On November 9, Trinity Episcopal Cathedral in Davenport hosted a most compelling presentation by retired Lieutenant Colonel Ann Hochhausen - Colonel Ho as she is affectionately called. This 27-year veteran in the U.S. Army Nurse Corps shared her experiences and perspective as chief nurse of the 28th Combat Support Hospital (CSH) in Tikrit, Iraq, during 2003 and 2004.
Colonel Ho's one-year odyssey included serving as one of two chief nurses, in split operations, in large canvas-tent hospitals resourced and manned for 200 beds. This all took place in a hostile desert where they performed more than 1,000 surgeries over just the first four months. The 28th CSH provided care for more than 21,000 coalition military personnel and Iraqi civilians and prisoners of war in the course of its one-year deployment. With her specialty skills in obstetrics and gynecology, Colonel Ho was a rarity in that theater, and she was awarded the Bronze Star for her care of pregnant Iraqi women and their unborn children.
Most Americans cannot fathom the harsh and brutal environment in which the 28th CSH provided compassionate and expert medical care for U.S. soldiers and Iraqi civilians and combatants alike. Our notions of war have been glorified and sanitized to prevent triggering the American people's collective outrage for such impossible conditions and horrific results.
Colonel Ho's perspective is critical in conveying the feelings and realities that our military personnel deal with - not just during service, but for the rest of their lives.
Ann's account, with spoken words and pictures, of the various patients her team worked on did not exclusively focus on a soldier's coming back from combat (although she did address the trauma of 20-year-olds carrying out amputations). Rather, her stories painted the vivid picture of the tertiary and collateral damage of war - from a soldier burned alive when his tractor caught fire while burying enemy munitions to an Iraqi civilian who charged U.S. soldiers in the hopes of being killed because he could no longer suffer the misery of his auto-immune disorder run amok because of U.S. sanctions that kept his medication out of Iraq.
It is high time we civilians get a clue about the true costs of of war and more meaningful insight into the hearts and minds of those who serve. To say "We support our troops" without exposure to perspectives such as Ann's is utterly superficial. We thank Colonel Ho for the privilege of sharing her presentation.The slideshow that accompanied her lecture can be found here.
How does one even begin to tell the story of a year-long deployment to Iraq? When my unit first got home and someone innocently asked, "How was it? Was it amazing? Was it shock and awe? What did it feel like?." all I could do was stare at them, speechlessly, thinking: "How do I answer that?."I think I quoted Dickens and said, "It was the best of times. It was the worst of times."
It's very hard to describe feelings. But what I can say is that there is no feeling of glory after coming home from a year at war. It is humbling and just made me want to be quiet and contemplative. "Why did others get hit and not us - not me? How will I ever forget all the trauma? How can I ever relate or share this with other people who weren't there?"
During a ceremony welcoming us home, as we sang "God Bless the USA."and "The Star-Spangled Banner,."I cried so hard I sobbed. There were no words to describe the inescapable sense of loss for those soldiers so badly wounded and killed. What about the Iraqi people? What have we done to them?
On March 20, 2003, military forces of the United States, Great Britain, and a number of other countries known as the "coalition of the willing."invaded Iraq. What led up to that invasion, and why did so many people go along with the Bush administration - Congress, the Justice Department, the media, and, collectively, the people of the United States?
I don't know exactly.
I can connect a few dots, though, and I'm sure you can too. Before I go on with my story, I'd like to share a few thoughts from my perspective as one who has seen U.S. foreign policy play out before my very eyes.
During advanced military training at the Command & General Staff College at Fort Leavenworth, Kansas, I was introduced to a phenomenon called the "Abilene Paradox,."which I think best describes our march to war in 2003.
The Abilene Paradox is a leadership-training video on group decision-making. It shows - through a funny story, using characters much like sketches of "The Family."on The Carol Burnett Show - how groups of people collectively decide on a course of action that is counter to the preferences of many of the individuals in the group. It involves a common breakdown of group communication in which each member mistakenly believes that his or her own preferences are counter to the group's and, therefore, does not raise objections. A common phrase relating to the Abilene Paradox is a desire not to "rock the boat.."In the case of the film, it's an issue of getting on the bus on a terribly hot day to have lunch at Luby's - a place where nobody really wants to go but no one wants to object.
As the march to war began, I remember one Sunday morning in 2002 at Fort Hood, Texas, getting ready to go to church and listening to Face the Nation. I heard Vice President Dick Cheney talking about connections between 9/11 and Iraq, and the desire for "regime change.."I vividly remember asking, out loud, "What the hell does Iraq have to do with 9/11?."and then walking back to the bathroom, mumbling to myself: "Another Abilene [expletive] Paradox."
If you're interested in researching our march to war in Iraq and the timelines, the account I've found most comprehensive, thorough, and completely sourced to primary documents was published in Mother Jones in September 2006 with the title "Lie by Lie: A Timeline of How We Got Into Iraq."(RCReader.com/y/lie).
To quote the article: "The blame for Iraq does not end with Cheney, Bush, or Rumsfeld. Nor is it limited to the intelligence operatives who sat silent as the administration cherry-picked its case for war, or with those like Colin Powell or Hans Blix, who, in the name of loyalty or statesmanship, did not give full throat to their misgivings. It is also shared by far too many in the Fourth Estate, most notably the New York Times. But let us not forget that it lies, inescapably, with we, the American people, who, in our fear and rage over the catastrophic events of September 11, 2001, allowed ourselves to be suckered into the most audacious bait-and-switch of all time.."
The bait was bin Laden and Afghanistan; the switch came a year later with the drums of war beating for Iraq and the threat of a smoking gun becoming a mushroom cloud. Remember the "Axis of Evil."State of the Union address?
Having obtained his permission, I would like to quote former Congressman from Iowa Jim Leach, from a speech he gave on April 10 here in Davenport. In congratulating St. Ambrose University for having the prescient wisdom to establish a Middle East Institute, the Honorable Mr. Leach warned of the dangers of "group think."
He said: "The history of our country is one of assimilation and expansion of pluralism in culture as well as law. But there can from time to time be a kind of group think in politics that leads to problems of institutional dysfunctionality. Despite, for instance, America having an abundance of pragmatic leadership in commerce, science, the arts, and every facet of the academy, the political system is increasingly hamstrung by ideological cleavages."
My constant prayer, ever since leaving Iraq and having taken years to assimilate and make sense of my own lived experience there, is that we, the electorate, think individually and critically, long and hard, before we engage in another military deployment. We need to literally ask ourselves if we are "on the bus."to Abilene, a place we don't really want to go.
Nevertheless, as an Army nurse, I did serve my fellow soldiers proudly and can hold my head high when I tell you my stories.
The purpose of my presentation today is to tell you about my journey of deploying to war as the chief nurse of the 28th Combat Support Hospital:
· To convey some of what it entails to move and set up a 200-bed CSH.
· To give you a sense of what day-to-day life is like for a medical unit.
· To share with you some of the real, human stories that I will never forget and best describe when I learned what it really means to be an Army Nurse Corps officer.
If you've ever seen the HBO series Band of Brothers, you'll remember that the story begins long before the 506th Parachute Infantry Regiment ever jumps in on D-Day. Like "E."sy Company, the 28th Combat Support Hospital (referred to as the 28th Cash) had lots of work to do before deploying. There were planning meetings, briefings, physical exams; there were vaccinations such as small pox, anthrax, and malaria prophylaxis to administer and document; contingency plans for split operations; logistical nightmares to overcome; transportation to arrange. Then there was staffing to sort out, physical-fitness training, wills and legal documents to complete, family-support planning. The list goes on and on.
As I was digging through my memorabilia, I found whole notebooks full of planning notes and to-do lists. We pulled hundreds of nurses, doctors, pharmacists, medics, etc. from their assigned places of duty to come and fill in the staff needed to run a 200-bed hospital on the field of battle. That is a feat of unfathomable proportion. I don't know how we did it, but I salute all of the people who made it happen.
So we said our sad goodbyes, hugged our friends and family (for me that was Scout), and departed on March 12, 2003.
I found a letter I wrote home to my brother David and his wife on March 18. The letter paints a pretty vivid picture of our first days.
Dear Dave and Kathy,
Greetings from Camp Doha Kuwait. It's been a very interesting week. Let's just say to begin with that it is an awesome and difficult task to get 540 people, a hospital, and all its equipment moved halfway around the world. We left Fort Bragg early morning Tuesday the 12th and arrived here afternoon Wednesday. It was a long and arduous flight - first to Gander, Newfoundland, then to Shannon, Ireland, then to Cypress, then into Kuwait. Took well over 24 hours. (We're staying in a warehouse and very shortly about half of our hospital is moving forward to support the fighting units and half will stay back here. It was decided that the entire Combat Support Hospital was too big to move, and the bed requirements probably not as many as they planned, so a good number of us will wait in the rear for additional orders. We could get tasked out to other units that have personnel shortages. Kind of a bummer, but sometimes the Lord asks us to sit and wait ... and something will come up for His good purpose.)
The soldiers are amazingly resilient as we face numerous changes of plans. Some of the officers are a bit whiny, but overall most are really great. I have already made some really great friends whom I am glad to be serving with.
Believe it or not, life here at the warehouse is not all that bad. We have porta-potties just outside and being ever-concerned about hygiene, we made our own hand-washing stations. There are showers several blocks away, a gym to go work out, running water at the shower stations (most of the time), and a huge mess hall that feeds 10,000 people four times a day. I heard most of the president's speech, which was broadcast at 8 p.m. Eastern Time about 0400 here. Sounds like we're going to war, as I find it highly unlikely that he (Saddam Hussein) will leave. So be it - he will see the true power of the U.S. military unleashed on his "network of creeps."very shortly. I really hope the masses of Iraqis will choose not to fight. I really do believe we can help bring them a better life under a new regime.
The first night we were here there was an absolutely choking dust storm. I've never seen anything like it! This extremely fine dust just started to softly blow everywhere. Within an hour, it was heavy winds and literally sand and rocks and gravel flying through the air. Fortunately, most people were in the warehouse by that time - but for the few who weren't it was a frightening ordeal. I was on my cot, covered over in a blanket, saying my prayers and hoping it stopped soon.
After it blew over, it was something like I suppose it was after Mount St. Helens blew - silt and sand everywhere, people's eyebrows and hair and skin covered with a fine powdery dust. It looked like we had all instantly aged about 30 years.
I have no real idea right now how long we will be gone, but I truly hope it's not a year. If we're busy doing humanitarian work, I won't mind, but if we're just sitting here, it's going to get difficult to keep the spirits up. Nevertheless, one day at a time and I will keep the faith.
Yesterday I was busy all day and well into the night making arrangements for 47 of our hospital people to go out and give vaccinations to soldiers. (About 2,000 need vaccines.) It was a planning nightmare since we don't exactly know the roads around here or how to find particular units. Plus, we had to find available vaccine, but we got the task force out at 0700 and hopefully it's all going well. I didn't go, as an O-6 COL physician was already going along. They don't like to risk too many high-ranking officers in one convoy. I'm awaiting my next mission. :) What a trip?
Take Care, I Love You, Annie
For 14 days and nights, 28th CSH soldiers continuously inventoried, and functionally packed over 10,000 pieces of equipment. The equipment was packed to support split-based operations in anticipation that we would indeed establish two hospitals.
While at Camp Doha, the hospital experienced 11 Scud-missile alerts. Our battle drills were quickly honed, and we became intimately familiar with our nuclear, biological, and chemical gear, fully anticipating that Saddam would use his chemical weapons if he had a chance.
This letter reminds me of a lot of things: We had not yet invaded. We thought things would go quickly, so we couldn't imagine being deployed for a whole year in Iraq. We were happy to do our part, but we sure didn't want to be just sitting around if there was work to be done back home. Little did we know that for our country, this was the beginning of 10-year odyssey. The statistics as I look back are sobering. To those of us who deployed, we can never erase from our minds the real people we encountered every step of the way.
Through the remaining days of March 2003, the first elements of the 28th CSH pushed northward, while many of us tearfully said goodbye. Those who moved out first endured extraordinary dust storms, moving through hostile and unsecured territory, setting up a 60-bed, fully functional, chemically protected CSH at LSA "Dogwood."
In the first four months alone, the 28th Combat Support Hospital performed over 1,000 surgeries.
Living conditions there were not easy, as it was a very fluid battlefield and logistical supply lines were not well-established. You can just imagine the various other names over time that Dogwood was given (Dog Poo, Dog Gone, Dog ... ). I could go on, but it was a source of continuous amusement.
Later, remaining elements of the CSH followed northward when battle conditions were more stable - and by late May/early June we established a second hospital in Tikrit. That is the hospital that I was assigned to as the chief nurse - known as China 32. The hospital at Dogwood eventually moved in July into a large fixed facility hospital called Ibn Sina in the green zone in Baghdad. Although their work level never slowed, their living conditions greatly improved, and by August both hospitals were running relatively smoothly and we were slowly adjusting to the idea that we would indeed be deployed for at least a year.
It didn't take long for us to figure out that the best ambassadors for peace were medical people - and so we began to look for ways to reach out to the Iraqis. Since I was perhaps the only military medical person in the Tikrit region with OB-GYN experience, I was asked by the 4th ID to go out to a small village named Al Secor and provide care for Iraqi pregnant women.
We began making weekly trips where I would see as many as 20 pregnant patients in a day. With the help of CSM Mabrouk - my interpreter - and a lovely local woman named Miriam, I was able to do ultrasounds, confirm fetal heart rate, document growth, and even identify a couple of high-risk conditions. This, to me, was some of the most fascinating and rewarding time I spent in Iraq.
While deployed in theater, the 28th Combat Support Hospital treated and evacuated over 21,000 U.S. soldiers, enemy prisoners of war, and Iraqi civilians - all with equal care and compassion. The direct actions of the hospital allowed the V Corps Commander to sustain his combat power farther and faster than anytime in the history of modern warfare, which directly led to the fall of Saddam Hussein's regime. The 28th was awarded the Distinguished Unit Award one year after returning home.
For the remainder of my presentation, I'd just like to share some stories from our days as a functional hospital.
One story I will never forget was a soldier named James who was burned over 90 percent of his body when his earthmoving tractor was engulfed in flames attempting to bury a cache of Iraqi weapons. When he first arrived by helicopter to our hospital in Tikrit, his hands and arms were so badly charred that his arms were literally stuck up in the air - like if you were trying to keep something away from your body. His eyelids had been completely burned off, and his eyes were open and exposed. I heard him say to the doctors that he couldn't see. But most amazingly, he was still talking to us.
The ER staff was busily but steadily working on James, trying to establish IV lines and remove burned clothing, and I knew soon they would be putting him to sleep to establish an airway. Still, for the time being, they were asking him as many questions as they could to get proper medical information. I was standing back against the wall, thinking about notifying the OR and ICU staff of the severity of this man's injuries, when all of a sudden it occurred to me to step up and talk to this terribly burned soldier. I didn't normally do this, but at some point while I was watching all of this unfold, it occurred to me that as soon as Wade (our nurse anesthetist) got him intubated, we would never hear his voice again. I just knew this young man would not survive this. It really was like I heard this incredibly powerful voice in my own head say: "We will never hear his voice again.."
So I stepped up close so I could talk to him and I asked him: "Are you in pain?."I said: "I'm LTC Hochhausen, I am the chief nurse, and I just want to know if there is anything I can do for you." I felt the need for just a human being who wasn't prodding and working on him to reach out to him with some compassion. He said: "It only hurts when they mess with me, ma'am. Otherwise, I don't feel very much." I never heard this guy cry out or yell or anything - most wounded soldiers are in such pain that they can't help but cry out. All I ever heard was a few moans as they tried to move his arms. Well, by now, Wade is looking at me with a look of anxiousness - like "Hurry up! I've got to get him to sleep!" And I somehow had the presence of mind to ask him if there was any message he wanted me to convey to his family. He said: "Tell my Mom and Dad I love them."
I don't remember what I said; it was like things were happening in slow motion. It was only seconds later that Wade pushed the meds into his vein, put James to sleep, and had him intubated and breathing for him. I'm sure James knew he was going to die. What was so haunting to me about this scene was that none of the doctors or staff were telling him "You're going to make it" or "You'll be just fine" like they did with other wounded soldiers. I don't think anyone even had the will to say such a thing. It was just so incredibly sad.
As I sat on my cot and reflected that night, I couldn't even imagine why I had offered to convey any messages. Patient notification is done all through official channels. Besides that, we had no phone system that allowed us to make calls directly to the U.S. There was no way to find out even what his parent's names were. I felt so bad that I had this message and no way to deliver it.
But a chance did come when I was on R&R in Germany in January. My good friend Ann Shields, an RN at Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, listened to my story and then helped me find James' parents through the Red Cross office. After getting their permission to call, through the Red Cross, I spoke with his Mom and learned that James had made it all the way back to the burn center at Brooke Army Medical Center, and his Mom and Dad were both with him when they took him off of the respirator and allowed him to die.
James' Mom said that she often wondered if anyone had ever gotten to talk to her son after the accident. She said that it was comforting to know that he was not alone and was speaking. She thanked me for being there with her son.
This is just one story; there are so many more. Stories of courage and compassion; fear and pain; life, death, and even birth!
One interesting letter I found from August says a whole lot about our day-to-day lives in deployment or - as I fondly called it - the Babylonian Exile.
Dear Kathy and Dave, Family and Friends,
Hello from Tikrit. Last night we had an interesting couple of cases come in. An Apache helicopter crashed near here, and both pilots were injured. One may end up as a quadriplegic, as he had a subluxation of C3,4, 5 and was going into spinal neurogenic shock. We did everything we could for him - intubated, on a vent, fluid resuscitation, and then we sent him on to Germany. The other guy also had spinal injuries, but he could move everything and was doing very well.
Monday we had eight soldiers come in with heat injury - one last night was seizing and aspirated and had to be medevac-ed immediately. Tuesday in came about four EPWs from a camp with heat injury, and two of them ended up on vents. One is doing real well and is up sitting in a chair today. The other got so overheated and dehydrated that he is brain dead. Also on Sunday we got two soldiers in with blast injuries from driving over a mine. The 22-year-old was critically injured, and we had to amputate his right leg below the knee. That was the first amputation I've ever seen, and it was pretty traumatic for me. I can't imagine what this must be like for our 20-year-old medics. This is so sad! Then, to top it all off, we got two Iraqi civilians in here after an auto accident. Fortunately, neither one required a ventilator, or we would have been hard-pressed to deliver the care. Up here in Tikrit, we are only a 32-bed hospital, but this is by no means the "minor leagues." Our commander was hoping that things would just sort of dwindle up here in the north so that we could all move down with them in Baghdad, but no such luck - this Tikrit area is a hotbed of activity. Oh how I wish we could get Saddam ... .
Our interpreter, Salam, tells me that it's about two more weeks of this brutal heat; then we should at least get back to only 100 to 110 as the high. By late September it should be much better, and by October it should be beautiful. I hope!
You should see this soldier who just walked in; he's obviously a mechanic in a one-piece suit, and there is a huge salt ring on his back. I see this all the time - salt rings on people's uniforms and foreheads. Everyone just looks exhausted, not to mention scared. It is scary living here - this weather is enough to kill you in no short order if you don't have water and some place to get out of the sun.
I am doing my best to keep this staff together. Some days I feel more like a Mom than a chief nurse, but that is a lot of what is needed - so I just think about what a good Mom I had, and I share as much love as I've got to give.
We saw our 12th pregnant woman here this morning. I'm getting to do a lot of ultrasounds and helping to get these folks out of theater. This is no place for a pregnant woman. I won't even go into how I feel about women soldiers getting pregnant in theater, other than to say it's not a good thing. Then again, I have to just remember to be loving and caring and at the same time remind these young adults that there are consequences to every action and every decision. But more than that, they've got to start thinking about how to become a good and loving parent. I tell you, a perinatal clinical nurse specialist's work is never done. : )
Well, tell everyone that I miss them. I am so tired - I just need a bit of rest. No days off in over five months.
As always, your long-lost Army nurse in the desert, Annie
There's one funny story I'd like to tell: Several weeks after China 32 was up and running, I began to think about the months ahead. (I'm a lieutenant colonel; that's what they pay me the big bucks for, right?) What could we do to make our living and working conditions better? I remembered the little Iraq handbook given to us all back at Fort Bragg. It gave all kinds of facts about the country (population, climate, etc.), and I remembered reading about a rainy season that came in the winter months - that there could be heavy rains and even flash floods.
I walked out to survey our setup and wondered how we would fare on a flat skirt of an airstrip in several inches of rain. The floors in our hospital are huge padded sheets of vinyl that Velcro together every eight feet. I could see that in our emergency room, despite our best efforts to mop up all the blood spilled from numerous daily casualties, that blood had seeped into those Velcro seams. Imagine the smell after a rain and no place for the water to go.
Being the daughter of a carpenter and possessing a mind that always wants to understand the whys and hows of things, I mused over how we could put a structural floor underneath our hospital that would keep us from getting swamped - not to mention put out of operation for having become a toxic, rotten, stinking nightmare. But the days were still blazing hot, rarely a cloud in the sky, and I couldn't pull off this logistical feat by myself no matter how much I clambered that the "sky would be falling soon."
But then one day brought a breakthrough. A visiting commander from the 4th ID would frequently stop by my desk in the TOC when he came to visit wounded soldiers. I liked this man - big smile, very caring and supportive of his soldiers, and appreciative of the care that our hospital was providing. This day Lieutenant General Odierno stood in front of my desk, and I look up and snapped to attention, and before I can even say, "Good afternoon, general, sir," he asked: "Ann, you and your nurses have taken outstanding care of my soldiers. I'd like to do something to help the hospital. What do you need Ann?"
Well, here it was - my opportunity! "Floors, sir," I blurt out. "We need floors!" As he quizzically looked at what he was standing on, I explained our plight, but before I could even finish, he said; "I'll send over the Triple Nickel" - the 555th Engineers. "Wow!" I said. "Thank you, sir." The very next day NCOs from the Triple Nickel were at our door, and within a week they would start putting a two-by-six-board floor-joist system under our entire hospital.
Since this brainchild was my doing, the commander left it to me to explain how and why this would be done - knowing full well the bellyaching that would rise up when posed with the task of removing all the beds, desks, supplies, and even patients, section by section, tearing up the vinyl floors, scrubbing them all down with detergents, and hanging them to dry while the engineers put floor joists and plywood down as our new foundation.
I heard my name associated with a lot of cuss words over a three-week time period ... but I just smiled and encouraged my staff that it would be well worth it when the rains came. "Yeah, right! What does she know?"
Well, the rains did come, and we had not yet finished the main-corridor section that connected all the units through an indoor system. And lo and behold, all the patient-care areas stayed dry. But the corridor had three inches of water sitting in it that we'd have to wade through to get from the ER to the OR, ICU, pharmacy, lab, etc. Then you know what I heard as the staff moved about? "Ow! It's a good thing we put floors under this hospital, or the whole thing would be under water." Funny thing was: I heard no mention of my name - nor did I hear any more cuss words!
We had many, many surgical cases during our year in Iraq. In fact, the 28th Combat Support Hospital performed over 1,000 surgeries in four months alone. But one of the most memorable cases that I witnessed was not surgical but a medical case.
An Iraqi prisoner was brought to us from Abu Ghraib prison with the diagnosis of severe psoriasis. Huge plaques and scabs over 98 percent of his body. None of us had ever seen anything like it. His entire body was nearly crusted over with scabs, including all throughout his scalp, face, beard, hands, feet, and torso. I was literally in tears when I saw how bad it was. We later found out that this man had been diagnosed some years earlier with an autoimmune disorder that manifested itself as psoriasis and arthritis. When the U.S. imposed severe sanctions against Iraq, it became increasingly difficult to get medications - and he needed steroids. When the U.S. invaded, nearly everything in that country in terms of commerce, public services, and health care came to a halt. Consequently, even his meager supply of medication was no longer available. So this man in his desperation had become so miserable in his own skin that he picked up an unloaded weapon and charged at U.S. soldiers on patrol, in hopes that they would shoot him. He would rather have died than lived the way he was. Remarkably, they didn't shoot, and he was taken prisoner as an enemy combatant, and fortunately the prison guards reported his case and he was brought to our hospital in Tikrit.
What pleased me so much, as a proud chief nurse, was how quickly and compassionately the nurses and doctors of China 32 came up with a plan of treatment and care. They treated him just like a burn victim who needed debridement, pain management, fluids, steroids, antibiotics, and rest. Over a three-day period, the most amazing transformation took place.
This man was transformed from a person encrusted by his own immune response to a man with pink and living skin. He was grateful! Every time a nurse or doctor would walk by his bed, he would put his hand over his heart, bow, and say, in his native tongue, "Thank you, God bless you."
As we learned more of this man's story through our interpreters, it was clear that this gentle soul did not belong in prison. We were told that he was eventually turned over to Iraqi police and released. This was one of the hardest parts in caring for the Iraqis - and even with our own soldiers. We had no real way of knowing what happened to them next. One has to learn how to say a prayer and let them go.
Christmas in Iraq: Even saying it sounded so bizarre. How could we still be in Iraq when President Bush had declared "Mission Accomplished" way back on May 2? I think I wanted so badly to believe that statement that I truly thought we'd be home by now. Truth was, casualties were on the rise, as was evidence of an insurgency. Traveling the roads of Iraq, our primary way of moving people and supplies, was increasingly dangerous. Nearly every day there were soldiers coming in who were wounded or killed by IEDs - and they were getting more deadly with each passing day.
Nevertheless, we were putting on a play, ironically titled "I'll be home for Christmas." One of the chaplains from the Triple Nickel, whom we'd gotten to know during the floor ordeal, decided it was just the thing to work on back in July, when we were all unrealistically hoping and waiting for orders to go home.
"I'll be home for Christmas" is a musical that takes place at the time of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. It's a wonderful play. Many of the nurses of the 28th CSH signed on, and even a couple of our doctors. It was a welcome distraction from the day-to-day realities of war. We practiced twice a week in the evenings in an old theatre on Camp Speicher - a bombed out Iraqi airbase. The theatre was completely covered in dust, damaged from bombing, full of bats, and very cold in December. But hey! It was a theatre. I have my copy of the score on the table, and there's even a CD with the video recording.
When General Odierno heard about the play, he arranged for helicopters to come and pick up the cast and take us to the Tikrit Palace so we could put it on for the hundreds of soldiers working and living there.
One great memory I will always have is my buddy Diane and I packing our ruck sacks with our outfits for the play, slinging our bags over our shoulders, and me saying: "Come on Di! We're playing the Palace!"
The whole thing seems so bizarre to me now. There were distinct highs and lows with each day that unfolded.
People did their absolute best to keep their spirits up, but as the holidays approached, you could feel the mood of the CSH become more solemn. A striker-brigade combat team rolled two of its vehicles into the Tigris River, and six soldiers were brought to our emergency room. Our staff performed resuscitative efforts, but they had all drowned - died long before they ever reached our ER. As long as I live, I will never forget walking into that ER in the early morning. To my right and to my left lay six beautiful soldiers, not a blast mark or wound on them, all covered with blankets, faces and skin blue, no one working on them - waiting to be put in body bags. I was shaken to my core. I found an ER medic and asked what happened, and he sorrowfully explained.
The mission was not accomplished; casualties just kept coming. We were here for Christmas and beyond and it was time for me to stop thinking so selfishly and remember why we came - to take care of our soldiers who were bravely carrying out their missions every day.
I knew nothing about Jim Leach while I was on active duty, but since I moved to the Quad Cities four years ago, I have come to greatly respect him. I've learned that Jim Leach was one of the few who gave open throat to his opposition of the Iraq war and that, sadly, he lost his seat in the House of Representatives in the following election. Clearly, one has to consider the consequences when identifying and calling out the Abilene Paradox.
I hear the drums of war once again beating in the distance.
I stand before you humbly today to share with you some stories from an Army nurse's experience and point of view. I am not a hero; I don't ask for your thanks or praise. But what I do ask is that the next time we move toward committing our military forces to war, you ask a lot of questions. Listen carefully and critically to the case our leaders are making, encourage dialogue, voice your concerns or dissent, and when you feel a deep inclination not to rock the boat, please ask yourself: "Are we all getting on the bus for yet another ill-begotten trip to Abilene?"
I served my country during the Iraq war from the invasion in March 2003 to March 2004. All I can say is I was given orders, it was my turn to deploy, and despite my political misgivings, I wanted as much as anyone to believe that there was good reason for us to go. There wasn't. At least not from a national-security perspective. And so I have to live with that as we all do when we collectively think about how, when, and where we commit our military forces to war.
