Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (2 page)
Read Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq Online
Authors: Michael Anthony
Tags: #General, #Biography & Autobiography, #Historical, #epub, #ebook, #Military
“Compelling. Frank. Funny. Disturbing. Michael Anthony loses his innocence in a slow-motion train wreck you can't help but watch.
Mass Casualties
opens up a brand new conversation on the War in Iraq.”
Damon DiMarco
Author of
Heart of War: Soldiers' Voices from the Front Lines of Iraq
“If you are afraid of the TRUTH don't read this book. SPC Michael Anthony's personal experience of WAR has no censor. Reading his book is a journey into the battlefields of death, sex, and the loss of his innocence.”
Lawrence Winters
Vietnam Veteran; Author of
The Making and Un-making of a Marine
“
Mass Casualties
is a terrific story of war, emergency medicine, and the men and women who suffer to treat wounded soldiers and civilians. On top of this, he tells the story beautifully, managing to convey both the chaos and the boredom of life in a combat zone.”
John Merson
Vietnam Veteran; Author of
War Lessons
“A raw and uncompromising account of one Army medic's experience in Iraq.”
Tim Pritchard
Journalist; Author of
Ambush Alley: The Most Extraordinary Battle of the Iraq War
“A heart-wrenching tale of the war in Iraq imbued with a sense of outrage, but judicious in its descriptions of those who tried to change things.”
Robert K. Brigham
Professor of History and International Relations; Author of
Iraq, Vietnam, and the Limits of American Power
To the men and women of my unit in Iraq:
It no longer matters how we got here,
only where we go from here.
The stories contained herein represent one man's journey in Iraq; they do not represent any organization or person other than the author. Names, identities, and small facets of stories have been changed to supply anonymity for the characters involved. Although everything written is based on Michael Anthony's experiences while in Iraq — based on his own recollection and journal entries — they do not represent word-for-word documentation; instead they are retold as if the reader were in the room with the author as he explains the stories.
Everything that follows has been verified by Anthony and several fellow soldiers who served with him while in Iraq.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank all of the great people at Adams Media for their hard work and dedication to my book. A big thanks to my editor Andrea Norville, Karen Cooper, Beth Gissinger, Paula Munier, Wendy Simard, Frank Rivera, and Bob Shuman. Thanks to CR, MR, and ET — for letting me get away with not cleaning the house while I wrote.
REINTEGRATION
Straighten up, it's alright
You can look me in the eyes
True, I am an American soldier
Serving this country, called home
This does not mean
I've humiliated prisoners
Burnt villages
Or killed any babies,
I am just like you.
There was a time
When I felt the same
That this uniform meant something
I reached for it
And all it offered
Only to be led into war
By mercenaries — hopeless and blind
Now that my tour is over
Let me slip back into the world
That I left behind.
We are now, simply neighbors
Occupying the same tenement
With the rats in the basement
And the leaking roof.
So please, save your parade
I've got no use for it now
I was just, doing my job
Samuel W. Tarr
PROLOGUE
“You are going to war! It is no longer a question of if you are going to go, but a question of when. Look around! In a few years, or even a few months, several of you will be dead. Some of you will be severely wounded or so badly mutilated that your own mother can't stand the sight of you. And for the real unlucky ones, you will come home so emotionally disfigured that you wish you had died over there.”
It's week seven of basic training and my drill sergeant is preparing us for war, and the possibility that we might soon be dead. Eighteen years old and I am preparing myself to die.
MONTH 1
“THIS IS THE TIME WHEN LOGIC AND REASON NEED TO OVERRIDE EMOTION.”
WEEK 1, DAY 1, MOSUL, IRAQ
0900 HOURS, AIRFIELD
Loaded with gear — a three-pound helmet, thirty-pound armored vest, eight-pound weapon, and thirty-pound rucksack — we're running. There are four hundred of us from thirty-seven different states across the United States. All of us have been brought together to run the 178th Combat Support Hospital. In the plane we were briefed about how the bad guys love to bomb the airfield even though we're in Kurd territory, supposedly our allies.
A man is coming through; I tear my gaze from the sky. I automatically salute him, a colonel.
“What are you doing?”
The colonel glares right at me.
“Are you crazy?” Denti elbows me hard. “They want to take out the higher-ups, not the low ones on the totem pole.”
It's been almost two years since I've graduated basic training and was told I'd be going to war. Since then, I've finished a year of college and four months of pre-deployment training at Fort McCoy in Wisconsin. Now, here I am in Iraq with a small, thick, Greek man from Colorado named Denti. He acts like such a kid even though he's twenty-three, which makes him only three years older than me. Denti's always been a storyteller and I quickly learned to never believe
anything
he says, including the fact that he was a pimp, drug dealer, gang member, and a weightlifting power-lifter — he says he only joined the Army because he wanted to get away from the hectic lifestyle.
“If there was a sniper nearby and he saw you salute an officer, he'd know exactly who to kill. Didn't you ever watch
Forrest
fucking
Gump
?!” Denti yells, as he lights a cigarette.
The sky is yellow, orange, and brown scratched together — not like the blue sky in Boston. An Iraqi man is staring at us; I see him: He wears a black and white turban, which I know means he's been to Mecca. I'm not sure if I've seen skin tone like his before; it's golden auburn. I notice that it's the same color as the buildings, and the buildings are the same color as the sand blowing in my face. They're the same color as the sky. I think that if I were fifty feet away and there was a pile of sand, a building, and a naked Iraqi man, I wouldn't be able to differentiate between them. They all look like they belong together: the tiny buildings, the man with a face that's tired, the sand, the sky, and the sun.
In the distance is a dome, clearly American made; it doesn't belong at all. We're not supposed to be here either? It's the northern part of the country, a hot spot in Iraq. The enemy is looking for the officers, the leaders. Don't salute in a war zone.
Lesson learned.
WEEK 1, DAY 2, IRAQ
0730 HOURS, OR
I've got a belly full of bacon and eggs and I'm about to have my arms elbow deep in someone's stomach. I feel anxiety build up, but I know I can't show it. Someone's life is going to be in my hands. Not just a patient, but someone's son, daughter, brother, sister, mother, or father — in my hands. The worst part of surgery isn't the surgery itself, it's before the surgery when you're waiting and thinking. Thinking about what if I mess up, what if the patient dies and it's my fault. This is the time when logic and reason need to override emotion. Emotion can lead to death while reason and logic lead to life. If during surgery I let fear take over, I will become distracted and the patient will die, but if I
will
myself to stop thinking and let my muscle memory take over, the muscle memory that was programmed into me during my OR (operating room) schooling, then I know everything will be okay. Willing myself to stop feeling is nearly impossible, though. My body is full of emotions swirling around inside, with each one fighting to be the strongest. The fear hits, then the anxiety, then the nervousness. I stand there, taking it all in. I am paralyzed but I know what I must do. I close my eyes and breathe slowly and deeply. With the exhale, I tell myself that I don't care if the patient dies. I tell myself that emotions are pointless and that nothing matters. I open my eyes back up and the fear, anxiety, and nervousness are gone. I am blank. I feel nothing, and this is how it has to be.
I look over at Reto. He's scared; I can see it in his eyes. Although I've only known him for a few months, already he's a best friend. Reto, short for Retoller; he's from rural Maine, and to my surprise he
did
grow up with indoor plumbing. Not the redneck I expected him to be, he's actually a good-looking guy who could have been a model if it weren't for the fact that he's practically blind and wears quarter-inch-thick glasses. Reto joined the Army, specifically the medical field, because he wants to be a doctor and have the Army pay for his schooling.
“Well, this is it. This is what we're here for.” I try to calm him down and place my hand on his shoulder. Reto looks at me; his eyes are glossy and red.
“Thanks, man,” he says quietly.
Reto and I hold eye contact for a second, letting each other know we're ready to do this, and together we head toward the OR. That's how it's always been with Reto and me. Even though we've only been friends for a few months, we have the silent communication down that usually takes friends years to master. It was easy for us because we are very similar and we remind each other of friends back home. Reto reminds me of my friend Sam, who wears glasses and is a hillbilly. Reto says I remind him of his friend Tom, who is tall and pale.
The main reason Reto and I click, is not because of our strong bond with each other but because of our lack of bonds with everyone else. If I had heard one of Denti's stupid stories in the real world I would have walked away. Same goes for almost everyone else. But Reto is my best friend because I know that after this year is over he's the only one I'll be talking to.
The OR is small. The smallest I've ever seen. In fact, every room in our hospital is small. We have everything a hospital must have — in miniature form. We have an OR (operating room), an ER (emergency room), an ICU (intensive care unit), an ICW (intensive care ward), a respiratory clinic, a mental health clinic, a patient administration section, an X-ray section, and a pharmacy. Everything you think a hospital should have — with the exception of a maternity ward.
In the OR we only do three surgeries at a time because that's the number of beds we have. Even worse is that in one of our rooms we have two OR beds placed only a few feet apart. This means we'll often have two surgeries going on at the same time in the same room. Not the most sterile setup in the world, but we're short on staff and short on space, just not short on patients.
The ICU and ICW can only hold sixteen patients each. This means a constant rotation going in and out. Whether the patients are Iraqi or American, we have to move them to another place as quickly as possible or we'll have no room for the incoming.