Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (11 page)

“No need to raise your voice, Sergeant Hudge. Sergeant Gagney is just concerned about you and I think he might be right,” replied the chaplain.

“He only came in here so
I
couldn't come to you first. He blew up at
me
the other day. If I complain about him, it will only look like revenge.”

“Sergeant Hudge, you need to stop raising your voice.”

Hudge stops the story and lowers her head.

“He was talking to me like I was a lunatic and Gagney was a saint. My voice wasn't raised at all.

“I storm out of the chaplain's office after about twenty minutes of listening to this bullshit. Of course, not before he had a chance to give me pamphlets on suicide and depression.” Hudge throws the pamphlets down on the table.

“So I went to the mental health office. I figured there I'd at least be able to tell my side of the story, but once I got there … they're doing the same thing.”

“Sergeant Hudge, glad to see you. You look good. Can I get you a drink? How are you feeling? Are you all right? You look good.”

“I'm all right….”

“Good, good. I was expecting you. I'm not sure if you are aware of this, but Sergeant Gagney stopped by earlier to see me and I… .”

“Are you kidding me? This is harassment, this is bullsh… .”

“Sergeant Hudge, no need for any language. I know you've been having some problems and Sergeant Gagney is only trying to help. Maybe if we can just talk for a little while we can get to the bottom of what's bothering you and causing you to lash out at everyone. Sergeant Gagney and I just want to help.”

“
He's
the one who's been going around to everyone and telling them I have an anger problem — ”

“Sergeant Hudge, no need to yell. We're in the same room. Why do you think that you have a problem with anger?”

“I. Don't. Have. A. Problem. With. Anger. Gagney does! He's the one who has the problem….”

“Let's not point fingers or call anyone names. I'm right here.”

“This is a riot. We don't give Gagney enough credit. He's a genius. He's a fucking diabolical genius!” Reto is laughing uncontrollably.

“And here's the best part.” Hudge goes on, the smile back on her face. “After I see mental health, now I'm really steaming, but I've still got to go see the chief ward masters. I go there and try to tell them about what happened and how Gagney tried to set me up.

“He went to the chaplain and mental health and told them that I have anger problems and that I'm depressed….”

“Yes, we are aware that Sergeant Gagney talked to them. We suggested that he talk to them and that it might help. We're glad you both were able to work things out,” the chief ward masters reply calmly.

“Work things out?! Work things out?! He lied to everyone, he lied to us all. He made me cry…. I'm the one who has to go see the chaplain… . THIS IS INSANE!”

“Sergeant Hudge, just before you came in here, the chaplain stopped by. He said he was concerned about you and thinks Sergeant Gagney might be right.”

Hudge stops talking. Her cheeks are flushed.

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

WEEK 4, DAY 3, IRAQ

0545 HOURS, GUARD DUTY, EAST GATE

“And you, soldier, you will be guarding the East Side Gate,” Staff Sergeant Elwood says to me. He's the sergeant in charge of guard duty, and he always seems to be smiling, even at 0545 in the morning. We're way in the middle of nowhere at the far end of the airport. The gate is seldom used; it's only for incoming Iraqis who work on the base. The station is a tiny wooden box that has two doors and one window. Inside there's a desk but no chairs. The job is deceptively simple:

All we — I'm assigned with another specialist by the name of Boredo — have to do is check people's IDs.

Formerly active duty infantry, Boredo loves to tell stories of his unit fighting battles. He then joined the reserves to become a medic. Denti and Boredo are a little alike, although Boredo seems like a child who wants to look up to an adult for help.

0700 HOURS, GUARD DUTY, EAST GATE

It's only one hour into guard duty and I feel like shooting myself. Better yet, I feel like shooting Boredo. I have already seriously considered punching him in the face twice, but every time I look at him — and I see those deer-caught-in-the-headlights eyes — I feel bad. I just can't do it.

“So then my unit ended up killing like twenty terrorists. Honestly, there's no feeling like the feeling of taking a man's life. It makes you feel alive. If you ever get a chance you should go outside the gate and see what it's really like, when you're not in the safety of your little hospital,” Boredo says. I try to be friendly and act like I'm interested, resisting the urge to slap him. I know all I've got to do is hit him once and he'll shut up.

“Really? So how many did you kill?” I say instead of punching him. This is like the tiniest room I've ever been in.

“Well … I wasn't really there — ”

“You weren't there when you killed them?” They really should give us a bench or something.

“ — with them.”

“I'm sorry. With who?”

“Okay, this happened when I wasn't there; it was after I left my infantry unit and joined this one — ”

“Oh.”

“But I heard all the stories, it was intense. One time my unit was held up in this alley — ”

“Ah, okay,” I reply.

“Well anyways, man, one time my unit was held up in this alley as they're getting ambushed…. ”

Punch him…. Do it now….

2000 HOURS, GUARD DUTY, EAST GATE

It's 8 P.M. and Boredo and I are back on shift. We have been back on since 6 P.M.

“… Then I ran into this burning building and pulled out five guys that were about to be executed. Well, I didn't so much as do it as one of the guys in my old unit did, but man, you've got to get out of the wire so you can experience that stuff.”

“Have you ever actually been outside the gate yourself?”

“Well, no, but….”

Hit him….

BAAAMMM. BAAAAMMMM. BAAAAMMMM. BOOOMMMM.

BUNKERS! BUNKERS! BUNKERS! is shouted over the loudspeaker. This is really happening. Boredo and I lock the doors of the gate and grab our gear: a bulletproof flak vest, Kevlar, weapon, gas mask, and radio.

We're under attack again. It's been happening so often that it now feels like part of our daily routine. Wake up, eat breakfast, go to work, eat lunch, have a mortar attack, mortar attack ends, eat dinner, go to sleep, then repeat. Lately all the mortar rounds have been hitting the edges of our base and not making it on base, but these rounds sound close. They're loud. I have never been on guard duty during a mortar attack before. We lock the door behind us and start running for bunkers. The closest ones are fifty yards away. All of our gear is cumbersome and hanging loose. It slows us down as we run. I accidentally drop my Kevlar. I stop but Boredo keeps running. I see another soldier running for the bunker. I quickly pick up my Kevlar and start running.

BAAAAAAMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

I see a flash of blue. The noise is so loud that my ears are ringing.

BAAAAAAMMMMMMM!!!!!!!

I see another flash of blue. The mortars are hitting close. I've never seen the light of one before. I run for my life because the mortars are only twenty yards away.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang.

I hear gunfire; it's just above my head. It's coming from an Albanian guard post that's twenty feet in the air. They're part of the multinational forces that are on our base. The Albanians are in charge of base defense, and their tower is just above my head. They're firing at something, but I can't see what.

I run faster. My heart is beating; I feel alive. I feel like this is what life is meant to feel like. I have a goal of getting to the bunker, and I am using all my might and force to get there. I run and use every bit of energy my body has and it feels … great.

When I get to the bunker, Boredo and Staff Sergeant Elwood — the one who always smiles — are already there.

“I think that was the closest I've ever been to a mortar going off. I mean the closest without being in a bunker. We better get a CAB badge for this,” says Elwood.

Boredo lights up at the mention of this.

A CAB badge is a Combat Action Badge — they're awarded to medical personnel for being in a combat situation. Elwood and Boredo are getting as excited as kids on Christmas morning because they think they'll qualify. The award isn't given for being in a bunker when mortars are hitting around you. You need to be within twenty-five yards of an unprotected area. Since we weren't in the bunkers when they started to hit, we qualify.

I'm trying to catch my breath as they yammer on, anxiously awaiting the ALL CLEAR from the loudspeaker.

Boredo is getting out of control. He now can tell a war story that he's actually in. “That was sooo intense. I can't wait to tell the guys from my old unit. But geez, I hope no one was as close to the mortars as us.”

I'm breathing deeply into my diaphragm, my adrenaline is still pumping. I have never felt anything like this. I've just run faster than I've ever run before, faster than on my first day here. I was within yards of mortars going off. Shrapnel was probably shooting all around me. I could have almost died or been wounded, yet it was a rush. The only difference is that I don't want an award.

Actually, I'm amazed and sickened; they seem unaware or don't care how close we just came to death. At this moment, I vow to never receive any ribbons. Why would I need an award for surviving an attack? If that's the case, all the survivors should get one. Is that a good word to call veterans, merely
survivors
?

WEEK 4, DAY 4, IRAQ

0730 HOURS, OR

I'm in a better mood than I've been in for a while. I feel rambunctious and a little mischievous, and I decide to pull a prank. My target is Hudge because she's having the toughest time right now. The plan is that Crade, who has also been looking a little downtrodden lately due to problems he's experiencing with his soon to be baby's mother — anyway, I don't want to go into it here; he's going to help me.

1430 HOURS, OR

While I finish up my last surgery, Crade is informing everyone else of our plan. The thought of an overweight Satanist on tiptoes whispering into everyone's ears, with all his BO after a shift, is cracking me up.

1500 HOURS, OR

I'm scrubbed in for surgery and we're about to begin a fasciotomy, a procedure to relieve pressure in the muscle or tissue, on the left leg of a patient. Since this wound is on the left leg, during surgery the only thing showing is the leg; everything else is covered with sterile sheets. I tell Reto to have Hudge scrub me out and take over my surgery so I can go home for the day. Immediately the doctor starts yelling at her, asking what took her so long to get scrubbed in. Giving him a look that says “Fuck off,” Hudge changes positions with me, and I hand the case over to her. As I'm telling her where all the instruments are — and what to expect for the case — the patient starts convulsing badly, his entire body shaking under the sheets.

The doctor looks at Hudge.