“What the hell happened?” I ask.
“Man, I'll tell you, Anthony, that was crazy. When the second one hit I got up and the next one went through the room. It went through my damn wall!”
The mortars are directly hitting our sleeping barracks now. Before I couldn't sleep because of the fear of being mortared, but now it's not even a fear, it's a reality.
WEEK 3, DAY 3, IRAQ
1100 HOURS, HOSPITAL
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the world, not a creature was stirring … except in Iraq.
Elster is in the back part of the hospital and looking in big military shipping containers — one of the supply conexes — and doing inventory of what he has and needs to order.
“Gagney wants you to come inside; he's having a meeting.”
“Gagney just told me to come out here ten minutes ago,” Elster yells from inside the conex.
“Whatever, man, that's what he told me.”
Elster comes out of the conex and we go back toward the front of the hospital. We're clearing our weapons —
BBBBBAAAAAAAMMMMM!!!
BBBBBAAAAAAAMMMMM!!!
BUNKERS. BUNKERS. BUNKERS.
Ninety percent of the mortars are hitting directly on top of the hospital, which is reinforced with two feet of cement. It starts exploding again:
BAAMMM … BBBBAAAAMMMM …
Some people, like Reto, seem to get used to working through it.
BAAAAAMMMM!
When I help Elster finish the supply inventory later, three people are staring at the ground where we were talking about Gagney at the conex.
Two mortars hit right there.
Elster and I examine the ground. There's a hole the size of a football. One of the guys that was standing around takes out a camera and begins taking pictures of the other conexes in the area. They're made of solid steel, and now, from the mortar, they have shrapnel peppered throughout them.
Both of us are thinking the same thing. Two times in a row, incredibly close calls, saved by only seconds. Maybe he's not so lucky.
1145 HOURS, HOSPITAL
This is what Reto knows about the hospital roof:
“Like two seconds ago I went to the roof of the hospital to check out what type of damage had happened. And it was hit pretty bad, all kind of indents everywhere. That's what I was expecting to find, but do you want to know what else I found? The whole roof, littered with condoms and condom wrappers. It looks like there was literally an orgy up there.”
A few nights ago Crade was telling me how he took his girlfriend to the roof of the hospital to look at the stars.
WEEK 3, DAY 4, IRAQ
1100 HOURS, OR
Christmas. We do a secret Santa. I don't get the warm pajamas I wanted; instead I get a VHS movie called Air Bud. Just what I wanted: an old movie about a dog that plays basketball, and best of all it's in Spanish. I think the person who gave it to me must have confused me with Torres, but I laugh it off and put a fake smile on my face.
Everyone hands out presents and tries to have a good time, but really we're all just depressed and miss our families. It's Christmas but it doesn't mean anything. We're still thousands of miles away from our families and in the middle of a war.
In the end we spend the rest of the day doing as little that's memorable as possible. No one wants to be able to remember Christmas in Iraq. All we want is to pass the day as quickly as any other. We want to chalk it off on the calendars so that we can say one more day has gone by that we won't remember and we are one day closer to being back with our families.
WEEK 4, DAY 4, IRAQ
2300 HOURS, MY ROOM
In all the war movies I've ever seen, no one calls home or goes on MySpace. They write emotional letters, and even though I can't do the emotional part, I still send the letters. I've heard from about half the people I've written.
I read stories about friends celebrating their twenty-first birthdays, twenty-one shots in twenty-one bars, the typical crazy animal house college stories — the drama, this guy, and this girl, who's doing what and with whom. It just depresses the hell out of me. I remember watching movies about people growing up, going to college, meeting girls, having a great time, and becoming mature adults. My friends that do write tell stories of going to bars and drinking all night. I spent that same night working a twenty-four-hour shift. I read stories of one-night stands and empty hookups. I spent that night operating on someone only to have them die the next day in the ICW. I read stories of friends going to concerts and frat parties. I spent that night cowering in a bunker for my life. I should be home with my friends. This isn't how a twenty-year-old should be spending his glory years. When I graduated high school the keynote speaker told us the next few years would be the best years of our lives. Yet here I am, six thousand miles from home and fighting a war. Of course, I don't regret my choice. But only when my tour's over will I find out if it was the right one.
I don't want to write any more letters and I don't want to receive any more, but if I don't write back, friends and family will write just to see if I'm okay. So I have to write back, and it turns into a never-ending cycle.
Soon the letters from the third and fourth graders will start to come. Those are the most depressing of them all. Kids writing letters supporting something they know nothing about, only that they're told to support their country and the war. Some kids will draw pictures of the American flag and men in uniform and send them to us. Every now and again we'll get cards and letters from a kid whose parent died in the war; those are the most difficult to read, and you know you've got to reply to them. The worst story I ever heard was about a little kid whose father died during the first invasion of Iraq. A few years went by and the kid learned how to read and write, so he sent letters to some of the soldiers in Iraq. One of the soldiers with kids of his own felt bad and wrote back, so they became pen pals. A few months later that soldier died, but the kid kept writing. Another soldier in the unit didn't know what to do with the letters. He knew the guy had been writing to the kid but the kid didn't know he was dead, so that soldier became the kid's penpal, but he got killed, too. I hope that the kid doesn't start writing to me. He's bad fucking luck. I'm depressed just thinking about it.
Happy New Year.
MONTH 4
“HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO SPOT THE REAL SUICIDAL PEOPLE WHEN EVERYONE HAS SUICIDAL SYMPTOMS?”
WEEK 1, DAY 1, IRAQ
0700 HOURS, HOSPITAL
Well, it's official: There has been a rumor going around for a few weeks now, but it's finally confirmed. We are moving bases. Our new base will be in the western part of Iraq in the Anbar province. A new hospital is being built on a Marine base, and they need someone to run it. There is already a Navy hospital there, but they aren't doing well enough to run a new hospital. Here, a stateside active duty Army unit will be coming in to replace us, and we will move southwest to the Al Anbar province of Iraq to our new hospital.
I guess you could say it was a compliment to us since they approached us about the job.
But since they did, we have to inventory our entire hospital and its entire contents, from a pair of disposable surgical gloves to heart rate monitors to tongue depressors and ventilators. Everything needs to be inventoried and then inventoried again and then again. The move date is not set in stone and the new hospital isn't even built. It is expected to take a month or two to build.
WEEK 1, DAY 3, IRAQ
0700 HOURS, OR
The Army explained to us very clearly that while in Iraq no one is allowed to have sex. Of course, this doesn't stop anyone, but our unit is trying to enforce it. We are the military — all adults — fighting a war, and men and women are not allowed to be in the same sleeping area. A woman can't set foot in a man's room and vice versa. This is why people are having sex on the roof of the hospital.
I walk into work and Crade is in back eating breakfast. His head is down. A few weeks ago he told me that before we left for Iraq he had gott
en a woman pregnant. A few days ago he told me the woman is threatening to never let him see his baby. I don't say anything to him.
“Guys … this is the best, this one is absolutely crazy… .”
I turn from Crade and stare at Denti.
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Check this out …” Denti says as he reaches over and takes a piece of bacon from Crade's plate. Crade throws his fork down and walks out of the room. Crade's mood is transparent, and I know I should probably follow him and see what's wrong.
“You know Specialist Porpe and Specialist Meade, right?” Denti begins.
I nod at Denti; of course I know the two girls he's talking about.
“Sergeant Smith caught them having an orgy in their room with two guys from supply.”
“Will you shut up, Denti?”
“You know she's the lesbian lover of First Sergeant Mardine.”
“Just shut up, okay?”
WEEK 1, DAY 5, IRAQ
0700 HOURS, OR
I will say it once again: Gagney is a smarter man than we give him credit for. He knows we would have all complained about his bad attitude and manipulation of Hudge, so he conveniently forgets to tell us that there was a climate control meeting. It was our one opportunity to truly tell the leadership what's going on and how he treats us, but ironically, Gagney was the one who was supposed to tell us when the meeting was — and now it's too late. I don't know how he does it, but it's like he's always one step ahead. There is literally nothing we can do about him because the one chance we would have had to complain about him, he didn't tell us about — and now we can't even complain about that. To be honest, I'm not surprised by anything Gagney does; he is either a diabolical genius, or a nitwit.
WEEK 2, DAY 1, IRAQ
0700 HOURS, OR
During one of the suicide briefings that the Army gives us, they mention a statistic that says the majority of people who talk about suicide don't usually attempt it; it's just a cry for help.
I always wondered about that statistic, though, because if that's the case, then the ones who do talk about suicide are the only ones we know who won't kill themselves, and it's everyone else that's a possibility.
In that same suicide briefing they also tell us that people who are suicidal usually become depressed from big changes happening in their lives. They say that depressed people become withdrawn and will not enjoy everyday activities. They'll sleep a lot.
I couldn't help but laugh when I heard this at the suicide prevention class, because I looked around the room and everyone fit the criteria. We've all had a huge change in our lives coming to Iraq. Everyone here is withdrawn and sleeps as much as possible, and our everyday activities consist of running for our lives and working on near-death patients. Who wouldn't be depressed and want to spend time alone? We work long hours at unpredictable times, and we see the same people twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What I never understood from these classes is how are we supposed to spot the real suicidal people when everyone has suicidal symptoms?
Denti's head is low and he doesn't grab any bacon off of my plate as I put it down. “What's the matter with you?” I ask putting my tray down, still protecting my bacon.
Denti looks up.
“Crade tried to kill himself.”
“Crade?”
“Yeah.”
“Jesus. How?”
“Dust-Off.”
There have been several reported deaths in the United States about kids dying from Dust-Off (it's the stuff you clean your keyboard with). The gas that gets you high in Dust-Off is called R2. It's used in refrigeration. It's a heavy gas that weighs more than air, which means as you inhale it; the gas pushes all your oxygenated air out. It's similar to doing whip-its. It gives people a dizzy, light-headed feeling, and it's why kids use it to get high. But it also decreases oxygen to your heart and your head, and it can kill you. When you use it, you don't suddenly do too much and overdose. Death can happen in one hit. There are reports and stories of kids dying with their eyes open and the Dust-Off straw still in their mouths.
“Maybe he was just trying to get high,” I say to Denti after a few minutes of awkward silence.
“He was a heavy partier, maybe he was just looking for a quick high. I mean if he wanted to kill himself we have weapons with hundreds of rounds. It would only take one shot.”
My answer seems to perk Denti up for the moment; the possibility that it could have been just an attempt to get high lightens both our moods. But in the back of my mind I can't help but think of the possible events that led up to this: Crade reading the Satanic bible, acting distant the past few days… .
I chose to listen to Denti's story the other day rather than go ask Crade how he was feeling.
Maybe this is my fault?
WEEK 2, DAY 4, IRAQ
0700 HOURS, OR
Crade is back in the OR working on the sterilizers. Denti and I are talking in a hushed whisper; we don't want Crade to hear us.
“The GOBs don't want to do the paperwork because it will make them look bad that one of their soldiers tried to commit suicide. It's like it never happened. I think all he had to do was see the chaplain once.”
At the mention of that I laugh. I know it's inappropriate, but sending a suicidal Satanist to a priest to make him feel better doesn't seem like the best thing to do.
“That's it?” I whisper back to Denti. “The man tries to kill himself and they don't even take his weapon away? They're just going to let things go on as usual?”
Crade walks in the room and Denti and I shut up. Crade looks at us and we give him a head nod. He grabs a notebook from the shelf and heads back to where he was. Denti and I look at each other; neither of us knows what to say to Crade.
Denti grabs a cinnamon bun off my plate.
“He's working fourteen hours every day, too; Gagney's making him. No more days off or time off.”
“So instead of giving a suicidal man the attention he needs, he's given extra duty and told to move on.”
“That's right …” Denti says back to me. “And I heard Gagney talking to someone saying that he thinks Crade probably just did it to make him look bad.”
“That narcissistic….”
Crade walks in and puts back the notebook he got a minute earlier. We both nod at him again.
2345 HOURS, MY ROOM
I look over at my nightstand and see: a bottle of sleeping pills, a full container of NyQuil, and a pack of cigarettes. My first pack of cigarettes. I went to the store today and they were fully stocked because they just got a big shipment in. I bought two bottles of NyQuil and Marlboro Reds. Lately I've been noticing that I crave cigarettes more often, and that I sleep a lot better after I have a cigarette, a sleeping pill, and a shot of NyQuil. Tonight, though, I don't feel like taking my sleeping pills or NyQuil. I feel like just being with my thoughts about what's going on. I stay up all night playing guitar and thinking about life and death. Eventually my mind grows tired and I begin to sleep.
0145 HOURS, MY ROOM
I can barely see their faces. I wake up from my dream and grab my photo album. In my dream I could no longer see the faces of my family and friends. I'm scared. I can't picture a single person from my past, from my life before the war. I can't see a single face. I look at my pictures and suddenly they come back to me. My mind fills with nostalgia from the times I'd spent with them. Everything and everyone seems so distant, no more real than a movie or a TV show. My head becomes filled with a cloud of haze as the drowsy night air tries to force me back to sleep. I slowly concede and lay my head down and drift off, but I now have the faces of my family and friends visible in my head again. I can only imagine how much worse it must be for Crade. To dream of the face of his child that he has never seen and may never see. I have pictures, but he has nothing. Who wouldn't go into a slight depression?
WEEK 3, DAY 1, IRAQ
2000 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
The MWR (morale, welfare, and
recreation) group has decided to throw another talent show, this time with a PG rating. No dancing allowed; it's strictly a talent show with a few singers, a few people on guitar, and a few comedians thrown into the mix.
Captain Tarr is on stage singing a Peter, Paul and Mary song. She's quite a good singer, too. And even though she's not the best-looking woman in the unit, there is a group of young men hooting and hollering in the back.
“And next up will be Specialist Wilson,” the person announcing the show proclaims.
Specialist Wilson, the mentally challenged soldier whose dick Colonel Lessly said he wanted to suck, is now on stage singing a Britney Spears song “Baby One More Time.” He is wearing a suit that makes him look like a combination of a Jehovah's Witness and an accountant. His diet of snow cones and popcorn seems to have given him twenty pounds since the last time I saw him in Wisconsin. His singing is horrendous, but he's so bad that the crowd loves it. By the time Wilson is done, everyone is screaming for an encore. Wilson bows and I can see his face is bright red, but he is smiling. He thinks the applause and shouts are genuine so he looks pleased.
“And next up will be Colonel Lessly …” the announcer proclaims.
I'm not sure if it was planned that way or if Lessly set it up, but Wilson rushes off the stage and the smile leaves his face as Lessly is announced and walks on the stage.
Lessly begins singing “Can't Get Enough of Your Love Baby” by Barry White. Lessly is also a great singer, and his years of sucking down … cigars … have given him a thick, raspy voice that makes him sound just like Barry.
2100 HOURS, AUDITORIUM
The show is just ending and everyone is yelling and screaming for more. They want Specialist Wilson to come back out and sing another song.
“Wilson. Wilson. Wilson. Wilson. Wilson.”
He walks over to the soldier running the karaoke machine and whispers something in his ear.
Mass Casualties Page 10