Mass Casualties: A Young Medic's True Story of Death, Deception, and Dishonor in Iraq (16 page)

I don't want to write any more letters and I don't want to receive any more, but if I don't write back, friends and family will write just to see if I'm okay. So I have to write back, and it turns into a never-ending cycle.

Soon the letters from the third and fourth graders will start to come. Those are the most depressing of them all. Kids writing letters supporting something they know nothing about, only that they're told to support their country and the war. Some kids will draw pictures of the American flag and men in uniform and send them to us. Every now and again we'll get cards and letters from a kid whose parent died in the war; those are the most difficult to read, and you know you've got to reply to them. The worst story I ever heard was about a little kid whose father died during the first invasion of Iraq. A few years went by and the kid learned how to read and write, so he sent letters to some of the soldiers in Iraq. One of the soldiers with kids of his own felt bad and wrote back, so they became pen pals. A few months later that soldier died, but the kid kept writing. Another soldier in the unit didn't know what to do with the letters. He knew the guy had been writing to the kid but the kid didn't know he was dead, so that soldier became the kid's penpal, but he got killed, too. I hope that the kid doesn't start writing to me. He's bad fucking luck. I'm depressed just thinking about it.

Happy New Year.

MONTH 4

“HOW ARE WE SUPPOSED TO SPOT THE REAL SUICIDAL PEOPLE WHEN EVERYONE HAS SUICIDAL SYMPTOMS?”

WEEK 1, DAY 1, IRAQ

0700 HOURS, HOSPITAL

Well, it's official: There has been a rumor going around for a few weeks now, but it's finally confirmed. We are moving bases. Our new base will be in the western part of Iraq in the Anbar province. A new hospital is being built on a Marine base, and they need someone to run it. There is already a Navy hospital there, but they aren't doing well enough to run a new hospital. Here, a stateside active duty Army unit will be coming in to replace us, and we will move southwest to the Al Anbar province of Iraq to our new hospital.

I guess you could say it was a compliment to us since they approached us about the job.

But since they did, we have to inventory our entire hospital and its entire contents, from a pair of disposable surgical gloves to heart rate monitors to tongue depressors and ventilators. Everything needs to be inventoried and then inventoried again and then again. The move date is not set in stone and the new hospital isn't even built. It is expected to take a month or two to build.

WEEK 1, DAY 3, IRAQ

0700 HOURS, OR

The Army explained to us very clearly that while in Iraq no one is allowed to have sex. Of course, this doesn't stop anyone, but our unit is trying to enforce it. We are the military — all adults — fighting a war, and men and women are not allowed to be in the same sleeping area. A woman can't set foot in a man's room and vice versa. This is why people are having sex on the roof of the hospital.

I walk into work and Crade is in back eating breakfast. His head is down. A few weeks ago he told me that before we left for Iraq he had gotten a woman pregnant. A few days ago he told me the woman is threatening to never let him see his baby. I don't say anything to him.

“Guys … this is the best, this one is absolutely crazy… .”

I turn from Crade and stare at Denti.

“What? What are you talking about?”

“Check this out …” Denti says as he reaches over and takes a piece of bacon from Crade's plate. Crade throws his fork down and walks out of the room. Crade's mood is transparent, and I know I should probably follow him and see what's wrong.

“You know Specialist Porpe and Specialist Meade, right?” Denti begins.

I nod at Denti; of course I know the two girls he's talking about.

“Sergeant Smith caught them having an orgy in their room with two guys from supply.”

“Will you shut up, Denti?”

“You know she's the lesbian lover of First Sergeant Mardine.”

“Just shut up, okay?”

WEEK 1, DAY 5, IRAQ

0700 HOURS, OR

I will say it once again: Gagney is a smarter man than we give him credit for. He knows we would have all complained about his bad attitude and manipulation of Hudge, so he conveniently forgets to tell us that there was a climate control meeting. It was our one opportunity to truly tell the leadership what's going on and how he treats us, but ironically, Gagney was the one who was supposed to tell us when the meeting was — and now it's too late. I don't know how he does it, but it's like he's always one step ahead. There is literally nothing we can do about him because the one chance we would have had to complain about him, he didn't tell us about — and now we can't even complain about that. To be honest, I'm not surprised by anything Gagney does; he is either a diabolical genius, or a nitwit.

WEEK 2, DAY 1, IRAQ

0700 HOURS, OR

During one of the suicide briefings that the Army gives us, they mention a statistic that says the majority of people who talk about suicide don't usually attempt it; it's just a cry for help.

I always wondered about that statistic, though, because if that's the case, then the ones who do talk about suicide are the only ones we know who won't kill themselves, and it's everyone else that's a possibility.

In that same suicide briefing they also tell us that people who are suicidal usually become depressed from big changes happening in their lives. They say that depressed people become withdrawn and will not enjoy everyday activities. They'll sleep a lot.

I couldn't help but laugh when I heard this at the suicide prevention class, because I looked around the room and everyone fit the criteria. We've all had a huge change in our lives coming to Iraq. Everyone here is withdrawn and sleeps as much as possible, and our everyday activities consist of running for our lives and working on near-death patients. Who wouldn't be depressed and want to spend time alone? We work long hours at unpredictable times, and we see the same people twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. What I never understood from these classes is how are we supposed to spot the real suicidal people when everyone has suicidal symptoms?

Denti's head is low and he doesn't grab any bacon off of my plate as I put it down. “What's the matter with you?” I ask putting my tray down, still protecting my bacon.

Denti looks up.

“Crade tried to kill himself.”

“Crade?”

“Yeah.”

“Jesus. How?”

“Dust-Off.”