Paradise General: Riding the Surge at a Combat Hospital in Iraq by Hnida Dave

Author:Hnida, Dave [Hnida, Dave]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2010-04-08T04:00:00+00:00

09:11:30 I’m asking Major Boutin why in hell we are drinking Blueberry Surprise instead of real coffee. The medics are telling dirty jokes. Sergeant Courage is outside sweeping the sidewalk.

09:12:00 The radio crackles. A firefight has taken place after an IED attack. Estimate two urgent casualties—arrival by helicopter in twenty-five minutes. Condition unknown—so we prepare for four patients and arrival in ten minutes. Information is often muddled when called in from a thundering helicopter. The message sets in motion a frantic cascade of rushing feet, hurried voices, and upset stomachs.

09:12:30 I ask for pages to be put out to surgeons, orthopedics, anesthesia, respiratory therapy, and X-ray. Maybe an extra ER doc or two. We’re going to need help with this one.

09:13:00 Staff heads to trauma bays—equipment is checked and double-checked. Suction, defibrillators, emergency drugs. IVs are hung and ready to drip. Chest tubes and intubation equipment placed within reach. I double-check my personal gear: stethoscope, safety glasses, and a pair of gloves. Then stuff more gloves into my pockets in case things are extra bloody. I end the ritual with a quick pat-down of my shirt pockets for my emergency cheat cards. Haven’t used them yet but the day I don’t have them is the day I will need them.

09:14:00 We go in sets to the unisex latrine. Always have an empty bladder, you never know when you’ll get the chance to go. As I stand emptying my bladder, the nurse in the stall next to me asks how my family is. Just fine, thanks. Yours?

09:16:00 Back in the ER, we share packs of specially designated “trauma gum”—Trident or Wrigley’s to keep from getting cotton mouth. We walk, pace, and tell weak jokes. I have a crucifix in my left pocket that has been rubbed raw over the months during these walks. I pace seven steps toward the front door, then back for seven more. We all have our pre-trauma quirks—this is mine. Why seven? Mickey Mantle and John Elway wore No. 7. It has to be good luck.

09:19:00 Like Radar O’Reilly, we sense the vibrating blades of incoming medevacs before we hear them. They are eighteen minutes early. Medics go to the helipad wearing Mickey Mouse-—eared hearing protection. The rest of us line up in our positions. I am at the head of the stretcher in Alpha bay waiting for the most critical case. I stand on the left—anesthesia on my right. Everyone in their assigned position. It’s like a football game. Just waiting to say “Hike.”

09:20:30 Medics come into the ER. Moving fast, not a good sign. Someone shouts: “Three urgents on litters.” Sprinting medics rush in three soldiers. I eyeball the wounded from a distance … as well as the faces of the medics. Their stress tells me how worried I should be. Shit, they look as old as I feel. I hear moaning, see blood, and sense death. The worst of the three is blood-soaked and blue in color, he’s missing part of a leg and

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