Ruff's War

by K. Sue Roper

  Following morning coffee, we would walk over to one of the ORs for morning muster, where Captain Chimiak would pass along information, and we would be notified of our duty assignments. Once muster concluded, I would return to my tent, put on my running gear, and after signing out in the administration tent, begin to run my usual path down the road. I never deviated from the same path, so the OR crew always knew where to find me if I was needed for a surgical case.

  Because I always ran the same path at about the same time each day, I would pass many of the same people from different units either running or milling about outside their tents. We would wave or greet one another, and I soon came to think of them as my neighbors, just as I thought of those I would routinely see when I ran in my own neighborhood in the States.

  Following my run I would return to my berthing tent, wash up using my Tupperware bowl, and then change my clothes. I would then wash the clothes I wore to run in and hang them outside on the tent to dry. After straightening up my berthing area, I would walk over to the OR to ensure that the equipment and supplies were ready to go for any injured person who might be brought in. Because we were always ready to go, this task took but a few minutes and entailed little more than cleaning away some dust, checking cylinders, and ensuring that the anesthesia machine was functioning properly.

  The remainder of the morning would be spent maintaining the tents by pounding a few stakes or refilling sandbags if we noticed some of the sand had spilled out. I would also check the ICU and provide assistance if needed, or I might help the corpsmen wash down or move equipment. We simply spent our time helping each other with whatever task needed to be completed.

  Once I had ascertained that all the tasks were completed and that no one needed assistance, I would return to the porch, joining others who had gathered there. We would often read our letters from home to each other or share photos we received of our loved ones. Our conversations covered many topics, including what was going on in the world, what our lives and our stateside homes were like, and what might be in store for us in the future. We gradually began to know and understand one another well, and we formed a strong bond of friendship and developed a solid foundation of being a family.

  One day we hosted a “Mexican Fiesta Happy Hour” to celebrate the birthday of one of the OR nurses, Lt. (jg) Alex Devilla. I had received a package filled with salsa, nachos, tortilla chips, and a variety of other Mexican delicacies. Others contributed goodies they had either purchased at the exchange or received in one of their own care packages sent from home. Alex’s birthday cake was made from two slices of pound cake smeared with icing. The icing was made from several packages of dried cocoa mix diluted with a few drops of water. Both the pound cake and the cocoa mix had been retrieved from the contents of our MREs, and even though the cocoa-frosted birthday cake measured no more than four by six inches, we passed it around and each person was able to take a tiny piece. We sang, we laughed, and we joked around. Our spirits were indeed high.

  Charlie Surgical Company personnel began showing up at Camp Chesty six days after we arrived. They were moved up from their previous position, Camp Viper, located near the oil fields of Al Bashra with expectations of moving quickly to whatever area might encounter the majority of fighting and the most casualties. They were told not to unpack or set up their hospital tents, so they erected only their berthing tents. They were to remain on standby and ready to move forward as soon as they received orders to do so.

  We were happy to see the folks from Charlie Company again, and we welcomed them to Camp Chesty by hosting a special enchilada dinner. Both companies mingled and talked for hours, sharing stories of where we had been and what had happened to us. We swapped specific information on ways in which to conserve our dwindling medical and surgical supplies in preparation for future needs. We also shared information with them about Camp Chesty in hopes of easing their adjustment and adaptation to the sparse environment that had become our home.

  We would continue to see our buddies from Charlie Company frequently because they would wander over to the OR porch on a daily basis trying to find something to do to pass the time, whether that meant reading hometown newspapers or outdated magazines or simply finding someone to talk with. Because they had not set up their ORs or wards and were not caring for patients, they were bored and unsettled and growing weary. Having experienced the same faltering spirits while our own company waited to move from Camp Guadalcanal, we understood their angst, malaise, and disheartenment on a deep personal level and tried diligently to help bolster their flagging morale. We may have been assigned to two different and distinct companies, but we were all in the same boat, and it made little difference to us that our “boat” was now anchored in the landlocked, barren dirt of central Iraq, where the single water source was the water buffalo. We were all navy shipmates and would serve as primary supports for one another with as much diligence and determination as we could.

  As Bravo Company’s caseload began to diminish and fewer frontline casualties arrived who required surgical intervention, we started to think about and plan for our futures. I spent a lot of time reflecting on my upcoming retirement from the navy. My approved date for retiring was 1 August 2003, and I thought about whether I really wanted a formal ceremony organized and conducted to celebrate my twenty-five years of service. The events and experiences of being in Iraq had significantly changed my perspective, my desires, and my attitude.

  Leaving the navy quietly and without formality or fanfare was an option I was finding to be more desirable. I really had no way of knowing whether I would be back in the States when my retirement date arrived, and as every day passed, being so far away on the other side of the world, I could not fathom how I could possibly organize a formal, traditional retirement ceremony. I had no means by which to communicate to those in the United States other than by writing letters, and the postal service was extremely unreliable. Mailed items were often not delivered for weeks or months. Many times I wondered whether my family and friends were actually receiving the letters I sent to them. This inability to communicate was frustrating, and I simply could not see how I could plan a retirement ceremony while I was in the midst of a war zone.

  In addition to this issue regarding faulty and unreliable communication, I knew I would never leave the Bravo Surgical Company until we all were able to go home together. We were a team, a family, and I was not about to leave them even if my retirement date should occur and I was still in Iraq. I had made that decision even before leaving Camp Lejeune, and I was steadfast in my resolve.

  Having many days of idle time with little more to do than think, I found myself consumed with these thoughts about my retirement. I believed I was meant to be in Iraq. This belief was substantiated by similarities and coincidences I had noted between the very beginning of my navy career and what were now the final days of my career. I was still wearing the dog tags around my neck that I had first been issued, and I had departed for both boot camp and Kuwait on the same day in February, albeit twenty-seven years apart. The combat troops to whom I had administered anesthesia since I had been in Iraq made me proud to be a nurse anesthetist, a navy nurse, and I was humbled by the thought that my contribution to my country was that which I was now doing in Iraq. Others had given and will continue to give so much more, and I knew the navy could give me no higher honor than what I had experienced simply by caring for the young soldiers who were being entrusted into my care.

  I had previously chosen 25 July 2003 as my designated retirement ceremony date, and I knew my friends and family were making plans and arrangements to attend. I felt an urgent need to tell them about my desire not to have a retirement ceremony before they finalized their schedules and travel arrangements. I desperately wanted and needed to talk with Jeryl to try to explain my change of heart, with the hope that she would understand and be willing to inform others.

  Nine days after arriving at Camp Chesty, we were given an opportunity to make a five-minute “morale p
hone call” to the States using the company’s one and only Meridian satellite phone, which was located in the administration tent. Once again, we stood in line for our turn to use the phone, all the while praying that the person whom we were calling would pick up. I tried to calculate the best time stateside when Jeryl would be available and figured it to be around noon EST. Shortly after 7 PM Iraq time, I placed my call, and Jeryl picked up on the other end.

  Hearing her voice was beyond wonderful. Although I had received several letters from her and knew things at home were going well, hearing Jeryl’s voice and being able to reassure her that I was doing well were just what I needed the most. It became more than a simple morale call; talking with her gave me comfort and a sense of peace and provided me with an opportunity to tell her of my decision not to have a formal retirement ceremony. Our allotted five minutes of “phone voice time” was strictly regulated and went by quickly. We both had so much more to talk about and would have loved to continue talking for hours. Still, at least now we had the benefit of making phone calls stateside even though the opportunities were strictly monitored and infrequent.

  Within two weeks after arriving at Camp Chesty, we had made it our home, a relatively comfortable, familiar, stable, and secure environment. We were working together and living together as a well-established, caring, and compassionate family. We looked out for one another, doing such things as sacrificing our own daily MRE rations to subsidize those who were losing weight.

  Together we also battled the constant, unrelenting wind, which we found was affecting our health. The wind never seemed to ease up, and every day I jokingly asked “Allah” to make it stop. Allah refused to answer my prayers, and I began to believe he hated us, or perhaps he just hated Lutherans. All I really knew was that the wind continued to blow dirt and grit over everything and was a major player in contaminating our food.

  As more and more of us began to experience gastrointestinal problems, we realized that in addition to the unsanitary conditions of the fly-infested bathroom stalls, the wind was indiscriminately and unmercifully delivering contaminants from the burn pit onto our food. The burn pit was a dug-out hole where everything was burned: the barrels of human waste from the bathroom stalls, everyday garbage, and the human tissue and body parts removed during surgical procedures. This burn pit was located upwind and in proximity to where we were served our meals. The wind served as conduit, very possibly sprinkling the hot meals we enjoyed with filthy contaminants and disease-causing agents. Once we identified what was probably causing the gastrointestinal ailments affecting our battle buddies, meal service was moved, and many of us returned to sustaining ourselves full time with the MREs we were issued and personally maintained.

  On 18 April 2003, Good Friday, we received good news. Instead of maintaining a full surgical support company at Camp Chesty, the Marine Corps general in authority reassessed the original plan and decided that the number of surgical cases being received did not warrant a full company made up of two hundred personnel, two ORs, and three postoperative wards. The plan was altered so that the site maintained an FRSS unit, an STP, and one ward, allowing the rest of us to move on. We were excited and looked forward to returning to Camp Coyote in Kuwait, knowing that from there we would soon be returning to the good old USA.

  Each day we observed more and more marine units leaving Camp Chesty to return to Kuwait. When more than a hundred members of Charlie Company were suddenly transferred with little advance notice, we thought we would be next to go. So, we began to break down portions of our camp, disassembling OR number one and one of the wards and packing the tents and equipment into the ISO containers. Our spirits were high as we made individual preparations for moving on. We repacked our Alice packs and seabags, burned our blood-soaked MOPP gear, threw away Ziplock plastic bags containing items we could no longer identify through their dirt-covered and encrusted exteriors, and discarded other items we had salvaged or hoarded throughout the many weeks and months of our desert journey.

  Believing our departure was imminent, we even used some of the distilled-water supply reserved to sterilize surgical instruments to wash our hair, which was something we had not been able to do since leaving Kuwait. Because this new plan called for us to retrograde directly to Kuwait, we believed that we would not be setting up the ORs again and that these jugs of water were going to be disposed of instead of being packed. By washing our hair, we simply thought we were putting the water to good use because the contents would not be needed in the future. We were ready to go, and as soon as we received the official word of our departure time and date, we could be completely packed, set, and ready to move on in just a few short hours.

  Camp Chesty had been our home and had served us well, but we were ready to leave and were eager to return to Kuwait. Kuwait represented just one more step closer to returning to the United States. We were finally headed home, or so we thought.

  21

  STUCK IN IRAQ

  On 24 April 2003, the nineteenth day after arriving at Camp Chesty, I awoke at 5:30 AM. My seabag was packed and ready for transport, and having been previously notified that I was included on the list of one hundred scheduled to leave for Kuwait that day, I was very excited. Everything was set, and I was really looking forward to leaving Iraq.

  We were all eager to attend the 6:30 AM “all hands” muster to learn the details of our transportation to Kuwait. Our sense of excitement, knowing we would soon be taking our first step toward returning to the States, was palpable, and we could not help but smile. Then the muster meeting began, and our smiles were quickly replaced by frowns, and our sense of excitement was replaced by anger, disappointment, and mumbled curses. We were informed that all movement to Kuwait was on hold. Instead of moving south, all of us would now be heading east to a place called Camp Geiger, which was located on the outskirts of Al Kut, Iraq.

  The remainder of the day was spent taking down and packing up the second OR and all of the wards. Our berthing tents would stay up until after the evening meal to provide us with some form of shade in the blistering 108-degree weather. This long day, which had begun with high spirits and then turned quickly to major disappointment, moved further on to nothing more than hot, dirty, backbreaking labor. As I settled my exhausted body onto my cot at the end of the day, I looked up at the stars and wondered what the future might bring. What would our next camp be like? How long would we be there? When would we get out of Iraq and go home?

  We mustered at 7:30 AM on 25 April and were told to clean up any remaining trash around the camp, a task we had performed every time prior to leaving an area. It was an extremely windy day, one where wearing our goggles was a necessity and performing any simple task required tremendous strength and effort. The wind was so strong and relentless that for every four steps we took forward, it would push us two steps back. Fortunately, all our gear had been packed and loaded into the ISO containers the previous day, and once the area had been cleared of trash, we had little more to do than wait for the transport trucks to arrive.

  Grouped into transport stix, we huddled together, attempting to protect one another from the progressively strengthening wind. Without tents to shield us, dirt and sand caked our clothing and goggles, and the wait time seemed interminable. At 9:30 AM the truck convoy arrived. Wearing our Alice packs, helmet, flak jacket, and goggles, and carrying our pistols, we boarded the open-bed seven-ton trucks, where we would continue to sit for an additional ninety minutes waiting for the ISO containers to be loaded. Because the truck beds were not covered or shielded by canopies, we continued to be totally exposed to the relentless swirling wind and dirt of the Iraqi desert.

  The route the convoy would take to Camp Geiger would entail passing through two Iraqi villages. Once again we were cautioned not to give those who might approach the trucks anything or to take anything from them. We were also not to hesitate in firing our pistols if we believed our lives to be in danger.

  The thirty-mile trip east to Camp Geiger took four l
ong hours, including the ninety-minute waiting period prior to departing. This trip was not anything like the convoy travel we survived when we had moved from Camp Hasty to Camp Anderson or from Camp Anderson to Camp Chesty. Despite being openly exposed on the back of the trucks, we heard no sounds of gunfire or deadly blasts from mortars. Our only enemies were the blazing sun and relentless wind blowing dirt into our noses and our mouths and covering everything.

  As we passed through the two Iraqi villages, men, women, and children ran up to the trucks waving, giving “thumbs-up” signs, blowing kisses, and shouting, “Thank you!” and “We love you!” Their gestures were very moving, and I was thankful I had my goggles on so no one would witness my tears. The everyday common citizens of Iraq seemed to genuinely appreciate our efforts to liberate their country and to provide them with a sense of freedom unlike anything they had ever experienced or could have possibly dreamed of before.

  Camp Geiger was located slightly south of Al Kut and had been secured by the marines several days prior to our arrival. This extensive base appeared to have once served as an Iraqi airport facility and contained several aircraft airstrips or runways. Some of the runways were intact, whereas others were totally bomb-ridden, resembling nothing more than a trash pile of huge, broken concrete slabs. Bombshells, casings, and exploded vehicles were strewn throughout the area. Numerous old pyramid-shaped hangars made of concrete were situated throughout this concertina wire–encased compound where several marine and other military units were based. The FRSS, STP, and ward we had sent in advance were all housed in one of the intact hangars.