Okay So Far

Camp Chesty, on the outskirts of An Numaniyah, occupied a patch of desert the Marines had taken from the Iraqis on 3 April on their way to Baghdad. Part airfield, it hosted the 1st Marine Expeditionary Force headquarters and subordinate units, housed in tents. Each unit had its own space, separated from the others by sand berms pushed up from the desert floor. Our medical unit, known as the “Devil Docs” arrived on 8 April and set up next to the Harrier landing zone. Having one of those land in your front yard is a spectacle deserving notice. During the day, we would gawk, fascinated at how such a large plane could stop in mid-air and lower itself to the ground. Nighttime required us to be less impressed and more vigilant, since lights left on in a ward or a barracks tent could misdirect and bring a Harrier down on us.

As the only chaplain for the field hospital, I lived on the far edge of the camp between the mortuary and the helo LZ, so I would know immediately when dead or wounded “guests” arrived. The front ¾ of my tent served as the chapel, with wood Connex boxes for pews and altar. My tent mates and I shared the back quarter, divided from the chapel by poncho liners we’d hung for privacy. One of my tent mates was a podiatrist in her mid-twenties who spent her days debriding or amputating feet. The other was the psych tech assistant to my battle buddy Gary, the psychiatrist.

Bald and goofy, Gary’s irreverent sense of humor eased tension in the camp and kept me from justifiable homicide. I lessened his homesickness by being an eager audience for daily tales of adventure starring his eight children. Since we were responsible for everyone else’s mental and spiritual stability, Gary and I kept each other’s secrets and sanity.

One constant in our camp was sand. It swirled around in sidewinders you could see coming across the desert floor. It coated everyone and everything with powdered silt. It stiffened drying underwear, if there’d been enough water to change skivvies from “dirty dirty” to “dirty clean.” It mixed with smoke from our burn pit where we disposed of body parts, bloody blankets, plastic, and everything else no longer viable. And each night it coated my rations, aptly dubbed “tray rats,” as I carried them from the chow tent to ground seating outside.

The chow tent was conveniently located next to the port-a-potties for easy disposal of filtered grub, no matter from which human opening it spewed. This proved helpful for most of the hospital staff who suffered from gastrointestinal issues. I saw it as proof medical types were clueless about basic hygiene. If you didn’t eat so close to where you shit, you wouldn’t need to shit close to where you eat.

I tried to address the issue with the Executive Officer. “Our toilets are plywood seats over metal drums. The flies that land in those drums are the same flies that land on our food. We need to move the chow tent.”

What I got in response was the usual “Chaplain, we’re trained medical personnel. We know what we’re doing. Please stay in your own lane.”

So, there I sat, on the ground, like I did every evening, trying to find an edible portion of the silt-coated goo on my Chinet plate. Within seconds, a fly landed. I swatted him with my spork. He ignored me.

“I know where you’ve been.” I swished my hand at him. He didn’t move. “You’ve been in the shit. Go.” He didn’t. Hungry, I slipped my Spork underneath the silt and took a bite.

“Talking to flies, now?” Gary asked as he lowered onto the sand. “Wanna tell me about it?”

“This is my fly. Get your own.”

He held out his plate. “Already got one. Um, two.”

“Don’t brag.”

“How’s it going?”

“Okay, so far.”

“That’s a punchline. Here’s the joke. A man jumps off the top of a skyscraper. When he passes the 18^th floor, a woman leans out the window and asks, ‘How’s it going?’”

“Dare I ask you the same question?”

“Okay so far… Uh oh.”

“What’s the matter, Gary?”

He pointed behind me. I turned to see a Marine hurrying in our direction.

“Chaplain,” the Marine called as he waved to get my attention. “Chaplain. They need you in triage.”

Translation: we have a dead body. Committed to healing, medical personnel hated to deal with the dead. That was a lane they were happy to leave to me.

“They’re playing my song, Gary. Looks like you and your wee buddies will be dining alone.”

On my way to triage, I tossed my dinner with its complimentary fly into the burn pit.

Corpsmen were already unloading patients when I arrived.

“Ambulance?” I asked the triage coordinator. “Not helo? Traffic accident?”

“Gun range. Nearby. Here comes the first one.” She hurried to direct the corpsmen to place the litter on the left side of the triage tent. Blood permeating through torn uniform left droplets in the sand at my feet as they passed. Gun range? What the hell happened out there?

Five more bleeding Marines arrived on litters. The triage coordinator sent one to the left and four to the right. Selection. I hated this part. Stateside, the patient with the most severe injuries would get the first and best care. Here, if treating them would significantly reduce the care and resources available for other patients, or if the likelihood of survival is too low, they’re set aside and given only comfort care. Me. This could be a long night.

Soon a seventh litter came off the ambulance. It carried a body bag. A leaking body bag.

A corpsman stopped in front of me. “Chaplain, where do you want him?”

I pointed to a spot outside the tent where there would be less foot traffic. The corpsmen headed there, then gently rested the litter on the ground.

“Is there anything else you need from us, Chaplain?”

When I gave them the answer they’d hoped for, they headed back to the ambulance. Mopping blood, in this instance, was the preferable choice.

I knelt next to the bag marked “Human Remains. Content – One Each,” and reached for the zipper.

“Chaplain, we need you,” sounded from inside the triage tent.

I patted the bag. “I’ll be right back. I just have to see about one of your buddies.”

“Over here,” the nurse said. She leaned closer to me. “He’s not going to make it.” I nodded as she walked away to assist the next patient.

In front of me lay a barely conscious Marine in his thirties. I slipped my left hand under his. Still warm. “Can you hear me?” A faint squeeze. “I’m Chaplain Bender.” With my other hand, I reached for his dog tags. “Kevin, I won’t leave you. I see you’re Catholic. How about I offer these words to God on your behalf?” I reached in my cargo pocket and pulled out my Prayers for the Dying cheat sheet. “In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Hail Mary. Full of grace…” Before the prayer ended, I felt his hand relax. Kevin was gone.

“LT,” I called. “You need… he’s uh…”

The nurse poked one of the docs working on the nearby patient. When he walked over to check Kevin, I went outside to take care of the Marine in the leaking bag. I knelt beside him and slid the zipper down enough to find his dog tag, then rezipped it. Buddhist. That’s a new one. I checked my cheat sheet. Catholic. Protestant. Jewish. Muslim. No Buddhist. I closed my eyes. Now what, God? Now what do I do? I have no idea what to say for a Buddhist. I placed my hand on the bag. “Dear God, this young Marine deserves a proper prayer. Don’t let my ignorance take that from him. O God, may my weak words suffice.” Lost in thought, I sat with him for a few minutes until screams from inside the tent caught my attention. On my way into triage, I told a corpsman our deceased Marine was ready for his trip to the freezer.

Only two Marines remained in the tent. On the right, a corpsman was calmly cutting the uniform off her patient while a nurse readied some equipment. On the left, the medical staff was struggling to hold down their writhing, screeching patient. I took a deep breath to steel myself as I listened to his pain-filled cries. A few minutes later, he let out a loud moan, then slumped back on the litter.

“Chaplain. We need you.” I walked toward the group, now standing in a circle around the litter.

“You’ve done your best to save this Marine. He was just too wounded. How about we take hands and offer a prayer for him, his loved ones, and the good work you’re doing for all our patients?”

With hands clasped or on shoulders, the medical staff bowed their heads. I began the prayer. Then I paused, so others could offer their own heartfelt words. When we finished, everyone returned to their work, which was far from over.

“Get the chaplain. I know she’s here. I want the chaplain.” The voice came from the other side of the tent.

I walked toward the remaining patient. “Hi, I’m Chaplain Bender. You’re looking for me?”

Naked from the waist down, the Marine held a Bible close to his chest. “She’s trying to take away my Bible. Tell her she can’t do that.”

I turned to the nurse. “What’s up with the Bible?” I asked, so the Marine could hear her answer.

“He has shrapnel wounds on his lower body and may have some on his torso. He could bleed out if we don’t find them. We only want him to let us cut off the rest of his uniform so we can check.”

“Gunny, that seems reasonable to me. How about if I hold your Bible in front of you so you can see it while they check for wounds?”

He nodded and handed over the book. The nurse continued to work on his lower half, while the corpsman cut off his Cammie blouse and tee shirt.

“Gunny, what’s your name?”

“Alpha, Alpha, Romeo, Oscar, November…” While he rattled off the NATO phonetic letters of his last name, I struggled to make sense of his first. Finally, I got it.

“Aaron, right? Your name is Aaron?

“That’s what I just told you.”

Once his uniform was off, I returned his Bible.

“Aaron, I’d like to say a prayer for you. What would you like me to pray for?”

In a loud voice he said, “Chaplain, pray this nurse takes that tube out of my dick.”

No sound followed his pronouncement. Across the tent, work on the deceased paused. People stopped mid-stride. The gunny’s nurse stared at me, mouth agape. I leaned toward her so only she could hear. “Yes, I will pray, but there will be no laying on of hands or anointing with oil.”

She giggled and spit. Then she resumed her work. Thank you, gallows humor for the save. Slowly, others went about their way. I prayed for the Gunny, then left the tent.

Outside triage, I took a seat on a Connex box to wait for the sunset. I needed to catch my breath. I should have walked further away, because just after my butt hit the wooden box, a Marine I didn’t recognize headed straight for me.

“Where are my men? I know they came here. Where are they?” he asked. “I wasn’t with them when it happened. I should have been there.”

“Do you mean the men who arrived by ambulance?”

He nodded. In the dimming light, wet streaks betrayed where tears had fallen over the layer of sand coating his face.

“Come sit with me for a minute. Then I’ll take you to admin to get the full report.”

He lowered himself onto the box across from me. “Have you seen them? I know some of them are dead.”

“Are you the supervisor of these Marines?”

“No. We’re all friends. We’ve served together for years. Our wives and kids are friends. I should have been with them, but I stayed back to finish paperwork.”

“Stayed back from where?”

“A range near here. We’d captured some Iraqi RPGs, and the guys wanted to get more familiar with them. They’d been shooting all afternoon when a round cooked off in the chamber…”

“I’m sorry. The ambulance brought seven of them here. We were able to save four.”

“Who’s gone? Who died? Can I see them?”

“How about I take you to admin to get the official word, then I’ll meet you afterwards?”

With no other plan, he agreed to that one. I escorted him to admin and went off to find Gary. On the way, I stopped by the chow tent to grab a bottle of water and a paper cup.

Gary was sitting outside his tent when I arrived. “Dare I ask,” he said as I neared.

“I’m okay so far, but three others have reached their destination. I think the other four will make it. You still have that little electric water heater? I need to make tea.”

“Here, have a cookie while I look. My wife baked it.”

“I know what you’re doing. Standard critical incident check-up. If I can eat after going through a trauma, I’m past the critical stage.” I took a bite. Much better than the fly covered mush.

“And why do you need to make tea? Take a cookie for whoever it is.”

“Thanks. I might bring him by for an overnight eval. Three of his friends just died.”

“I’ll fluff the pillows on the extra cot.”

I stopped by the chapel tent to dig a tea bag out of my personal stash. I plugged the heater into a generator near admin, poured in water from the bottle and waited. When it was hot enough, I poured it over the tea bag. The smell of peaches rose from the cup. I closed my eyes and inhaled. Home.

“Chaplain, I’m finished with admin.”

“Did they give you the information to take back to your unit?”

“I got what I came for, but not what I wanted. I should have been with them.”

“Here you go,” I said, handing over the cup of peach tea and the homemade cookie. “Tell me about your friends.” 

We talked for a while. He drank the tea, but I had to remind him twice about the cookie.

“I need to return this,” I said, holding up the water heater. “It belongs to one of our docs. Come, walk with me.”

Gary was still sitting in front of his tent when we arrived. After introductions, which did not include what kind of medicine he practiced, Gary pointed to the empty cot.

“Hey, why don’t you stay here tonight? The road is barely safe in the daylight. I don’t want you to have any more problems tonight. You can hang here with me and my tent mates and we can finish my wife’s cookies.”

Confident the distraught Marine would be safe bunking with a psychiatrist, two psychologists and a few psych techs, I took my leave and headed for the ward to see how the Gunny was doing. I found him with his Bible tucked under his arm.

“How you feeling, Aaron?” I pulled a folding chair next to his cot.

“Not so good, Chaps.”

“How about you rest, and I’ll read you some passages from your Bible?”

He handed it over and closed his eyes.

I began with the 23^rd Psalm. “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.” I moved on to the 91^st. “Because he loves me,” says the Lord, “I will rescue him; I will protect him. I will be with him in trouble. With long life I will satisfy him and show him my salvation.” Then the 46^th. “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.” For almost an hour, I read to him words of promise, hope and salvation.

A corpsman walked up behind me. “Chaps, we have to turn the lights out now. We don’t want to be mistaken for an LZ.”

I nodded and rose to go. Aaron seemed to be sleeping, anyway.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered.

I lowered myself back into the chair. Since it was now too dark to read, I continued with what I misspent my youth memorizing: Hymns. “When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, thou hast taught me to say, it is well, it is well with my soul.” And “Through many dangers, toils and snares, I have already come. Tis grace that brought me safe thus far and grace will lead me home.” I sang until my voice grew hoarse. Before leaving, I reached for Aaron’s hand to pray for him. Clammy. I felt his pulse. Much too fast for someone sleeping. I squeezed his hand, but he didn’t wake up. I switched on my red lens penlight and went in search of a nurse. He returned with me.

“I’m glad you came to get me, Chaps. I think he’s going into shock. I’ll take it from here.”

Duty done, I headed to my tent. Just outside, I paused under the night sky. Then, exhausted, I curled up on top of my dusty sleeping bag to rest.

+ + +

Camp Lejeune, NC

My assistant stuck his head into my office. “Is it okay if I go to lunch? Oh, and Chaps, you got a visitor.”

I grinned. “Have a nice lunch. Tell your wife I said ‘hi,’ and send the visitor in.”

“Roger that, ma’am.”

I stood to greet my guest. He looked familiar. “Have we met before?” I gazed at the last name stitched over the right pocket of his Cammie blouse. Then it clicked. “Alpha Alpha Romeo Oscar November?”

“Yes, that’s right, ma’am. How’d you know my first name?”

“I’m surprised to see you again, Gunny. Have a seat. What’s up?”

“It took me a while to find you, but once I figured out you were at Lejeune, it was easy.”

“Being the only female chaplain helps narrow it down.”

He nodded. “The reason I needed to see you is this: I have no recollection of what happened to me, and the Marines who died, beyond arriving by ambulance. I’m hoping you can help me remember. It’s all so fuzzy in my brain and I really want to know.”

Ouch. Since arriving back at Lejeune months ago, I’d been doing what everyone else had been doing. Stuffing those memories out of sight, and as best I could, out of mind. The last thing I wanted to do was dredge up that shit. But the Gunny had made an effort to find me. And he said he needed to know. So, against my better judgement, I told him. Everything.

I told him about the friend who died quietly and the one who screamed his way out. I told him about the distraught friend who came in search of his buddies, and the one in the body bag. He listened intently. Then he asked about himself, prefacing with a brief description of the surgeries he’d had after he left us.

“Do you really want to know what happened to you in triage?” I asked. “Because it was rather memorable.”

“Then I really want to know.”

I began with the phonetic spelling of his name, the struggle over his Bible and… then recounted the funniest prayer request I ever received.

“Sounds like me.” He grinned.

I mentioned I had spent time with him in the ward, reading from his Bible.

“I’m sorry, Chaps, I don’t remember that at all. But thanks. I’m sure it helped.”

“You were going into shock. I’m not surprised you don’t remember.”

We talked a little more. Then he rose and headed for the door.

“Thanks for talking with me, Chaps, today, and when I was injured. Maybe I’ll see you sometime again.” He walked through the door and into the hallway. A few seconds later, he returned.

“You sang to me, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Gunny, I did.”

“I thought so.” He smiled as he left.

I shuffled the papers on my desk into a neat pile to be worked on after lunch. On my way to the door, I hit the light switch. In the darkness, it all came flooding back. Images. Screams. Odors. Flies. I leaned my forehead against the wall and wept. “God, you know where I’ve been.”

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