The day began early as I didn't sleep very well last
night. Once I was awake I decided not to just lay there and stare at the
darkness so I got up, got dressed, shaved and headed into the TOC, the
heart of what goes on. In the TOC (Tactical Operations Center) they
monitor several different radio nets to keep abreast of what is happing
in the area. It's the place to be if you want up to the minute
information. When I arrived it was fairly calm. I made small talk with
the guys there and sipped that first cup of morning coffee. The day was
clear and there was very little going on, or so it seemed. A very short
while later we received the initial reports. In this area there are
several "camps" or "posts" that house the various
combat and support units that do the day to day fighting and working
around here. The first report said that a mortar had just hit one of the
nearby chow halls during the middle of lunch (I'm on GMT so my morning
is actually the middle of the day). It's called a MASCAL or Mass
Casualty event and it's where the rubber meets the road in military
ministry. They said there were approximately 10 casualties. That was the
extent of it so I kind of filed it away in the back of my mind and
continued to sip my coffee. The next report wasn't so good. 10 dead and
approximately 50 wounded. They were being transported to the Combat
Surgical Hospital down the street. The Chaplain at the CSH is a good guy
and I knew he'd be in need of help so I woke my assistant and we rushed
to the hospital. I didn't expect what I saw.
The scene was little more than controlled chaos. Helicopters landing,
people shouting, wounded screaming, bodies everywhere. As the staff
began to triage the dead and wounded I found the chaplain and offered my
assistance. He directed me to where he needed me and I dove in. I would
be hard pressed to write about every person I had the opportunity to
pray with today but I will try to relate a few.
I found Betty on a stretcher being tended by nurses. I
introduced myself and held her hand. She looked up at me and said,
"Chaplain, am I going to be alright?" I said that she was
despite the fact that I could see she had a long road to recovery ahead
of her. Most of her hair had been singed off. Her face was burnt fairly
badly, although it didn't look like the kind of burns that will scar.
What I do know is that it was painful enough to hurt just by being in
the sun. I prayed with Betty and moved on.
Ilena (a made up name. She spoke very softly and had a
thick accent so I couldn't really hear her) had been hit by a piece of
shrapnel just above her left breast causing a classic sucking chest
wound. The doctors said she had a hemothorax (I think that's what they
called it) which basically meant her left lung was filling with blood
and she was having a very hard time breathing. For the next 20 minutes I
held her hand while a doctor made an incision in her left side, inserted
most of his hand and some kind of medical instrument and then a tube to
alleviate the pressure caused by the pooling blood. It was probably the
most medieval procedure I have ever been privy to. In the end she was
taken to ICU and will be OK.
Mark was put on a stretcher and laid along a wall. A
small monitor on his hand would tell the nurses when he was dead. Even a
cursory glance said it was inevitable. Mark had a head wound that left
brain matter caked in his ear and all over the stretcher he was lying
on. I knelt next to Mark and placed a hand on is chest. His heart was
barely beating but it was beating so I put my face close to his ear to
pray with him. If you've never smelled human brain matter it is
something unforgettable. I had something of an internal struggle. He's
practically dead so why stay? He probably can't hear anything! A prayer
at that point seemed of little value. But I couldn't risk it. I prayed
for Mark and led him in the sinners prayer as best I could. There are
few things in this life that will make you feel more helpless. After
that, I needed some fresh air.
I stepped outside and found the situation to be only
slightly less chaotic. The number of body bags had grown considerably
since I first went inside. I saw a fellow chaplain who was obviously in
need of care himself. I stopped him and put my arm around him and asked
how he was doing. A rhetorical question if ever I asked one. He just
shook his head so I pulled him in close and prayed for his strength,
endurance, a thick skin, and a soft heart. Then I just stood and
breathed for a few minutes.
Regardless of what some may say, these are not stupid
people. Any attack with casualties will naturally mean that eventually a
very large number of care givers will be concentrated in one location.
They took full advantage of that. In the middle of the mayhem the first
mortar round hit about 100 to 200 meters away. Everyone started shouting
to get the wounded into the hospital which is solid concrete and much
safer than being in the open. Soon, the next mortar hit quite a bit
closer than the first as they "walked" their rounds toward
their intended target...us. Everyone began to rush toward the building.
I stood at the door shoving as many people inside as I could. Just
before heading in myself, the last one hit directly on top of the
hospital. I was standing next to the building so was shielded from any
flying shrapnel. In fact, the building, being built as a bunker took the
hit with little effect. However, I couldn't have been more than 10 to 15
meters from the point of impact and brother did I feel the shock.
That'll wake you up! I rushed inside to find doctors and nurses draped
over patients, others on the floor or under something. I ducked low and
quickly moved as far inside as I could.
After a few tense moments people began to move around
again and the business of patching bodies and healing minds continued in
earnest. As I stood talking with some other chaplain, an officer
approached and not seeing us, yelled, "Is there a chaplain around
here?" I turned and asked what I could do. He spoke to us and said
that another patient had just been moved to the "expectant"
list and would one of us come pray for him. I walked in and found him
lying on the bed with a tube in his throat, and no signs of
consciousness. There were two nurses tending to him in his final
moments. One had a clipboard so I assumed she'd have the information I
wanted. I turned to her and asked if she knew his name. Without
hesitation the other nurse, with no papers, blurted out his first,
middle, and last name. She had obviously taken this one personally. I'll
call him Wayne. I placed my hand on his head and lightly stroked his
dark hair. Immediately my mind went to my Grandpa's funeral when I
touched his soft grey hair for the last time. And for the second time in
as many hours I prayed wondering if it would do any good, but knowing
that God is faithful and can do more than I even imagine. When I
finished I looked up at the nurse who had known his name. She looked
composed but struggling to stay so. I asked, "Are you OK?" and
she broke down. I put my arm around her to comfort and encourage her.
She said, "I was fine until you asked!" Then she explained
that this was the third patient to die on her that day.
