I hear shouting outside. The base military police must be doing surprise room inspections. A few days ago, two Marines were doing a search of houses in a nearby Iraqi town and they came across a stash of dozens of pounds of marijuana. One of them grabbed a handful and took it back to the base with him. Somehow he got caught, and now the military police are conducting random checks. They're using one of the dogs from the K-9 unit to sniff out the drugs. It's actually a bomb-sniffing dog, but, hey, leave it to the Army to reclassify someone.
WEEK 4, DAY 1, IRAQ
2000 HOURS, OR
“Hey, man. I was wondering if you've got any Percocets or Vicodins?” I ask Proust as I look around, making sure that no one's watching. Denti's prescription ran out, and he told me that Proust has one for Vicodin and that he sells his pills, too.
“Not right now, man. I sold them all. Two more weeks. Why don't you try Robo tripping or Coricidin tripping?”
I stand there and consider Proust's advice, but I let the thought fade out of my mind as I remember all the people I've known who've done one or the other. Robo tripping is when you down a bottle of Robitussin as quickly as possible. It's supposed to give you a trip similar to an acid trip. When I was in San Antonio doing my initial training to become an operating room medic, there were too many people that got sent to the ER from overdosing to make me ever want to do it. But in San Antonio there were twice as many people who would go Coricidin tripping. Coricidin is a cough and cold medicine for people with high blood pressure. If you take ten to thirteen pills, you will feel as though you are in a cartoon. But if you take too many, your life will permanently feel that way. I've heard countless stories of people who have gone insane after Coricidin tripping one too many times.
“Nah, that's cool, man. I just want to forget some things; I don't feel like going retarded. I'll just come back in two weeks.”
WEEK 4, DAY 6, IRAQ
0910 HOURS, CHURCH
There aren't many people here, maybe thirty, and they're all taking up the first three rows or so on either side of the aisle. Just like in school, I'm in the back where it's easier to avoid eye contact.
At first I was hesitant to go; it's been a while since I've gone to church. I was raised Catholic, but ever since I left home at eighteen I haven't really gone to church. I know that going now couldn't hurt. Besides, it's getting too expensive to pay five dollars a pill, and I need something to take the edge off.
The choir is getting up to sing. It's Captain Tarr, Colonel Reke, another woman, and Reto. I'm staring at Captain Tarr as I try and let her voice penetrate my soul. Her face shines brightly and her lips are rosy red, but the comfort of the song leaves me. I can only think about how in a few hours those lips will be wrapped around the penile shaft of some civilian contractor, like the time I saw her. In the dining facility, I hear all the Marines calling her “The Viper” because she pounces on all the guys she sees. Sixty years old and she's singing “praise be to God.” A few hours later her mouth will be muffled by some anonymous dick, and a few hours after that she'll most likely call home and tell her kids how much she loves them.
MONTH 9
“WHEN I CLOSE MY EYES I DREAM OF DEATH AND WAR. WHEN I OPEN MY EYES I SEE DEATH AND WAR….”
WEEK 1, DAY 2, IRAQ
0100 HOURS, MY ROOM
Torres saw his first patient die today, and he told me the entire story. The patient had an open chest wound. He was losing blood as fast as they could put it back in. The doctor was a general surgeon attempting open heart surgery. Normally this would never be done; a procedure like that would happen in a controlled setting by a trained heart doctor. We have no choice, though, because the Army isn't full of doctors. We often don't have the time or resources to send every patient to a specialist; we've got to make do with whom and what we have. Often we have doctors going above and beyond their scope of practice. We have podiatrists and urologists doing the work of a general surgeon while a general surgeon does the work of a vascular or heart specialist.
The diaphragm of the patient is cut and Torres can see the heart as it beats up and down, up and down, squirting blood out with each beat of the heart. Slowly the blood becomes less, not because the doctors are stopping the bleeding, but because the man is running out of blood. Torres is standing there with his feet deep in an inch of blood. The heart goes up to beat then back down, and it stays down. The anesthesia machine beeps, and the doctor throws down the instrument that was in his hand.
“Damn it, time of death 11:15.”
WEEK 1, DAY 7, IRAQ
0400 HOURS, MY ROOM
I walk into the hospital and immediately notice the familiar smell of ether in the air. With the hospital's whitewashed walls and the soldiers walking around in a tired daze, I feel as if I'm in an insane asylum. I notice a trail of blood in front of me and my curiosity overrides my diligence of being on time to work. I sling my rifle over my shoulder and begin to follow the trail, keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact with all the tired eyes. The trail ends with a patient sitting outside of the ER. I look up and see the faded eyes of a boy in uniform, someone hurting and looking for help. I realize that it's me and I stare into my own eyes.
0405 HOURS, MY ROOM
Waking up in bed I become disoriented.
The dreams are becoming more vivid every night. I read books on dream interpretation. I read books on Freud. I look for answers in my dreams and I find nothing. I spend my days walking around in a tired daze, and I spend my nights tossing and turning as I run through the dream world. Am I awake or dreaming? It doesn't matter anymore. When I close my eyes I dream of death and war. When I open my eyes I see death and war. I blink and as my eyes close I see images of death, and as they flutter open I see death — there is no escaping it. It's said that the second we are born we start to die. The exact second that we as humans come alive we start to die. The choice is ours what we do with our life, but the story ultimately ends the same for everyone.
1500 HOURS, OR
“You've got to do it for us. We can't take it anymore. None of us can. And we know you can't either.” Reto, Denti, Chandler, Torres, and I are all surrounding Sergeant Hudge. We are voicing our complaints and asking her to bring them up with Sergeant Gagney and Colonel Reke. Once again Gagney is treating us like crap. His constant yelling and verbal abuse are actually getting worse, he's actually inhibiting our jobs more than helping.
“What do you want me to do?” Hudge yells back. “We've already had meetings with the chief ward masters and nothing happened. He won't tell us when the climate control meetings are, so we can't complain. Last time I tried this, they called me insane.”
“That's exactly why we need to do something about him,” says Reto.
“Maybe if we just talk to him one more time,” says Chandler.
“Tell him he doesn't even need to come into work, that we can work better without him,” I say.
“Listen guys, I've got the answer …” Denti begins, as he picks up a can of coffee from the break room table and holds it in the air. “Let's just put something in his drink, like a laxative or something. Then we can take the toilet paper out of all the bathrooms.”
Torres, Reto, and I look at each other. We nod in agreement.
“Not a bad idea Denti, not bad at all. Won't solve our problems, but I'm sure as hell that it will feel good to watch him clutch his stomach as he runs toward the bathroom.” I begin to laugh as I speak. “Haha. I wonder what the hell he would actually use for toilet paper.”
“All right. All right,” Hudge says, putting her hands in the air. “I don't want to hear anymore. Don't put anything in his drink, at least not yet. I will try talking to him and we'll see what happens.”
“Thanks,” Reto says, putting his hand on her shoulder. “And remember, if anything happens you've got all of us backing you. The Army will have to do something….”
WEEK 2, DAY 1, IRAQ
1500 HOURS, OR
“Excuse me, Sergeant Gagney, can I
speak to you for a moment?”Hudge approaches Gagney at his desk. He is playing World of Warcraft on his computer, and Reto and I are in the corner of the room pretending to play Rummy 500 and watching the interaction.
“What is it about?” Gagney sternly makes even his question sound like an authoritative statement.
“I was hoping I could talk to you in private about an issue.”
“God. What is it with you people? Fine!” Gagney flips his computer screen down and stands up. Hudge walks into one of the rooms that we use as a changing room and Gagney follows, slamming the door behind him.
“Let's do it.” Reto and I head to the door to try to listen to the muffled conversation.
“NO ONE likes you. None of these complaints are real. They're all lying to you. They bitch to me about you behind your back,” Gagney says.
“Listen, they all came to me yesterday and complained. It's not me, everyone is — ”
“SHUT UP. You're lying. No one came to you yesterday, and no one is complaining about me. You really are crazy. The mental health officer and the chaplain were right; you have problems. And you're nothing more than a dumb bitch.”
“Don't tell me to shut up,” her voice is crackling as she speaks. “You're a terrible leader. And you need to change or we're going to do something about it.” Hudge's voice whimpers out.
Gagney starts laughing; it sounds challenging.
“And what the hell do you think you're going to do? I'm putting Cather in charge. And you know what? If you or anyone else has a problem with me, you can take it up with the chief ward masters. That's what they're here for.”
Reto and I look at each other at the mention of Cather. Cather, the fifty-eight-year-old specialist who replaced Crade, has kept true to his word, and all this time he has yet to do any further surgeries. In fact, no one knows what he really does all day; he's gone most of the time.
“Fine! I will see the chief ward masters.” Reto and I hear Hudge yell. Her voice has a newfound confidence to it.
A door slams shut. It's the other entrance to the room that Gagney and Hudge are in. Hudge walks out. Her eyes are red and she laughs as she sees Reto and me standing there pretending as if we weren't listening.
“It didn't go like I expected. Tomorrow at 1400 hours I'm going to try and see the chief ward masters, and we'll take it from there.”
WEEK 2, DAY 3, IRAQ
0830 HOURS, OR
The song “Bother” by Stone Sour is playing in the background. I made a special playlist specifically for when I work with Dr. Bill. It is a combination of classical music for him and alternative rock for me.
“Cauterize the skin here for me, will you?”
The patient is a British soldier, and he has a wound to his leg. We are stopping the bleeding and putting his leg back together.
“Have you heard about that surgeon in our southern hospital, the one who molested those two female patients?” Dr. Bill asks me while tying a knot around one of our patient's veins.
“Yeah.”
“Well, he was in the paper today. His punishment came down. He's only getting a fine of $12,000 and a forty-five-day suspension. He molested two girls and he gets a fine and forty-five days of vacation.” Dr. Bill throws the scissors in his hands to the ground.
He's been agitated about more as well. He's heard the truth about why so many of the Iraqi patients we've done surgery on have died. After we saved their lives, they would be shipped to Iraqi hospitals. Once there, one of three things would happen:
The Iraqi hospital wouldn't have any of the proper supplies and the patient would end up dying.
Patients of one religion would be killed because they were sent to a hospital in an area where a different religion is predominant.
We send the patients to a hospital and insurgents come in and kill them for being seen by an American doctor.
“Get me a new pair of scissors,” Bill yells at the nurse.
1330 HOURS, OR
Gagney's got something up his sleeve.
“Anthony, page Sergeant Hudge and tell her to be here at 1400.”
Gagney is calm, almost happy. He's been missing all day.
I page Hudge, telling her to be in here at 1400 hours. When I get back Gagney is sitting down, filling in some military forms.
1355 HOURS, OR
“Sergeant Hudge, glad to see you. Please follow me.”
Gagney turns and walks into the room where he and Hudge had the argument yesterday. Reto's not on shift yet, but I'm listening to them.
“Here you go, Sergeant Hudge. I've just made these counseling forms. Please sign and date them.”
“You can't give me three of these.”
“I'd like you to sign them.”
“I'm not signing anything….”
Counseling statements are the civilian equivalent of performance evaluations. They're supposed to be done once a month and you can either have a good one or a bad one. However, if you get three bad ones in a row (supposed to be months apart, not minutes), it's grounds for loss of pay.
Gagney starts yelling something, but I jump back from the door as I hear footsteps coming down the hall. Colonel Reke walks in the room, grabs a can of soda, and walks back out. I head back toward the door. It's silent inside — this isn't good. Ten minutes go by and I knock on the door — no one answers. I open the door and no one's inside. They must have gone out the side door.
1425 HOURS, OR
“I don't know what to say. The man will do whatever it takes to keep his position,” Hudge says as she walks in the door. Reto and I are sitting down in the break room.
“He's like an alligator: He doesn't do anything all day and saves his energy only to hunt his prey and bite their heads off . Meanwhile, I get irritable bowel syndrome. I did tell him to fuck off and left to go talk to one of the chief ward masters. When I get there, Pyne was the only one there. Gagney follows behind me, slamming the door shut as he does. As soon as the door is closed he starts verbally attacking me. I try to defend myself, but Pyne says I'm just saying it as retribution for the counseling statements that Gagney gave me — but I hadn't mentioned the counseling statements so he must have already known Gagney was going to give them to me. I couldn't talk about it anymore, we'd been talking for ten minutes, it was already planned — I've officially been relieved of my position as second shift leader.”
WEEK 2, DAY 7, IRAQ
1300 HOURS, OR
Here's what my days are like: I wake up in the morning and smoke to get rid of my headache, then I walk to work, in a hundred and twenty degrees of heat, and then spend all day covered in blood. Then I go home, take some pills, and fall asleep. It's as if everything is piling up, and after trying to make myself dead to emotions for so long, they're finally starting to catch up and I don't know what do with them.
“How are you feeling Anthony, are you all right? You look worn down.” Gagney looks at me and puts his hand on my shoulder. We make eye contact for the first time in months.
“I'll be fine … thanks,” I say to Gagney.
“If you need anything, or ever need to talk, you can talk to me.”
I don't know whether it's because I've been filled with such emotion lately, but hearing Gagney say this makes me want to forget every nasty thing he's ever done.
“Yeah I know, thanks,” I reply.
Gagney turns and leaves while I am left here in shock.
I want to continue to hate Gagney; it's all I know and I'm good at it. I've grown accustomed to my hate — it's comfortable, it's my friend, and it's always there for me. But now it feels as though it's slowly leaving, and I'm not sure I want it to leave because I'm afraid of what I'll be left with.
I am reminded of a story I once heard about the explorer Marco Polo. Whenever he was going on an expedition he would take a team of people with him, and in this team he would always bring one person that everyone disliked or hated. They said it gave everyone else in the group a common enemy and a way to relate to each ot
her, a way to get all their anger off of each other and off of the conditions and channel all of it toward one person. I now feel like I lost that one person, but everyone else still has him so now I'm the outsider.
Denti is sitting in the break room eating potato chips and drinking orange soda. He complains about some floor cleaning job Gagney had given him and I already feel like an outsider.
Gagney walks in as Denti is telling me about the floor mopping assignment.
“Damn it, Denti! I told you to go mop the floor an hour ago,” Gagney says then looks at me. “And look at you. You were there when I told him; you were going to just let him sit here stuffing his fat mouth with chips and soda instead of moping the floor! Now both of you can stay here an extra hour and mop the entire OR. All the rooms!”
Denti and I look at each other. We're connecting again. I can feel my anger and hate coming back as his anger also rises. I feel relieved; my old friend is back. Even though he'd only been gone for a few minutes, it still felt good to have him back. Gagney storms out of the room, but before he does he gives me a look. Denti and I spend the next hour mopping the floor and complaining about Gagney.
Second shift comes in, and even though they don't help us with mopping the floor, they do join in the complaining about Gagney. All of us standing around there, making fun of Gagney, having a good time. I think about all the times we all stood around like this laughing and cracking jokes and how it has helped us bond. Maybe Marco Polo was onto something, maybe even Gagney is onto something.
WEEK 3, DAY 4, IRAQ
2000 HOURS, SLEEPING AREA
Mass Casualties Page 15