Paradise General (33 page)

I
WAS STILL
in the dumps as I slipped my holster off my belt and put it in the lockbox. I wished I could lock up my darkened mood as well.

“It's going to be a good night tonight, Dr. Hnida. Can feel it in the air,” one of my medics said.

The only thing I could feel in the air were swirling hot particles of sand being blown across the compound as I walked to the hospital, followed by the running-into-a-brick-wall shock of air conditioners turned up to frigid as I opened the doors to the ER. No T-shirt tonight, I'd work in the long sleeves of my uniform top.

“Yeah, let's make it good.” I paused, knowing there was only one person who could lift me out of the dumps tonight. Me.

“Feel like getting promoted tonight?” I asked.

“Why not? I'm officer material,” answered my medic.

I marched over, yanked the Velcro sergeant stripes off his uniform, and traded it for the golden oak leaf of major.

“Let's get to work.”

It wasn't long before the first customers of the night showed up, the first one a fellow with bites in all the wrong places. He had been out for a twilight run when he felt a pinch in his thigh. Then another pinch a little higher. Another yet higher. He finally stopped running when the next nip nailed him right in the penis.

When he screeched to a halt and pulled down his shorts, a decent-sized scorpion dropped out. By the time he got to the ER, his penis was the size of the Goodyear Blimp. And definitely more painful. The good news for him was the larger the scorpion, the less toxic the venom. The bad news was the larger the scorpion the bigger the claws. While slipping on his shorts, our runner had committed the cardinal sin of getting dressed in Iraq: he didn't shake out his clothes.

After seeing the monster penis, I vowed to shake out every single piece of clothing twice—instead of the standard once—before it went on my body.

He was followed into the ER by a guy with a kidney stone and another with a twisted ankle from a softball game. Easy-peasy. And a couple of confused looks about why an older sergeant was taking care of them, and giving orders to a baby-faced major of twenty-two. We were having a good night until the sky erupted and angrily rained wounded.

A convoy was hit by a couple of IEDs and our trauma bays went from empty to full in minutes. Before waking everybody up over in the barracks, I strode from one end of the room to the other. Nothing too serious at first glance. Everyone was conscious, alert; there was a little bit of blood but no gaping holes. And arms and legs were attached and working. It would take a while, but we could handle this without reinforcements.

One by one, I again went from stretcher to stretcher—a longer glance and a few words to each occupant to make sure everyone knew they were okay and still on planet earth. So far so good. And a roomful of men and women who had just had an unexpected appointment with an improvised explosive device.

It attacked with a bright flash that was quickly followed by a horrendous boom and pressurized blast wave that painfully smashed bodies and caused eardrums to burst. I'd tell people to imagine the loudest fireworks display they've ever heard and multiply it by ten thousand. Even when it wasn't that bad a blast, you were stunned and confused as the interior of your vehicle filled up with smoke and dust—you could faintly hear the echo of voices screaming to see if anyone was hurt. The ringing in your ears got louder as the seconds passed. You fumbled and checked your body parts. Everything hurt since you'd been shaken like a rag doll, and you hoped when you struggled out of your vehicle no one was waiting outside to shoot at you.

There was no magic number of blasts that bought you a ticket home—but we were really aggressive in making sure the soldiers were kept off duty until they were perfect, and if there was even a twinge of doubt we erred on the side of caution. Sometimes that caused a little conflict with the battle commanders—they were always short of people for missions, but once you explained the whats and whys of a blast to the head, they usually quickly backed off and put the soldiers' well-being first. I never lost a rare argument with a commander who wanted to force a soldier back into the fight.

That was for the soldiers who walked away from their vehicles after a blast. The saddest stories were about those who did not. A blast could be a very odd thing—depending on the size and location of the explosion, some guys would untouched while others sitting next to them would be killed. Often, one body would act like a shield for the others, yet no one knew when the vehicle pulled out of camp who might be the shield of the mission.

Our medics went to work doing memory and word-association
tests, called MACE exams, on our five guys. I circled the room as I watched and listened. It sounded like a couple needed a CAT scan, the others just some time off. As I eavesdropped, I noticed a young sergeant enter the ER—he must have belonged to the group. He said little to us, brushing by as he checked on his soldiers.

We asked a couple of the men who the gruff guy was. NCO in charge of the group came the answer. Was supposed go out on the mission, but stayed behind. The first time he'd done that. His jaw was square and his look was mean. I didn't think he liked us.

His look got even worse as I started my part of the exams. Like a mother hen, he stared as if to make sure I treated his soldiers well. I tended to joke with the less seriously wounded—it was a prescription to put them at ease and assure them they would be all right. My dumb wisecracks came out of my doctor bag.

“A five-year-old child could fix you up. If you wait a minute, I'll go find a five-year-old child.”

“Welcome to Allstate General. We're the good hands hospital. It's where the patient comes first … or thirtieth, depending on our mood.”

“Hi, I'm Dr. Hnida, the former Sister Mary Elizabeth. That's right, I used to be a nun, but I didn't want to make a habit of it.”

The patients laughed, the sergeant glared.

It took a little over three hours to clear the crew. No one needed to stay overnight; they'd just be confined to quarters and head to sick call in a day or two for a recheck.

By the time the paperwork was nearly done, the clock was striking four. As we dotted the i's and crossed the final t's, I asked a couple of the men what the hell was wrong with their sergeant—was he always such a hard-ass? Their answers surprised me and sent me for a walk.

I stepped outside and sucked in a deep breath of predawn air.

Sniffing a puff of smoke, I spotted the sergeant slumped against a wall.

“Sarge, need anything?” I asked.

He looked up quickly, glanced at me, and then quickly walked away.

“Hey. Stop right now. I need to talk to you, man.”

He slowed, then stopped, hesitated a few steps forward, then stopped again.

“Yes, sir.”

I caught up.

“Hey, relax for a second. I don't bite. What's up? You've got a major bug up your ass and I think that major is me.”

There was a long pause as he stared up at the dark sky. When his head tilted to eye level, I noticed a dirty face smeared by fresh tears that had been hastily wiped away.

“It's not you, sir. It's me. I fucked up. One of these guys needed experience running the show so I stayed behind screwing around in my quarters. Then I get a call my crew hit an IED. I should have been there.”

An “I fucked up” conversation on the same sidewalk three months ago flashed back and I shook through a momentary cold sweat.

“How'd you fuck up? Your guys are fine. And I'm sorry I was messing around in there, but they needed to know they were okay.”

“I know that, sir. Appreciate it. All I'm saying is I just should have been there. They needed me.”

“Sit down, son.”

We parked ourselves squarely on the sidewalk with our backs against a concrete blast wall. The only noise was the ever-present night wind, the only illumination the soft blinking of blue landing lights on the helipad.

I told him the story of the first and only time I'd ever let my medics go on the road by themselves. It was back in 2004, and I was going home the next day. A little Iraqi girl had been burned in a bomb blast and was close to dying. I knelt in the middle of a road, a radio in one hand, screaming for a chopper, in the other a knife ready to cut a hole in her throat to make an airway. A chopper couldn't come, none was
available, so she either would die on the pavement, or we'd have to drive her over hostile roads to the British hospital. It was a drive I'd made too many times during my tour, so with one day to go before I left for the safety of home, I let the medics go by themselves. It was a haunting mistake and I sat worrying at the gate for their return. Six hours of fretting and worry. I almost cried when I saw the convoy safe and sound, rolling back up the road to camp.

“Guilt is a horrible companion. And I never would have forgiven myself if they had been killed,” I said as I finished the story.

He slowly stared up at me.

“Yes, sir. You got that right. I sat by the radio all night, then worried my way to the hospital when I heard they got hit. I was thinking all that would be left of them would be a bunch of pieces.”

The night was dissolving to dawn and I could finally make out his features. The sergeant looked about twenty-four. Hell of an age to carry the weight of command and make decisions of life and death. Only a little older than my dad at Anzio. The group inside the same ages as my own kids.

“You did the right thing,” I said. “Now it's time to let them know how you feel about them. Heck, they didn't do anything wrong, especially the one who commanded the mission. Don't take your guilt out on them.”

He paused for several moments.

“You're right, sir.”

Inside, they sat in a straight row of chairs, like school kids waiting for the teacher. Their faces a mix of worry and concern as they looked at the sergeant walking back in. As one, they stood. The sergeant drew them into a tight circle and spoke softly. I couldn't hear a word, but didn't need to. The tears and the hugs told the story and flavor of what was said.

The young sergeant was already a man, but tonight became an
even better one.

I
T WAS LIKE
Christmas in summer. Only our presents came down the chimney on a C-130 instead of a sleigh. A bountiful holiday it was: a full complement of replacement doctors. And an oh-so-very-welcome group since we were all paranoid they somehow, some way, would not show up and we'd be trapped here forever. I don't think we really worried about it until the last couple of weeks of our deployment, when the walls surrounding the camp suddenly started a claustrophobic contraction. Here we were—a group of grown men penned into a shrinking half-mile-square world and now at the mercy of some faceless paper pusher who, alone, had the power to deny us parole.

It was creepy in a way. Trapped, we had absolutely no way of getting home unless the Army gave us a ride. It's not like we had cars, or could simply hop over to the local airport and book a flight home. Hell, sticking a thumb out and hitchhiking wouldn't have gotten us more than a few miles down hostile roads.

We threw high-fives and fist bumps at breakfast when informed our relief flew in during the night and were now officially on base. We would right seat/left seat with them after they caught up on sleep. It
would be a great moment when we handed over the keys to the hospital, even better when the camp was in the rearview mirror.

We had celebrated our jailbreak with the long-awaited farewell shindig: the Hos and Pimps Extravaganza. The blender was spinning a wicked brew, which those of us on duty were afraid to sample; smoky whiffs from a hookah we didn't dare breathe. The strongest substance we dared go near were the always accessible cigars—we even got Bernard to take a few puffs. He'd warned us all summer about his aversion to smoke, now after two baby puffs, he looked like he was going to launch his cookies. As we laughed at the stud-man's nausea, all he could gasp out was a weak “Bet you've never seen a black man turn green.”

But we still had a blast. The party was a wild one, at least for much of the staff. They smoked, they drank, and the innovative ones had sex in newly discovered hidden corners.

Rick and I twirled on the concrete roof, giddily celebrating our upcoming departure with a nice little dance number à la Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Except we couldn't agree on who would be Fred and who would be Ginger—we were lucky we didn't break each other's toes as we fought over who would lead and who would follow. I never knew a burly Oklahoman could do such expert pirouettes.

The only near casualties of the night came during the wheelchair races. A chair pusher lost his grip after running over a group of toes, then watched in horror as the occupied chair teetered at the edge of our three-story rooftop. Both pusher and pushee needed a waterfall of drinks to quell their shaking. No harm, no foul. The night was a perfect goodbye to the staff we'd grown to love.

Besides freedom, our sole wish at this point was to leave on a high note. We'd had a good couple of weeks. No lost cases. No lost sons. No lost daughters.

It wasn't to be.

Early the next morning, Sergeant David Heringes was slowly walking around a disabled Humvee on a lonely road about fifty miles
from our CSH. It was a road much different than the one he was supposed to be on that day. Heringes had planned to be in Florida, enjoying a fun-filled vacation at Disney World with his wife, children, and parents. But six weeks before, Heringes and hundreds of other soldiers in the 82nd Airborne were told to unpack their bags. Instead of heading stateside on August 1, their deployment was being extended from twelve to fifteen months; it would be October before they'd set foot on American soil and hug their loved ones.

David had told his dad to go ahead and use the tickets even though he couldn't be there; it would make him happy to know the family had a chance to get away and find distraction from their worries and fears.