Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (29 page)

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 to 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.

WEEK 3, DAY 4, IRAQ

1330 HOURS, OUTSIDE THE HOSPITAL

“Anthony… .” I hear someone yell my name. It's Sergeant Cardoza, Torres's girlfriend and my fifth roommate.

“What's up?” I yell back.

“Do you remember when you were in the bunker during the mortar attack for the incident you got your CAB?” I pause for a second as if I truly might not be able to remember a time I was almost killed.

“Yeah, I remember it.”

“OK, good. Now in the bunker with you… . I know it was you, Staff Sergeant Elwood, and Specialist Boredo… . but was there anyone else in the bunker?”

“No.”

“Are you sure there was no one else in the bunker… . ?”

“What? No. Why?” I ask, confused. I'm not sure if I understand what Cardoza is asking. I'm not sure if she wants me to say something like God was in the bunker with me.

“Wasn't Specialist Bane in there with you?”

Boredo's girlfriend? “Cardoza, what the hell are you talking about? No, she wasn't in there with us,” I reply.

“Are you sure?”

It's been several months since the attack, but I can still see all the details in my mind, and besides, they have my written story….

“Yes, I'm sure she wasn't there. I'm one hundred percent positive she wasn't. Why? What's going on?”

Cardoza looks over both her shoulders, grabs me by the arm, and takes me to the corner of a building.

“Specialist Bane …” Cardoza begins as she once again looks over both her shoulders. “She is saying that she was in the bunker with you, Elwood, and Boredo when the attack happened, and now she's filling out paperwork so that she can get a Combat Action Badge as well. Boredo has changed his story and said that she was there. I talked to Elwood, too, and he said he doesn't care; he'll go along with whatever.”

Unbelievable.

“I'm not telling you to do it, Anthony. Personally I wouldn't do it.”

“Absolutely, unequivocally, NO, I won't do it. These fucking people tried to not include me in their stories and now they want me to lie so that Boredo's girlfriend can get an award,” I say, disgusted.

I know it's not Cardoza's doing, but I don't feel like looking at her anymore. I don't feel like looking at anyone.

I am unable to comprehend how people would give up their integrity and self-respect just to receive an award.

All I can think about is a quote I once heard by Napoleon: “A man will fight long and hard for a bit of colored ribbon.”

WEEK 4, DAY 5, IRAQ

0100 HOURS, MY ROOM

I'm laying in bed and my eyes are wide open. I can't sleep; the Ambien isn't working. I'm not hallucinating or seeing things, and I'm not falling asleep. My mind is too wired. I'm scared. I'm really scared. More scared than thinking I might go to jail, more scared than all the nights I spent hunched over in a bunker as mortars landed all around me.

I'm scared about the future. What happens when I get home? I'm twenty-one, and I don't know what I want in life. Sure, I can go back to college, but that's only delaying the inevitable. I think about all the people in my unit. I see people who are respected in society. They're doctors, nurses, pharmacists, anesthesiologists, and since we're reservists some of them also have different jobs in the civilian world. They're police officers, teachers, and firefighters. But they don't have respect for themselves and one another. I'm scared because I don't want to end up like any of these people, and I really don't know how to prevent it. I remember someone once telling me something about finding a mentor or finding someone that has what I want in life and then modeling that person's behaviors and attitudes. I tried finding someone; I really did. But I couldn't find a single person in my unit that had what I wanted. I'm appalled by the majority of them. But I'm no better than them, I know that.

I'm twenty-one years old and I have lived on my own since I was eighteen. During surgical training I assisted in delivering almost a dozen babies. I left home to go to war. I've seen people die and grown men cry. I've cowered in a bunker for hours at a time, fearing for my life. I've gone days without sleep and have assisted in hundreds of surgeries. I've survived all of this, but I'm still afraid to go back to the real world. In the Army and in Iraq I don't have to worry about anything; three square meals a day are provided, and I've got shelter over my head and a steady paycheck. I don't have to worry about what I'll do on any given day because I already know — I work. All decisions are made for me. The only thing I have to worry about is the possibility of dying.

Going back to the real world is what scares me. Getting a job, paying the bills, putting food on the table; I will have to do that now that no one is giving it to me. Somebody tell me what to do?! I've been ordered around and can't stand it. I'm looking for the time where I call the shots — and I'm worried it could be worse. I'll have no one to blame but myself. Soon I'll no longer have to worry about death; now it's life I have to worry about. It's now time for me to be a man, and it's the scariest thing I'll ever do. It really scares me. It really scares me that I won't have what it takes. That's a scary thought.