by K. Sue Roper
Within hours after the ground war began at 9:45 PM (Kuwait time) on 20 March, Alpha Surgical Company began receiving casualties. We could see the choppers clearly as they made their way to Alpha’s field hospital, a mere ten miles from our Camp Guadalcanal location. At one point we even needed to provide a C-46 helicopter pilot with directions to the Alpha site because he had landed at our location thinking we were set up to care for the wounded.
Word of the nature and severity of the wounded quickly filtered into our camp. Alpha’s ORs stayed busy, their personnel trying diligently to repair horrific human damage sustained as a result of multiple gunshots or land mine explosions. The surgical teams were faced with a variety of injuries, ranging from severed aortas and gunshots through the liver to extraction of a small flashlight that had been imbedded into a young marine’s chest by the impact of an explosive. The teams were successful in saving the lives of many, yet some of the troops would be too severely wounded to be saved, and would die.
The medical personnel comprising the Alpha Company worked tirelessly those first hours and days of the war, saving as many lives as was humanly possible. We benefited from their experience, and they readily shared with us the lessons they had learned from the administration of care to these first war casualties. Hypothermia was the greatest challenge they had to manage. Keeping the patients warm and maintaining their internal body temperature were critical for survival.
They also shared with us the slight modification in normal triage procedure they enacted specific to dealing with wounded EPWs. Normal or routine triage procedure calls for all casualties to be indiscriminately evaluated on a first-come, first-evaluated basis. Those who had sustained the most serious life-threatening treatable wounds would receive immediate care, whereas those with less-severe injuries would wait and be treated next. Modification to this procedure consisted of a slight delay in the evaluation and treatment of the EPWs if numerous wounded EPWs and American troops were brought into the triage area at the same time. The American troops were evaluated and treated first; once all our troops were rendered care, then evaluation and care for the EPWs was provided. Because the wounding and killing of our American troops was a direct result of EPW actions, this was not a difficult decision, and we all believed it was rational and justified. The medical team of the Bravo Surgical Company readily adopted this wartime triage standard.
On Tuesday, 24 March, Charlie Company personnel were loaded onto C-53 aircraft for their journey to a location near the oil fields of Al Bashra. The members of Charlie Company would be the first of the surgical companies to move into Iraq and would be stationed immediately behind the frontline of this slow-moving war. Their gear, equipment, and supplies were to be transported to this new location via convoy trucks. I felt a deep personal void and sense of loss when they left our small Camp Guadalcanal encampment. I would miss seeing them and could do little more than pray that they would be safe as they ventured into the hostile, foreign, chaotic country of Iraq.
They were entering into a new kind of hell, one that was filled with fire, black smoke, contaminated air, and heavy fighting. Even from our southern location in Kuwait, the sky took on an orange, glazed appearance layered with black smoke and heavy, oily soot created by the blazing oil fields of Al Bashra. The contamination of the air caused our eyes to water and burn. Some even began to experience respiratory wheezing and congestion. Although we had known we were close to the Iraqi border, seeing this orange-streaked, black-layered sky and experiencing its contaminating effect demonstrated just how close we actually were.
Once Charlie Company departed, we knew we would not be far behind; so we continued to ready ourselves for our imminent departure. The day following Charlie Company’s departure, we were told that our cots would be collected to be placed into the ISO containers. Once again we would return to sleeping in our sleeping bags on the ground. We were told that Bravo Company would be leaving on Thursday, 27 March, giving us a little more than forty-eight hours before we were to board convoy trucks and begin a thirty-hour journey to an area expected to experience heavy and major casualties.
We were instructed to remove all prized and valued personal possessions, such as photos and letters, from the one seabag that would be transported along with us in a separate truck and to repack these possessions in our Alice packs, which would remain with us at all times. This instruction came after the command learned that five of the seven vehicles transporting Charlie Company’s gear, equipment, and personal seabags broke down and needed to be abandoned in transit to Al Bashra. When they returned the following day to retrieve the trucks’ contents, the group found that their seabags, tents, and much of the hospital equipment had been stolen. Those in Charlie Company were now forced to sleep, eat, and live in the open without any kind of shelter from the wind, rain, and cold night temperatures of this barren land. Their ability to provide medical care and support to the injured troops had been compromised, and many of their cherished personal possessions were gone forever.
As instructed, I chose one personal and cherished item to transfer from my seabag into my Alice pack. That item was an angel given to me by my sister. This angel gave me comfort and represented the deep love my sister and I shared for one another. In my helmet I placed one letter I had received from each family member and one from each of my friends. Knowing that we would probably not receive mail for a long time once we entered Iraq, I wanted to have these letters with me to read and reread, for they provided me with comfort and a sense of home.
On Thursday, 27 March, at 6 PM we were notified that instead of leaving Camp Guadalcanal as anticipated, we were ordered to report to the ISO containers to remove one OR and a ward (tents, OR table, cots, supplies, equipment, and so on) and place them on a palette. This equipment was to be airlifted to Camp Viper to augment the equipment and supplies that had been stolen from Charlie Company’s abandoned convoy trucks. This grueling work took more than five hours to complete. We had to be meticulous in our efforts, ensuring that everything was packed, arranged, and distributed evenly and in accordance with the aircraft’s airlift capabilities. At 11 PM we finally completed our task, and we returned to our tents exhausted and craving an opportunity to rest in between the Scud alerts that continued to plague us.
The following morning, no further word was given about our departure time, so I planned to complete a run around the perimeter of the berm following breakfast. These plans were quickly put aside when we were informed at muster that we needed to remove everything we had placed on the palettes the evening before and load it all back into our ISO containers. The word we received was that those in Charlie Company had located their lost equipment and would not need the massive amount of equipment that comprised an OR, a ward, and an ancillary unit. Once again, we began the arduous chore of packing the ISO containers that we would be taking with us when we moved into Iraq.
Just as we were completing this six-hour, backbreaking task, several trucks arrived with orders to load and transport one OR, one ward, and an ancillary unit for use by Charlie Company, now located at Camp Viper. We were all very frustrated with this mess we were experiencing and quickly labeled it a “cluster fuck.” None of us had ever seen this degree of miscommunication that required so much strenuous work, only for it to end up being meaningless. Still, we overcame our bitter feelings of frustration, anger, and exhaustion and moved into action, unloading and reloading containers that would send much of our own company’s essential surgical and medical equipment to Camp Viper.
We had packed, unpacked, and repacked the hospital equipment three times in less than forty-eight hours. Although it was a frustrating and maddening endeavor, it also brought the personnel of Bravo Company closer together, and we grew as a team, developing respect for and awareness of our individual capabilities and the various levels of expertise we possessed outside the medical/surgical arena. We now knew who was capable of lifting the heavier items, who had spatial acumen and could direct the placement of the various
items into the ISO containers so they could be unloaded in a logical and efficient manner, and who had what level of endurance. Although we did not realize it at the time, having to perform this loading, unloading, loading, unloading “cluster” evolution would serve us well once we journeyed into Iraq.
The theft of convoy contents and the relentless threat of Scud missiles were not our only concern. Within days of the start of the war, we received security briefings and reports that the enemy was stealing American military uniforms with the intent to infiltrate our bases and that Iraqi soldiers were posing as civilians. We countered this threat by devising strategies to help us readily identify our enemy.
Each day we were given three different security passwords. At any time, those three passwords could be asked of us, and if an individual did not say those precise words, that person was immediately considered a threat. We were instructed to yell to the potential enemy with our hand palm out and our arm extended in front (similar to the motion a traffic cop would use to stop traffic) to “halt” or “stop.” If the individual refused to stop approaching us, we were to use our pistol to shoot to kill. We were also briefed on the various tattoos that many Iraqi guerrilla forces sported to indicate their loyalty to Saddam or their membership in the Republican Guard, Baath Party, fedayeen, or other hostile enemy group.
Most important, we were to be ever vigilant and cognizant of who was in the camp, whether everyone looked familiar, and whether anyone was acting suspicious in anyway. This vigilance was especially critical because we continued to have civilians coming into the camp to deliver food. It was impossible to know whether one of these civilians was possibly an enemy spy, so we were told not to talk when we went to the food-serving tent to get our food. The basic motto we lived by was “Trust no one you do not know.”
Suicide bombers were everywhere, ramming the gates of our camps and our security checkpoints and readily destroying our convoys. Americans were being maimed and destroyed by enemy soldiers posing as U.S. military personnel or as helpless civilians. We were all vulnerable to these subversive, covert attacks. I had once questioned my resolve to take the life of another and had found it a concept too overwhelming and too far-fetched to even contemplate. I had consciously chosen not to think about it or to process it when General Conway spoke to us less than a month prior.
Over time, however, as I began to truly realize the realities of this war and the tactics being used by the Iraqi soldiers, my anger toward them grew stronger and would soon turn to hate. This harsh, deep-seated feeling, combined with fear for myself and others and my determination to survive, would eventually allow me to have no doubt. Should I become threatened or if the life of one of my battle buddies should become jeopardized, I knew with certainty that I could and would kill the enemy without reservation.
Jeryl and I dressed alike as “twins.”
Photo taken of me just prior to entering nursing school.
My cousin Kathy and I, 1996.
Left to right, Capt. Gordon Cornell, Lt. Cdr. Cheryl Ruff, and Lt. Cdr. Shirley Cornell.
Lt. Cdr. Cheryl L. Ruff, U.S. Navy Nurse Corps.
Relaxing at “home” in Camp Guadalcanal, Kuwait, February 2003.
Dressed in full gear that weighed sixty pounds.
Taking a break at “home” outside OR number two, Camp Anderson, Iraq.
View from the bed of our seven-ton truck during convoy ride to Camp Chesty.
“Home sweet home” in Camp Chesty, Iraq.
With Lt. Cdr. Necia Williams, Camp Chesty, Iraq; we finally got a chance to wash our hair.
Bravo Surgical Company bids farewell to CNN photographer “Mad Dog” and medical reporter Dr. Sanjay Gupta.
Working with Lt. Cdr. Dave Sheppard in OR number two, Camp Chesty, Iraq.
Reunited with friend Cdr. Vanessa Noggle at Camp Okinawa, Kuwait.
Reunited with my sister, Jeryl, at home in Portsmouth, Virginia.
1. Camp Hasty, Diwaniyah. Arrived 2 April 2003.
2. Camp Anderson, about twenty miles west of Diwaniyah. Arrived 3 April 2003.
3. Camp Chesty, about forty miles north of Camp Anderson and about seventy miles south of Baghdad. Arrived 7 April 2003.
4. Camp Geiger, on the outskirts of Al Kut. Arrived 25 April 2003.
13
MOVING NORTH INTO IRAQ
After waiting what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was a total of forty-three days, we were informed on Saturday, 29 March, that we would move north into Iraq on Monday, 31 March. Our destination would be Camp Anderson, an area twenty miles west of Al Diwaniyah and about one hundred miles from Baghdad. Heavy fighting was expected in this area because the new moon would occur 1 April, creating ideal conditions for our American troops to fight. We were told that we would fly there and meet up with our equipment and that we would then need to hit the ground running, immediately setting up our makeshift trauma center to be ready to receive incoming casualties. Because one of our ORs, a ward, and an ancillary unit had been detailed to Camp Viper, we were to meet up with two FRSS units that would augment Camp Anderson with their two ORs and a few surgeons and ICU personnel. The combination of the FRSS surgical teams and the Bravo Surgical Company would provide greater surgical operating capabilities in this area in the event the casualties were as numerous as anticipated.
Our equipment and gear, packed in the ISO containers, were loaded onto trucks and began their northward journey via convoy. We could not help but wonder whether we would ever see our precious medical/surgical equipment, supplies, gear, and one personal seabag again or whether this cargo would suffer the same fate of being abandoned and stolen en route as Charlie Company’s was. A few Bravo Company personnel accompanied the ISO container convoy. These personnel included the executive officer, the chief nurse, and some administrative enlisted. They were to arrive early in Camp Anderson to survey the terrain and plan the logistical setup and placement of the various tents (triage, ORs, and ICU) that made up our mobile surgical hospital. We would need to set up quickly once we all arrived at this camp, so advanced logistical planning was critical.
On Sunday we attended Protestant worship service and then what we thought would be our final briefing at Camp Guadalcanal. During this time we were divided into “stix” for the purpose of being loaded onto the transport helicopters (CH-53). Stix were alphabetical groupings of twenty to twenty-four individuals. Each stix was then given a number, and we would board the choppers when our stix number was called. I was in stix number six.
That evening we enjoyed our “last supper” in Kuwait. We talked, we joked, we laughed, and we offered spirited words of encouragement to one another. Our spirits were high, for we were all looking forward to moving on and out of Kuwait. Our thinking remained the same as always; we believed the sooner we started, the sooner the mission could be completed and the sooner we would return to our homes in the United States.
I retired early that night, expecting to rise at 4 AM to pack the last few items in preparation for boarding the choppers. I wrote a letter to my sister and completed my daily journal entry. I was so sure we would be going north that, after I finished writing about the day’s events, I wrote “IRAQ” across the page in my journal in preparation for the next day’s entry. I had no idea what I would be writing about, but I fully expected that the next time I opened my journal I would be in Iraq.
The following day I found myself using my pen to scratch through the “IRAQ” heading I had previously written in my journal. We were not going anywhere on 31 March because we “did not have a security force in place”; at least that is what we were told at muster. Whatever the reason, we were to remain in Kuwait at least one more day. We were placed on “holiday routine,” but our mood was anything but festive. We were angry and frustrated, and we used the day to exercise, wash a few clothes, and place bets as to when we might actually leave. We all felt as though we were the recipients of a premature April Fool’s joke and hoped the same would not result once 1 April actually arriv
ed.
Reveille was sounded at four o’clock the following morning. We donned our MOPP gear, packed all last-minute items surrounding our berthing spaces, and hoisted our fully loaded Alice packs, along with our sleeping bags, onto our backs. Our canteens, pistols, ammunition, and gas masks were strapped onto our bodies. Loaded with at least sixty pounds of gear, we reported to our 5 AM muster fully expecting to immediately board a transport helicopter that would take us into Iraq.
We arranged ourselves into our assigned stix during muster. As the sun began to rise, so did the stifling temperature, and we soon found ourselves standing in the barren desert sand totally exposed to the hot, oppressive sun and blazing heat. One hour passed, followed by another, and another, and another. We neither saw helicopters anywhere nor heard the familiar whomp-whomp sound of the choppers’ rotary blades. There was no shade or shelter available to us, and the MOPP clothing, combined with the heavy Alice pack and gear we wore, intensified our internal body heat. We were all miserable, sweating profusely, and as our bodies began to feel as though they were reaching their boiling points, so followed our temperaments. We were tired, frustrated, and growing increasingly impatient with this stagnant, miserable situation of wait, wait, wait, and wait some more.
No one knew precisely when our transportation would arrive. The choppers could arrive in a matter of minutes or in several hours. As a result, when we needed to go to the job johnnies to relieve ourselves, we first needed to ask our stix leader permission to do so. It was reminiscent of grade school and slightly humiliating to go up to the stix leader and say, “Chief, can I go pee?” Still, we also understood the importance of the leader knowing our whereabouts at all times in the event the choppers were sighted.