clothes, grab my gear, and head to our 6 AM muster. I soon acquired the skill of strategically placing my essentials around my small berthing space so I could dress quickly. I thought I had completely mastered this blind skill of dressing efficiently and expediently in the dark until the day came when I mistakenly donned the underwear of one of my tent mates. We all had a good laugh over that one.
During morning muster, our pistols, magazines, and bullets were inspected to ensure that all items were accounted for. The Plan of the Day was read, and we were informed of various lectures that would be offered from 9 AM until 11 AM, as well as any other special events taking place that day. We were also issued our daily ration of two water bottles and an MRE.
Once dismissed from muster, we headed to the mess tent, where I would consume my meager morning ration of bread and cold coffee. I was adamant in my resolve not to eat those nasty green eggs! Following breakfast, I would meet with the anesthesia providers from the Bravo and Charlie companies, and we would review a variety of anesthesia-specific topics, such as rigging portable handheld ventilators and setting up portable oxygen generators. We would also discuss potential-case scenarios as well as such supply-and-demand issues as providing blood transfusions during mass trauma. Then we would go to the training tent to attend one of the lectures that provided us with detailed information specific to caring for a variety of battle injuries, including thoracic, pelvic, neck, orthopedic, abdominal, and so on. The lectures were excellent, and we acquired critical information in preparation for caring for the wounded, as well as essential survival training that would keep us alive.
Despite the instability of this world, I always made time for physical exercise. Following the morning lecture, and weather permitting, I would run several times around the three-quarter-mile perimeter of our camp. Running while carrying my gas mask was tricky but doable. On the days when fierce winds made running impossible, I would walk the perimeter for a total distance of three miles in full gear or do sit-ups and push-ups in my tent.
Washing our bodies and clothes became a challenge as our water supply quickly began to diminish. After being in camp for a week, we did not have ample water for our three-minute rinse-off shower, so I would use my two bottles of drinking water or some premoistened towelettes to try to wash the sand and dirt from my hair and body. We hand washed all of our clothes as best we could with non-potable water and hung them to dry on the ropes we had strung up inside our tents. Nothing was ever really clean: not our bodies, our clothes, or our belongings.
At noon we took our MREs over to the chow tent where we ate, socialized, and shared stories of home with one another. Then we would return for more classes until the 4 PM muster where, once again, our pistols, magazines, and bullet counts were reported and verified and new information was passed.
We spent our evenings completing domestic chores such as brushing out the sand from our sleeping bags and off of our gear. It was amazing how the sand would get into everything and be everywhere. I used this time to take apart my pistol, thoroughly cleaning it and all the bullets inside the two magazines.
My favorite time of day was our evening mealtime, for it signaled to me that I had but a few more hours before I would have a chance to daydream about home as I fell off to sleep. Daydreaming of home provided comfort and reassured me that this dismal world was only temporary. Each night as I headed back to my tent, I would find myself being thankful for another day without war and so appreciative of the smallest things in life.
Small things were critical to us. What we had once taken for granted at our homes stateside became a very big deal for those of us in this barren, miserable, desert environment. One evening as I was returning from the chow tent, I saw six to eight of my shipmates searching with their red-filtered flashlights for something on the ground. It reminded me of how people would stop, gather round, and search for someone’s lost contact lens. I knew it would be impossible to locate a lost contact lens in the dark among all the sand and gravel, guided only by very dim red-tinted lighting.
Not until I approached this group did I understand that the search was not for a contact lens; instead, they were looking for the cap of a Chapstick tube. I immediately joined the search, as did several others. Petroleum jelly lip balm was important to us, and the loss of the tube’s cap was a very big deal. Without the cap, dirt and sand would quickly cover the end of the tube, causing it to solidify and become useless. No one wanted to see that happen, especially when the sand and dirt of our surroundings was coating and destroying everything else we owned. Eventually, and fortunately, we were able to find the cap. For me, this was just one more example that nothing could be taken for granted and that we were a long, long way from the normalcy of our homes in the United States.
Receiving mail from home was a pure joy. I was blessed with a very supportive family and many friends who wrote letters and sent packages. Some letters were from those friends I had grown to know over the years, and others were from new friends I had never met. My sister had informed those with whom she worked at the Blue Ball National Bank in Blue Ball, Pennsylvania, that I was in Kuwait, preparing to move into Iraq with the marines. I began to receive letters from her coworkers and friends and then from her friends’ friends. I received mail from churches, card groups, and bingo groups. The support was overwhelming, and I cherished every letter, for each one provided me with a constant reminder of how appreciative those back home were of the sacrifice we were making in our effort to safeguard our homeland.
Mail delivery was hit or miss, totally dependent on the supply trucks’ ability to safely traverse the desert from Kuwait City. At times, weeks would pass without mail, and then suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, we would be pleasantly surprised with the receipt of numerous letters and packages. We never knew when or if we would receive mail; we only hoped we would. I felt sad for those who did not receive a package or a letter from home. Those of us fortunate to receive letters and packages readily shared our American treasures with those who received nothing.
Occasionally, we would have movie night. One laptop computer with PowerPoint presentation capabilities was routinely used during our daytime training sessions. This unit was made available to us for recreational use during the evening. A corpsman had brought several DVDs with him, which he readily shared. These movies provided a few hours of diversion, and for those brief moments, I would feel like I was back in the United States. To make this experience even more representative of home, we would save our Lifesavers or Skittle candies from our MRE packets just so we could munch on them while viewing the films. We may not have had popcorn, but we did everything we could to develop our own special comfort zone that resembled some visage of normal American life.
Prior to showing whatever movie was to be the “feature of the day,” the person presenting the movie would project a short film that depicted various landmarks and symbols of the United States accompanied by Lee Greenwood’s musical rendition of “Proud to Be an American.” No matter how often this film was played or how many times we watched it, it always brought tears to our eyes and validated why we were where we were. It would ignite the love and passion we felt for the United States, the American way of life, and for our fellow citizens. It gave us a sense of purpose and true meaning for what we were enduring and what we would be called to do in the future.
Gas mask drills occurred frequently, both during daylight hours and at night. We had no way of knowing whether they were simple drills or the real thing. We took no chances and responded immediately when the alarm sounded. Donning our masks, we ensured that we created a tight seal not only on our own
masks but also on those of our battle buddies. We became so proficient at donning the masks that we could accomplish this task in less than nine seconds. We would continue to wear them for thirty to sixty minutes before receiving word that all was clear.
The weather was totally unpredictable. Sandstorms were inevitable and a constant worry. We were in the middle of the desert, surrounded by nothing more than sand, with little to no protection. We were at the mercy of Mother Nature, and she did not always look on us with favor. Winds were fierce and, as I would soon learn, very capable of creating and instilling total devastation and chaos into our brittle, makeshift desert world.
7
GEARING UP FOR WAR
On Sunday, 23 February, we were called for a briefing to be given by Lt. Gen. James T. Conway, U.S. Marine Corps, commanding general of the 1st MEF. General Conway was scheduled to address all the combat marines and those who were there to support them.
Those assigned to Camp Guadalcanal and others residing in area camps were bused over to a desolate, exposed area in the middle of the desert, where we stood for several hours waiting for the entire group of approximately six thousand to assemble. On the horizon we saw several platoons of U.S Marines marching in ranks, proudly displaying the American flag. Whereas we had the luxury of being bused to this remote area, these fearless combat marines had marched in formation for miles to hear the general speak.
When General Conway arrived, we were in formation within our designated companies and camps, standing at attention and eagerly awaiting to be informed of our destiny. Observing that we were in mixed ranks, the general ordered us to relocate to a different designated area, for he wanted to address the officers separately from the enlisted troops.
More time passed as we reassembled. Finally, General Conway spoke to us about why we were going north, emphasizing that the date, time, and exact place were still unknown. Sensing our apprehension, he told us that fear was a natural feeling, one to be addressed and then let go. He stressed the need to kill the enemy, for in killing the enemy, we would be saving ourselves and our shipmates.
The enemy could be anyone, he explained, man, woman or child, and they would be counting on our American sensibilities of civility and compassion. As Americans, we were naturally vulnerable, willing to offer a helping hand when we perceived a need. As a result, we could easily be seduced by the enemy in the form of children or women holding children who might approach our convoys asking for help. Instinctively viewing them as harmless and in need, we might let down our guard and extend a helping hand. By doing so, we could easily place our lives and the lives of our buddies in great danger, for these harmless-appearing individuals might readily be carrying bombs and explosives designed to destroy us. We were told, in no uncertain terms, to kill anyone who approached our convoy.
General Conway was a warrior. His goal was to push north into Iraq, kill the people who needed to be killed, get to Baghdad, and annihilate the brutality, savagery, and global threat inherent in Saddam Hussein’s dictatorship. This was to be done quickly and efficiently, with minimal loss of life to our American troops. His message was simple: be on your guard at all times and do not hesitate to kill. The enemy could and would take all forms, and we needed to be ready with a steadfast resolve to kill any Iraqi who approached us.
I could not help but wonder, as I did before we arrived here, whether I would be able to fire my pistol and destroy the life of another human being. Killing was a concept that was totally foreign to me and against my nature, both professionally and personally. I thought about my life and the lives of my battle buddies and how we all could easily become one of the wounded or a fatality. Instead of pursuing our mission to provide life-saving medical and surgical care to others, we might also be recipients of this care. We were very much in harm’s way, and this reality ignited feelings and emotions that were so foreign and so painful to me that I simply could not ponder them for long. Instead, I comforted myself with the belief that I would do the right thing when and if I was faced with the awesome, gut-wrenching, and devastating decision to kill another.
Following the briefing, we returned to our life at Camp Guadalcanal, with General Conway’s comments resonating in our heads and in our hearts. Tension within the camp was almost palpable. We had time to reflect on the general’s words and to discuss not only what the months ahead would bring but also how we might react to this unknown, almost unimaginable, future. It stimulated feelings of anger, caution, and uncertainty as to whether we could and would make the right decision at the right time.
That night a gas mask drill was called. When an American drone flew over our area on its way to Iraq, we were reminded that the enemy was watching our every move just as we were watching its.
Few of us were able to sleep that night, tossing and turning in our sleeping bags, haunted by the words of General Conway and thinking about what lay ahead. Although we knew our lives were at risk, this was not our primary concern, for we had deployed willingly to Kuwait and Iraq aware of the danger and harm that could easily be inflicted on us. The source of our restless sleep was the unwanted codicil that was now added to our primary medical support mission.
Our mission, to save the lives of our soldiers, sailors, aircrews, and any and all other war casualties, might require us to destroy lives in order to save lives. It was a simple, rational concept in the face of war and perhaps easily comprehensible for those veterans who had fought valiantly on the battlefields of the past. For those of us who had spent our entire lives mastering the art of healing and caring for others no matter what it entailed, taking the life of another human being was inconceivable. We would need many days and sleepless nights to comprehend this fully. Would it be truly possible to perform patient care with an Ambu bag (a self-inflating bag used to help a patient breathe during resuscitation) in one hand and a pistol in the other?
Making preparations to move north into combat was both an individual and a group labor. I spent hours loading my Alice pack and sorting my gear and personal items so they would fit into one seabag. We had no guarantee that the one allotted seabag would follow us or be delivered to us at our next camp, so the contents of the Alice pack became critical to our survival. It needed to contain all items we believed we would need to live on for approximately three to five days. Making decisions about what to pack in this small knapsack would be an ongoing, painstaking process.
Because we believed we would be at war within a week, our daily training sessions and briefings became more intense and earnest as the days passed. Training sessions emphasized our need to provide advanced trauma life-support measures to the best of our abilities. Our role would be one of damage control: maintaining airway and vital signs, stopping any bleeding, irrigating and packing wounds, and getting the patient transferred as soon as possible.
Our four original companies were consolidated into three companies known as Alpha, Bravo, and Charlie. This realignment was completed for several reasons: not enough logistical support, such as vehicles and generators to move and sustain four companies; some equipment and essential gear that had been shipped was either broken or missing; more Forward Resuscitation Surgical System (FRSS) teams and Shock Trauma Platoons (STPs) were being formed and required personnel; and an additional ten-cot-housing holding company also needed personnel. Fortunately, I continued to remain a member of the Bravo Surgical Company.
Bravo Company had a sixty-bed patient capacity. Twenty of these beds were dedicated to intensive care and surgical recovery. Our company, approximately two hundred personnel, was further divided into platoons: a triage (initial receiving and evaluation area)/evacuation platoon, a surgical platoon, and a holding platoon. My surgical platoon was made up of three operating rooms (ORs), with two operating tables per room. We had six surgeons: two general, one orthopedic, two obstetrics/gynecology (OB/GYN), and one podiatrist. I found it interesting and rather strange that the OB/GYN surgeons and the podiatrist were assigned to a frontline surgical company. Still, my ye
ars in the Navy Nurse Corps had taught me that even though some of us had been designated “specialists” in one field, we were also very much “generalists.” We had the ability to adapt quickly and to serve in roles not necessarily prescribed or totally focused on one particular medical/surgical specialty. We possessed many general medical-surgical skills, were highly versatile, and would competently fill whatever need or demand was required to save the lives of our American troops. The skill of the OB/GYN doctors was converted to serving as first assistants to the general surgeons. They would suture wounds and incisions so the general surgeons could start another procedure.
The experience and clinical skills of the nurses assigned to Bravo Surgical Company varied. We had two experienced intensive care nurses and several young nurses with less than a year of service in the navy. Six of the nurses had experience exclusively in labor and delivery, and several of the lieutenants had been working in clinics prior to being deployed. The few senior nurses in our ranks had not been involved in direct patient care for several years.
As an echelon-two surgical company, we, along with the FRSS teams, would receive casualties immediately after they received basic first aid from echelon-one personnel on the field. Once stabilized at our level, the wounded would be transported to an echelon-three facility, an amphibious ship or a hospital ship, and eventually taken for definitive care at a land-based hospital. The medical administrators assigned to our camp would schedule where the patients were to be taken. Their exact final destination would remain unknown to me.
Our war training continued, and the level of tension within the camp escalated. I prayed every day that I would make the right decision in caring for the wounded, for I steadfastly believed these brave warriors deserved that and more. I thought about the possibility of my own life being destroyed, but my greatest fear was that I might not know enough to help keep some sailor or marine alive. We all shared this fear, and we took our training sessions very seriously.