This is a TOUGH read.

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March 21, 2004, 0910
The Rise and Fall of Heroes
Cynthia A. Kuehner, LCDR, NC, USN, FNP

The following account is my personal experience of events spanning
Midday March 18, 2004 through the evening of March 20, 2004:

I’ve been on the MEK Compound near Fallujah, in Iraq, for eleven days. I
am a Family Nurse Practitioner in the United States Navy, billeted here
as a Critical Care Nurse, a member of Bravo Surgical Company. Our
Surgical Company “Minus” (meaning we aren’t fully staffed with the
assets of a full Surgical Company) is awaiting arrival of our supplies
and equipment from Kuwait (scheduled to be delivered via convoy sometime
today). We are deployed in support of the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force
out of Camp Pendleton, California.

Over the last week or so, the replacement of the Army’s 82nd Airborne,
by our Marines, has become more apparent throughout the Compound.
Dessert woodland uniforms are seen less as the Marine Corps’ “dessert
digitals” fill in the canvas of people now occupying the Compound.
Remaining Army personnel volunteered to dine in the Satellite Chow Hall,
while we new arrivals are required to “subsist” in the Main Dining
Facility. I assume this is to prevent the unavoidable skirmishes, that
casually break out over excessively cooked carrots, when young men
discuss the differences in their respective services, filled with the
pride and the knowing that “... my Corps is better than your Corps, and
we’re going to kick ass and take names, since you didn’t.” There is some
derogatory graffiti in the Port-a-John outside my barracks that says,
“The 82nd Airborne takes care of Fallujah like I.N.S. takes care of
Mexicans.” Boys and their talk...

The Army Medical Company that we are replacing is “Charlie Med”
comprised of a surgical unit and a medical unit. The sign outside the
building reads, “The Animal Clinic.” Animal is their nickname - like a
pilot’s call sign - but when you’re new to the Compound, you wonder if
there is some sort of veterinary medicine going on here. Our sign will
read, “Bravo Surgical Company, Cheaters of Death.” These are the things
we do to make us feel better about who we are, unite a team, promote
esprit de corps.

Transitioning with the Army hasn’t been without difficulty. They have
their own acronyms, their own structure, their unique methods. No one
way of doing things is better than another, but the members of Bravo
Surgical Company have encountered some challenges as we take the
structure of our group and try to figure out how it will work to build
on, reinforce, and ultimately replace what the Army was doing. They have
done an awesome job and accomplished much.

It is easy to be the new guy and to immediately size up the
inefficiencies, lay out solutions, and fantasize about the ease with
which we’ll put together a well-oiled, level II casualty receiving,
surgically-intervening, post-operatively caring, and MEDEVAC-ing unit –
ready for anything that comes our way. We are emergency room physicians,
surgeons, nurses, Hospital Corpsmen, physician assistants, nurse
practitioners, internists, lab, radiology, and pharmacy technicians.
Among us, we have all the talent and skills that are needed to fulfill
our duties. But as is typical of the Navy, or any other branch of the
military, we are a group of normal people, from everywhere in the
country, from Balboa to Bethesda, from Corpus Christi to Whidby Island,
and we are thrown together with a developing mission and the expectation
that we will all work well together and accomplish the task at hand.
What a strange concept. Yet, it is normal to us.

We have been asking the Army for an orientation to their mass casualty
(mass cal) plan, knowing that they have been here for about 8 months.
They responded to the downed MEDEVAC helicopter, they have seen the
trauma, they have been here, living it. Feeling that if we could pull
off a mass cal, we could handle anything else, we wanted to know the
details... How do the casualties come in? Where does the communication
come from? Where do you organize your staff? Did you have enough help?
What was the highest number you could handle? Did you have adequate
equipment, supplies? Who arranged the MEDEVACS? We did a table top
discussion of the mass casualty plan on the 17th. It was like pulling
teeth. One Sergeant did most of the talking. I wondered if he had been
gone on emergency leave, who would know all this stuff? The medical
staff were quiet and, with few exceptions, only answered direct questions.

On the morning of the 18th, we did our own mass cal walk through. We met
after muster at about 0930 in front of Charlie Med. We discussed traffic
flow, casualty receiving, organized teams. I would be assigned to the
“Minimal” group, along with another Physician (a Family Practice Doc out
of Camp Pendleton), and some Corpsmen. It was all on paper. We had a
preliminary plan. In triage of mass casualties, there are four
categories into which patients fall: Immediate, Delayed, Minimal, and
Expectant (a fifth if you count the “walking wounded”). The Immediate’s
are patients that need life-saving surgery right away. The Delayed’s
have a little bit of time and can be stabilized, but may require surgery
later. The Minimal’s need close observation and probably require wound
dressings, splints, and other minor treatments. The Expectants are moved
to a remote area and are managed by the Chaplains and mental health
staff. They are not expected to live, and to intervene on their behalf
exhausts the valuable resources of consumable supplies, precious blood,
and personnel.

It was my “day off”. As the senior nurse here, I had spent some time in
the previous days working out a duty schedule, providing for
round-the-clock nursing coverage of the ward and the post anesthesia
care unit (PACU). We had six nurses to staff these hours and had agreed
that, with the current pace of the facility and the experience level of
our Corpsmen, one nurse per shift, with a back-up, immediately
available, would provide sufficient staffing levels. Of course it is
understood that there aren’t really “days off” and that we are all on
call, twenty-four, seven. We were happy to be working, gainfully
employed in patient care, teaching our eager and enthusiastic Corpsmen.
We had far better staffing than our Army counterparts and felt good
about getting our feet wet so that they could pack up and leave. They
all have dates to depart, but know that they can’t completely evacuate
until our gear arrives.

Other than a 1500 daily administrative meeting that I attend, along with
other components of the Command Leadership, I had a relaxing day ahead
of me. I would leave the mass cal walk-through, head back to my barracks
drop off some laundry, get some lunch, write a letter home (my husband
was begging for a “real letter” instead of just e-mails), and take my
camera out for a photo shoot of the Compound – something I’ve been
meaning to do since I arrived. I got as far as writing the letter. I had
just finished my summary of the things you can’t say in e-mails or on
the phone, like mortar rounds and rocket fire descriptions. There was a
sharp knock on the door. The Army CRNA (nurse anesthetist) was looking
for our CRNA, a quiet Lieutenant female with fiery red hair from Camp
Pendleton. I said she wasn’t here. I was the only one in our room
(currently occupied by the six female officers of our company, until the
Army vacates and we can spread out). He announced that 7 casualties were
on their way. I said I’d go try to find her (and others). I grabbed my
weapon belt and my cover (hat) and headed out the door. I made a quick
dash through Charlie Med (directly across the street from berthing),
down the single hall, assessing the available assets. The Emergency Room
Physician (a Navy Captain, and my medical staff counterpart) said,
“Cindy, would you please help find the OR nurses and the CRNA” [he used
their first names]. I quickly responded, “Is that what’s needed most
right now?” He said, “Yes.” I ran out the door and two buildings over
and hit the “surgical jackpot” at the popular Internet Café. I collected
the CRNA, an OR nurse, and one of our general surgeons... Quick words
were spoken, “Seven casualties incoming,” aware as I was of the close
proximity of computers and phones and the fact that I would be easily
overheard. I was out the door and racing back to Charlie Med as they
were logging off and following close behind.

We haven’t completely taken over from Charlie Med, so some of us assumed
vantage points within the facility to watch and to respond, with our
first real test of trauma. I realized, as I was watching out the front
facing windows at the organized chaos of gurneys being staged, supplies
being opened, medics being poised, that I didn’t have my stethoscope.
Since the casualties hadn’t yet arrived, I decided to run back across
the street and retrieve it from somewhere in my still un-packed sea-bag
in berthing. When I arrived in our room, I encountered our freshly
showered Ensign (nurse), acting way too calm for the goings on. (She was
“off” today too). I told her about the 7 incoming, as I rifled through
my sea-bag and found my stethoscope. By the time I arrived at the
entrance to our building, the vehicles were arriving.

I waited on my side of the street until I could safely dart across. Dust
was flying as the initial 3 Hummers arrived on scene. Sheer panic
prevailed as the drivers sped by, driving way too fast for the
pedestrian traffic and the condition of the road. The first two passed
the turn-off and nearly missed a head on collision with a shuttle bus.
As the third and fourth flew by and made the left turn to our casualty
receiving area, I could hear the excited shouts from the vehicles, “GET
THE FUCK OUT OF THE ROAD!!!” I thought to myself, “These kids are trying
to save their buddies lives. It’s going to be a bad one, for them to be
flying in here like they are. Please, God, don’t let them hit anyone
else in their hurry. And let us have the skills to make good on whatever
this may bring.”

I ran across the road, through the Operating Room entrance and down the
tiled hallway. I went into the mental health space to look out their
front facing window. Several of Bravo Surgical Company folks had
gathered there. Without a clear role, we could at least see what we were
up against. Within seconds, the writhing bodies began to emerge. “That
knee looks messed up. Is he missing his hand? Is that one moving? Hurry!
Faster! Get them in here! There’s so much blood. Those bandages are
soaked. Where were they? How did this happen?” A hundred random thoughts
flew through my head as I left the room and made my way down to the
trauma area. “Who are all these people? Ah, a familiar face – the Family
Practice Doc. He’s running a table. They are all full. I’ll see what I
can do.”

Our patient, a young Vietnamese Staff Sergeant, was covered in blood and
was crying out in excruciating pain. He had hastily-applied bandages to
his legs, his arm, and his head. “Potential airway compromise – stop the
bleeding, get these clothes off.” As the Army medic cut away the
clothing, the source of the blood became clear. His posterior legs were
literally peppered with shrapnel wounds, multiple holes, dirty, and
bleeding. His left lower extremity, without a palpable pulse. “He will
need surgery. Continue ABC’s.” He is talking, responding, shivering.
“Let’s get him warmed up and get these dressings reinforced. We need
direct pressure on this left popliteal area. It just won’t stop
bleeding...” His I.V. running, and his dressings applied, we give him 5
mg of Morphine. Not enough. 2 more mgs. Still not enough. 2 more mgs. I
talk to him. I remember coaching laboring patients through the pain of
intense contractions. I get close to his ear, I gently touch his head,
and I coach his breathing. In a soft voice, I guide his inspiration and
expiration, slowing down his respiratory efforts, increasing the oxygen
and perfusion, helping to relax the tension, in his face, in his legs.
It works for a while, then the pain intensifies. More morphine.

The Orthopedic Surgeon (an Army asset that we don’t have) comes by and
does a quick assessment. There is another case in the O.R. My Sergeant
will be next. It may be a while. We have 6 hours to release the
compartment syndrome developing in his left leg, before he has permanent
tissue death. His capillary refill is still fine. “Where is that damn
pulse?”

After what seems like an eternity and multiple checks down the hallway
for other patients, other needs, the Sergeant goes to the O.R. I return
to the ward to see what is happening. It has filled up. There were 14
casualties that came to us, double the initial report. There were
literally hundreds of shrapnel wounds that all needed cleaning and
dressing. Our Corpsmen and nurses set about the task at hand, liberally
pushing the Morphine, animated discussions among the conversant soldiers.

As the evening progressed, we learned the details. The group that had
been attacked was a security patrol positioned on a roof-top near the
meeting place of the newly-established Iraqi counsel. A rocket, or
mortar, had landed on the building with them and exploded. No deaths. We
had 3 operative cases, one immediate MEDEVAC. Nursing staff was
reinforced; we made our plans to cover evening and night shifts, and
everyone more than earned their paycheck. I finished my “day off” at
about midnight and went back to berthing for 5 hours of sleep. I am
fighting bronchitis, so I took a Benadryl to help with congestion and
cough. And I didn’t mind if the sedative effects worked as well.

I woke up the next morning, went to early chow (so much for running
today), and headed to Charlie Med to help out. The day shift was in full
swing, rounds were starting, intravenous antibiotics were on schedule,
and people and supplies were amassed for the extensive dressing changes.
Someone appeared and stated that we needed to tidy up the area and have
the wounds looking as clean as possible, as command VIP’s may be by
later to talk to the wounded. “Screw the VIP’s,” I thought. “There is
blood here. It is real. And it is visible. Who thinks about this stuff?
Let’s clean this up and dress these wounds, because it’s the right thing
to do, not because of who might see it. Get the President in here. He
needs to see it.” I stayed to help out throughout the day, leaving only
for chow and for a quick shower before my scheduled shift from 1500-2300.

By the time my shift came along, I was insistent about sending extra
people back to the rack to get some sleep. It had been a hectic 36
hours, and no one had gotten adequate rest. I had time to verify charts,
(there had never been so many at one time) and find the things we’d
“missed” over the past confusing hours. Things were on cruise control
again. The only glitch was at change of shift, when one of our patients
went to the O.R. for worsening abdominal pain. He had been closely
watched throughout our shift by an Army Major, a general surgeon. He was
a handsome man, confident, “probably an athlete, healthy, and popular,”
I thought to myself. I had discussed the case with him several times
throughout the day and evening, before he made the decision to take him
back to the O.R. About three o’clock in the morning, when our CRNA came
into the room from finishing his case, she reported that they had
removed a significant piece of shrapnel from near, or embedded in, his
small intestine. I was too groggy for the details. Well, I suppose that
would explain his pain.

The next day, the morning of the 20th, I was in and out of medical
throughout day shift. Everything was pretty much stable; a couple of the
patients had been discharged, and things were calming down. I secured
coverage for my admin meeting, and reported for my evening shift at
about 1545. At about 1600, we got word that 3 casualties were coming in
by air and that there was arterial bleeding and shrapnel wounds. I sent
a Corpsman to run for staff. He returned alone. We braced for impact
with the people on hand, quickly assigning important roles. After 10
minutes of nervous anticipation, one of the Army Doctors, an Armenian
female said, “If they aren’t here yet, they aren’t coming.” Apparently,
the EVAC pilots don’t want to land here. There is bad luck around us and
Fallujah. Several helos have gone down, so they go straight to the CASH
(Combat Army Surgical Hospital) in Baghdad. We breathed a sigh of
relief, and the adrenaline subsided.

One of the patients on our ward, who has been an in-patient since our
arrival, is an Enemy Prisoner of War (EPW) with a left leg amputation,
who has had several revisions, under the care of the orthopedic surgeon.
The Army staff, out of necessity, has housed the EPW within the ward
that contains supplies, the nurses’ station (a desk), the white board
with patients’ names, etc. The arrangement has bothered me since my
arrival. I don’t like that he sits there, a 60-year old man, sporting a
green towel on his head, receiving the best of surgical and nursing
care, and I don’t know how many Americans he is responsible for killing,
or how he came to lose his leg before he was captured and imprisoned.
How many countries even care about the Geneva Conventions tenets?

I do know that this EPW (assigned a number, not a name) cannot be
berthed alongside American soldiers, sailors, and Marines. He must be
guarded at all times, and although the physical threats from him are
minimal (it would be difficult for a 60-year-old amputee with fresh
surgical wounds to overtake our youthful and fit staff), I don’t know if
his ignorance of English is a façade, if his smile and unimposing ways
are just a ruse to lull you into complacency. Is he gathering
intelligence? Is he committing antibiotic names to memory? Can he
determine what we can and cannot treat? Will he report the numbers and
names of our casualties? Has he figured out who is in charge, the
changes of shifts, the weaknesses in our structures and processes? Call
me paranoid, but I don’t like him in there, and I’ll change it as soon
as we take over the place.

At about 1800, a Filipino nurse from Balboa, my chow relief, comes in to
relieve me for dinner. He has not yet eaten and the chow hall closes at
2000. I can take an hour without guilt. I review the patients still on
hand, we talk about flushing the freshly-inserted central line on our
EPW, calculating the cumulative Heparin that he’ll be receiving after
antibiotics and during the shifts. He is very anemic, has received 2
units of blood (American blood), that I know of, and I am worried about
his potential for hemorrhage. I don’t like his presence, but on my
watch, he’ll receive safe and competent care, without bias or prejudice.
We determine that the Heparin is O.K.

I leave for chow and arrive at the dining facility about 1815. I find
some Chiefs from our unit to sit with and we casually discuss things. I
bring up my concerns about our EPW, emphatic that I will change things
just as soon as I can. We talk about events from the day, about the
status of our spaces, about the attack on the Army soldiers, about how
tired we are. I am impressed at how good the female dental Chief looks –
relatively well-rested, with maybe a hint of blush on her cheeks. She
casually mentions that she heard it could be a bad night in Fallujah.
Marines were going in to the city for patrol, and it is the Kurdish New
Year. We all under-react to the information.

After dinner, we get up to go, retrieving our trays from the table,
balancing our water bottles, our covers, while negotiating the exit
door. It had become dark while we ate. The Indian men are outside, as
always, wiping down trays as we pile them higher. I am outside with a
big, African-American, male Chief. He is a quiet man. He seems strong,
and safe. I have talked to him about his family, about his home. We are
waiting under the bright yellow and white awning, standing in front of a
“Texas Barrier” a huge cement form, many of which, pollute the compound
landscape with defensive, but unattractive necessity. They are in place
to protect the buildings. The chow hall has a tin roof and vinyl siding.
The bubbly and outgoing female Chief has been distracted by a
conversation inside, so we wait for her patiently, casually conversing.
I hear a distant thud, the pulse of far-away fire, maybe an outgoing
round. I’m still too new to discern all of the sounds. But this one is
ignored. It is very far away.

Within an instant, my thoughts still on the distant round, I hear a
high-pitched whizzing sound directly over-head and then the inevitable
BOOOM – rocks the ground beneath me. Still on my feet, I react without
thinking, dashing to the door of the chow hall, about 12 feet away. I
catch a momentary image of sheer terror on the face of an Indian worker
(none of these men weighs over 100 lbs), as he, like me, scrambles for
the door and some sort of cover. My thoughts are racing; I am caught
completely off guard. The concussion of the round is still a palpable
internal sensation as I reach the door of the chow hall. What a bizarre
sight. Hundreds of uniformed diners, sprawled prone on the chow hall
floor. I see the female Chief. She tells me today that I forcefully
pulled her to the floor. I only remember seeing her and telling her to
“Get down! It hit right outside!” I recognize a female Corpsman as
people start to shakily respond. There is laughter in the Chow Hall (a
nervous reaction, no one can think this is funny). A zealous Marine
shouts, “Lock and load!” Someone with an authoritative voice directs us
all to exit the building slowly, without panic (the chow hall structure
is no place to be during rocket or mortar fire).

Our little group is closest to the door, so is among the first to exit.
We make our way off the cement platform and into the gravel to head back
for Charlie Med, about a block away, and the safety of a hardened
building. We have covered half our distance and are carefully walking
the paved road, trying to avoid the invisible dangers (strewn bricks,
holes, cables) along our route. It is dark along our path, except for
the stars, and the generator lights near some of the buildings. I look
behind toward the chow hall, and I see the dust and smoke rising eerily
in the light above the building. I smell explosives and dust.

I begin to convey my story to the female Corpsman, about the sound of
the incoming round, my fright, and the sensations to my body, when it
happens again. WHIZZZZZZ then BOOM!!! Then again. And yet again. I know
exactly what “shell-shocked” means now. I know that all of these rounds
have hit the compound, within very close range, and that there will be
casualties. I shout, “Is everyone O.K.?” I cannot see my friends, but
we’ve all moved closer to the wall next to us. Perhaps we will be safer
there. We are in the open. There is no where to go. I feel like a
jack-rabbit, fleeing from a predator, whose route is unpredictable, and
whose hunting skills are lethal. Every impact causes a distortion of
time and sense, a jolt to the internal organs. “Run for the Clinic!”
It’s all I can say and do. They will be needing our help, and we are at
least still on our feet. As we round a Texas Barrier, Charlie Med coming
into view, we see smoke in the light at the end of our building. Someone
yells, “Oh my God, it’s a fire.” I think, “I don’t know where a water
source is, a hose.” I have my water bottle, clutched to my side. It will
provide little relief for a fire.

We reach the end of the building. There is no fire. There is smoke, the
smell of burning, a choking cloud of dust and debris, the sight and
smell of blood. We enter the end of the building. Random thoughts,
“Where is the door? Oh my God, look at all this blood, Jesus, this is
bad, where can I help.” I walk through the blood, without thinking.
There is so much, that I cannot get around. It is in a huge puddle by
the door and is channeling down the hallway in a path that can only have
been made by the dragging of a human body. I start to notice people. I
cannot discern their faces, but their expressions are of concern and
confusion. Several ask, “Are you all right?” I lie to some, and say,
“Yes.” I take some deep breaths, knowing that I must shake my own state
if I am going to be able to help anyone else. I look for something to
do. I race down the hall, looking through spaces where doors used to be.
I pass by the ward, I see the EPW, grabbing his crutches, trying to get
out of bed. I yell at him to “GET DOWN! YOU STAY THERE!” No one is
guarding him. I come to the next doors, our trauma room, and see too
many people working on a lifeless body. CPR is in progress. He has
enough help. The next door presents an opportunity. A victim is lying
motionless on the stretcher, he is prone, people are packing gaping
wounds. “Where is his left buttocks? He will lose that leg. He has no
I.V. I can start a line.” I grab the equipment, a catheter, and a
tourniquet. A bag of normal saline is still spiked from our earlier dry
run. I am prepared to start this I.V. with this patient prone, if I have
to, but the doctor running the bed states, “We’re going to turn him
over.” His left shoulder is filleted open. I shove an entire role of
Curlex gauze into the hole. We roll the patient. I tighten the
tourniquet around his biceps and palpate for a vein. Nothing. I tighten
the tourniquet more. I rub the antecubital space with alcohol, hoping to
raise a vessel. I can feel one. I listen to the combatant thoughts in my
head. “Cindy, you haven’t started an I.V. in over 4 years. Yeah, but
this is like riding a bike. You were among the best in both Pediatrics
and Labor and Delivery. You have started hundreds of I.V.’s on every
kind of vein. You can do this. You HAVE to do this. God, guide this
catheter. Thank you, God,” as I see the red flash and float the catheter
in with fluid. “You have a good line!” Someone states that the O.R. is
ready, as I help an Army medic pack and wrap the space where this young
man’s left entire backside used to be. I don’t want to process the fact
that I see small bowel escaping through this blown out pelvis. I look
into this young man’s eyes and I tell him to “Hold on. You’re going to
make it. You fight, O.K.?” He nods, but his eyes reflect what he
probably knows at this moment. He will die tonight. The stretcher is
lifted, and he heads for the operating room, but his fate has already
been sealed. This isn’t television.

I head into the other room, where the CPR had been in progress. Only
now, the chest is cracked, and our surgeon and the E.R. physician are
taking turns at massaging the heart muscle from inside. I take a place
at the end of the bed, helping to spike and compress bag after bag of O+
blood into the various lines that have been placed. They call for
instruments that I don’t know. We don’t have them anyway. I can hand
them the scalpel intermittently. I see one of the Lieutenants I work
with in Corpus Christi at the opposite end of the bed, bagging
(artificially ventilating) the patient. He is doing a great job. I know,
because I am looking into the chest cavity, and I can see the lungs
rhythmically inflating and deflating. “Those are healthy looking lungs,”
I think to myself. “This must be a young man. These lungs are pink and
vital, nothing like the cadaver lungs of life-long smokers from my grad
school anatomy class.” It is like looking at the rubber airway models in
ACLS and CPR classes. The surgeon states quietly, “He isn’t going to
make it.” The E.R. physician verbally summarizes the multiple
interventions that have taken place, and pronounces the time of death.
Around the table, tears begin to flow. I cannot hold back my own.

Later on, I learn that this was the body of the Army surgeon with whom I
had interacted so much on the previous day. They were healthy lungs. He
shouldn’t be dead. He was the father of a five-year-old boy and was
within 48 hours of leaving this place. His was the blood in the hallway.
He never had a chance when the rocket’s impact, only 10 feet from our
door blew him through the opening. His was the blood on my boots. I
don’t know if blood comes out of suede, but I know that it leaves an
indelible stain in your mind and in your own heart.

The other casualties are not life-threatening, save one successful O.R.
case, who was MEDEVAC’ed after surgery. I pray that he makes it and gets
back home. I do not know the extent of his injuries. We all begin to
process our thoughts and our feelings. No one can escape the emotional
tide that inevitably wells within. A Chaplain can see that I am in
despair. He offers me a fatherly hug. I’ll take it.

Today is the 21st. I did not sleep well last night after getting back to
my berthing, sometime around midnight. I jumped at every noise, every
closing of a door. I woke to every jet and helicopter that passed by. It
is dark again. It is 2100. So far it is quiet. I wore my flack and
Kevlar all day today and was out of the chow hall before dark.

I visited my patients on the ward, but did not work today. One of the
Army Medics who was injured in the hallway provided some levity. His
injury was a penetrating shrapnel wound that had entered the left
scrotum, exited the right scrotum lodged the debris within his right
thigh, thankfully missing the femoral artery. Somehow, the “family
jewels” were spared. He had no modesty about showing his war wounds to
visiting buddies. Finally I said to him, “Sergeant, every time I turn
around in here, I’m seeing your stuff. Now, it’s time to put that away.
We’ve all seen quite enough.” He laughed. We have established a rapport
with these Army heroes and we will be sad to see them go. I am heartsick
that two of their colleagues, their families away from home, fell just
before the joy of reunions with “real” families could be felt.

For those of us who are here to take over, we are hopeful that we have
seen the worst already in these few short days. We know that the
emotional burdens of the events described will assuredly take their
toll. It could be a very trying six months. I pray that we are all up to
the task before us.

** The previous account is factual. Names were omitted to protect the
privacy of the tragic victims. This is my story. In writing it, I would
like to honor those fallen heroes, who paid the ultimate price. God
bless their families, as they grieve their impossible losses. And God
Bless us, who continue their work.

P.S. The EPW has been moved to a solitary location with dedicated guard.

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To terminate puerile preservation prattling among pals and the
uncoffee-ed, or to change your settings, go to:
<http://maelstrom.stjohns.edu/archives/bullamanka-pinheads.html>