We're under attack again. It's been happening so often that it now feels like part of our daily routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, eat lunch, have a mortar attack, mortar attack ends, eat dinner, go to sleep, then repeat. Lately all the mortar rounds have been hitting the edges of our base and not making it on base, but these rounds sound close. They're loud. I have never been on guard duty during a mortar attack before. We lock the door behind us and start running for bunkers. The closest ones are fifty yards away. All of our gear is cumbersome and hanging loose. It slows us down as we run. I accidentally drop my Kevlar. I stop but Boredo keeps running. I see another soldier running for the bunker. I quickly pick up my Kevlar and start running.
BAAAAAAMMMMMMM!!!!!!!
I see a flash of blue. The noise is so loud that my ears are ringing.
BAAAAAAMMMMMMM!!!!!!!
I see another flash of blue. The mortars are hitting close. I've never seen the light of one before. I run for my life because the mortars are only twenty yards away.
Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.
I hear gunfire; it's just above my head. It's coming from an Albanian guard post that's twenty feet in the air. They're part of the multinational forces that are on our base. The Albanians are in charge of base defense, and their tower is just above my head. They're firing at something, but I can't see what.
I run faster. My heart is beating; I feel alive. I feel like this is what life is meant to feel like. I have a goal of getting to the bunker, and I am using all my might and force to get there. I run and use every bit of energy my body has and it feels … great.
When I get to the bunker, Boredo and Staff Sergeant Elwood — the one who always smiles — are already there.
“I think that was the closest I've ever been to a mortar going off. I mean the closest without being in a bunker. We better get a CAB badge for this,” says Elwood.
Boredo lights up at the mention of this.
A CAB badge is a Combat Action Badge — they're awarded to medical personnel for being in a combat situation. Elwood and Boredo are getting as excited as kids on Christmas morning because they think they'll qualify. The award isn't given for being in a bunker when mortars are hitting around you. You need to be within twenty-five yards of an unprotected area. Since we weren't in the bunkers when they started to hit, we qualify.
I'm trying to catch my breath as they yammer on, anxiously awaiting the ALL CLEAR from the loudspeaker.
Boredo is getting out of control. He now can tell a war story that he's actually in. “That was sooo intense. I can't wait to tell the guys from my old unit. But geez, I hope no one was as close to the mortars as us.”
I'm breathing deeply into my diaphragm, my adrenaline is still pumping. I have never felt anything like this. I've just run faster than I've ever run before, faster than on my first day here. I was within yards of mortars going off. Shrapnel was probably shooting all around me. I could have almost died or been wounded, yet it was a rush. The only difference is that I don't want an award.
Actually, I'm amazed and sickened; they seem unaware or don't care how close we just came to death. At this moment, I vow to never receive any ribbons. Why would I need an award for surviving an attack? If that's the case, all the survivors should get one. Is that a good word to call veterans, merely survivors?
WEEK 4, DAY 4, IRAQ
0730 HOURS, OR
I'm in a better mood than I've been in for a while. I feel rambunctious and a little mischievous, and I decide to pull a prank. My target is Hudge because she's having the toughest time right now. The plan is that Crade, who has also been looking a little downtrodden lately due to problems he's experiencing with his soon to be baby's mother — anyway, I don't want to go into it here; he's going to help me.
1430 HOURS, OR
While I finish up my last surgery, Crade is informing everyone else of our plan. The thought of an overweight Satanist on tiptoes whispering into everyone's ears, with all his BO after a shift, is cracking me up.
1500 HOURS, OR
I'm scrubbed in for surgery and we're about to begin a fasciotomy, a procedure to relieve pressure in the muscle or tissue, on the left leg of a patient. Since this wound is on the left leg, during surgery the only thing showing is the leg; everything else is covered with sterile sheets. I tell Reto to have Hudge scrub me out and take over my surgery so I can go home for the day. Immediately the doctor starts yelling at her, asking what took her so long to get scrubbed in. Giving him a look that says “Fuck off,” Hudge changes positions with me, and I hand the case over to her. As I'm telling her where all the instruments are — and what to expect for the case — the patient starts convulsing badly, his entire body shaking under the sheets.
The doctor looks at Hudge.
“Grab his legs; hold him down so that he doesn't fall off of the bed.”
The patient moans from beneath the blanket. His face is covered but we all hear it.
The doctor turns toward the anesthesiologist. “What the hell did you give him? He's still awake — get him sedated.”
Hudge grabs the patient's leg as best she can while still staying sterile.
The anesthesiologist pushes a few buttons and the patient stops shaking. The room is silent for a second. The doctor asks for a scalpel; Hudge hands him one.
Again, the patient starts convulsing. Hudge grabs the patient by the legs.
“I thought I told you to hold him down,” the doctor screams.
The doctor is yelling at the anesthesiologist: “I told you to sedate him. Shoot him full of something.” He tells Hudge to grab the legs tighter. The patient is shaking so badly he might fall. Hudge leans on the legs with all of her weight and grips them tight. The doctor tells her to move her grip up further on the patient to hold his waist down.
“AAARRRRGGGGHH,” the patient yells as he sits up in the bed and grabs Hudge by the waist. Hudge screams. She jumps back and hits the instrument table. I can tell she is scared. Her chest is heaving. She's looks around at everyone and no one is doing anything. She looks at the patient uncovered on the table, it's Crade, who is laughing an evil Satanic laugh.
Hudge rips off her mask and gown and throws it to the ground.
“Oh. My. God. You assholes!”
WEEK 4, DAY 5, IRAQ
0730 HOURS, OR
Captain Cardine is the hospital commander. She's stout with a dark skin tone and perfectly white teeth. When she smiles it can be seen for miles. I have no idea why I actually have to go to her office — Gagney wouldn't tell me. Like most people probably would, I immediately assume I'm in some type of trouble. When I walk in the door, I know it's good news, though, or at least not bad news. Captain Cardine tells me that she heard I was on guard duty the day of the recent mortar attack and I'm qualified for a Combat Action Badge (CAB) for being in a combat situation. All I have to do is fill out some paperwork, tell the story of what happened, and verify it with the other two soldiers, Elwood and Boredo. I remember the vow I made in the bunker.
“Ma'am. With all due respect, I would not like any awards.”
Captain Cardine looks at me a little confused.
“What do you mean, you wouldn't like an award? You're going to be one of the first in the unit to be awarded the CAB.”
“I understand Ma'am, it's just that … all I did was run to a bunker. I was following orders.”
Captain Cardine stares at me.
“Soldier, I'm not sure if we're on the same page here. This isn't a big deal, just fill out the paperwork so that we can give you the award.”
I look at Captain Cardine, and it is clear that we're not on the same page. I try to explain my feelings to her again, but she doesn't … she can't understand why anyone wouldn't want an award. Captain Cardine slides the paper toward me.
“Soldier, I don't think you understand. I want you to fill out this paperwork. I want you to get that award. It not only looks good on you to get the award, but it looks good on us as a unit to give the award. Besides,
Elwood and Boredo already filled out their paperwork. They came to me the next morning. They were excited and they can't get the awards if you don't fill out the paperwork. To get the award you need at least two witnesses not including yourself. They need you to verify their stories. I don't know what the big deal is, soldier, just fill out the paperwork.”
I leave her office having signed the paperwork and written my story. I find Reto and tell him I just sold my soul.
WEEK 4, DAY 6, IRAQ
0440 HOURS, MY ROOM
I don't know if it's because of the last mortar attack and that being fearful for my death has given me new energy, but I wake up very early today. It's so early, it's still dark outside. It's that type of dark where the moon is gone from the sky and the sun isn't visible yet, but you can tell it will be shortly. When I usually wake up, I take a right down the road toward the dining facility, gym, and the Hajji stores. Today I decide to take a left. There are empty buildings, a fence, a dry cleaners, sleeping barracks for another unit, and sand everywhere. I keep walking, and down the road I see a red pickup truck idling at a stop sign. There's someone sitting inside the truck. He works for KBR, civilian contractors the Army hired to do odds jobs on base. There was no reason for anyone to be out — unless you're going for a morning walk. The chow hall doesn't open for breakfast for another hour, the Hajji stores also don't open for a few hours, and shift change isn't until 0700.
I am in the shadows of the street as I walk. There are no streetlights near me, but there is one directly above the pickup truck. My suspicion of all things odd, or I suppose voyeurism, gets a hold of me, and I duck behind a tree to see what's going on. The windows are dark and the truck is tall. The man is looking off into space. The truck just idles at the stop sign. The man in the truck and I are the only ones awake on the entire base, I bet. He's staring straight ahead, enjoying the silence. I notice that the light from the street lamp casts a small shadow into the truck, and the shadow inside the truck is bobbing: up, down, up, down, up, down. I see a head at the man's waist. It appears for a second and goes back down.
A damn cat's rustling the garbage. I turn around — the noise came from behind me. Then I look back. Captain Tarr's getting out of the truck. She looks both ways across the road to make sure no one sees her. She starts walking briskly back toward the sleeping area; I know she doesn't see me. The truck speeds off and I continue to stand there.
If this is what has gotten her to lighten her mood and stop yelling at everyone, then I don't care if she's breaking the rules. I tell myself I should run after the truck and tell the guy to keep up the good work.
I walk to the area where the old dining facility used to be. It's still dark, and when I get to the building I see that there are bright green lights surrounding it. Glow sticks. Reto and I had seen the same kind two nights before. We thought it was strange but we didn't say anything at the time. Now that I think about it, the night after we saw those lights, the area near the building got hit bad with mortars. Maybe our base has been infiltrated and there are spies placing the glow sticks around so the enemy combatants know where to aim. Nah, never mind. If that were the case someone else would have noticed by now. Still, I'm gonna tell Gagney — just in case.
0700 HOURS, OR
“Anthony,” Gagney is telling me, “Captain Cardine wants you to go to her office again. You better not be in fucking trouble. If you make me look bad, so help me God….” Gagney trails off.
“Before I go I wanted to tell you that I saw these glow sticks around the old dining facility, and Reto and I had seen them two nights before and then the building in the area got hit with mortars and….”
Gagney is walking away; he's not listening. He never listens, but there's nothing I can do about it, and besides, I'm sure I'm just being paranoid about the green glow sticks. I turn around and head toward Captain Cardine's office. Again, I assume that I'm in trouble, but the fear abates when I see her and she's smiling. She tells me that the CABs for the other two soldiers have been approved. Mine, however, has been denied.
“Michael …” Captain Cardine says, using my first name as if we're now pals. “When Elwood and Boredo wrote their stories, only Elwood said you were there. Boredo never mentioned you in his story.” Just like Boredo, I think to myself. “Since Boredo didn't mention you, you won't be getting the award.”
My mind spins. Boredo wants only him and Elwood to get the awards. No matter what, I need to make sure I get this award, if only to rub it in Boredo's face. I've already sold my soul by signing the paperwork; now, it's as if I'm not getting paid. I know this is childish and pointless, but I'm in Iraq, what else is there to do?
“Well, I was there, ma'am. Tell me what I need to do so that I can get that award.”
“I didn't think you wanted it.”
“I just want to help my unit look good. I mean the more awards we hand out, the better you and everyone else looks, right?”
Captain Cardine smiles.
“That's right, soldier, glad to see you're aboard. Find Boredo, tell him to include you in his story.”
After leaving Cardine, I find Boredo. I tell him I'll recant my story unless he includes me in his. He looks at me and frowns as if I have just told him I am the devil and I want his firstborn son, but he's not stupid. He grabs his coat and storms off toward Captain Cardine's office.
104 HOURS, HOSPITAL
He looks bad. An Iraqi patient. Machines to his left are breathing for him, raising his chest up and down. To his right is a pole with different liquids being fed into his veins. On his leg is a bag attached to a catheter in his penis; all of the liquids being fed into his veins come right out into the bag. He's brain dead and now merely serves as a vessel for the liquid to go from one container to the next. The doctors shine light into his eyes, and his pupils give no reaction. They hit him in the face with their hands and on the knees with their reflex hammers — no reaction, no nervous system, nothing.
We are a small hospital with limited resources. We get several new patients every day and we can't afford to keep them here that long. Often we have to ship the American patients to Germany or Texas, and we send the Iraqis to local Iraqi hospitals. The severely injured go to American hospitals either in different parts of Iraq, Germany, or back in the States. We only do this for Iraqis that have been hurt by us.
Everyone is gathered around the Iraqi. I know what they are all thinking and what decision is being debated.
When is a person really dead? When the heart is no longer beating? Or how about when the brain stops? This man is lying in a hospital bed, machines breathe for him, his right arm has a tube in it sending liquid into him, and through his penile shaft there is another tube draining the same fluid right back out. As long as the body is being fed oxygen, the heart will continue to beat and give the impression that the body is alive. The brain, however, is gone; there's no coming back.
We didn't injure him and we don't have the supplies, equipment, or the interest to send him to one of our stateside hospitals where he'll just exist for a few more moments, eventually die, and cost the taxpayers a million dollars in the process. The Iraqi hospitals don't have the equipment or supplies to take care of him. One of the doctors makes a decision and talks to a member of the Iraqi's family. He walks over to the machine and pulls the plug. The family member weeps; a small crowd gathers around; the chaplain is called. Some of the other patients that are close by bow their heads in solace. The patient's chest goes up one last time and then goes back down for its final breath; the man is officially dead, in mind, spirit, and now body.
I watch for a moment then turn and head back to the OR.
WEEK 4, DAY 7, IRAQ
0300 HOURS, MY ROOM
BOOMMM! BOOMMM! BAANNGG!
“Bunkers! Bunkers! Bunkers!”
I open my eyes as I lay in bed. I can hear mortars hitting the base and the loudspeaker yelling — we are under attack again. A few hours ago I took four sleeping pills to fall asleep, and now I'm suppo
sed to wake up and run to a bunker. I know I need to get out of bed but I can't. I can't move my legs, or maybe it's just that I don't want to move my legs.
BBOOOMMM!!
Another mortar hits. I either don't want to get out of bed bad enough or I literally can't because of the sleeping pills — either way my legs don't move. They're so loud, the mortars. They're hitting the old dining facility and the area around it — I'm too tired or in a daze to care. I look over at Markham. He's getting out of bed and heading toward the bunker.
“Markham,” I yell, using all my might. “Come and get me when the attack is over, so I can be accounted for.” Markham nods and leaves. In the night not everyone makes it to the bunkers. They're extremely cold and many people opt for sleep in their own warm bed, despite the obvious risk.
MONTH 3
“IT 'S THE SILENCE THAT DRIVES US MAD.”
WEEK 1, DAY 1, IRAQ
0800 HOURS, OR
When I first heard that Sergeant Waters's boyfriend was coming to our hospital as an ICU nurse I was determined not to like him. Then just a few minutes ago I met him — Staff Sergeant McClee. He jokes around with me and Reto; he fits right in. He's an unassuming 5′6″, 160 lbs., red hair and freckles. The spitting image of an old Irish boy. Don't get me wrong. I'm sure Waters filled his head with pre-existing prejudices, just as our heads are filled with pre-existing prejudices of anyone who would go out with Waters; but I like him. He's filling in paperwork now and is going to take a few classes to get himself acquainted with our hospital, find out the way we do things.
2000 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
“And this is why I will be going away on leave, soldiers. I don't want to leave ya'll behind, but I have family business I need to take care of.” Command Sergeant Major Ridge — the leader for the entire enlisted section, the man who got drunk in Iraq and threatened to send his sergeants to the frontline if they complain — is giving a speech to all of the enlisted soldiers. I'm not sure what it's about yet, but Ridge seems emotional and sober so it must be important.
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