Proust picks up a plastic bag filled with chopped up green leaves.
“Hey Johnson, tell Anthony the story you just told me.”
“I don't feel like it,” Johnson yells back and lies down in bed.
“He just fucked one of the interpreters,” Proust says. “He fucked the big girl, the one with the big hips and nice ass. He just found out she's a prostitute, too, and people on base have been paying her hundreds of dollars to sleep with her.” Proust laughs. “Now he's worried that he might have an STD or something.”
“Shut UP!” Johnson yells, throwing a pillow at Proust.
Proust ignores it and looks at me.
“You ever heard of Salvia divinorum?”
“Sounds familiar.”
“It's a totally legal drug. Native Americans use it in some type of shaman rituals so the government can't outlaw it.”
Proust goes on to tell me that salvia is comparable to LSD in the type of high it gives you. He explains that several people from the ER have ordered it online and are smoking it.
“Take some so you can meet your spirit animal,” he says.
The thought of soldiers with an M-16 and three hundred rounds of ammo, tripping on a drug that makes them talk to spirit animals…. I get up and leave, telling Proust I'll be back in a few days for more Vicodin or Percocet.
WEEK 4, DAY 6, IRAQ
0100 HOURS, MY ROOM
As I lay in bed, staring at my computer and browsing the web, I come across a quote: “Not all scars show, not all wounds heal. Sometimes you can't always see the pain someone feels.”
It makes me think about our hospital and what we're doing here. The real wounds of this war are going to be the ones that we can't fix, the ones that our medical equipment and training have nothing to do with. The Iraqi child growing up without a mother or father, the Iraqi widowed husband or wife, the American child growing up without a mother or father, the American widowed husband or wife — these are the real wounds of the war. These are the ones we can't heal. Everyone in our hospital is going through their own things. We are not just fighting this war in Iraq; we are fighting it within ourselves.
We are a hospital, but I think we're working on the wrong wounds. I don't think we can heal the wounds of war with mere medical care. I think about the speech my drill sergeant once gave when I was in basic training. I now understand what he was talking about. “And for the real unlucky ones, you will come home so emotionally disfigured that you wish you had died over there.”
We are going to leave Iraq, and since we're not an infantry unit, most likely all of us are going to get home safe and sound without any physical injuries. I doubt that any of us will be so overwhelmed that we'll wish we had died. But I feel a pang of emotional shrapnel as I watch the countless number of husbands and wives having affairs. The war goes on. Crade looks for a way out of his pain and twice he finds suicide attempts as the answer. The GOBs then had a decision to make — what to do, what not to do — and they did nothing. The war goes on. Specialist Meade, Captain Tarr, Lieutenant Hamilton, and countless more — all of them looking to fill this hole they feel in themselves, and they choose anonymous sex to fill it. The war goes on. Sergeant Hudge and Staff Sergeant Gagney and all of us have to deal with our own blood, our own lives, our own anger, and each other. The war goes on.
MONTH 10
“IF SOMEONE FEELS AN EMOTION BUT DOESN'T ALLOW THEMSELVES TO EXPRESS IT, WHERE DOES IT GO?”
WEEK 1, DAY 5, IRAQ
1600 HOURS, OR
“Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a big round of applause for Colonel Jelly,” one of the GOBs says. The GOBs and Colonel Jelly are holding an award ceremony for themselves and some of the doctors. The MDs have only been with us for three months, but they're getting awards.
“You've got to help our buddy out. He's hurt very badly. We went to the ER, but the doors are locked,” two Marines say to a specialist in the ICW as they hold their friend and fellow Marine up and place him in a nearby chair. A specialist, Linhorst, a medic who works in the ICW looks at the patient: young, twenty years old, holding his mouth and jaw. Linhorst looks at the two Marines that brought him in.
“What happened to him?”
“We were working on a machine when part of it combusted.”
“He's an engineer?”
“He passed out for a second, and when he came to he was crying from the pain but he couldn't talk. Then the ER was locked.” The Marine looks around. “I mean, the only person we saw….”
“I'll see what I can do,” Linhorst says as he turns and heads toward the ER.
“Excuse me, sergeant,” Linhorst whispers as he touches Staff Sergeant Blett's shoulder. “We have a patient that needs to be seen.”
Blett turns partially around, only exposing one cheek to Linhorst. “What's wrong with him? Is he awake? I didn't hear the chopper land.”
“I'm not sure what his injury is. He's holding his mouth and his friends brought him in.”
“I'll see him after the ceremony,” Blett says as she turns her head back around, hoping that maybe one of the awards is for her.
Linhorst turns and walks back to the ICW. The soldier is still holding his mouth, and tears are running down his cheeks.
“She said she'll be here as quick as she can.”
Linhorst looks at the patient, though, and he can tell something is wrong. Marines are trained to deal with all types of pain, but this soldier is screaming, he is screaming through his eyes.
1617 HOURS, OR
“Where the hell is everyone? This is a hospital.” One of the Marines is beginning to get frantic; his friend hasn't been seen by anyone besides Specialist Linhorst.
Linhorst turns again and goes back toward the ER.
Colonel Jelly is still giving out awards and congratulating another one of the GOBs.
“Sergeant,” Linhorst whispers to Blett again. “I really think you should come look at this patient.”
Blett turns around and lets out a sigh saying, “Fine.”
“What seems to be the problem?” Blett asks, looking at the Marine in the chair, totally forgetting that his injury is in his mouth.
“It's about time. I think his jaw might be broken or something,” one of the Marines jumps in.
“Well, if that's the case there's nothing I can do. You'll have to wait for a doctor,” Blett says as she turns and walks back toward the ceremony.
1634 HOURS, OR
“Where's my soldier?” the Marine colonel says as he comes barreling into the ICW. “And where the hell is everyone in this damn hospital?”
The Marines promptly straighten their backs and stand at the position of attention; the injured one stays seated.
“Sir,” one Marine begins “Corporal Ellenberg is the injured one. His jaw is injured, maybe broken.”
“Broken? Well, what did the doctor have to say?”
“Sir. The doctors haven't seen him yet.”
“Marine, what the hell do you mean he hasn't been seen yet? I got the call twenty minutes ago about the injury. How long have you been here?”
“Sir. We have been here …” the Marine looks down at his watch, “a little over a half-hour.”
The Marine colonel turns and looks at Linhorst. “Where the hell is the doctor, and why hasn't my Marine been seen in a half-hour?”
“Sir. Our doctors are all at a ceremony in the ER. I got my section leader, Sergeant Blett, but she went back to the ceremony. She said he needed to wait to see a doctor.”
“Well, soldier, I want a doctor to look at my Marine and I want them to do it now! No section leader, I want a damn! doctor. I mean this is a hospital, isn't it?”
“Yes, sir,” Linhorst says as he turns around and heads toward the ER. The Marine colonel follows him.
“Excuse me, sir,” Linhorst whispers, tapping on the shoulder of one of the ER doctors.
“What is it, soldier?” the doctor replies, unable to take his eyes off of Colonel Jelly, who is once again s
tanding in front of the crowd of people.
“Sir, we have a patient that's waiting in the… .”
“Soldier, is the patient walking? Did he get he brought in by a helicopter?”
“Well, no sir, but….”
“Is he bleeding anywhere?”
“No, sir, but… .”
“I'll tell you what. I'll see him right after this… .”
The doctor then walks toward the stage with five other doctors as Colonel Jelly announces they'll all be getting awards for their great medical care.
Linhorst looks at the Marine colonel, and the colonel looks back; neither knows what to do.
1946 HOURS, OR
The ER doctor, whom Linhorst was talking to, finishes up giving a speech on giving good medical care and then walks back toward Linhorst and the Marine colonel.
“There, now was that so bad? Let's go see this patient,” the doctor says to Linhorst as he turns and walks toward the ICW.
WEEK 1, DAY 6, IRAQ
0730 HOURS, OR
“Anthony, you're in the case with me today,” Dr. Bill yells toward me. “We have a long case ahead of us. A Marine came in yesterday and his whole jaw is broken. We've got to rewire it. Did you bring your iPod?”
WEEK 2, DAY 4, IRAQ
2350 HOURS, MY ROOM
The new unit will replace us in about two more months. It means we have to start going through a process called out-processing. We have mental health tests done to see if any of us have PTSD (post-traumatic stress disorder) and get tested for all types of diseases that we could have got caught in-country.
“Ten months of everyone having sex with random people and now they finally decide it's time to check if they have any STDs,” Markham announces as he opens the door to our room. Reto, Denti, and I are watching a bootleg copy of the movie Superbad.
“I'm late getting out of work because we're doing everyone's damn STD tests and we're told not to put any of it on the damn books.”
“So how many confirmed?” Reto asks, not expecting a real answer.
“Only two so far, and you know what — Meade is totally free and clear.”
It's sad to hear about people and the circumstances that they'll have to deal with, all for making one bad decision. But Meade being clean? Reto reaches over onto my computer and pauses the movie.
“She should get checked again. Porpe was in my room the other day. She says she needs a place to hang out for a few hours. I ask her what's going on and she tells me that Meade is in her room getting gangbanged by three different Marines.”
I wish I could just forget everything and go back to thinking that everyone in the military is an American hero. I wish I still had someone to look up to, although I know it's impossible. None of it seems to make sense, and I can't understand how people can do what they do.
WEEK 3, DAY 6, IRAQ
0200 HOURS, MY ROOM
I wonder if someone feels an emotion but doesn't allow himself to express it … well, where does it go? If one man gives another man a present but the other man doesn't accept it, who does it belong to? If our mind, body, and heart send a message of what we're feeling but we refuse to accept it, where does it go? Bottled up until you become emotionally constipated? Some people become depressive, abusive, stressed, or destructive, and some people develop PTSD.
I've only cried six times in my life. We're warriors on the battlefield but cowards in our own minds and hearts. When something bad happens we retreat into our shells like scared turtles. We allow ourselves to become prisoners of our own walls, of our own making. Everything in life consists of cause and effect, yet often we refuse to acknowledge one or the other.
I am lying in bed crying, and it's probably going to save me from getting PTSD. When you push things down so far for so long and then finally let them go, they all come rushing out, and instead of being able to deal with things one at a time, you're forced to deal with things all at once. Some wait too long and can't handle the outpouring.
That's actually what I believe happened to Crade and why he tried to kill himself. When it happens, your mind goes blank, your body takes over, and you start to cry and your body begins to convulse as if looking for an exit for all the emotion. I keep crying into my pillow for I don't know how long. My mind slowly fades back. I stop and regain composure over myself. The first thing I think is: “Damn, I hope none of my roommates heard that.” I look around and they're all sleeping or at least pretending to be asleep. It's an absurd thought, and I begin chuckling. That I could have such a cathartic experience and the first thing I would think would be “I hope no one heard me.” I laugh at myself and it feels good, like it's coming from my core. I feel relieved. I feel as if an emotional weight had been lifted off my shoulders — twenty pounds death, twenty pounds hate, and ten pounds sadness. I feel like I do at the gym, knowing that from carrying all the weight I am now stronger for the next time. Then it starts again. More weight will pile on as I either accept or neglect feelings and thoughts. I can't cry anymore. For now it's all gone. It hit me as quick as a tsunami and left just as quickly.
WEEK 4, DAY 2, IRAQ
1000 HOURS, DOCTOR'S OFFICE
“Yes, sir, I'm having problems sleeping.”
“All right, soldier. I'm going to write you a prescription for Ambien.”
Melatonin takes too long, and I have to take too many pills to fall asleep, other pills aren't effective, Benadryl leaves me restless, and NyQuil leaves me drowsy the next day. The majority of our hospital is taking some type of sleep medication. Some take melatonin and some take NyQuil or something similar, and some people take a sleep medication called Ambien. Ambien is a powerful sleep medication, and it's easy to become addicted to it. If you take it one night then you can't sleep the next night, so you need to constantly take it. A lot of people in the unit are taking it and they swear by it. Proust tells me that if I take one of the pills and don't sleep, I will have trippy, yet awesome, hallucinations. At first I am hesitant. It could be more than I can handle. It could turn bad. Fuck it; I've got a prescription and it's free — which sounds better than paying five dollars a pill for Vicodin and Percocet.
MONTH 11
“I' VE SURVIVED ALL OF THIS, BUT I'M STILL AFR AID TO GO BACK TO THE RE AL WORLD.”
WEEK 1, DAY 4, IRAQ
2305 HOURS, MY ROOM
Reto is holding his computer with a shit-eating grin on his face.
“What is it, man, I was just about to go to sleep?”
Reto walks over and sits down on the bed next to me; I sit up and look at his computer screen. There's an image of Staff Sergeant Clementine naked and shoving a dildo into her ass.
“Wwooooah!” I say, staring at the picture and trying to take my eyes away at the same time.
“Someone asked Proust if they could copy some of the music from his computer and Proust said sure. But instead of copying just the music, they copied all the media files, including, music, videos, and pictures.”
Reto begins flipping through the pictures on his computer. They all consist of Clementine naked and shoving different adult toys into different holes; sometimes one at a time, sometimes two. Reto's slideshow ends with Clementine shoving almost her entire fist into her vagina.
“Everyone has the pictures now. Everyone just keeps sending them to everyone.”
Chandler walks in holding his computer and a can of Pepsi.
“Damn it, Reto beat me to it.”
WEEK 2, DAY 3, IRAQ
1440 HOURS, OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL
I'm signed up for extra duty detail. Thanks, Gagney.
“It starts at 1500 hours so leave now. You'll be filling sandbags behind the ER.”
I grab my coat and head behind the ER. There is a crew of six filling sandbags: three men holding the bags and three shoveling the sand in. Staff Sergeant Clementine is in charge of the detail, watching over everyone and making sure the sand goes properly in the bag.
“Soldier, you're late!” Staff Sergeant Clementine says t
o me as I pick up a shovel. “This detail started at 1430. Why are you late?”
I drop the shovel and stand at the position of parade rest, hands behind my back, legs shoulder-width apart.
“Sergeant, I was told the detail didn't start until 1500.”
Staff Sergeant Clementine starts to yell at me, and all I can see in my mind are the pictures Reto showed me. Clementine yells, and I see her trying to bite her own nipple. As she switches her weight from one leg to the other, I see a pink dildo penetrating her from behind. After a few minutes of this, she thinks I've had enough and then tells me to get to work. I need a cigarette.
WEEK 2, DAY 7, IRAQ
1330 HOURS, OR
A man has certain urges: The first one is to procreate and thus create something. The second is to fight or destroy something. The third one is probably some esoteric self-actualization, but I've never gotten that far so I have no idea what the third one is.
Mixed martial arts, Ultimate Fighting, and other blood sports are on the rise again. During the time of Roman rule, tens of thousand of people would load into the Collosseum to watch men fight each other to the death or get mauled by lions. That was thousands of years ago, and here we are today with the same hobbies. The only difference is now people don't fight to the death, just to the knowledge that one indeed could kill one's opponent if he doesn't pass out or tap out.
Boxing matches: 2000 Hours the sign reads as Reto and I open the door to the hospital. Our unit is going to have a sponsored boxing match for anyone willing to fight.
2001 HOURS, BOXING ARENA
“Ladies and gentlemen, and Marines, welcome to our boxing event… .”
Two men enter the ring. It's the lower weight class, and the two fighters look like they might weigh two hundred pounds combined. They step into the ring, and their little fists of fury begin to pound one another.
2200 HOURS, BOXING ARENA
We've never had more fun in Iraq. Everyone is cheering. All it took for us to have a good time were hot dogs, hamburgers, and two men in a ring beating the shit out of each other. The boxing event even has ring girls (clothed) that the guys can holler at, and the women don't seem to mind because they all scream as the men come out of their corners, shirts off, sweating, bleeding, fighting hard. I'm not certain why everyone else enjoyed it, but I can say why I did: Watching two men enter a ring for no other purpose but to compete against each other and give 100 percent of themselves, knowing that there will only be one winner and one loser, is primal and cathartic.
Mass Casualties Page 16