by K. Sue Roper
In addition to the general training sessions offered throughout the day, the anesthesia staff of both the Bravo and Charlie companies would meet daily to discuss concerns and to review case scenarios. We called ourselves the “Kuwait/United Navy Anesthesia Society.” We were a highly spirited, knowledgeable, and cohesive group, determined to share any and all information that might help save the lives of those in our care.
More and more gear and equipment arrived each day. Plastic-backed chairs for the chow hall/mess tent were delivered, and I was finally issued a cot on which to sleep. I greatly appreciated these improved accommodations, but, more important, I was pleased that our OR and anesthesia equipment had also arrived. Discussions during the daily sessions of our newly formed Kuwait/United Navy Anesthesia Society were spent sharing information about the OR setup and exploring ideas and options for acquiring extra electrocardiogram cables, oxygen tanks, and various perishable items that would help us save lives. We found ourselves hoarding supplies of all kinds and living like scavengers.
We had an opportunity to erect our surgical tent, an arduous task that took about an hour to complete. Unlike the tents used by the fleet hospital units, our tent had no air-conditioning or heating system. This simple structure featured little more than a sand floor and minimal lighting. We spent hours arranging and rearranging surgical and anesthesia equipment so that this rustic “surgical suite” would be efficient, functional, and a lifesaver for those who were entrusted to our care. We even positioned the OR tables so they were head to head, allowing one anesthesia provider to administer anesthesia to two patients simultaneously.
We could accommodate only about sixty patients with our supply of such perishable items as surgical sponges, needles, syringes, and endotracheal tubes. We knew we would need to recycle these items to the best of our ability to have the necessary supplies available for all the wounded we anticipated. The blood from surgical sponges would be squeezed out and reused on the same patient. Needles to withdraw medications from ampules and vials, syringes, endotracheal tubes, and the breathing circuit for our anesthesia machines would be rinsed with 5 percent hypochlorite bleach (diluted) and reused. We hoped these measures would ensure that we had the supplies we needed to provide lifesaving care to our wounded troops.
We also tried to come to grips with our obligations under the Geneva Convention. According to that agreement, we were obligated to render care to all enemy prisoners of war (EPWs). Because we were limited in supplies, personnel, and general facilities, the prospect of this obligation became a real and difficult ethical issue. I prayed every day that I would find the strength to make the best decision and to do what was right.
8
A BATTLE WITH MOTHER NATURE
Although we continued to focus our efforts primarily on preparing ourselves mentally, physically, and emotionally to move north into enemy territory, we also kept a vigilant eye on the weather. I had never been anywhere in my life where the weather was so unpredictable, extreme, and relentless. It was not unusual to experience a 20- to30-degree drop in temperature in less than an hour, or for the winds to be calm one moment and racing at forty miles per hour thirty minutes later. Dense fog frequently shrouded our camp in the early morning hours, and heavy rain showers would occur with little warning. One time we even experienced a hailstorm.
On 6 March, the day began with cloudy skies and frequent downpours of rain. The wind slowly increased throughout the day but did not deter us from our routine of musters and training sessions and the general activities of daily living. We had been informed that our Kuwaiti food providers had brought ice cream as a special treat for our evening meal. Hearing this exciting and enticing news, most of the camp personnel made a mad dash to the chow line, for this was one treat few of us had savored in several weeks, and we doubted we would have the chance again for many months to come.
Departing the chow tent at 6:30 PM, we all noticed that it was unusually dark and the wind speed had increased significantly. As we tried to walk back from the mess tent, the wind was blowing so hard we could not hold our heads upright. We swallowed and breathed in large quantities of dry, brown grit with every step, and the sand felt like glass as it battered our skin and clothing. Although we had flashlights and were wearing goggles, we could not see a thing. We were totally blind and managed to find our way to our berthing tents only by counting the number of tents we passed between the mess tent and the berthing tent we called home.
The wind was soon blowing at a sustained rate well over fifty miles per hour. We could hear the sounds of canvas ripping as the wind pummeled our tents. We immediately declared war on these elements that seemed determined to destroy the meager home and all semblance of comfort we had created in this dismal and godforsaken land. Our battle with Mother Nature had begun.
The center poles supporting the roof of our berthing tent began to disengage from their holders, and the top and side seams began to separate. The electric wires and lightbulbs swayed violently. We all ran for a section of the tent to hold, pull, or anchor. We grabbed flaps, siding, poles, and ropes and blindly fought this battle of survival. This was our home, and we would not let it be destroyed without a fierce fight.
We fought for hours, some holding flashlights in an attempt to illuminate our efforts while others pulled, tugged, and even tried to sew the seams closed by threading cord through the canvas. We were fierce warriors, steadfast in our resolve to save this home of ours. Some were inside the tent’s enclosure, propping up poles and fixtures, while others were outside pounding stakes and tightening ropes and tethers.
Unfortunately, Mother Nature proved to be a tenacious and unrelenting opponent. The winds continued to wreak havoc on our humble abode, and as the tent’s seams split further apart and the frame began to collapse, safety became the main issue. We needed to get out, let go, and move away. Several of our battle buddies nearby came to help us retrieve whatever basic essentials we could locate inside this collapsing structure. We hurriedly grabbed items, threw them into a sack, and ran from beneath the toppling canvas roof just in time to witness our home crumble to the ground. This simple, modest oasis we had created, where we could relax, dream, and find some scant measure of comfort, had become nothing more than a heap of canvas in the sand. We all felt tired, frustrated, and angry. We had lost the battle.
During the course of that eventful and memorable night, the camp lost two primary berthing tents to the daunting and brutal winds of this merciless desert land. Both the junior enlisted male tent and our female officers’ tent were demolished.
Carrying my sleeping bag and a small bag of rescued personal items, I left the battlefield and went in search of an alternate berthing space. I felt defeated and extremely tired, and my muscles ached from the battle we had so diligently fought. I was filthy, with every inch of my body covered in sweat and caked with sand. Personal hygiene was not a concern, however. All I wanted and needed was a place, any place, to lie down and rest.
Eventually, I located a spot to spread my sleeping bag within the senior male officers’ tent. Some of us had made our way to this dwelling, while others sought refuge in the female enlisted tent. The male occupants of our new temporary home graciously accommodated us even though doing so meant we would all be packed in like sardines. We were disrupting their world and whatever little comfort they had been able to achieve. Still, they welcomed us, and we were grateful. Respect and consideration for our gender differences and need for privacy was not a big issue. It was really a simple matter; when we females needed a private moment, the men simply turned their heads, and we, in turn, provided them with the same act of respect and courtesy.
The wind continued to whip violently throughout the night, and few of us were able to sleep. We frequently needed to venture outside our canvas shelters to retighten ropes, hammer stakes, and move sandbags in an attempt to keep the tent in which we had sought refuge from collapsing. During the brief moments I was able to lie down, I wondered what the morning woul
d bring, how much damage had occurred, and what, if any, of our personal gear we would be able to find.
I felt very vulnerable and small that night. Just as I had started to feel more confident, strong, and ready to move forward into the bloody battlefield of a human war, Mother Nature suddenly came along and slammed me back into reality. Our battle against the elements had reminded me that although we were prepared and could plan, predict, and to some extent even control our future engagements with our human enemies, we had little power over Mother Nature. Her force, timing, and temperament were totally unpredictable, and she had proved herself to be a formidable opponent. That night she was the true victor of a fierce, mighty battle, and I felt humbled.
By morning, the winds had subsided to approximately fifteen miles per hour. During muster, a head count revealed we were all safe and accounted for, and we were provided an opportunity to share our feelings of fear, anger, and loss. We needed to find the positive in what had become a negative situation, something we would struggle to do many more times in the weeks and months ahead.
Despite the havoc we had endured at the hand of Mother Nature, the positive aspects of this seemingly catastrophic event began to surface. Had this vicious storm started in the middle of the night while we were sleeping, many of us might have become trapped beneath the frames and canvas of our tents, possibly sustaining serious injuries from falling poles and light fixtures. We could also have lost more structures than just the two berthing tents. We could have lost everything, leaving us exposed and totally unprotected in this relentless environment. Our periodic moments of grief over our loss were replaced by feelings of thankfulness, and we even started to believe that we had been blessed because not everything had been destroyed. We had saved a few items and would salvage some more; the most important thing was that we were all safe. We also had shelter, and I knew I would be assigned another berthing space that I would once again call home. Our tent may have been destroyed, but our sense of hope and our drive to move forward were very much intact.
In the light of day, we found it hard to believe that the heap of torn canvas and broken poles lying on the ground in a filthy mixture of gravel and dirt had once been a place in which we lived. Seeing it in such a shattered state and remembering the quiet comfort it had provided us was a heartbreaking experience. Despite the tragic sight it posed for us, however, we knew we had no time for tears. We had work to do and could ill afford wasting time or energy wallowing in self-pity.
We joined forces and worked together with one single-minded mission: to recover anything that would assist us in rebuilding our lives. We crawled underneath the dark, suffocating, heavy canvas and gathered and salvaged everything we could find. The task was backbreaking and dirty. We guided and supported one another in an effort to extract our most cherished and essential possessions from the bowels of this heap of rubble. Whatever trivial and petty disagreements we may have had with one another in the past were set aside. We worked together as a team, refusing to give up, and we became more positive as we set about accomplishing this task.
We successfully retrieved all of our war and survival gear and most of our personal items. This achievement was the morale booster we needed. Although we had lost this one lone battle with Mother Nature, we definitely had not lost the war! In many ways we felt invigorated, not only because we survived the battle but also because we had become stronger, more focused, and more confident in our own abilities and those of each other. We had moved beyond simply being individual survivors that day; we had become a team of warriors with an unflinching resolve to fight and destroy the enemy in whatever form it might present itself.
A comprehensive inspection of all the camp’s facilities revealed additional damage to our desert canvas world. Several tents had sustained split seams, gaping holes, dislodged stakes, broken rope tethers, and bent framing; debris was strewn everywhere. It would take several days to clean up and repair the damage caused by the windstorm.
Using our small utility knives, we cut canvas from the wreckage of the fallen tents and used the green rope we each carried to sew crude canvas patches together. We sewed seams and patched torn holes. We straightened framing and secured it with additional salvaged rope, stakes, and sandbags. We fixed what we could, and our world began to return to some semblance of normalcy. We again proved to ourselves after several days of hard work that although our ability to work as a team was being tested, we were passing that test with flying colors. It was now time to settle back in and concentrate our efforts once again on preparing for our primary mission—saving the lives of our American troops.
9
SETTLING BACK IN
Because several living quarters had been destroyed or damaged, new berthing accommodations were quickly arranged. My new home was a small tent that was originally designated as Bravo Company’s chapel. Too small in which to hold Sunday worship services (both Protestant and Catholic services were held in a much larger tent located in Charlie Company territory), this tent served as a private sanctuary for use by our chaplain, Lt. Laura Bender (also known as “Chaps”), in which to hold spiritual counseling sessions.
The chapel was converted slightly and would now serve double duty as a sanctuary for private counseling sessions during the day and a home for four of us to sleep in during the night. I claimed a corner of this small dwelling, stowed my salvaged gear, including my highly prized box chair, and placed my sleeping bag on the floor. I even took time to rest my aching back, for the strain and turmoil of the previous night had taken its toll on me. I felt every single day of my forty-five years of life.
That first evening in my new home, I sat with my new roommates listening to the comforting sounds of smooth jazz. One of them had brought several music compact disks and a player with her. While the chaplain concentrated on her cross-stitch work, the rest of us read, relaxed, and simply enjoyed a quiet sense of peace that resonated within our souls. It was the most enjoyable evening I had spent in the eighteen days since arriving at Camp Guadalcanal.
We were given one day to rest, recuperate, and reenergize before returning to our rigorous daily schedule. The Protestant worship service held that Sunday, 9 March, featured a sermon titled “Weathering the Storm,” a topic we all found to be very appropriate and extremely meaningful, considering our most recent ordeal.
Throughout the next few weeks, our training continued and became even more intense. We spent several days setting up and taking down our surgical hospital tents. It was an exhausting task. The bundled tents were heavy, requiring four to six people to lift and carry them. We all participated in this endeavor, frequently rotating our positions so that each of us knew the precise sequence of tasks from various angles and positions that were required to erect the tents.
We had no assigned stations, division of labor, or assignment of task based on military rank or profession. We simply worked shoulder to shoulder. Although we may have held titles and labels that designated us as enlisted or officer personnel, surgeons, nurses, technicians, and corpsmen, we were simply able-bodied people working together in this endeavor to accomplish a single goal. Egos, status, and military rank were set aside and deemed insignificant. No job was considered too menial, for every task was critical and needed to be performed accurately and precisely in order to raise the tents that would enable us to care for the wounded. We became experts at spreading the canvas, aligning and connecting the framing, fastening ropes, and pounding stakes into the ground. Our proficiency in accomplishing these feats significantly improved with each subsequent practice.
Following the merciless windstorm we had endured, we all held Mother Nature in high regard and knew we needed to be prepared for anything. We practiced setting up the tents in calm weather and in windy conditions, during daylight and at night, and during the cold morning hours and during the smoldering, blistering heat of midday. We were determined to be prepared both for our human enemy and for the wrath of Mother Nature.
Mass-casualty drills, simu
lating the process of providing care for and moving patients from triage to the OR, the recovery area, the ICU, the postoperative ward, and, finally, the evacuation unit were held frequently. Each unit would be directed to “put up your tent,” and everyone would move into action. After setting up the various tents for the triage area, the ORs, the ICU, and the ward, we would survey our surroundings and discuss the intricacies and basic logistics of our operation. We discussed where supplies would be stored; where to place OR tables, equipment, beds, and lighting; and how to communicate with one another most effectively while the patient was processed through each of these areas. Once everything was in place, we would then walk a mock patient through the system, beginning with that person’s arrival in the helicopter or ambulance, through triage, into the OR, and then to the ICU or ward.
We were guided in our efforts by Cdr. Mark Fontana, a general surgeon, who was responsible for making all final medical decisions for the Bravo Surgical Company. After every drill, we would meet as a team to discuss such issues and concerns as limited supplies, wartime criteria for providing blood transfusions, availability of pharmaceutical medications, the need for X-rays, and even the way to handle a death that might occur in one of the various units of our battlefield hospital. We were steadfast in our resolve to provide our wounded with the best care possible, and we tried to prepare for every contingency.
Our morning muster time was changed from 6 AM to 8:15 AM, allowing us additional time to sleep, the weather conditions and the frequency of gas mask drills permitting. During muster, we would receive information and plans about our impending forward movement north, only to discover that the plans would change almost as frequently as the weather. We often joked about these “plans” and considered them to be “etched in Jell-O”—solid and firm one moment, only to become shaky and turning into liquid by the end of the day.