Ruff's War

by K. Sue Roper

  We could not advance, and we could not go back. All we could do was sit and wonder whether the truck in which we were riding would be the next to be attacked. We were in the middle of a battlefield and had no place to go. We were sitting targets. The walls of the truck, the M-16 rifles carried by the small contingent of marines riding with us, and our own small-caliber pistols were our only protection. Some of the marines had jumped off the trucks and lay prone on the road’s embankment with their rifles aimed and ready to fire at anyone approaching the convoy. Cobra and Apache helicopters flew over our heads searching for any movement of enemy troops advancing toward us.

  We sat, and we sat, and we sat. We had no water or food. Our Alice packs and canteens were stowed in the trailer being pulled behind the truck. To access them would require leaving the truck and exposing ourselves to enemy fire. Attired in full MOPP gear with helmets on, we were stifling hot and sweating profusely. Our butts were numb from sitting on the metal seats, and our backs were aching from the prolonged cramped sitting position in which we were forced to remain. Any attempt to stand up in the truck would do little more than cause a bulge in the canvas roof and form a ready target for enemy fire. Answering the “call of nature” was not a concern. We were too dehydrated, and what little fluid we had left in our systems was being rapidly excreted in the form of sweat. There were many moments when I thought that being killed would be less painful than continuing to endure the misery of sitting in that truck.

  As if he were reading my mind, Dave turned to me and said, “Cheryl, do you have anything you need to say to anybody?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “Have you said everything you wanted to say to everyone you ever wanted to say it to?” he clarified.

  I thought for a moment and said, “Yeah, I have.”

  “Good,” he responded. “Because we might die tonight, do you know that?” Pausing briefly, he then asked, “Did you have a good life?”

  It took but a moment to respond. I looked at him, smiled, and said, “You know what, Dave? I did have a good life.” I felt those words resonate deep within my soul. They spoke a truth that reflected the very essence of my being, and I was enveloped in a sense of peace.

  As I thought about the question Dave asked me, I realized it was similar to what I had asked Kathy just before she died. I had no idea when I asked her that question sixteen months earlier that it would also be posed to me while I sat in a convoy truck somewhere in Iraq. It was eerie.

  Dave and I continued talking about our lives and the real possibility that, at the age of forty-five, our lives could quickly end with a single shot from a sniper’s rifle. It could happen in the next minute or in the next hour; we just did not know. Our conversation was not a morbid one, and talking openly about our own deaths did not cause us pain or fear.

  As we sat listening to the sound of nearby mortar and rifle fire, both fully aware that we were in the midst of battle, we talked and reflected on the course of our lives. Had I done everything in my life that I wanted to do? Had I said everything I wanted to say to others? Had I made good decisions and tried to do the right thing? Could I die now and have no regrets? Yes, yes, yes, and yes!

  These insights and revelations gave me a keen sense of power and control. I may have been in a very vulnerable, life-threatening situation, but I did not feel vulnerable, and I was not afraid for my own life. My concern continued to be for those who would survive me: my sister, my mother, my family, and my friends. Still, I was comforted knowing that I had done everything I could to make it as easy as possible for those who would be required to settle my affairs.

  Reveling in that peaceful feeling, I began to daydream. Beautiful, serene, and simple images appeared in my mind’s eye with acute clarity. Without even thinking, I said, “God, I would love a piece of cold watermelon right now.”

  Ken Singleton smiled at me as he said, “When my wife and I were on our honeymoon, we had this wonderful sherbet made from fresh pineapple. It was so cold and delicious.”

  As he continued to describe this delectable treat, I could see it as clearly as if it was right in front of me, and I could even feel the coolness radiating from it. There it was, nestled in a stainless steel cup that was beaded with condensation. I could even see the gentle wisp of cool vapor rising from its domed surface. I had never experienced anything like this before; it was so surreal, and yet at the same time it was very, very real!

  It seemed Ken, Dave, and I were all seeing this same delicious, cool, incredible image floating right before us, just out of reach. Our mouths were watering, and we were all licking our lips, wanting so badly to taste the cold, wet, sweet essence of this cup of pineapple sherbet.

  Tearing our eyes away from this delightful shared aberration, we looked at one another. With our mouths twisted and our faces askew, trying to control the drool and salvia that had been produced by this image, we looked so comical that all three of us burst out laughing. God, it felt so good to laugh and to feel such a refreshing sense of joy. It was probably even better and more satisfying than savoring the cold, sweet taste of the sherbet that had been there one moment and was gone the next.

  Those traveling in the truck with us had little appreciation of what Dave, Ken, and I had experienced. The sound of our hearty, uncontrollable laughter was met with groans, mumbles, curses, and comments to “shut up.” Our traveling companions were scared and could find very little humor in the situation that surrounded us. To them, we may have appeared to be insane or were just being silly, making light of our precarious, volatile, and potentially deadly situation. We did everything we could to stifle our laughter, for we respected them and did not want to be just another irritant in the cramped, uncomfortable space in which we were confined.

  The convoy remained stationary for a total of five long, miserable hours. Gradually the sounds of gunfire subsided and then stopped completely. It was close to 10:30 PM when the truck engines were started and the tires began to roll slowly forward. It was pitch-black outside, and we could see very little as we continued our slow, monotonous progression north. Three more hours would elapse before we finally arrived safely at Camp Chesty, where we were cordially greeted with the directive to “sleep wherever you can find a spot.”

  19

  CAMP CHESTY

  Although our welcome to Camp Chesty was terse, indifferent, and somewhat insensitive, we took no offense. We were in a war zone and were too exhausted, dehydrated, and physically and emotionally spent to take much notice. All we wanted was to get out of those damn trucks, retrieve our gear from the trailers, drink voraciously from whatever water source we could access, and find that “spot” where we could lay down and sleep. We did not need to be directed to the “bathroom facilities.” We still had no urge to relieve ourselves. I would go a total of twelve full hours before experiencing the urge or need to urinate.

  Some of my battle buddies chose to find their sleeping spot in or on the trucks. I chose a spot on the ground in between two of the seven-ton trucks. I wedged myself alongside one of the truck’s tires and lay down in full gear with my helmet on. Once again, my pistol, ready to fire, was within easy reach at my side.

  We started the morning of 7 April at 5:30. I realized as I was getting up off the ground from my sleeping spot that I had had barely six hours of sleep during the last forty-eight hours. We were all tired. Our bodies were stiff and sore from sitting so many interminable hours in the trucks and from sleeping on the cold ground. The brief three hours of sleep we were able to get since arriving at Camp Chesty had provided little relief to our weary bodies.

  Camp Chesty, named in honor of Gen. Lewis B. “Chesty” Puller of the U.S. Marines, incorporated a very large area of land approximately seventy miles south of Baghdad. It included an airstrip, and unlike the simple road on which we had landed when we first arrived in Iraq, this runway was actually built for the takeoff and landing of aircraft. The U.S.–led coalition ground forces had taken this area over from the Iraq
is and secured it for use by our military. The runway even had some hardened fixed hangars on both ends of the strip that had once served as shelter for Iraqi aircraft. These were now being used to house and protect American aircraft from the unrelenting wind, blowing sand, and extreme heat.

  We had been deposited on the extreme outer edge within this city-sized camp the night of our arrival, so we were instructed to reload our gear and ourselves back onto the trucks so we could move to a better area inside the camp. The area designated for use by the Bravo Surgical Company was still several more miles within the camp’s perimeter.

  As we rode through Camp Chesty, we could see that numerous other units, commands, companies, battalions, platoons, and military groups were set up. Instead of being the only military company (and totally isolated, at that), as had been the case at Camps Hasty and Anderson, we would share this camp. Our new neighbors were Seabees, transportation and supply companies, a marine air wing, engineer support battalions, and many other army, navy, marine, and air force military support groups, including several of our medical STPs and a few FRSS units.

  All of the various subcamps flew flags designating their company, platoon, unit, or battalion. Soldiers, sailors, marines, and air force personnel were milling about as they prepared to start their day. Camp Chesty was the largest supply depot in the northernmost section of central Iraq and would provide supplies to the frontline troops. In this same compound, but separated from other areas by a ten-foot-high sand berm, was the home of seven thousand Camp Lejeune–based marines of Task Force Tarawa.

  After arriving at our designated area within this tent city, we jumped down from the trucks and immediately began setting up the tents and facilities of our surgical support company. In addition to erecting our triage unit, ORs, ICU, and ward, we would set up berthing tents so we would no longer need to sleep out in the open, shielded by nothing more than black skies and twinkling stars. We had arrived at the place that would serve as our home until we were once again ordered to move on.

  Battling the strong winds that only increased as the day worn on, we pushed and we pulled, dislodging, lifting, and carrying the heavy items stored within the ISO containers. The wind pummeled the canvas of our tents, and we struggled to raise and secure them onto their dirt-and-grit foundations. This brutal and strenuous labor continued to wreak havoc on our tired, battered bodies. A light rain began to fall in the afternoon, causing brown streaks to appear on us as the water flowed down our dirt-encrusted faces and arms.

  Once the tents were set up, the equipment and supplies were secured, and the ISO containers were emptied, we received our berthing assignments. Fortunately, one of the FRSS units was set up and ready. That unit would be responsible for performing any surgical procedures on casualties arriving during the night; we had been temporarily relieved of our surgical duties. All we needed to do was locate our assigned berthing area and prepare for what we longed for most, a good night’s sleep that would repair and mend our exhausted bodies, rest our minds, and fortify our souls.

  Berthing assignments for the female officers were made according to work groups so that only those who were required to assist at a surgical procedure or care for an incoming wounded casualty would be awakened. I was assigned with nine others to an old general-purpose tent that was a wobbly, rectangular canvas shell erected on a dirt floor. Constructed of heavy canvas, this tent would tilt precariously on its fragile pole framing and cave in completely when the wind blew too hard. Improving its stability required many hours of work filling sandbags, placing them two to three layers high around the tent’s base, and pounding more stakes into the ground.

  The tent’s interior was dark and dank, and the only ventilation was whatever air seeped in through the flaps covering the two small openings that served as its doors. There were no windows. Rolling up an entire side of the tent was the only means by which we could improve ventilation and get more air inside. We quickly realized that raising the sides of the tent was not a reasonable or smart thing to do because it would allow the wind to deliver more dirt inside and invite scorpions to set up residence in our boots or in our sleeping bags. We had no electricity when we first arrived, and once the sun set, we were totally dependent on our flashlights when inside the tent. By contrast, when the moon was out, it was so bright outside that flashlights were not needed.

  I claimed a sleeping area at the side of the tent next to one of the entryways. From my sleeping bag, I could look out of the tent and see the helicopters land. When they landed, I would get up to check to see whether they were bringing in wounded or picking them up to transport them to EMFs. If they were bringing them in, I would immediately head over to the OR and begin preparing for the administration of anesthesia.

  Water, a scarce commodity, was strictly rationed. A water buffalo, or “bull” (a large water tank that is filled in the rear and then brought to the troops in the front), was available to us when we first arrived, and the most appropriate use of its valuable and sacred content was debated. Whereas some wanted to use the water to drink, others wanted it for washing clothes. We finally decided to use the water contained in that first water buffalo to wash equipment and clean surgical instruments. If any water remained after completing this number-one priority, we would use it for drinking despite the strong smell and taste of bleach used to make it potable. Washing our clothes, hair, and bodies would have to wait; we would continue to clean ourselves the best we could with premoistened towelettes for a few more days.

  We had long ago consumed the nine MREs we were issued prior to moving into Iraq. We were now issued two MREs packets a day, and it was up to us how and when we chose to eat them or what to do with them. The meals were contained in small brown cardboard packets measuring approximately eight by five inches; instructions and guidance for consumption were written on the outside of the cardboard container. These statements, written in bold black lettering, said, “Military Rations Are Good Performance Meals,” and “In the field you NEED three meals per day.” We were issued only two meals a day, so how could we possibly eat three of them?

  Additional tips for MRE consumption included: “Eat some of each component to get a balance of nutrients”; “Eat the high carbohydrate items first (crackers, beverage base, fruit, jelly)”; and “Save unopened dry snack items to eat when you are on the move.” Some packets also specified vitamins and minerals that had been added and recommended that we should always eat “beverage base, cocoa beverage, cheese spread, Jalapeño cheese spread, peanut butter, crackers, oatmeal cookie bars, chocolate covered cookies, and fruit.” As much as we appreciated this guidance and the recommendations printed on the MRE packets, we ate what we liked and traded or gave away the remainder of our rejected items to our battle buddies. Being the conservationists and scavengers that we had become, we also saved the cardboard packing containers, cutting them out carefully so they could be used as postcards to send greetings and well wishes to our friends and families back home.

  The contents of the MREs would continue to be our only source of sustenance for almost a full week. Our first hot meal, delivered by marine ground support personnel, was MRE food that had been heated and placed in large serving containers. That first meal of beef stew, rice, cake, and sweet tea was delicious, as were the breakfast meals and other evening meals that eventually were delivered on a regular basis. Our afternoon meal was whatever we chose to eat from our MRE box.

  We had neither tables nor chairs on which to sit, but that mattered little to us. We had become masters at sitting, sleeping, and living in dirt, and we even started to look like dirt. We all sported a dingy gray appearance. Our clothes were dirty dirty, our skin was covered with grit, and our teeth, which once sparkled white when we smiled, were now the same shade of gray/brownish tan of our skin and clothing. We all smelled bad.

  Initially, our bathroom facility was nothing more than a hole we would dig in the ground and then cover with dirt after we relieved ourselves. A few days after we arrived at Camp Ch
esty, the Seabees came to our area and built us a “restroom facility.” This simple enclosed structure provided a modest semblance of privacy but little else. The toilet seat was nothing but a wooden plank with a hole cut into it. Underneath the hole were barrels to collect our waste. The canvas curtain door would often blow into your face as you sat on the wooden plank or would blow outward, allowing exposure. Visits to these facilities were quick, lest we be overwhelmed by the repugnant and nauseous smells or the hundreds of flies living inside.

  We were at the camp for a total of ten full days before a shower or adequate water for bathing was available. The shower was another primitive structure, featuring ice-cold water that would be made available two hours a day for the females and two hours a day for the males. Because of my inability to tolerate cold, I chose not to use the shower facility and instead scrubbed myself using water I poured into a seven-quart Tupperware bowl that I had carried with me from Portsmouth, Virginia. It mattered little whether we washed ourselves in the shower or chose the “GI bath” method of bathing because within five minutes of completing our shower or bath, we would once again be covered with sand and dirt blown by the wind or the swirling blades of the helicopters.

  As water buffaloes began to be delivered to us daily, we were permitted to wash out some of our clothes with the surplus water. I used the same Tupperware bowl to hand wash my clothes, all of which were filthy. To dry them, we would drape or hang our various articles of clothing on the tent, where the windswept dirt and sand quickly covered them, causing muddy clumps and stains. Once the clothes were dry, we would simply shake them out and put them on. At least they were a little cleaner than they were before, and some of the rancid odor embedded within the fibers had been purged. Being able to change my ten-day-old underclothes from dirty dirty to clean dirty was wonderful!