Paradise General

by Dave Hnida

  But even legends have their share of rough cases, and they don’t always have a Hollywood ending. Bernard was a top-notch cardiac surgeon in the real world and couldn’t accept that in this world some wounds just aren’t fixable. And even when you had a jaw-dropping performance, you still got shit on. After Bernard saved the Iraqi, he walked out of the OR and ran straight into one of the hospital administrators. Instead of “Holy shit” and “Great job,” the first thing out of this guy’s mouth was: “When do you think we’ll be able to discharge him?” Discharge him? How about we just save him first, then make sure he doesn’t die from surgical complications?

  Stuff like that made the normally urbane Bernard’s most widely used phrase a simple and profane one: “God, I hate this fucking war.”

  Our third surgeon is my roommate, Ian Nunnally. Great guy, especially to put up with me as a roommate. He comes from a military family and even served as an enlisted soldier himself before going on to medical school. An expert in burn care.

  He’s an enigma; how does an African American have such an Irish name? He explained it once but lost me somewhere over Great Britain. Kind of a libertarian by nature, it’s not hard to guess his views on the war and society by the way he yells at the closed circuit TV every night. “Who the hell is running our country?” The question was sometimes followed by a well-thrown boot.

  My other roommate, Mike Barron, is living proof of the old adage “You can take the man out of the Marines, but you can’t take the Marine out of the man.”

  Mike’s jarhead ways seem to have stuck with him, from the crew cut so flat you could set dinnerware on it to the ten-mile run he takes every day at the ungodly hour of 4 A.M. He never bitches about sleeping on a table in the middle of our room—hell, he never bitches about anything.

  For a guy you would think would be the most hard-core, he seems the most liberal, always questioning why we can’t go out on humanitarian missions to the villages and care for the Iraqi people. Flat head. Big heart.

  Then there’s Bill Stanton, he’s our orthopedic surgeon. Considering how many people come through this place with messed-up bones, he is the busiest of all.

  Bill simply doesn’t have time for excruciating details. When I’d be stabilizing a new trauma arrival in the ER, he’d say, “Dude, just don’t let him die. Find out what’s broken, and then send him to the OR. I’ll put him on my list.” And when the dude got to the OR, Bill would be waiting with the song “Bad to the Bone” thumping out of his boombox.

  Unfortunately, I seem to make a specialty out of bugging the guy. Ortho is definitely not my best event, so I am either calling him for minor things or having him clean up my mistakes. But Wild Bill never gets pissed.

  “Dude, you can sew that tendon. You don’t need me. Here, let me show you, dude.”

  “Dude, you missed the tibia. I know you were getting hammered, but, dude, you gotta look at those films better.”

  For a forty-five-year-old West Point graduate, he sure likes the word “dude.”

  Our other ER doc is Gerry Maloney. Smart as hell, he’s got this little ’70s porn star mustache that I think is going to meet the razor one of these days. A little plump when we got here, he works out so much I bet he’ll be a thin rail when we leave this place. He’s as calm as a cucumber even when things get crazy busy.

  Gerry has also got this high-pitched nasal monotone that would make a dog howl, plus he just loves military talk—and some other kind of talk none of us understands—like “that guy needs to run 40 into the wind.” He leaves us bewildered whenever words exit his mouth. But we love him anyway and are lucky to have him.

  The final member of the cast is our gas passer—Bob Blok aka Charlie Brown. Get it? Charlie Brown = Blockhead. A really funny guy, he is our anesthesiologist, and we appreciate the fact that he doesn’t doze off or read magazines during long cases—afflictions that affect too many gas passers back home. Another good guy to have around.

  The docs look out for each other pretty well, we each have our areas of expertise and weaknesses. But none of us feels shy about going and asking for help when we run into a jam. And none of us ever makes anyone feel stupid for asking a question, a radical difference from what I run into back home sometimes. In many ways it reminds me of when I was playing baseball—I never realized how much I miss having a group of best friends.

  Kindness seems to be the middle name of the doctors I work with. More than once, I’ve collapsed in an exhausted heap after a long day or a tough surgery and awakened to find myself covered by a blanket that wasn’t there when I feel asleep. And there’s always a tray of food sitting waiting to be eaten since I’ve slept through a meal or two.

  It’s an interesting life here. We get up, go to breakfast, go to work, then come back to our rooms. Nowhere to drive to, no wheels to drive with. But then again, there’s not much to see, we live in a small corner of the base and don’t venture out. Our main way to blow off steam is to go to the gym and work out, which is something I do pretty much every day.

  That’s not to say there isn’t entertainment if you want some. We doctors tend to stay on the sidelines but do get a front-row seat to the shenanigans that keep people sane during war. We don’t booze it at all—it’s not like M*A*S*H, where you knock down a couple of homemade martinis after a day of mayhem. We are on call 24/7 and always need enough warm bodies in case of incoming wounded. That’s not to say the rest of the hospital lives the life of puritans. Anything but. If you want booze, it’s available—much of it gin or vodka with blue food coloring and sent in mouthwash bottles, or small bottles of hooch stuffed in the cardboard rolls of toilet paper sent from home. Everyone knows we need toilet paper here so no one thinks twice about inspecting boxes from home filled to the brim with TP. As for other substances, let’s say I don’t even want to know what comes out of the hookah that was smoked at parties.

  And if you wanted sex, you didn’t need to go far. Some deeds were done in dark places—on top of the latrine, next to the laundry facility, your room if your roommate was gone (or even wasn’t gone, feigning sleep). The best show in Iraq took place one night when a chopper circled round and round over the roof of the ICU for ten minutes with its bright spotlight shining on a couple coupling. God it was loud. Even the helicopter.

  The best deal of all is if you were lucky enough to have a single room. One guy and his favorite nurse had a regularly scheduled afternoon delight in his private abode every day at 4 P.M. For a dollar a minute, we’d let soldiers borrow a stethoscope and listen through the plywood walls.

  We do have some parties here; the week we arrived, we had a welcome shindig on the roof of our building complete with a live band from the 25th Infantry. Last week we had a toga party on the rooftop right outside my room.

  Most of us wore our shorts under our sheets, but some wore nothing but the sheet, which made it easier to sneak off to dark corners for a quickie. It’s funny, the invitees to these parties are mainly the worker bees from the hospital, I don’t think the administrators are invited. The parties are held on a regular basis to maintain sanity. Up next: Elvis has left Iraq. I wish I were Elvis. I think we all wish we were Elvis.

  I’ve got more but the tent and my teeth are starting to shake—a chopper is paying a visit, so got to run. Will call later. Love, Dad.

  10

  REBELS WITH A CAUSE

  WE DECIDED THE day would be a good one. It was the Fourth of July and we were going to make sure America’s birthday was celebrated in proper fashion. Except for the fact that as red-blooded American boys, we didn’t want to see any red blood on this holiday.

  The day started like most, with me bounding down the stairs to pick up Rick for a quick bite before rounds, pounding on the door, then launching into our daily repetition:

  “A-B-C-D.”

  It seemed like I lived in a preschool world, from memorizing my alphabet to take care of patients, to listening to decades-old advice from my father, to reciting the letters with Rick before
we launched off on some journey around the camp. I’d stand in Rick’s doorway and we’d both go through reminders of essential equipment before we set out the door. Forget an item, and it was trouble.

  “A” stood for arms; you always needed your pistol, even if you were just going for a run. “B” was for beeper, you carried your pager 24/7. “C” was for card, as in ID card. You couldn’t get into any building without showing an official picture of your face, even if the guards knew you. And “D” stood for reflector belt. Or in Rick’s terminology, deflector belt. Hence the “D.” No sense arguing with his mangled logic.

  The pistol was obviously important in a war zone, but when we wore it in a holster when dressed in exercise shorts and official Army T-shirts, there was no place to put the clips of ammunition. So we’d just leave our bullets behind, figuring we could always just throw our pistols at the enemy if the camp was attacked. After all, it was the administrators’ bright idea for us to leave our helmets and body armor at the hospital for safekeeping; I guess they felt confident the insurgents would be courteous and wait for us to sprint down and get our stuff before they started shooting or mortaring us.

  The deflector belt was probably the least essential of all. It was a simple elastic belt with a band of reflective material around it so the wearer could be seen at night. A good concept, except perhaps in a war zone where bad people with sniper rifles tend to lurk. But the omnipotent hospital administrators made their views clear: “We’d rather you get shot than run over by a truck.” So you got yelled at if you went out—day or night—without your reflector belt escort. I guess it was a matter of playing the odds.

  Otherwise, our life was like the movie Groundhog Day. Each day a repeat of the day before, and the days before that. We’d stumble over to a hasty breakfast, tell a few jokes, and stare bleary-eyed at a babbling TV. Like most days at Paradise General, we had no idea of what we were in for, an uncertainty that was hard on all of us. Its price was restless sleep—that’s if sleep would even come—and a never-

  ending search for distractions, whether it be hours spent jogging in the predawn heat or counting the porta-potties on the base. Our shared misery also found solace in the uniquely male world of ballbusting.

  The initial July 4th target was anesthesia. The tussle sounded just like the civil wars in hospitals back home: “In this corner, trying to put people to sleep while staying awake themselves: anesthesia. And in the far corner, a masked man with a sharp knife and giant ego: the surgeon. Let’s get ready to rummmmm … ble.”

  It was no different here; surgeons and gas passers took special pleasure slicing each other with insults.

  “Colonel Blok, what’s the deal with your patients? They keep on waking up when I’m trying to cut on them. Jeez, you couldn’t put a guy with narcolepsy to sleep.”

  “Reutlinger, even if you had the world’s sharpest scalpel you couldn’t cut a good fart.”

  Next on the fight card; surgeon pitted against surgeon.

  “Harry, you know Captain Dee was asking about you,” Rick said.

  “That’s right, Bernard, she was slinking around looking for your room last night. Making believe she was lost,” I added.

  Shaking his head rapidly and feigning indignation, Bernard answered, “What’s with you guys? She doesn’t like me. And I’ve got no time for any of this tomfoolery. Sweet Jesus, get back to your oatmeal.”

  Rick looked at me across the coffee-stained white tablecloth.

  “I don’t know any Tom Foolery. And Sweet Jesus isn’t going to help you if she sinks her claws into you.”

  Back home, we wouldn’t have thought of doing it, but in our world of war-induced immaturity, out it came: “Harry and Captain Dee sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, and then comes marriage, then little Harry in a baby carriage.”

  Bernard sputtered, then snorted a laugh.

  “You guys are useless. I’m third call today, so don’t bother me unless someone needs a bypass. I’m heading to work out.”

  Bernard was easily the camp Adonis. It seemed like every unattached woman, and probably a few married ones, swooned when he walked into a room. He was, by nature, sweet and smooth, but did little to encourage their flirtations and advances. Yet still they came, whether it was to the OR, the ER, the gym, or his room. Especially his room. So often, we thought it might be a good idea to put up one of those little “take-a-number” machines, the same kind you see at the supermarket deli, at the end of the hallway.

  “Number 22. Now serving number 22 for Lieutenant Colonel Harrison. Ma’am, what would you like today?”

  “I’ll take 195 pounds of that gorgeous hunk, please.”

  Man, we could have made a lot of money being pimps for this guy.

  After rounds, I trotted through every building and tent of the hospital, searching for the perfect cup of coffee, something thick, black, and possessing the ability to dissolve a spoon. I was on an anti-—foo-foo crusade. Then it was time to head to the ER and juggle paperwork with patients.

  A few weeks earlier Colonel Quick had handed out job titles; while Rick was named chief surgeon, I drew the official title of “Chief of Quality Assurance,” which meant I had to oversee and review everyone’s work. In my mind, my real title was “King of the Hospital.” The staff celebrated the coronation by making me a cardboard crown, and giving me a celebratory parade around the hospital in a wheelchair throne while I knighted a few folks with the touch of a crutch. I especially loved hearing “Your Royal Highness” as I rode, though the doctors tended to address me as “Your Royal Anus.”

  In truth, there was little to oversee—everyone did high-quality work—and all I needed to do was simply scribble my glowing monthly report.

  When I got to the ER, there was Rick, hiding out trying to avoid hemorrhoid patients in sick call. As I walked in empty-handed of real coffee and resigned to a not-so-perfect cup of Cinnamon Surprise, I heard a new round of ballbusting.

  “Nice head, sir.”

  “Need to borrow some floor wax to brighten that shine?”

  “They’re asking for you over at the pool hall, sir. Seems the cue ball is missing.”

  Rick had just gotten a super-buzz-cut haircut the day before, and now was a bright shining beacon for the medics’ jokes. They all wore sunglasses to cut down the glare from Rick’s head.

  “Dr. Reutlinger, I think there’s a blown-up condom sticking out of your neck.”

  He was always a good sport, even though the ones flinging the insults were young enough to be his kids.

  In fact, it was a special treat for all of us when Rick came wandering through the workplace—it was as if he wore a sign on his back that said, “Please Poke Fun at Me.”

  That meant a not-too-ill patient who needed a surgical consultation often got a pompous introduction: “I’m going to have a specialist come in and examine you. He’s right over there. Rick Reutlinger, MD—Mentally Deranged.”

  Or a whispered warning to an unsuspecting patient.

  “Ever hear that bad things tend to happen in threes? Well, Dr. Reutlinger has already killed his three patients this week, you’re number four so you’re safe. But first let him go outside and have a drink to steady his hands.”

  Rick would just roll his eyes and say a two-syllable Oklahoma-twanged, “Da-ve.”

  Maybe that’s why we all got along so well—it was no harm, no foul. We’d slam each other, the staff would slam us, and no one got offended or acted like an arrogant asshole.

  In honor of the holiday, a few of the female medics stuffed socks into their crotches for the “extra built” look. I decided I would wear an oversized “Uncle Sam” hat while working. And asked which doctor I was going to be for the day. The medics started scribbling on strips of adhesive that I’d tape to my shirt. The choices were many: Dr. Lance Boyle, Dr. C. Menn, and Dr. Jacques Strapp. The winner was a play on a common bumper sticker seen on the back of some tractor-trailers: “How’s my doctoring? Call 1-800-TOUGH-SHIT.”


  Rick shook his lightbulbed head in mock despair.

  “You’re going to get in big trouble one of these days, Davy-boy.”

  Yet Rick couldn’t claim total innocence in our world of pranks.

  It was his idea when we were finished using the porta-potty to put up a sign that said, “Mission Accomplished.”

  And his idea to speak fake Japanese to the chow hall workers or other camp staff every Monday while making Tuesday fake Norwegian day. He even invented a new language—“Charabic,” a combination of Chinese and Arabic. We had no idea how to speak either language; then again, Rick couldn’t speak decipherable English.

  And it was his idea to develop a different style of walking for our daily treks to the hospital. His favorite was Wednesday, the day we “walked like an Egyptian” across the camp.

  But not everyone had a healthy sense of humor. Especially some of the administrators, a group whom some of the medics referred to as the “Three Stooges.” Moe, Larry, and Curly just walked by the doctors as if we were invisible—and that was courteous treatment compared to what they offered the hospital staff. Worse, the pompous trio would often stroll around the ER with their pistols strapped on while we were dealing with a roomful of patients. For some reason they thought they were immune from the “all weapons must be locked up” rule. The medics would quip, “That guy thinks he’s Dirty Harry or something.” I dreamed of the day one of them was going to shoot himself by accident and I would say, “Sorry, I’m not a proctologist so I don’t know how to take care of someone like you.”

  The Army pissed us off, too. There was one case in particular that boiled our eggs—a day Rick had worked for hours trying to save a kid with a bad belly wound. The case was a messy one and by the time Rick finished, he could literally wring his socks of the blood that had spilled off the body and run down his legs. Since all the squeezing in the world couldn’t save those socks, they went straight into the trash, and Rick went off to meet me at chow. That’s where he was turned away: no socks, no service. And no explanation in the world could grant him a reprieve and a meal. Even: I’m a surgeon—long case—critical patient—lots of blood—you don’t want that blood in here—you stop serving in five minutes—no time to go to the barracks and get a fresh pair.