Paradise General (35 page)

Instead, we got shitholes worse than our makeshift plywood rooms in Iraq. Torn, bloodstained sheets and pillowcases; broken and bent blinds over cracked windows; and a warm refrigerator filled with mouse shit. The communal toilets were clogged and overflowing while the shower stalls had shit-smeared walls. We were pissed about
how we were treated, but maniacally angry thinking that some of the troops we had cared for were stuck in hellholes like this. We'd heard the stories that had come out of Walter Reed in the months before we'd deployed, wounded warriors sharing beds with cockroaches. It looked like the Army still hadn't cleaned up its act.

We had busted our fucking humps keeping soldiers alive, worried ourselves through too many sleepless nights about how to keep them alive, and this is what
their
hero's welcome would be?

Rick and I spent our first few hours in Horror Hotel trying to calm each other down, finally cooling to the point where we put a sign on our door saying “Fuck the Army,” locked the door, and tried to sleep off a four-month combat hangover.

All we really wanted was to go home, but before the Army took off its leash, we had to turn in equipment, get debriefed, and be screened for stress. It would take five days to complete the process—we probably could have knocked it out in one. Once again, our small group got caught up in the numbers game. We were itchy, but weren't the only ones on our way home—a lot of soldiers and even more contractors needed to de-Surge as well. So most of each day was spent exercising or simply wandering around the base—alone. After spending months eating, sleeping, and working together, we needed space from each other and, perhaps, time to process the things we'd seen. We just couldn't cold-turkey off the adrenaline injected by the CSH—the culture shock was too much for the body and mind.

I certainly wasn't ready for the abrupt rules and regulations of a stateside post. The morning after arriving, I showed up for breakfast in my official Army regulation running shorts and T-shirt after a leisurely jog. I wasn't prepared to be thrown out of the mess hall for being underdressed. I'd already gone through the line and piled high my tray with real eggs, fresh cereal, and honest-to-goodness cow's milk. Pure heaven. As the spoon met my mouth, my arm met a tap.
Excuse me,
soldier, you're out of uniform and have to leave.
I was confused, if I could wear my exercise clothes to meals in Iraq, why couldn't I do it here?
Post rules, Major. No exceptions. You need to be in full uniform to enter a mess facility.
I didn't think the curses that followed originated from me—but they did. I always made a point to be courteous but ended this session with a loud “Fuck.” I shouldn't have done it, but I was tired and pissed. I stormed back to my room with empty hands and an empty stomach. Yet over the course of the next hour came a series of knocks to my room—each knock accompanied by a Styrofoam container of food snuck out of the chow hall by my fellow physicians.

In many ways, the silent bearing of breakfast gifts was typical of our time at Benning. We'd pass each other in the halls of the barracks, and then just go our separate ways until it was time for some group activity. Then we'd scramble on a search mission to make sure no one missed some mandatory meeting. Even separate, we still functioned as one.

When we handed in our gear, we thanked the Army for the long underwear and stocking caps; even unworn they were nonreturnable items. Maybe they'd come in handy on some cold winter day back home, or for that matter, wind up as unpleasant reminders stuffed in the back of a closet.

We fibbed on our “post-deployment health assessments,” denying we had headaches, sleep problems, or irritability. Had we seen any wounded or dead bodies? Sure we had—lots of them—but no, the sights didn't affect us mentally. We worried that a “yes” answer to the wrong question would leave us on the sidewalk, waving goodbye to everyone else allowed to get on the bus for the trip to the airport and home.

We were then told how our lives had been changed by going to war, the lecture led by people without combat patches on their sleeves. They told us not to be worried if we felt of sense of panic when in confined spaces or crowds—a warning delivered in a humid, windowless
tent constructed for fifty but stuffed with two hundred.

Twenty sessions and six long days later, we were paroled from Benning and placed on a bus to the Atlanta airport, where we would finally split up and fly to our respective homes. It was a quiet journey, and at the airport, our goodbyes, at least to the casual observer, probably seemed awkward, choppy, and brief. But the thin ribbon of a smile, the squint of the eyes, and the almost imperceptible nod of a head spoke deep and thoughtful volumes. We had spent a lifetime together in just four months, and didn't need words to communicate our feelings.

We knew we would never be as close to another group of people in our lives. And no one would ever be invited to join our exclusive club of combat doctors. There simply wasn't much that could be said. Except … the fifteen messages I left at every paging telephone I could find, feigning a variety of female voices, all asking a handsome prude of a doctor for a final, farewell date. My memories still ring with the recurring sounds of “Dr. Bernard Harrison, please come to a white courtesy telephone for an important message.”

I can still see him cackling his way through the concourse.

T
HE SUNRISE REFLECTING
off the foothills of the Rockies was beautiful that early May morning. No dust, no swirling sand, no scorching heat. Just a friendly neighborhood dog sniffing for a place to soil my lawn.

I put my feet up on the same lawn chair as I had one morning a year, and a lifetime, ago. And once again I took in the sweet smell of the dew-covered grass that had been cut the night before. It was quiet, and the perfect time to talk with my dad.

I'd been back from Iraq for close to eight months and was slowly adjusting to life in the civilian world. I told him how good it felt to be home but still struggled as I tried to figure out how Iraq had changed me, or whether anything I'd done had changed Iraq. That it might be years before I came to any conclusions, if I ever did.

A few nights before, I had put in a long shift at work, ending my day with a crisis. A three-year-old boy's throat had swollen shut because of an allergic reaction. As his parents sprinted in with his blue, limp body, it seemed like the world had erupted in panic. Over the din of chaos, I heard a calm voice methodically ask for IVs, oxygen, Adrenalin, breathing tubes—the works. I was pleased to realize that
the calm voice was mine. The kid did great; so did his doctor. No retching or vomit followed the case. After the child was awake and stable, I even went to my desk and ate a sandwich as I typed up the medical record.

Yet when my workday was done, I was sad. My drive home that evening was on dark, empty streets. How I longed to be with Rick kicking chunks of gravel across the compound as we made our way from the hospital tents to the barracks. Slinking in to see if any women were outside Bernard's door. Having Bill say, “Hey, dude, nice job there.” Threatening Gerry's mustache with a razor. Calling Colonel Blok a “blockhead.” Going back to my room to watch Mike lace up his sneakers for a late-night run. And Ian warning
me
not to snore.

God, I missed my friends. They had given me a richness few men ever experience. Our group has kept in touch—often at first, less as we ease back into civilian life. But even when we don't talk or e-mail, we are always secure in the knowledge that any of us would drop anything, at any time, if one of us needed help.

We have all had to deal with issues from the war. A few of us more than others, but each has carried home some bits of psychological debris from the carnage. The heaviest baggage included a mix of nightmares, moments of melancholy, short outbursts of temper, even a few tears when a particular song triggered a trip back to Iraq. Toughest of all was the feeling of being in a war one day, then abruptly deposited home the next and expected to simply pick up where we'd left off. It wasn't easy.

I told my dad how I still could only take small doses of TV and the newspapers. And when it came to talk radio, forget it. I was stunned at the name-calling, lack of civility, and just plain viciousness that often spewed from the dial. Worse yet was that it seemed many of the meanest talkers hadn't done a damn thing in their lives to serve our country.

I've never believed that you have to go to war to serve your
country; that choice was mine and mine alone. But I had been raised to believe some form of service is important and that there are a lot of ways to do it, whether it's working at a soup kitchen, volunteering at a school, or just being a good neighbor. Service is what makes America the greatest country in the world. My dad showed me that when he gave up his Saturdays to put on magic shows for little kids living in the poorer sections of Newark or left early on Sundays to give an elderly widower a ride to church.

I thanked him for the lesson.

I also thanked him for teaching me the importance of honor, integrity, and humility, along with giving me advice about never being afraid to ask for help or extend a hand to offer help. I realized his words had, decades later, saved me in Iraq.

The diary of my war has been put away, tucked in a safe drawer alongside my dad's wallet. One day I'll pull them out and talk to my kids about what I did and what I saw, as well as what their grandfather went through. I just don't know when that time will be. But one thing we've already talked about is
why
I went.

It wasn't about penance or payback, those are nothing more than exhausting inventions of the human mind. I went because I was needed. And there is no greater honor than answering the call. A call, I realized, that isn't confined to war but is instead an ongoing, lifelong endeavor. My friends showed me that. So did my father, though I'm not sure he knew it at the time.

I stood up and took a final glance at the mountains, realizing it was time to finish our conversation. On this quiet spring morning, more than thirty years after his death, I told my dad that I finally understood. Even though he went through life burdened by guilt, he had, in his own way, taught me the lessons and given me the tools to conquer our perceived failures.

Real or imagined, our debts are now erased.

I
AN
N
UNNALLY RETURNED
to private practice as a general surgeon in Ohio. He is the director of his hospital's wound care program.

Robert Blok works as an anesthesiologist in North Carolina. He has volunteered to return to Iraq twice since our deployment in 2007.

Gerry Maloney works as an emergency physician in Cleveland. He got married shortly after his return to the States.

Mike Barron left his teaching position at Saint Louis University School of Medicine after our deployment and opened a family practice. He serves low-income families and those without health insurance.

Bill Stanton is an orthopedic surgeon in Fort Pierce, Florida. He was called back to duty in Iraq in June 2009.

Bernard Harrison is a cardiovascular and thoracic surgeon in Minneapolis. He is a pioneer in robotic surgery to treat heart disease.

Rick Reutlinger returned to Muskogee, Oklahoma, where he works as a general surgeon. He served a tour of duty in the spring of 2009 in Landstuhl, Germany, caring for soldiers wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan.

And I've returned to Littleton, Colorado, where I work as a family practitioner and an urgent care physician, and occasionally wield a surgical scalpel. I still never go anywhere without my cheat cards.

A
LTHOUGH MOST OF
this book takes place in a combat zone, it's really not intended to be a tale of war. Instead, it is more of a story of life, thickly woven with the common threads of family and friendship. When you think about it, they are the most important things we possess, yet all too often go unappreciated until they are gone. For me, this experience put an exclamation point on the value of family and friends.

I relied heavily on notes, diaries, and e-mails to recount events. The manuscript was reviewed and discussed for accuracy and issues of confidentiality with colleagues and staff members of the 399th CSH. Dialogue, by necessity, was often written to the best of my recollection. Most importantly, the writing is a reflection of my perception of events in an often chaotic world. Any inaccuracies or errors are unintentional.

Descriptions of medical events and procedures were simplified for the lay reader. Military events were simplified so I could understand them. My apologies to the professionals in both fields.

We were given the honor and responsibility of caring for wounded human beings, most of whom we liked, some we did not, especially
those who wanted to do us harm. In any case, it was important to preserve the dignity and privacy of anyone who came through our doors. To do so, it was often necessary to alter identifying characteristics and timelines. Yet there is no intent to mislead the reader. All of the stories, happy or sad, are true.

My special thanks to the family of David Heringes for allowing me to tell his heroic story.

With its musty tents and ramshackle buildings, our hospital wasn't much to look at on the outside. But the inside was filled with only the best.

The emergency room, or EMT as it was actually called, was expertly managed by Jack Twomey, Roger Boutin, and Bruce Courage. They never gave me grief over my shortcomings. The skillful team of registered nurses who always made the doctors look good included Rita Ed, Michelle Jacobs, Mark Thorbahn, and Steve Wetherill. The medics and flight nurses were Russell Albrycht, Ben Asay, Heather Belanger, Brian Brooks, John Clinton, Patrick Drake, James Elliott, Shannon Hansen, Chris Kretschmer, Lisa McCullough, Scott Moreau, Sharon Tetrault, Tim Verreault, Warren Ward, Hallie Whitmore, and Brian Yeager. You guys always made sure I knew who was really in charge (and it wasn't me).