War Story

Nearly two hours later the patrol was back at the scene, the only evidence of the drama that had unfolded there were the still bright puddles of blood and a few scraps of plastic from the battle dressings and Kerlix we had used.

Everything else was gone.

The blood soaked flannel shirt and T shirt I had cut off the man I was working on. His jeans, well, those had been carried off seconds after I had pull them off the man by a woman in a black abaya, the half empty water bottle, the car the men were riding in, blood splattered interior, the windows frosted and crazed by bullets, the door skins pocked marked with more strikes.

I shouldn't be surprised but I was. Iraq is like that. Every time I think that I have finally seen it all - seen everything that there possibly is to see - that my capacity to be shocked or amazed is over Iraq will show me something else. Just to prove me wrong.

The patrol was just into its first hour on the street, my first daylight patrol since returning from leave. I was in a good mood, happy to be back out on the street, images of the sun rising behind the gray clouds above the chow hall fresh in my mind. Rays of light spread across the sky like spokes on a wheel, the edges of the clouds burned a neon orange red.

Photo from before the patrol. Taken in the chow hall parking lot minutes before rolling out. 

 On the edge of the built up area kids were going to school, the girls dressed in white long sleeved shirts, bib type dark blue dresses reaching down to their ankles. The boys in white polo shirts and dark pants, backpacks slung over their shoulders, the girls pressing their books to their chests, arms akimbo. Just like school girls back in The World. The boys yelled at our HUMMVEES as we rumbled by. Some strutting and looking hard at us, the younger ones holding out hands and shouting.

"Mister! Mister! Chocolate!"

The girls ducking their chins down but following us with their eyes. Some smiling shyly at the gunners. Ski, my gunner was throwing handfuls of Jolly Ranchers to some groups. "Only the ones that don't ask for anything." He thought for a minute,” And the cute girls...the rest of 'em can go fuck themselves."

Crossing a dirt and trash strewn open area between roads and houses, high tension towers above, Ski was the first one in the truck to hear the firing.

"SHOTS! Off to the five o'clock, about three hundred meters!"

The LT called up to the lead truck, SSG Bull and his crew. Bull's gunner, Rio, had heard them as well. Random shooting in nothing out of the ordinary in Iraq. The Iraqis like to shoot. They shoot into the air at weddings, birthdays,when the soccer team wins, when someone dies. Sometimes when they just feel like it. The IAs and IPs shoot whenthey are bored or scared or want to get through traffic jams. Whatever.

The patrol thumped over the curb and on to the street when a second burst of fire ripped the air off to my right front.

"Where THE FUCK is that coming from?" I wondered. I didn't see anyone running but it sounded close. Through the HUMMVEE windshield I saw a metallic gray car lurch to a stop and three figures tumble out. Two men and a woman. The woman was wearing a red dress with large tropical looking flowers on it. I watched her stagger forward, like someone carrying a great weight on their shoulders.

Bent at the waist she was clutching her are to her mid section.  The two men were just behind her; one had his arms raised above his head, and the other lurched forward. The woman finally went to her knees then rolled onto her back. Like it was a signal for the two men they all stopped, the trailing

one crumpled to the roadway, loose jointed, head bobbing, like a machine slowly breaking down.

By then the Soldiers in the two lead trucks were dismounted or in the process of doing so. I had just popped my door when the hated cry reached my ears. "MEEEEEDIC!"

Fuck. Here we fucking go, man.

"LET'S GO DOC! They need you up there!" Turing around in my seat I looked at our current medic. A 19 year old Asian kid from our Brigade. Our normal platoon medic and my roommate has been out of the game for a while with whiplash to his back and neck. The result of an IED that blew our female translators face off back in August. Doc A, my buddy had worked on her saving her life. I had seen him save other lives, I had seen Doc A bring people back from Death. He had worked on Iraqis and Soldiers, putting the pieces back together, elbow deep in blood, but Sara was just too much for him. He had seen to much, taken to much pain inside himself, looked too deep and long into Horror.

Sara lived just under twenty four hours. The doctors had reconstructed her face with what was left of her feet but we all agreed that she had just given up. With both her feet gone and her face the way it was, I don't think she tried very hard to hold on. Doc F was his replacement until Doc A got back on his feet again. Doc F, fresh from medic school at Ft Sam Houston and Charlie Med. Out from Camp Anaconda on a war safari, doing his time 'in the shit'. Well, he found it with us. Here the war is 24/7. It never goes away. And people get hurt in terrible ways.

I grabbed one of his bags, slinging it over my shoulder, M-4 in one hand, while Doc F shouldered his aid bag. "I'll go with him." I don't know why I wanted to go. I have seen the damage that bullets and shrapnel does to a human body. I had done some of the damaging myself. Running up with Doc, leaving him behind, I wondered what I was going to see and for a second, for one step, I hesitated. Do I really need more images of rent flesh, of people in pain to have dreams about? Those nastily little flashbacks that come at unexpected times? No, but it was too late to go turn back now.

The three people were close together, the two on the ground laying feet away from each other. throwing the aid bag to the ground I scanned over the people and stopped again. What I had thought was a woman in a red dress with flowers on it was actually a man in what had been an off white Dish-dasha, the Haji man dress that some many men wear. The red was blood, the flower pattern the white portions on the material. the blood was already specked with the dark bodies of flies that raised and fluttered like clouds. Well, you’re fucked, I thought, turning to pull near security at the corner of the nearest HUMMVEE. The exhaust flashed warm across my face.

 Glancing back one more time at the fellow in the flannel shirt, I watched a thick stream of blood spurt at least four inches out of his neck. There was already a pool of blood under the man's head, running down his arm, soaking his clothes. His pants were dark with it. The hot copper smell hung in the air mixed with the old locker room smell of sweat.

Shit.

I slung my rifle and tore my flight gloves off, no way I was getting those all fucked up in Haji blood. The words HEP A, B, and C flashed in my head. At the same time I was attempting to dig into my leg bag and aid pouch. The leg bag for a roll of Kerlix, the aid pouch for my latex gloves. I needed more hands. Finally I got the gloves on and began tearing at the wrapper of the Kerlix with my teeth when the smell hit me again and I realized I was going to have to put my hands in that mess. I gagged, saliva pooling in my mouth. God I was going to be sick. I tasted the hash browns and bacon I had eaten for breakfast again. Shit! I am NOT going to vomit. Get a hold of yourself, man.

 I knelt down and pressed the white gauze to the guy’s neck. He was moaning and crying in Arabic. The roll of gauze was rapidly soaking up the dark blood still pumping out of the Iraqis neck."DOC! I need you over here. This guy is shooting blood all over the fucking place!"

Doc picked up and moved over to me. I scanned the man's body over, looking for more wet spots, more wounds.

Right. This guy’s entire clothing was soaked and dark with blood. Coagulated chunks of blood had pooled in the wrinkles of his jeans, showing up bright against the dark material.

I dry heaved again, old memories beat against the insides of my eyes like the dark wings of a trapped bird. Pull it TOGETHER! Get control! NOW!

"Doc hold this while I cut his shirt off. This dudes so covered in blood I can’t tell if he's hit anywhere else." I reached for my shears and felt and felt Doc's hand press down on mine. Letting go I pulled the shears free and reached for the edge of the guy’s shirt just as he spit out a mouth full of blood, splattering my knee and boots.

I tasted bacon again and fought down the urge to puke once more. Puking on the wounded will definitely not earn me any cool points.

Cutting his shirt away I pulled another roll of Kerlix out of my leg bag. At this point in the deployment I carried more medical gear than I did ammo. I wiped away the blood on his side and began counting holes.

One, two, three, four, five... Wait, let me do that again. One, two, three... Five. Five holes in the side of this man's chest. Not big holes, not like you see in the movies, torn and gaping, just little innocent looking things no larger than a big zit. They weren't even bleeding. Little gouges in his skin, black purple, and beginning to swell. What was happening inside? He was breathing, gasping for air and talking.

I have seen sucking chest wounds before, the side with the deflated lung sunk in, the wounded struggling for air and in great pain. Yet this guy had been shot six fucking times. Six times and was still moving around. Goddamn.

"Ahhh...Hey Doc, this fuckers got FIVE goddamn holes in his chest. You might want to look at this, man." I looked at Doc F. He was working but he was overwhelmed, focusing on the still bleeding neck wound. "Doc. Doc, look at me," my voice was calmer than I felt. Doc found my eyes. "Hey! We need some more help over here!" Mac came running over and held the soaked Kerlix while Doc put an ACS bandage on the worst of the chest wounds, feeding the little latex hose into the hole. The third Iraqi was wandering around. I snagged him.

"Hey! You’re his friend, right?" The man looked blankly at me. I couldn't remember the Arabic word for friend. "Look," I said pointing to the wounded man and making opening and closing motions with my hand, like a mouth,” talk to him, ok? Make sure he stays with us."

I was afraid of the guy going into shock, of fading out on me. Giving up. Fuck that. I was not going to let this son of a bitch die on me. The man fired off rapid Arabic. There was a woman with in black abaya standing near by, crying and putting her hands to her face.

"Someone get her the fuck out of here!"

There were people everywhere. Soldiers, Iraqis, kids on bikes. Fuck, the entire city had turned out to watch the show. Better than what’s on TV. Life and death in your front fucking yard.

"Sgt D! Hold this!" Mac was digging for fresh roll of Kerlix. I replaced his hand on the guy’s neck just as he spit out another mouth full of blood. At the same time I felt a warm syrupy stream of blood splatter against my palm. And gagged again.

With the new roll placed I threw the old one away. It landed heavily in the dirt a few feet away. It sounded like a wet dish rag.

I began to cut the guys pants off, trying to cut through his leather belt with the Harley Davidson logo in the buckle. Blood was pooled in the low spots of the brass colored oval bringing the letters and the motorcycle into stark relefe.

"Holdin' on to something

That's keepin'me from jumpin'

So afraid to go it alone

Holdin up this fortress

With imaginary forces

Longing for a life down below"

Goddamn Anna Nalick song. I was singing it to myself. The weirdest shit goes through your head out here at these kind of moments. Lines from movies, images, memories that have nothing to do with the current situation. Sometimes you wonder if you’re losing it a bit... Ok, more than just a bit.

"What if I fall

What if I don't

What if I never make it home

What if I bleed

What if

I break

What if I find that I can't take

The city below the citadel”

I ended up just pulling the guys pants off, with his help. Shot six times and the guy is helping me talk his pants off.

"Hey, dude, just lay back, ok?"

I flung them aside, noting the over large bill fold in his pocket. His ID would be in there. It turned my head back, doing a quick scan of his legs. When I looked back for the pants the woman in the abaya was making her way out of the press of Soldiers with the pants under her arm. Ah, well... Fuck it. He really didn't need them anyhow.

With wounded men, a wounded anybody, standard procedure is to cut EVERYTHING off the person. The Iraqi male I was helping to treat had knee lenght blue shorts on under his pants. They looked like soccer shorts or something to me. There was no visible blood on the shorts, no wet spots, unlike another Iraq that Doc A and I had treated on the shoulder of Route Downfall one evening.

That male had been hit by an IED - either an innocent bystander or the trigger man - my first sucking chest wound. He had pissed himself there was blood coming out of the end of his penise, staining his white under shorts. In the orange light of the setting sun the blood took on a rust color.

I tugged at the elastic waste band of the shorts. I was aware of the Muslim squeamishness toward nudity and I asked myself if I really wanted to see this guys junk. I decided to leave his shorts on him.

During the entire process, cutting clothes, trying to stop bleeding the man had been moaning and talking. I find it interesting, with wounded Iraqi children - little bodies with jagged chunks of metal in them, holes in their heads - I have never seen them cry. Instead they just look at you, expecting you to help them. The adults, however, will roll and thrash around. Crying out, asking for water - one time an Iraqi that had been shot six times asked Doc A for juice - demanding treatment.

This guy kept pointing to his mouth and talking. "Look dude, I can't give you any water man." I kept telling him.Finally Mac poured a little water into his mouth and discovered another wound.

"Holy shit! This guy was shot through the mouth! The bullet entered his mouth and came out the back of his neck!

GodDAMN!"

We rolled him over and began strapping him to one of the plastic backboards that are strapped to every vehicle in the company.  The boards are just a bit over six feet long and resemble surf boards. They were yellow until Keo and I spray painted them black. I left a yellow smiley face and a hippy looking flower on mine.

Unpainted litter/backboard. This was taken months later.

Four of us carried the man to my truck and I stayed with him to monitor his condition while Doc assisted with the Evac of the other man in the dish-dasha. He had been shot in the arm, chunks of flesh removed from his bicep. It turned out that their other friend, the guy that had been running around was shot in the arm as well. The last I had seen of him Sgt Agie was helping him put a field dressing on his arm. "Hey let me help you with that, dude."

I stood at my man's head looking into his eyes, trying to keep him with me. He was laid out across the wide body of the HUMMVEE, his head behind the driver's seat. I would be the one driving him to the CASH. Clouds of flies, drawn by the smell of blood were thick on his chest. I tried to keep them off but was losing the battle. I watched his eyelids flutter and he began to gasp for air. His eyes closed.

"Hey...Hey!" I poked him in the forehead, hard. "Stay with me, motherfucker. You’re not fucking dying in my truck, ok?"

His eyes opened and focused, pupils big but not bad.

"Good. That's right, look in my eyes, ok? It's you and me in this together, man. Hold on."

My Arabic was failing me. What was the goddamn word for hospital again? Did I know the word for hospital? I couldn't remember.

Finally, after what felt like way to long, we loaded up and were on the way to the CASH up in the IZ, dodging snarled traffic. Doc F gave my man and IV in the back of a rolling and bumping HUMMVEE. Not bad.

Me (bottom left), Ski (top), and Doc in better times.

In the end, we got both men to the CASH. The guy with the wound to the arm wasn't so bad after all. My guy, he lived. He's going to live too. He will spend a lot of time in the hospital but he will make it. I'm glad too, very glad, because next time that could be me.









( Note: I originally wrote this on my Myspace page no more then four hours after this incident happened. I later sent it to Matt over at blackfive.net  for the book he was putting together, The Blog of War. It was accepted but edited, the lyrics of Anna Nalick's 'Citadel' removed. Guess Simon & Schuster didn't want to pay for the licencing.)