Lest We Forget Read online

  Brian was one of the Marine Recon medics on that clinical rotation. He was a smart guy and had been in the Navy for several years before attending the SOMC. He joked with the man as we put well over 100 stitches in his neck and chest. The two-man job took close to two hours to complete. When the man asked how he looked Brian just replied, “You aren’t going to be winning any beauty pageants but you’re still alive.”

  Through the course of my time at the hospital in Florida I was fortunate enough to have scrubbed in on a half a dozen trauma surgeries, assisting the surgeon in the operating room. I helped deliver four babies, one by cesarean section. I placed limbs in casts and stitched up every part of the human body that you can imagine. I did central lines and intubations, worked on people having heart attacks and drunken homeless people that had been stabbed. It wasn’t all work though, I would also estimate that my roommate Brian and I both drank our weight in Jameson and managed to find ourselves in the presence of a couple of college aged females once or twice. This was not an easy thing, however, because we were given only two vehicles for a dozen of us. Lack of transportation or time off wouldn’t hinder our efforts, however.

  We only had a couple of nights off the entire month and the first one that we got I wanted very badly to post up at a dive bar and see if I could break my previous PBR record of 24 in a single evening. Jake, one of my homies in the Special Forces pipeline, had a different plan though. He was friendly with a very attractive girl whose name I never bothered to learn. Now Jake put himself in a tough spot because he had the keys to the van that six of us shared but he had told ol’ girl that they would be going out on a date. I don’t believe that he explained to her that a squad of very sophomoric special operations guys would be joining them.

  I don’t remember the name of the nice restaurant that I was dragged into but I do recall not being willing to spend six bucks for a beer. I also remember trying to set the tablecloth on fire in protest. Now you might think that is terrible behavior but I was led to this place under the guise that we would be slumming it. Upon leaving the restaurant I noticed a dive bar across the street with a glorious Pabst Blue Ribbon neon sign illuminated like a beacon that guides a lost sailor home. Lucky for me I was not the only one in the group that was in need of some good old fashion bar stool therapy. We had all been elbows deep in blood and guts and could use a flick of the pressure release valve.

  I almost threw the barstool when the bartender told me that they didn’t stock PBR. The sign was clearly advertising a certain product. I asked the bearded gent what the shittiest beer he had was. He produced from behind the bar a can of Schlitz malt liquor and a small paper bag. With the grace and fluidity of a symphony conductor he placed the can in the small paper bag and handed it to me. I could feel the tears welling up as my lip quivered slightly. I was so happy. So very, very happy. Ten years later, that very same paper bag is still folded neatly in my wallet to this day. Every time that I have had a Schlitz since that day I have pulled out that bag and used it like the ghetto koozie that it is.

  After consuming enough malt liquor to float a ship it was time to “break the seal.” During the course of SOMC I learned that the need to pee more frequently is a hormone reaction. Alcohol inhibits the production and secretion of antidiuretic hormone (ADH) , which causes more frequent urination. To this day I have no clue what motivated my next action. I grabbed a fist full of brown paper towels in the men’s room and removed the splashguard from the urinal that I was about to take a piss in. I said this previously but do not even try to comprehend the cognitive process of a 21-year-old Ranger private with nearly two dozen drinks on board. I placed the wad of towels containing the rubber treasure deep into my cargo pocket and returned to my barstool.

  Earlier in the week I had met a girl who had given me her number. She had the bad timing of calling me at this very moment. She said that she was going to be at a bar with a couple of friends and that we should all meet up. Needless to say this was not a hard sell for the group I was with.

  When we arrived we grabbed another drink and met the girls at their table. I’m sure at this point I was swaying in my seat. Just as I have no idea why I decided to grab that nasty splashguard out of the urinal, I have no clue why I thought it would be a good idea to retrieve the wad of brown paper towels from my pocket at this moment. I handed them to the girl that invited us and said, “here…. I got you something.” Brian was out with us that night and took an interest in the exchange, watching intently as she unwrapped the mystery gift. I could tell that she was not expecting a gift so she was rather excited by the surprise. When all of the paper had been removed she held the diamond shaped red piece of rubber in her bare hands with a perplexed look. Brian’s eyes got huge as he realized what it was. It was that look that you would expect a bystander to give if you just kicked a baby for no reason. He tried to control his laughter but the fact that she still had no clue what she was holding was too much for him. He erupted in laughter, tears filling his eyes. Now she was really confused. I leaned over to her and said, “Any asshole could bring you flower, how’s that for original?”

  “Jesus Christ, Jenkins!” replied another buddy once he realized what was going on. He told her what she was holding was what kept piss from splashing back on your hands at the urinal. To everyone's surprise she started laughing. She looked at me and said, “That’s funny, disgusting but funny.”

  Interestingly one of the girls that met up with us that night and one of my buddies ended up getting married a couple of years later. It is also my understanding that she kept my special gift for several years.

  A year and a half later I would have the privilege of attending another similar rotation in Atlanta, Georgia at Grady Hospital. There is no other training in the world that can compare to it. It is the most comprehensive, progressive program for medics on earth. Following this training I felt prepared to handle any injury that I saw on the field of battle. Which was a good thing because within two weeks of graduating SOMC I would be deployed to Afghanistan to act as a platoon medic for Charlie Company, 3rd Ranger Battalion.

  Drinking from a firehouse! These were the books assigned to us on the first day of SOMC.

  Extreme log PT at the schoolhouse. 6-mile stroll through Ft. Bragg with over 100lbs to carry, before class starts.

  Staying proficient at Ranger skills. We jumped several times while at SOMC.

  SOMC graduation. Chris and I being cheery as fuck!

  SOMC Graduation. Sitting with some of my Navy friends. That’s Lewis Lewis behind me.

  …..

  Chapter 6 - Time Consumer

  I had been a soldier in the United States Army for the past 18 months. Most guys that I went to basic training with had already deployed to Iraq or Afghanistan. I had spent the last year and a half in various schools preparing to be a member of special operations. Every hurdle that was bounded gave me an increasing level of confidence in my ability to operate among the world’s best soldiers. All of that confidence was stripped away when I took my fist step off of the back of that Air Force cargo plane onto the runway on Bagram Airfield. The mountains that surrounded the airfield did well to show me how insignificant I was. I had done some hiking growing up in Arizona but my perspective on what a mountain was changed instantly as my size 10.5 combat boot hit the tarmac. As my eyes opened wide in awe, I could feel the brisk sting of the cold dry air and took in a lung full of air like I’ve never smelled before. It was different, almost ancient. In all my travels since that day I have never smelled that same smell again except for the two other times I would step off of a plane in Afghanistan.

  I suddenly realized that in all that we were taught we never really learned exactly what we would be doing. I almost expected to start taking rocket fire the moment that I stepped off the plane. I knew about the Ranger mission from stories and movies but I really didn’t understand what my role was supposed to be yet. Furthermore I didn’t know a single person who I would be working with. My entire Battalion h
ad deployed a month earlier and I had never met any of them. I was the FNG (Fucking New Guy). None of my accomplishments up to this point meant a damn thing. No one knew me. I would have to prove myself once again.

  On my very first day in country I met up with who I thought would be my platoon. We had to do some fast rope training. The act of it was simple enough, grab the rope that was dangling from the back of the helicopter and slide down it like a fire pole. This was actually the first time I had ever actually been in a helicopter, which didn’t help with the anxiety. On one of the last evolutions one of the squad leaders sprained his ankle pretty badly. I had not expected this to be my first patient as a Ranger medic. I had prepared for gunshot wounds and bones sticking out and giant stunt cocks. The majority of the training at the schoolhouse was targeted at the worst possible scenario. He honestly would have been better off had he been shot. I froze up a little. He didn’t need me to check his airway or start an IV. There was no major life threats or hemorrhaging to control. My aidbag wasn’t packed to treat this injury. I had some pain meds but I didn’t have the right size needles to do a simple intramuscular injection. This was more like a sick call injury; this wasn’t what I was supposed to see in combat. The Staff Sergeant screamed in pain as I plunged an 18-gauge needle into his shoulder.

  “Fuck Doc! I feel like I just got arm raped! Do you even know what the fuck you are doing?”

  I wanted to tell him how good I did on my trauma lane in SOMC but none of that shit matters here. I’m fucking this up bad. I wrap his ankle the way that you would expect a monkey to if you threw a splint and a couple of bananas in his cage. I was a fucking soup sandwich. The only thing that saved me in the long run was I ended up getting attached to a different platoon and forward deployed the next day to another outpost. If I had to work as that man’s medic for the next three months I’m pretty sure that I would have been fucked.

  I arrived at what would be my home for the next few months. I recall standing in a formation with a dozen or so guys. The process of deciding which guys would go to each platoon was not quite what I had imagined it would be. The platoon Sergeants stood in front of the wide-eyed new Rangers and began a selection process that I can only compare to a game of kickball in grade school. There was no inquiry or interview at all. “He looks strong, I’ll take him.” Really? Like cattle at a livestock auction. I was beginning to get incredibly self-conscious about not getting picked in the first three rounds when I realized that all of the non-infantry guys had been put in the back row for a reason. Our fate had already been decided. We would become the property of our section leaders. Mine was a six-foot tall gentleman with a shaved head and a full leg piece tattoo. Awesome, another Runza. In the deepest voice that you could possibly imagine he yelled my name.

  “JENKINS over here!”

  This guy was going to be whom I reported to from here out and he looked like the poster child for the Aryan race. Dano, as he was known as to everyone that wasn’t a cherry fuck, was the epitome of what I had always imagined a Ranger to be. His demeanor was beyond intimidating.

  There is a very real learning curve to being a Ranger. I had 18 months of training but no real perspective as to what day-to-day life looked like. Minutes after meeting my new senior medic I learned that what it looked like was four cots in the back of a tent that also served as the medical facility to two platoons of injury prone guys thousands of miles from their moms. I was shown which one of the “bunks” was mine, dropped the single bag that I would be living out of for the next few months and given a short tour of the base. I believe that the other new Rangers that I came over with were not having such an easy introduction into the Regiment but most of them had only been in the Army about five months. The look on some of their faces at the chow hall later that first day resembled the look a dog has right after it has been kicked for shitting in the house.

  My first week seemed to be a series of tests. My senior medic quizzed me randomly on drug protocols and assessment techniques. He took me out on a couple of death runs in hopes that I would fall off of his pace. The fact that I had been obsessed with physical fitness before this and spent at least a couple of hours a day training truly paid off. By showing that I was fit to fight on my first few days I showed that I was responsible and partially trustworthy. The military works differently than the rest of the world. I have always said that success really only relies on three things: be in good shape, always be early for everything and always have a clean well-groomed appearance. It wasn’t long before I fucked one of those three things up.

  A few weeks into my first deployment and I was coasting. I had done some cool guy CQB (Close Quarter Battle) training with my platoon. I went out to the range and shot every piece of weaponry a kid could dream about. I rode in helicopters and even did a couple of missions. I was finally a real Ranger. I was watching a movie on a shitty 13-inch TV in my tent when a young private ran in. Out of breath he told me frantically that Dano was looking for me and that I was late for a training meeting. Training meeting? No one told me about a….

  “Doc, come on!”

  When I arrived at the headquarters tent everyone seemed to be on a bit of a study break. My boss looked at me like he was trying to melt my face with his eyes. He was fucking pissed. The First Sergeant told everyone to take their seats. Apparently we were half way through a two-hour PowerPoint presentation that I was unaware of. You see, the military has a very deliberate chain of command. The First Sergeant tells his platoon sergeants something, they tell their squad leaders, the squad leaders pass it on to their team leaders, the team leaders scream it at their privates while making them do push ups. It’s highly effective except no one ever thinks to tell the medic what the fuck is going on. I hadn’t blown this training off; I simply didn’t know it was happening. That didn’t matter. When the training ended everyone else left the tent to go on with their day. Myself and the other platoon medic, who was also unaware of the training, got to stay back for some “extra training.”

  We tried to explain that no one had told us what was going on while we were sweating buckets in the front leaning rest position. Our senior medic said something that was very simple yet has stuck with me to this day.

  “This is your company. It is your responsibility to know what is going on without someone telling you. You have to be proactive not reactive or you will not survive here.” It was one of the most valuable lessons of my first combat deployment.

  Another highly valuable lesson that I learned was that, under no circumstance, should you ever let someone know that it’s your birthday. One of the privates in my platoon made this mistake and paid for it dearly. He found himself drenched in water and shaving cream, zip tied to a chain link fence for two hours in the middle of the night in the middle of December. As tough as he was, he was no match for the six Rangers dressed in all black with night vision goggles waiting to ambush him on his way back from the porta shitter. A cold, lonely, miserable birthday present that would likely get the gifters demoted or worse today.

  To be honest, that first deployment was not what I was expecting from a combat standpoint. There was a few missions, one or two guys got shot but for the most part it was more about finding a way to spend our days without going crazy than it was about finding and eradicating the enemy. I remember watching all three Godfather movies in a single day while eating six whole boxes of thin mint Girl Scout cookies that someone’s mom had sent. I went to the gym at least twice a day and jerked off in porta potty. Not the high-speed life that I had expected. By the end of that deployment I was deadlifting over 600 pounds and still running a sub 13-minute two mile.

  When it was time to come home I envisioned the scene that I had watched time and time again on television where a group of service members land on some runway and were greeted with crowds of loved ones waving flags and welcome home signs. That didn’t happen. Not even close. We landed on a military base in the middle of the night, walked into a hangar where three medics were giving guys shot
s, took a short bus ride to our company area where guys turned in their weapons and went home. It was the most unceremonious thing imaginable.

  For a few of us it was our first time coming home but many of these men were already on their fourth or fifth deployment. Several of them made the initial jump into Afghanistan. My company was the same one that executed Operation Rhino on October 19th, 2001. By 2004 they were already battle-hardened men and I had a lot of catching up to do. Sure, I now had a combat scroll and a CMB (Combat Medic Badge), but I still didn’t have my trial by fire. I still didn’t feel like a real Ranger.

  The aid station in Salarneo forward operating base.

  Aziz, the local bread maker and me.

  Cool Guy training. Salerno forward operating base

  …..

  Chapter 7 - Welcome Home

  Coming home from war was a very surreal experience. Citizens have a preconceived notion as to what goes on “over there.” Sadly, however, these notions are often based solely on the latest Hollywood blockbuster that they shelled out nine bucks to see. People treat you in accordance with their inaccurate beliefs as to what occurs during war. At this time, everyone in the country still conveyed a great deal of support for our efforts overseas. Everyone back home seemed so proud of me yet I didn’t feel like I had done anything. Sure there had been a couple of small exchanges but I was expecting Black Hawk Down level action and to be honest, I think that is what the majority of people that knew me thought that I had gone through. Friends spoke to me differently and men that I looked up to growing up in the fire station gave me a great deal of respect. I felt honored by the experience but I also felt like a bit of a liar. I was no war hero I was just happy to be home.