by Marc Dauphin
The views and opinions expressed herein are the author’s and do not necessarily reflect those of the Canadian Forces or their Health Services Group.
To Christine
Thank you for waiting for me, and for sticking around after
For all the ones we couldn’t save
Foreword by Brigadier-General Jean-Robert Bernier
Introduction
Chapter 1 A Few Essential Concepts
Chapter 2 The Arm
Chapter 3 Lessons Learned
Chapter 4 Who Is This Dauphin Guy?
Chapter 5 Mr. Wiggly
Chapter 6 The Day the Australians Came
Chapter 7 Quiet Members of the Team
Chapter 8 What Happens to Our Soldiers After the Role 3?
Chapter 9 The Bicycle
Chapter 10 FOBs
Chapter 11 The Collector
Chapter 12 Mr. Rice Man
Chapter 13 Head “Injury”
Chapter 14 Darn Pilots
Chapter 15 Can We Try …?
Chapter 16 Mortuary Affairs
Chapter 17 Incidents
Chapter 18 September
Chapter 19 Cyprus
Chapter 20 Home
Chapter 21 Return to Normal
Chapter 22 PTSD
Appendix A Chain of Evacuation and Principles of Care
Appendix B The NATO “9-Liner”
Appendix C TRAUMA 101: Trauma Care for the Uninitiated
Appendix D Ramstein
Acknowledgements
In early 2006, the Canadian Forces took possession of a ramshackle plywood medical facility in Kandahar with the task of turning it into NATO’s tertiary care (Role 3) hospital for Canadian and coalition forces. The Role 3 Multinational Medical Unit (R3MMU) was in the heart of Taliban country where much of the heaviest combat of the Afghanistan conflict would occur.
In delivering care to a vast number of casualties for almost four years, sometimes as the world’s busiest trauma centre, the R3MMU’s leaders and staff faced extraordinary challenges. They had to rapidly establish and operate at maximum capacity a full-service trauma centre in a desert environment halfway around the world with almost no supporting domestic infrastructure. They had to integrate and form into cohesive teams military and civilian staff from several countries with variably different medical scopes of practice, medico-legal frameworks, and medical cultures. The rudimentary infrastructure offered limited protection from an outside environment of extreme heat, ubiquitous fine dust, and wind that posed problems for ventilators, CT scanners, other equipment, surgery, critical care, and infection control. Almost daily, the staff treated horrific injuries among the victims of often indiscriminate violence inflicted by a barbaric enemy whose contempt for the laws of armed conflict, basic human rights, and the lives of Afghans knew no bounds. They had to live in very spartan conditions while on continuous call for months at time, contend with intercontinental medical supply and evacuation lines of communication, keep operating while under enemy rocket fire, and provide the same compassionate and professional care to Taliban casualties as to their mutilated child and adult victims. Above all, they had to provide a very high standard of clinical readiness and care in order to ensure that Canadian and allied combatants would retain their will to fight.
How, despite such incredibly difficult conditions, did the R3MMU achieve the highest war casualty survival rate in history, higher than the survival rates of major North American trauma centres, and become only the second recipient ever of NATO’s highest honour for medical support? Because of the professional skill, innovation, and dedication of the staff: from Canada, Britain, the United States, Holland, Denmark, New Zealand, and Australia. And it was also because of the courage, valour, and self-sacrifice of our medical technicians, eight of whom were killed in action, who provided immediate life-saving care on the battlefield. Because of the heroic efforts of so many other members of Canada’s armed forces and the support of the Canadian government, who gave us whatever we needed. And, just as critically, because of leaders like Marc Dauphin.
Marc is the kind of military and medical leader who can motivate people to do more under difficult conditions than seems possible, while maintaining professional focus and calm in the midst of crisis and chaos. Since I was responsible for health service support to all Canadian operations during Marc’s leadership of the R3MMU, I knew him as a highly skilled emergency physician and superb officer who earned the profound respect and trust of those who served under his command. He had given up the comfort and safety of civilian practice to resume full-time service and risk his life overseas in order to help protect his military colleagues and relieve suffering among Afghans. I was not at all surprised to learn that Colonel Xavier Marks, the magnificent R3MMU commander in the TV series Combat Hospital, was based on Marc Dauphin. In saving the lives of so many Afghans and their allies during his rotation, he and his team helped earn Canada the gratitude of Afghanistan’s people and the tremendous international respect that we now enjoy as medical leaders. It is heartening to see how, when facing a dark threat, the noblest qualities of our civilization are manifested among so many Canadians, particularly the willingness to courageously sacrifice with stoic and disciplined determination and without regard for personal self-interest in order to protect others. As Montaigne recognized, the great joy of military service arises largely from working with people like Marc Dauphin to whom this quality is not only intrinsic, but occupationally essential.
The conflict has been tragic for Afghans, as well as for their allies who have sacrificed so much to help protect them. The Canadian leadership of the R3MMU and its unprecedented success were nevertheless historic achievements that earned Canada great esteem across NATO nations. This record of Marc Dauphin’s personal experiences and reflections presents details of the reality and the challenges that news reports could not convey. It is an important contribution to the history of our longest conflict, of the supporting role of health professionals from Canada and allied nations, and of the extraordinary accomplishments that we can achieve when united in a noble endeavour. Marc’s story is that of non-combatants, but their critical contribution to the higher purpose of Canada’s armed forces and mission in Afghanistan calls for reflection on Pericles’s advice that has lamentably proven so prophetic throughout history: “Then take them as your example, like them remember that happiness can only be for the free, and that freedom is the sure possession of those alone who have the courage to fight for it.”
Militi Succurrimus
Brigadier-General Jean-Robert Bernier,
OMM, CD, QHP, BA, MD, MPH, DEH
Surgeon General
It was a weather-beaten jumble of windowless plywood buildings. As an afterthought, shipping containers, tents, and pieces of a self-deployable hospital were adjoined here and there. On the dusty, sun-baked plain below some steep, ragged mountains, the hospital lay by the runway, behind ten-foot-high concrete blast walls, a few kilometres out from the ancient Taliban capital of Kandahar. Yet, in spite of its uninviting appearance, this was where thousands of lives were saved by the most advanced trauma technology known to man, technology that may be in Western hospitals in five, maybe ten years, once the lawyers and professors have finished debating the merits of each new intervention.
For nearly four years, under Canadian command, the Role 3 Multinational Medical Unit (R3MMU) had been getting bigger and bigger, until its first commanders would hardly have recognized it. From the inside, that is. From the outside, apart from the added sections, it was still dominated by that single-slant plywood roof that leaked like a sieve under the winter rains that followed the eight months of searing heat.
It was also my office and my home for the six months that I was the Role 3’s l
ast Canadian Officer Commanding (OC). It was there that my team of professionals and I, from a dozen different countries, saved lives and saw ours changed forever. War does that to you. Even though we were forewarned, we are still amazed at how different we are now from the people who left their country to serve there.
Little did we know, in April 2009, that we were going to make history. That with that last Canadian six-month tour (or “roto,” as we called it) we would be treating an unprecedented number of severe casualties, a number not seen by Canadian health care professionals since perhaps the Korean War, and probably not since the Second World War. And that the casualties, because of quicker evacuation techniques and improved life-saving first aid, would be so severe that we — all the Role 3s in Iraq and Afghanistan — would be the first ever to receive people alive with such catastrophic injuries. In previous wars, most such casualties died before making it to advanced care. Now we had to save them.
The Health Services Group in Canada had been expecting a surge in the number of casualties for the summer of 2009. So in three weeks they had trained us on three months’ worth of simulated casualties. It turned out that they got it just about right. Except we just got hit a little harder, that’s all. Of the total number of casualties seen in the seven rotos during which Canada was responsible for the hospital, nearly 40 percent came in during the last one, Roto 7 — ours. And yet we maintained spectacular numbers: if you arrived at the R3 with vital signs, you had a 97 percent chance of leaving alive.
Full hospital, and a nightmare. What if ten wounded soldiers come in all at once? Where would we put them? The admission dates tell me this was probably taken July 14. The two last patients on the board are detainees, who cannot be sent to cells until they can take care of themselves. Thus, their long hospital stays.
A Few Essential Concepts
Before we begin, here are a few things to bear in mind.
The CF is the Canadian Forces, comprising the Royal Canadian Navy, the Canadian Army, and the Royal Canadian Air Force. To care for its members, the CF has the CFHS Group, or CF Health Services Group, which comprises physicians, also called medical officers or MOs (both specialists and family physicians); physician assistants (PAs); nurses (general duty nursing officers, or GDNOs); ICU nurses, or critical care nursing officers (CCNOs); nurse practitioners, operating room (OR) nurses, and mental health nurses; medical technicians (called med techs, or medics); social workers; medical administrators; pharmacists; preventive medicine techs (PMed techs); radiology technicians (or DI techs, for diagnostic imagery); biomedical equipment techs (or BE techs); lab techs; OR techs; dentists; dental assistants and hygienists; and physiotherapists. In addition, we are supported by supply techs, drivers, and clerks, who all have their own branches of service but serve with us. And let’s not forget our clergymen in uniform, the padres. All these people can be of any of the three services. The head of the CF HS is the surgeon general of the CF, presently an army officer, Brigadier-General J.R. Bernier.
The KAF Role 3, or simply the Role 3, is the Kandahar Air Field (KAF) Multinational Medical Unit (or Role 3 MMU). More about its capacities and why it’s called that will come later.
The CF deploys its members in Afghanistan on rotos, or tours of six to nine months. These tours are numbered, starting with Roto 0. During our combat mission in south Afghanistan, called Operation Athena, we went to Roto 11.
Master Corporal J.F. Vaillancourt, a diagnostic imaging tech (DI Tech) checks his work at the end of his tour, just before going back to Canada. In 2011, he returned to Kandahar for another roto in the now–U.S. Navy Role 3, where he distinguished himself as a hero (though he would tell you he isn’t). An Afghan would-be suicide bomber was brought in with her unexploded belt still on. Master Corporal Vaillancourt volunteered to do the CT scan while everyone else vacated the hospital.
Our U.S. Navy Augmentation Team had these T-shirts made. That last sentence wasn’t true. The U.S. Navy was very generous with us, staffing parties with incredible presents for all.
This book tells a few stories about what happened in the Role 3 during Roto 7, from April 2009 until October 15, 2009 — the day Canada formally handed over control of that hospital to the U.S. Navy.
I was the OC of the Role 3 during that period. My job was to see to the day-to-day operations of the hospital. Above me there was a CO, Colonel Danielle Savard, a Canadian pharmacist and administrator. We also had a task force surgeon, Lieutenant-Colonel Ron Wojtyk, a Canadian physician who was the senior medical authority (SMA) there. I also had a relationship with the NATO physician who was the adviser to the NATO commander of the region, Captain Bos of the Royal Netherlands Navy. Sound complicated? It is.
This is not the history of the Role 3. It is a collection of images that I remember from my time over there. I do not presume to tell the whole story, as I was not in a position to see everything. Although, as OC, I did see a lot.
I will also not speak of our Canadian wounded other than in general terms. The Canadian Forces takes the issue of patient confidentiality very seriously.
Emotion
In this book, there is a lot of emotion. Strange, I know, for an emergency room doctor to have emotions. Yes, I do admit that I am a strange bird. I wasn’t always, though. At first, I was just another ER doc. But then, in my late thirties, I got this weird notion: the notion that I could be a writer. So I started writing. Perhaps it was Stephen King who said, after someone told him that they’d like to write, “Writing is a profession just like any other. You can’t wing it as a writer any more than I could wing it as a brain surgeon.”
But I’m a natural storyteller. So, I figured that, with a little work, I could … yeah. A little work.
Anyway, after some years of practice, I got down to writing my first novel. A few years later, I handed it to an editor. “It’s a damn good story, Marc, but it’s not a novel,” he said. “It’s a movie script. Go back and write me a novel.”
I must have looked really dumbfounded because he proceeded to explain (he’s a very patient man), “You’re telling me the story from the outside, as a camera would. In a novel, you have to get inside your characters’ heads.”
Okay. Sounded easy. But it wasn’t. I just couldn’t get the hang of it. Frustrated, I turned to my wife.
“Marc, you’re cold, analytical. You describe without emotion. You’re distancing yourself from the people in your story. As if you were an ER physician.”
“But I am an ER physician.”
“Not when you’re trying to be a novelist.”
She let that one sink in, then asked, “How do your characters feel?”
Still I didn’t understand. Again she helped. “You have to feel what your characters feel. Then, only then, can you tell the story in such a way that your readers will feel it, too.”
I tried. Then one day, that switch in my brain flicked on, the one that lets you get inside your characters. Eureka! I had discovered how to dig inside my head, grab my emotions, and tear them out to put them on paper. It was like acting, only with the written word. I was starting to get somewhere.
So I rewrote my novel, starting with a blank page.
That took care of a couple more years.
“Not bad …” said the editor.
I took the manuscript back. “I don’t like it either,” I said. And I rewrote it from scratch — again.
Another few years passed. Maybe Mr. King did have something.
But then a funny thing happened. My ER medical practice became harder and harder. I even found myself getting upset about a patient one night.
“Once you’ve opened that floodgate, Marc, you can never close it again,” said my wife.
Fortunately, that was about the time I decided to get out of the ER.
So that’s the reason my writing is so emotional, rather than cold, factual, and analytical. Now you know why. And now my comrades will understand why I was such a weird fellow on tour.
The Arm
When you
get back home, make sure you tell everybody what you did here.
— Lieutenant-General Lessard, Commander of
Canadian Expeditionary Force Command, Summer 2009
It was a balmy 35°C evening; the boy was one breath away from death. We gazed down at his tortured little body. He couldn’t have been more than eleven. How he had managed to survive up to now, we couldn’t understand. He had already been operated on in Mirwaïs, Kandahar’s main civilian hospital. While there, the surgeons had tried to reattach his left arm, which had been almost severed just below the shoulder. The wounds had been badly closed, and now the raw, dried, rotting flesh under the skin was exposed. The external fixator had been clumsily installed. I didn’t need to check the pulse in the arm: there wouldn’t be one. The swollen, blackened flesh below the wound was just a jumble of dead cells. That the surgeons had failed to save the arm was obvious. Except to the boy’s father, who kept pleading with us to save it.
In more than thirty years’ experience with maimed and torn bodies, I had never seen a totally black limb. Frostbitten, dead toes, yes. But a whole arm? I was surprised that there was no smell, other than the usual stink of rotting flesh. This was not gaseous gangrene, the infection that kills in a few hours. This was “dry” gangrene, the black, drying, mummifying transformation of cells into parchment. The boy didn’t have an IV. He was dehydrated and unconscious, and he was dying fast. His father had driven untold kilometres on dangerous roads, talked his way onto the base, carried his son in, and placed him on a stretcher in the resuscitation area, the trauma bays.