I BELIEVE!

Forward Operating Base, Hit, Iraq, August 29, 2004

FOB "HEET"

0200 FOB Hit, Iraq January 9, 2005 - Charlie Company's 3rd Platoon rolled out of the Forward Operating Base to patrol within the city, gather intel and locate troubled spots. I was there, sitting among the fifteen or so Marines on the freezing cold metal floor of the seven-ton's bed, to fill a manpower shortage and to provide medical support as one of their Line Corpsman that early thirty-four-degree morning in FOB Hit (pronounced "Heet"), Iraq. I'll have to admit, being a Battle Aid Station Corpsman was like living in the Hilton compared to what the Line Corpsman and Marines put up with nearly every day out there either on foot, or on the road patrolling in Iraq. These guys are tough. They don't ask questions, nor are they always in a position to do so. They have a job to do so they just pile in to whatever vehicle they are assigned to and put up with whatever punishment is thrown at them. Speaking of punishment, I can't forget to mention the potholes that the seven-ton driver hits, which at times seem purposeful! They have a tendency to jar your spine right up your back and out the top of your head! Damn, that hurts! What can you do but suck it up and curse the driver one more time!

Through the advice of another Corpsman, that had "been there, done that," I chose to pack light and leave my cold weather gear behind, for "The hump will warm you up soon after you get going," so he says. Well, I forgot to mention that the wind-chill, which bit through every exposed body surface while traveling forty-five miles per hour down that desert highway, dropped the temperature down to twelve degrees Fahrenheit! I only had a lightweight polypropylene liner on under my uniform blouse and flak jacket. I figured I'd have to tough it out like the rest of the hard Marines I was with. I friggin' froze during that near hour trip to our insertion point! Who was I to whine? The young devil-dog next to me proceeded to show me, by ripping open the Velcro of his flak jacket and lifting up his blouse, that he didn't have anything on under his gear and then smiled as if he was proud that he'd one-upped me!

We finally reach our insertion point, the seven-ton coming to a relieving stop as we quietly dismount into the dark morning with zero percent illumination. A hasty perimeter is set up as I struggle to focus out into the near complete darkness in front of me. After about ten minutes of observing and letting our eyes adjust, we fan out into a wedge formation and step out into the void. Sarge, the squad leader, is wearing his VOX headset and microphone with the radioman at his side. I am positioned a few meters behind them in the middle of the formation. The dispersion is fairly close, for if you get separated more than a few meters you lose the guy in front of you. Only a select few have NVG's and GPS' and they are literally our guide dogs!

There is only a short hump to gain the city proper. The desert floor is dry with a few rocky outcrops and undulations to navigate around. We cross a set of railroad tracks then proceed gently downhill into the amber glow of city lights. Not too bad so far. What is soon apparent is the night vision we had gained earlier was gone now due to the city lights ahead which were blinding us, NVG's were virtually useless now! I look behind me and see the fifty or so troops scattered about like an army of ants crawling across a brightly lit stage! So much for a stealth approach!

A strong odor of sulfur starts to fill the air as I observe a light fog sitting atop the desert floor. The ground is becoming moist and mud starts to build up on the soles of my boots. Puddles of water become visible all around us and trying to avoid them is now useless. We push on into the wetlands as the mud and water grows deeper, almost over the top of my boots now. My body is warming up just as I was instructed it would...this is a good thing! Corporal Linan, the point man, with a GPS in hand, continues to beeline towards the city lights. The water isn't letting up, becoming deeper and deeper, almost over my knees now. Everyone is following the point-man, and it is starting to look like the pied piper is leading the mice into their watery graves (I learned later that the squad leader was ordering the point man to "push on" through his earpiece)! The sulfuric odor is stronger now and it resembles more of a stench than anything. I stop and sniff the air again.

"What is that?" I quizzically ask myself.

I can't quite place my finger on its identity. A group of buildings resembling a factory is off to my left in the distance. "I wonder if the water we are standing in is originating from that plant," I ask myself. I look around me once again, and then the light bulb goes on! "We must be standing in the middle of an evaporation field for sewage treatment, not good!" I exclaim to myself. I have to get word to Cpl. Linan to stop, for the situation is getting worse! We are getting into, "deep sh*t" literally! I push myself to the front and in the loudest "Pssst!" I can muster, I get the point man's attention.

"You need to stop! We need to get to shallow water, everyone is following you into this crap! Do you realize what were standing in Corporal?"

"What do you mean Doc?" Linan asks innocently.

"This is sewage water!" I say with my best disgusting facial grimace.

"Holy sh*t Doc, are you serious?!" A grin starts to form on my face, but I quickly regain my composure and remember that we are to locate a bridge to gain access to the city.

"What happened to the bridge we are supposed to cross?" I ask Linan.

"I don't know Doc, but I think you're right. Follow me!" Linan instructs, as he turns south relaying his plan to Sarge, continuing his pied piper march.

The previous day, back at the FOB, we rehearsed securing a bridge that apparently crossed into the city. We spent a better part of the afternoon practicing that drill, for it was a possible choke point into the city. Rehearsals were made to avoid an ambush or compromise to the platoon.

The water eventually retreats back to ankle depth. I meet up with Corporal Linan on point;

"What do you think Doc? Do you think I can cross here?" His outstretched arm pointing, contemplating fording the moat that was formed along the edge of the field. I struggle to focus in the dark, to look at the situation, and see about a five-meter gap of dark black water.

"No way Corporal, it looks way too far and who knows how deep it is!" I whisper back to him. Before I could say another word the Marine walks to the moats edge, losses his balance and slips, nearly disappearing under the muck!

"Help me!" he grunts with the water at his neckline and his arms above water.

"Get yourself out!" yells another Marine.

"I can't, I'mmmmm stuck!" Linan's voice trembles from the cold sewage soaking through his gear.

At this point everything starts to move in slow motion. A Marine is being pulled under by the weight of his flak jacket, Kevlar and combat load, helplessly sinking to his inevitable death. I picture other Marines frantically jumping in to help, succumbing to the same nightmare! The situation was getting worse fast...was I about to witness a horrible tragedy?!

The drowning Marine's face disappears with only his helmet seeming to float on top of the water, his right arm outstretched into the air like someone being buried alive in a horror movie!

I desperately want to do something, but I can't react, standing there frozen in my boots and unable to think. Suddenly, off to my left, the barrel of an M-16 is shoved into the drowning Marine's hand! Cpl. Linan cinches tightly onto this life saving oar, his head and face re-surfacing, his lungs heaving and coughing violently.

"Pull me out, pull me out!" his voice taking on a primal plea for life. I grab hold of the Marine holding the M-16, as other Marines grab me in succession. It is like pulling dead weight out of cement! We pull him clear of the moat's edge while he remains on all fours coughing and vomiting up fluid that he swallowed. "I'm ok, I'm alright," Linan says, trying to catch his breath.

For now, the emergency is over, but the Marine is soaked from head to foot and with the wind-chill, the temperature is below freezing. I know that hypothermia will eventually set in unless I remove his wet clothes and get him into a dry set. Unfortunately, this is not an option, for no one has an extra set of cammies with them. We only prepared for a six-hour operation from start to finish and our load is minimal. All I can do is keep him moving, have someone keep an eye on him, and hope he doesn't get worse.

We eventually find where the moat narrows to a point where a thirty-six-inch drainage pipe is laid, and dirt is filled in over it creating a speed bump of sort. It turns out to be only wide enough for a single Humvee to cross so, although it is not the "bridge" that we rehearsed for, it is still a potential chokepoint where problems can develop when three platoons and vehicles gather in one place.

Dog's barking seems to be the normal greeting for patrols along the streets of Iraq. It isn't any different this cold morning in the city of Hit. If the insurgents weren't alerted to our arrival, they were now by these annoying canines! We patrol in a file formation, one on each side of the street, our eyes scanning the alleys, rooftops and windows for suspicious activity.

Our Iraqi interpreter, Safwan, quietly mingles among us, dressed in his leather flight jacket, digital desert cammies, and his traditional AK-47 slung over his shoulder. A low, distant rumble breaks the morning silence. It seems to be getting closer...

Safwan is a Colonel and former pilot in the Iraqi Air Force. He stands a good six feet one inch in height with his dark eyebrows and grey flaked mustache giving him a Tom Sellick-like appearance. His casual demeanor and well-kept standards forgive any faults he may display. He has a love for women that can be immediately noticed when you walk into his bedroom and witness the collage of pictures he wallpapers his room with. The odor of his favorite cologne surrounds him. Although he is of the Muslim faith he has a fascination with Christmas and all that it stands for. His birthday falls on December 25th as well! Ever since his childhood, he anticipates the arrival of this Christian holiday and puts together his own Christmas tree which he adorns with lights and ornaments, he tells me. He collects the songs and carols that are heard during this festive season and loves other classic American songs such as John Denver's, "Country Road".
"This is what I dream of when I imagine America," he tells me. Safwan carries his maticulously kept Kalashnikov with him on all his assignments. He occupies a room back at the FOB, upstairs, with his roommate and fellow interpreter Ali. I visit to have tea and coffee with them nearly every evening. Safwan and Ali are invaluable assets to the U.S. forces.

...It was on top of us in an instant! An incredible crack in the air and quaking above forces us to our stomachs! My eyes peer past the lip of my helmet skyward into the pitch-black darkness to see four orange star bursts illuminating the night sky. A ghost like silhouette screams past us at rooftop level into the distance. My guess is that it must be a "fast mover" making a low-level pass over us releasing one of its defensive countermeasures. Within a microsecond following its high-speed maneuver an even larger explosion comes from the west, this time with the familiar barometric pressure change in the air! With our senses overwhelmed, we are pushed back down into the prone position, our teeth clenched down and our eyes forced shut as the ground shakes underneath us!

A Navy Corpsman, who was fortunate to have survived nine IED detonations, was heard to say, "If you hear the explosion, you are halfway there."

"Crap, what was that?!" I struggle a whisper, staring eyes wide open at Safwan. All I could think of was that we were being rocked by bombs! It was too coincidental for the rumble, the low-level pass, the orange, star like bursts and the explosion that followed in that succession for it to be anything else. Maybe ordinance was released by the fast mover? I asked if anyone was hurt, but was interrupted by Sarge with a "Let's go Doc, lets go!" We picked up our pace trying to keep in tune to our surroundings yet now realizing how vulnerable we really were! We doubled timed it down the empty residential street constantly looking back so not to miss any hand signals that were being passed.

"What are we doing here?!" I fearfully ask.

"We're here to draw out the bad guys, Doc. That way the reinforcements in the rear will be able to take them out with the big guns," explains one Marine.

Great, we're sitting ducks in other words! A constant churning of nerves fill my gut while outside the wire. Not knowing what will be thrown at you next takes a toll on you mentally and physically. How much safer, as their medical support, am I than the Marine next to me? What good am I if I get hit and am unable to provide care? I have a Beretta M-9 on my left hip. Even if I carried an M-16, how am I going to manage it and take care of my patient at the same time? The only logical thing I could think of is to make sure it's reasonably safe before I begin providing care, surround myself with Marines so they can lay down rounds to protect me and the injured, and then take cover inside a building or behind a structure in order to put something between me and the chaos while I begin treatment. Plans like this are constantly rehearsed in my head.

We continue our march as sweat drips down my face and the middle of my back even though the temperature is still in the thirties. My medical load is trivial compared to the weapon and combat loads the Marines are carrying! Most of the guys are of Hispanic origin from south Texas and average around 5'6" tall, but what they lack in height they make up for with thier strength and stamina! They definitely have my respect!

The streets are still barren, and businesses are yet to open. With speakers positioned throughout the neighborhoods the constant drone of Islamic prayers emanating from the Muslim mosques, fills the air five times a day. Dogs continue to bark and yelp at our passing. The rare presence of a vehicle early in the morning only heightens our posture for you never know what it contains, what its purpose is for, or what is going to pop out of it! Vehicles are randomly loaded with high explosives and used as weapons, deadly effective weapons! VBIED's are everyone's dreaded fear!

My squad turns the corner heading south along a four-lane business district road. I am walking along the right side of the street passing wrought iron security gates that protect the front of the buildings. Downed electrical wire hang from rooftops and telephone poles. The familiar third world smell of burning trash is constant (I have done some world travel in my life and the presence of poverty, disorganization and a more primitive society isn't new. I try to take in as much as I can, sometimes pretending I am on a vacation of sort, but knowing that I am in a war-torn country brings me quickly back to reality.

A loud burst of gunfire erupts from behind us! Yelling follows in the distance and I can hear Sarge's earpiece come alive. We all run for cover. I inadvertently separate from my radioman and squad leader and head for a brick wall that I had eyed earlier. My eyes scan frantically as I kneel in the hard dirt, wondering if I am safe.

"Doc, get over here!" the radioman yells.

I quickly scan my surroundings and bee-line back across to the other street corner to join back up with my team. I learn that the platoon behind us opened up on a vehicle that apparently headed towards them without an apparent intention to stop.

Earlier, a group of four or five local males were seen getting into a car in a dark back alley. This same vehicle, with headlights beaming, accelerated directly at the platoon which prompted the Marine's deadly reactions. The vehicle came to a quick stop, backed away from the scene and disappeared without further incident.

My platoon gets a quick head count, and we continue the last leg of our egress out of the city. We are to meet up with the QRF, load back up into the seven ton from which we came in and return to the base. There is only about four hundred meters to go, and the pace quickens.

BOOM! Another crack in the air breaks the silence. Damn, the word must be out that we're here! Thank God it wasn't close to us, but you have to wonder who WAS close by and if anyone was injured. We turn the last corner and catch a glimpse of our extract. Almost there! Legs are starting to cramp, and lungs are starting to burn as we push the last bit.

"MacKay, MacKay!" A voice calling my name echo's from off to my right in the shadows.

"I need some help. Give me a hand!" HM2 shouts as he emerges half carrying an injured Marine. "1st Sergeant's been hit. Help me get him to the truck."

Without saying another word, we work in unison assisting 1st Sgt. the last 500 yds and lift him up into the back of the seven ton. Automatic weapons start to erupt again, this time from just behind us. Laying low on the trucks floor, turning on my red tinted lensed head lamp atop my helmet, I break out the bandages to begin my treatment. A quick exam reveals a venous bleed seeping from just above the ankle. There is some swelling, but the bone appears to be intact. The other Corpsman has more serious wounds consisting of deep, full thickness lacerations to the upper left arm and shoulder. The bleeding is managed with direct pressure bandages without complications.

1st Sarge is laying up against the sidewall of the cold, metal bed, his helmet askew on his head shadowing his right eye. His Wiley-X eye protection and soft yellow ear plugs are still in place. A facial grimace is apparent, his breathing is unlabored yet rapid, a response from the catecholamine release after the "fight or flight" response. Fellow Marines kneeling nearby get tunnel vision with their eyes fixated on 1st Sergeant's injuries,

"WHAT ARE YOU GUYS LOOKING AT?" 1st Sarge yells with a still commanding presence. "GET YOUR GUNS DOWN RANGE AND SHOOT THE F'ERS!" Without hesitation the young devil dogs swing their weapons around and join in on the sporadic firing.

Soon, after the rest of the squad fills the empty spaces, the truck begins to accelerate away from the scene at a blistering pace. I'm amazed at how quick seven tons can move! The rest of the convoy, with their troops onboard, follow suit behind by leaving a cloud of dirt in the rising dawn sunlight. The wind is cold, biting to be more precise. I see 1st Sergeant starting to slump down, his chin touching his chest.

"You okay 1st Sarge?" I ask.

"Yeah, I'mmm ok," his voice starting to tremble.

I sense Sarge is getting cold (the bodies reaction to adrenaline is to shut down peripherally, shunting the blood to the vital organs, i.e.; head, chest and abdomen), so I bear-hug him, using my body to provide extra warmth for him as well as for myself.

"Hey Doc, you won't say anything about this to my wife, will ya?" 1st Sergeant asks with a smile, referring to my close proximity to him. I can't help but to smile back and shake my head.

"No, not if you won't tell mine!" I chuckle back. "You a little bit warmer now 1st Sarge?" I raise my head up and ask.

"Yes, I am, thanks Doc," he replies.

At the first safe opportunity, the convoy comes to a stop to get a head count. I hear my name being yelled out again but this time it's because I'm not in the truck that I originally came in on. After assisting with the transfer of 1st Sergeant to a warmer Humvee, where he'd receive further care and pain control, I climb back into the truck with my platoon to complete the count. We resume our return to the FOB. Apparently, 1st Sarge was hit by shrapnel that came from a mortar, a rocket or an IED that detonated nearby. Either way, it could have been worse.

"Hey Doc, I think Corporal Linan is cold!" a fellow Marine advises me above the drone of the engine and wind.

"Crap, Linan, I almost forgot about him!" I think out loud as a sense of urgency kicks me.

I turn to find the Corporal with his arms crossed, his knees drawn up to his chest, his eyes like a deer in headlights. I can see that Linan is shivering and barely able to speak when I question him. Frost has actually begun to form on the still damp surface of his blouse and BDU's. I stand up, controlling my balance in the moving truck, and knock on the sliding back windows of the cab. The driver reaches back and opens them, his head straining back to hear me over the roar of the engine and road noise;

"You've got to stop and get this guy up front!" I yell as clear as I can.

The driver acknowledges me with a raise of his chin and a thumbs up, communicates the emergency over his VOX and stops the vehicle, the rest of the convoy behind stops like a giant caterpillar recoiling itself. Linan is assisted down from the back of the truck, by three others, to the heated cab up front. I instruct them to get his clothes off down to his PT shorts and Under Armour T-shirt and crank up the heater. They find an olive drab blanket to wrap him in as well.

"Good, another fire put out," I say to myself. Once again, we continue our return...the ride is still a cold one, a really cold one!

"Argh!" I grunt out loud, trying to do anything to keep my mind off of the hurt.

"You ok Doc?" a Marine beside me asks with concern.

"MAN, this is cold!" I belt out with pressured speech.

"Check this out!" The Marine proceeds to show his hands by holding them up for me to see. His fingers appear an ashen blue gray and frozen in an unnatural position. He readjusts his M-16 between his legs by using his two wrists. He obviously has little mobility left in his hands and fingers.

"It's this way every morning Doc, you'll get used to it", he confidently replies. "I don't know if I WANT to get used to it!" I think to myself.

We get back to the FOB without further incident. I further assess Corporal Linan back at the BAS and he eventually returns to duty. 1st Sergeant Hoover gets medevac'd in a HH60 Blackhawk helicopter for advanced level care and treatment...

Blackhawk Evac...

I'd have to say that my experience in Iraq could have been a LOT worse. Compared to the stories I've heard and watched from those that were there in the "suck" of this war, what I experienced during those seven months was trivial. My compassion goes out to them.

War is not a perfect game nor are you always able to define its purpose, but I CAN tell you this...

These guys and gals VOLUNTEERED there services in the armed forces with their signature on the dotted line. POTUS may or may not always be correct in deploying his troops, but we signed up to be a part of that. Therefore, we are putting our lives on the line to accomplish a job, a job that we extensively trained for, and most importantly, to make it home alive...these two things I DO know!

The United States is the "Land of the Free" because of a Democracy that was drafted and put into place by a select few genius, God fearing immigrants that had a vision beyond anything that exists to this day. This Democracy is looked upon by many as the model government for this planet Earth and is persecuted by others who do not enjoy the freedoms that some of us take for granted. No, it's not a perfect government but it is the BEST Democracy in the world! Freedom comes with boundaries. You only give up boundaries for bondage.

Therefore, to those of you citizens of the USA, reflect on this the next time you say anything about the country that you live in or about the people with whom you share your country with. Pause a second and take a look around you. Realize that there is life outside of the United States of America and that you are VERY fortunate to have what you have! No, I'm not saying that you can't express your opinions, but you have to be smarter than that. Educate yourself if you haven't already, and accept that GOD is the ONLY reason you have that right! When you Truly understand, you'll be free FOREVER.

Nevertheless, I still can't help but to remember Jack Nicholson's famous lines while being questioned in the court room in the Hollywood movie A Few Good Men:

"I have neither the time nor the inclination to explain myself to a man (mankind) who rises and sleeps under the blanket of the very freedom I provide, then questions the manner in which I provide it. I'd prefer you just said, "Thank you!" and went on your way. Otherwise, I suggest you pick up a weapon and stand a post."

Support our troops and welcome them home when they return!