Flowers from Iraq (The Storyteller and the Healer Book 1) Read online

  Kathleen felt her heart stop and her hands begin to tremble. She held on tightly to her glass, hoping the shaking wouldn’t show.

  “I’ve never heard anyone so in love. It was Kathleen this and Kathleen that.” Sam smiled. “He wasn’t exaggerating.”

  Shit, she thought, Gary was probably terrified of being outed. She smiled weakly.

  “I hear Gary’s stationed at Landstuhl.”

  She nodded.

  “It must be hard for the two of you to be separated.”

  Sam was speaking casually. She thought she was safe.

  “We try to coordinate our leaves and do the best we can. What about you, Sam?”

  “I was married once, to Marie.” He wiped his mouth. “A two-year disaster. The only good thing that came out of it was our son, Thomas. He’s a teenager now and really doesn’t want much to do with me.” He shook his head, and Kathleen noticed the sad cloud in his eyes. “After our divorce, I decided the battlefield was much safer than love.

  “The Army has been good to me. I came in, this skinny, blond, farm boy of eighteen.” He raked his calloused hand, big as an oven mitt, through his thinning hair and smiled. “Not much of that blond hair left. Well, they trained me, taught me… educated me. It’s my life now.” He lifted his glass “To the Army.” He set his glass down and looked at Kathleen. “You’re easy to talk to, Kathleen. I’ve never shared this story with anyone.”

  They thought they had another month for training before deployment. A CSH in Tikrit, Iraq, was short-staffed and Kathleen and Sam were pulled from their unit and shipped out in three days. They would be deployed for a year.

  Sam knew that no matter how much training Kathleen had, nothing could prepare her for the carnage. He couldn’t help but think about his first deployment. A lieutenant, fresh out of West Point, lay in the ER with stumps for arms. He had to turn away to vomit. Sometimes, he would wake up from a dream and could feel the desert heat as it scorched his lungs, and hear the echoes of morphine muffled screams.

  The flight to Kuwait took twenty-four hours. Kathleen stepped off the plane and felt the shock wave from the desert heat; 111 degrees and climbing. They boarded a bus to Camp Buehring where they would wait until they caught their flight to Tikrit. She and Sam found adjoining bunks in one of the massive tents shared by the men and women waiting to be transported to Iraq. They dumped their gear and Sam guided her to the chow hall. “The food’s good here. We call it The Last Chance Cafe.”

  They boarded a C-130 Air force cargo plane at 5:00 the next morning dressed in full battle gear; Kevlar helmets, body armor, and M9 automatic handguns. Their four duffel bags, stuffed full of personal and Army issued gear, were thrown on board alongside them. Sam leaned over and whispered, “Try not to shoot yourself in the foot with that pistol.”

  Kathleen quipped back, “I’m an expert marksman, if you didn’t notice on the pistol range. I’ll challenge you any day to see who can clean their M-9 the fastest.”

  Sam laughed to himself. I think I guessed her wrong. I thought she was all shy, and no pun intended, I can see she can be a pistol. He settled back in his seat and exchanged smiles with Kathleen.

  They were part of the plane’s cargo to Contingency Operating Base (COB) Speicher, a massive military base in Tikrit, Iraq. The flight took one hour and was uneventful, but the drive to the CSH, within Speicher, felt like a rocky road to hell.

  Their driver was a young blond kid, not more than twenty. “Corporal Benson,” he said. “Recovering from an IED.” He held up his bandaged arm. “Got lucky on that one.”

  He sped along the gravel-covered roads at ninety miles an hour. “Corporal,” Sam said. “Slow down. I think they want us alive, not dead.”

  “Sorry, sir, bit of a problem, sir. You’re needed in the ER, now, not later. Here’s the deal—I’m dropping you off at the ER. I’ll take your gear up to your barracks. You’re lucky you’re bunking in one of the real buildings.” He pointed to a bullet-ridden concrete structure. “I’ll be back to pick you up later,” he said as he slammed on the brakes in front of the building labeled Emergency Room.

  Kathleen and Sam staggered into the ER, looking more like the wounded than staff. A male voice boomed from one of the trauma bays, “Sorry to do this to you, but we need the extra hands, desperately. Lock box up front for weapons. Jesus, you brought in half of the damn desert with you.

  “Clean scrubs on the shelves.” He waved a bloody, gloved hand to the corner of the ER. “Real bathroom is through that door. Bet you have to pee. Do it; it’s your last chance for the day. Oh, and by the way, the bathroom is unisex.”

  The adrenaline kicked in and the exhaustion they had felt before from the time change and heat was gone. Kathleen and Sam were ready.

  A supply convoy had been attacked and the ER was overwhelmed. They were in the thick of the organized chaos known as the CSH.

  The Medevac helicopters had picked up eleven wounded, and landed with nine wounded and two dead. Kathleen and Sam joined the staff in the ER. Sam became part of the team treating a soldier with two broken legs and a head wound.

  Kathleen was waved over by a burly major in his forties, with thick hands and fingers that looked like rough tree branches. She recognized his voice. He spoke in a gruff, booming manner, and she couldn’t decide if he was angry or had smoked too many cigarettes.

  “Mike Turner,” he said. “I don’t have time to teach you; watch and assist when asked.”

  The patient was a twenty-three year old sergeant, one leg blown off by an Improvised Explosive Device (IED), the other leg badly damaged. Kathleen observed and lent a hand when asked. She took in everything.

  The sergeant was mumbling through his drug-induced state. Kathleen leaned over to listen. “Ma’am, my junk?” She lifted the small towel covering his genitals. She whispered, hoping no one else could hear, “Sergeant, your right leg is gone. You’re going into surgery and we’re not sure if we can save your other leg. Your junk is perfect and it’s the finest junk I’ve ever had the privilege of seeing.” He smiled before he was taken to the operating room.

  Now she understood what Sam had been trying to tell her. “No matter what you’ve trained for, nothing—and I mean nothing—prepares you for what you will see, hear, and feel. Until you’re in it, you can’t know it.”

  She called it the day that refused to end. The floors were littered with discarded sponges, gauze, tape, pads, and rubber gloves. Scrubs and boots were stained a ghastly yellowish red from squirting bodily fluids. The ER had treated a female, twenty-six: second-degree burns covering forty percent of her total body surface. Male, nineteen, brain injury: required an emergency craniotomy before being transferred to Germany. Four amputations.

  The minor injuries were triaged and waited to be treated. Some held the hands of their buddies after they were stabilized. Others, traumatized, sat in chairs with their heads in their hands. The chaplain moved deftly from gurney to gurney, finally settled on one of the chairs next to the troops with minor injuries, and began speaking in a soft, soothing tone.

  The ER became still as the injured were moved to the Surgical Wing.

  One of the nurses held the hand of a dead soldier. Hard sobs racked his body. One by one, the staff surrounded the gurney. Some cried, some said a prayer. They knew that for every one they could not save, someone thousands of miles away would get the dreaded knock on the door.

  They lost three that day.

  Mike Turner motioned to her. “Follow me to the Surgical Wing. Have you done any amputations?”

  Kathleen had to walk quickly to keep up with Mike’s long strides. “Yes, during my residency in Baltimore. Primarily vascular.”

  “This is a different world. You’re not starting with a whole limb and conditions aren’t pristine. We’ve got a bilateral above the knee getting prepped. We’ll talk while we scrub. Let me change that, I’ll talk and you’ll listen.

  “There’s a reality to this goddamn war. The body armor can’t protect limbs.
It saves lives, but you’ll be doing too many amputations. It’s those damn IEDs. Young kids, mostly. You’re going to feel shitty about taking someone’s arms and legs, even if you’ve saved their lives. You want to give them something back, and that’s the damn best surgery possible.

  “They’ll do better and you’ll feel less guilty if you do it right. You’ll be taking something away—hopefully not their junk.”

  Kathleen’s face flushed guiltily.

  His voice softened. “Yeah, I heard you speak to that poor grunt in there. That was an act of kindness straight out of Florence Nightingale—nothing to be ashamed of. Keep it up. We were able to save his other leg. He’s in the Intensive Care Unit, but I’ll bet he wakes up with a smile. He’ll be transferred to Landstuhl tomorrow. Visit him when we’re done. He’ll tell all his buddies about the beautiful doc who admired his junk and held his hand in the ICU.

  “By the way, I requested you and Sam. I’ve worked with Sam before and I know all about you. You’ve got quite a reputation. You did a residency at Shock, but spent your days off assisting in surgery. When you did your Family Medicine residency, you spent your off time in obstetrics and gynecology. Female troops will be happy knowing you’re here. Do you ever rest?”

  Mike didn’t pause for an answer. He spoke with the jackhammer cadence of a seasoned veteran who didn’t suffer fools gladly—or at all.

  “I’m going to do the amputations and you’ll assist. When I think you’re ready, we’ll switch roles. You’ll be working with me in surgery, whenever possible. I’m the senior doc and you’re the new doc, at least as far as this experience is concerned. I’ll bet you thought your interning days were over. Welcome to a parallel universe, Kathleen.”

  Kathleen reached under her mattress, pulled out her journal, and thumbed through the sporadic entries. It was hard for her to believe that her year of deployment was almost over. As always, Gayle was right. Writing had helped to keep her in balance.

  June 20, 2005 – Mortar rounds struck near living quarters. Scared. We ate MREs in the bunker. I realized how much I want to live.

  July 4, 2005 – Hot dogs and potato salad for breakfast. Insurgents wanted to celebrate the fourth, their way. Mostly, civilians brought in. Children injured by IEDs. What will happen to these kids now?

  August 7, 2005 – Blast walls and desert surround us. We have some amenities, PX, hot food, and I am so grateful for the showers. Sometimes my uniforms are soaked in blood, my boots are beginning to turn a bloody black. Heat everywhere. Tired of feeling.

  September 10, 2005 – Today was from outer space. I was holding a civilian’s intestines in my hands, hoping they wouldn’t get infected, praying that surgery could give him a chance at life. Half an hour later, I’m walking out of the ER and I’m on the phone talking to Gayle and Robert. For a second I imagine I’m back in LA. They ask me, “How are you?” and I can hear their air conditioner running in the background. I pray to God I can catch a breeze from it. What can I tell them? My team saved a twenty-one-year-old’s life but he’s burned over thirty percent of his body, and I can’t get the image or smell of his blackened flesh out of my mind. Instead, I try to act as if everything is okay and say, “I’m fine, tell me what you’re doing,” because anything that sounds normal gives me some peace, even if it’s only for a second. What am I feeling? Sick, pissed out of my mind at the waste.

  December 25, 2005 – Big Xmas dinner flown in. Ham, turkey, the whole nine yards. Sam played Santa to the staff. Lots of care packages from home. We share; we are a family. I feel like going to church. I want to get on my knees and ask God, why, just why.

  January 1, 2006 – Happy New Year! One of the docs got a box of cigars for Xmas and we sat outside smoking. First and last time for me, I threw up. Good group here. Just when you think you can’t bear to hear another scream, someone comes by and touches you on the shoulder or smiles or tells a stupid joke. It’s how we survive.

  February 8, 2006 – Treated two insurgents today. I was worried I wouldn’t be able to stay professional. I could.

  March 19, 2006 – Sometimes, late at night, I hear crying coming from our sleeping quarters. The tears of men and women merge. How I long for privacy, to curl up and cry where no one else can hear.

  April 1, 2006 – April Fools’ jokes mingle with the sadness. We’re shorthanded and everyone is pulling extra shifts. I’ve been assisting in surgery. Have to remember, our goal is to save a life… no matter what. But sometimes… I know it crosses everyone’s mind at least once. I’m glad at times I can be a robot.

  May 6, 2006 – Three-minute showers are a blessing, but oh, how I long for a hot bath. Don’t complain. Don’t even think you deserve it. Some you treat will never have a shower again.

  She picked up her pen and wrote:

  May 25, 2006 – Our replacements have arrived. I have learned so much about life in this year. I’m in awe of the extraordinary care and compassion by the medical staff. I’m humbled by the bravery of those who serve. Feeling? Grateful I was here.

  She closed her journal and tucked it safely under her mattress. She rested her head against the pillow and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. Her pager went off. She read the text:

  Mass casualties inbound. All docs to ER.

  She laced her boots, gulped some water, and walked the hundred yards to the ER.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sam and Kathleen sat on one of the clean emergency tables, eating a long delayed lunch of turkey sandwiches. Kathleen lifted up the bread, thought, this doesn’t look bad, and dug in.

  “Did you ever think you’d be eating surrounded by this?” Sam gestured toward the bloody gauze and empty IVs scattered around the room.

  Kathleen had trained herself to be oblivious to the tools of her trade when she wasn’t on duty. “Surrounded by what? I don’t think I’ll be able to eat at a regular table again. You know, Sam, I don’t think I’ve tasted food since we got here.”

  “Roger that,” Sam replied. “I barely chew, let alone taste. Are you going to eat the rest of your chips? I’ll trade you my cookies for ’em. Trade?”

  “Trade.”

  Without looking Kathleen lobbed her half-empty bag of chips in Sam’s general direction. Sam thumped a pair of stale cookies across the table toward Kathleen’s thigh.

  “We’ll have to relearn how to eat. No restaurant will let us in with these manners. What’s number one on your list when we get stateside?”

  Kathleen didn’t have to think long. “A twenty-four hour bath with lots and lots of bubbles, a glass of wine, all the chocolate I can eat, and grapes. I’ve been jonesing for ice-cold grapes ever since I got here. What’s yours?”

  “I’m ordering a porterhouse steak, rare, baked potato smothered in butter with tons of salt, and absolutely no vegetables. Are you going to spend any time with Gary?”

  Kathleen took a long swig from her water bottle and swallowed hard. “Undecided right now. Hopefully, we’ll get a few days together.”

  Sam nodded as medics came in to remove the hazardous waste. Iraqi janitors followed with mops and pails and began to clean around them.

  They were finishing the last few crumbs of their sandwiches when they heard the commotion coming from the ER waiting room. They both jumped off the table at the same time. They looked at each other as if to say, “What the hell?”

  From the moment they opened the door to the waiting room, everything began to move in slow motion. A corporal stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by tipped-over chairs and tables. His eyes bulged, froth spewed from his mouth, a steel bladed knife waved wildly in the air.

  Kathleen thought she recognized him. Hadn’t she treated him for stress yesterday? She had suspected post-traumatic stress disorder and had taken him off duty for a week with a referral to a psychiatric nurse.

  There was that crazy moment when Kathleen believed she was the superhero from one of her childhood fantasies. Had that ever left her? She thought she could stop the archenemy that came disguised
as a soldier high on drugs, screaming and wielding a knife.

  Kathleen approached him, holding out her arms as if welcoming a friend. “Corporal Billings. Hi, remember me? It’s Kathleen. We spent time together yesterday.”

  Everyone else in the room stood frozen. She spoke in a whisper, and for a moment he stopped. She took a tentative step closer. “Let me help you. Put down the knife and take my hand. We’ll go inside and talk, just you and me.”

  He began to lower the knife; his eyes narrowed and his raspy voice cut across the room. “There’s evil inside you.” He rushed forward, his knife pointed at her chest. Sam tackled him, throwing his weight against him and pushing him off balance, but not before the knife struck deep into Kathleen’s shoulder.

  The staff grabbed him, pulling him off of Kathleen. Surgical sponges were thrust into Sam’s hands and he applied pressure to the wound. Sam barked to the staff: “Get that son of a bitch out of here!” He turned to Kathleen. “Kathleen, look at me. Come on, don’t close your eyes, keep looking at me.”

  Kathleen’s eyelids began to flutter, then her eyes opened wide. “Sam?”

  “I’m here,” he said. “I’m here.”

  Two trauma nurses lifted her onto a gurney. They moved into the ER and began to work quickly, one cutting off her clothing and inserting a Foley catheter. The other placed a large bore IV in her left arm and another in her right foot. They kept their eyes focused on their job, trying to forget their patient was a friend they had been joking with a short time ago.

  Sam stood next to the table, continuing to apply pressure to her wound. His jaw clenched, thoughts raced through his mind. I should have moved faster, I should have told her to wait in the ER. I should have taken that knife for her.

  The ER began to fill with staff. Mike ran in from the makeshift gym, still wearing his shorts and tee. “Okay, Sam. We’ve got her. You need to step aside.”

  The sharp rasp of Mike’s questions came dully to Kathleen’s ears as he hastily put on surgical scrubs. Kathleen was responding, her voice losing strength with every word. “Lungs okay… just ate… can’t feel arm or hand.”