Bandages and Bullets

And ADD kicks in...

2011-02-04T10:10:00.002-05:00

Sorry for the delay with my Constitution series, but I seem to have finally struck a vein with my novel and that's been eating up some serious writing time. I'm not going to post any of it here, as I'm really hoping to publish it when it's finished, but if any of my readers are interested in being "alpha readers" to provide me with much needed sounding board, let me know!

Govt by Jimbo: Article I part 1

2011-01-28T09:35:00.004-05:00

It should be noted, as I begin the first of my “Government By Jimbo” posts, that I am by no means a Constitutional Scholar. I am a high school graduate, with a limited amount of college (Including one class on the constitution and criminal law) and a perhaps greater interest in history and the government than your average bear. I’m am not a lawyer, nor do I have any legal background. Aside from the single aforementioned class, my experience with the US Constitution is that I have read it a few times. My interest here is mostly to share my take on the document that I have sworn to support and defend with my life. My lack of expertise here could also be seen as a potential plus-my conclusions in this case are not necessarily tainted by prior lessons from others, I’m simply calling it as I read it.

Also, I make no attempt to hide the fact that I have a potential political bias with my conservative views on the government, but I’ll do my best not to let that color my conclusions. I’ll be writing things mostly on how the government should appear to operate as based on the Constitution, and I’m not going to make more than the occasional stab at how things are *actually* run. In certain cases, I may also provide a note on something that, in Jimbos perfect world, would be different. So without further ado, the inaugural post to “Government by Jimbo”

My copy of the Constitution was found at www.usconstitution.net

Preamble
We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

Jimbos Personal Opinion: The preamble is largely self-explanatory. It provides an explanation for the Constitutions existence, and a basic scope of purpose. It should be noted though, that the preamble contains the often cited, often used and abused clause of “To promote the general welfare”. The General Welfare clause seems to be often abused by the government to pass things that would otherwise seem be outside of the Constitutions range, such as the recent Health-Care bill. However, the preamble is only there to define the *purpose* of the Constitution, and as far as I’m concerned, no powers should be derived from it. It’s the Constitution *itself* that provides for the general welfare, not a free pass for the government to simply do as it sees fit. Addendum: I also note that the "General Welfare" is mentioned again in Article I Section 8. This renders my above point pretty much moot, however, given that there are no guidelines for what the General Welfare consists of, I feel that the will of the public, sending their Congressmen to Washington to represent *their* wishes should be the ultimate deciding factor here.

Article I - The Legislative Branch
Section 1 - The Legislature
All legislative Powers herein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House of Representatives.
Note By Jimbo: Every power listed below is given to the legislature, however I take this to mean that anything NOT mentioned is outside of what Congress is allowed to do.

Section 2 - The House
The House of Representatives shall be composed of Members chosen every second Year by the People of the several States, and the Electors in each State shall have the Qualifications requisite for Electors of the most numerous Branch of the State Legislature.
No Person shall be a Representative who shall not have attained to the Age of twenty five Years, and been seven Years a Citizen of the United States, and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State in which he shall be chosen.
Representatives and direct Taxes shall be apportioned among the several States which may be included within this Union, according to their respective Numbers, which shall be determined by adding to the whole Number of free Persons, including those bound to Service for a Term of Years, and excluding Indians not taxed, three fifths of all other Persons. As was noted by the website www.usconstitution.net, this last clause was modified by the 14th amendment. The actual Enumeration shall be made within three Years after the first Meeting of the Congress of the United States, and within every subsequent Term of ten Years, in such Manner as they shall by Law direct. The Number of Representatives shall not exceed one for every thirty Thousand, but each State shall have at Least one Representative; and until such enumeration shall be made, the State of New Hampshire shall be entitled to choose three, Massachusetts eight, Rhode Island and Providence Plantations one, Connecticut five, New York six, New Jersey four, Pennsylvania eight, Delaware one, Maryland six, Virginia ten, North Carolina five, South Carolina five and Georgia three.
When vacancies happen in the Representation from any State, the Executive Authority thereof shall issue Writs of Election to fill such Vacancies. Note by Jimbo: It would appear from this last sentence that special elections within the House of Representatives ARE legal, and without a Constitutional amendment stating otherwise, an *appointment* would be unconstitutional, and thus, invalid, regardless of any laws passed by Congress, as the law would also be unconstitutional.
The House of Representatives shall choose their Speaker and other Officers; and shall have the sole Power of Impeachment.

Section 3 - The Senate
The Senate of the United States shall be composed of two Senators from each State, chosen by the Legislature thereof, for six Years; and each Senator shall have one Vote.
Immediately after they shall be assembled in Consequence of the first Election, they shall be divided as equally as may be into three Classes. The Seats of the Senators of the first Class shall be vacated at the Expiration of the second Year, of the second Class at the Expiration of the fourth Year, and of the third Class at the Expiration of the sixth Year, so that one third may be chosen every second Year; and if Vacancies happen by Resignation, or otherwise, during the Recess of the Legislature of any State, the Executive thereof may make temporary Appointments until the next Meeting of the Legislature, which shall then fill such Vacancies. No person shall be a Senator who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty Years, and been nine Years a Citizen of the United States, and who shall not, when elected, be an Inhabitant of that State for which he shall be chosen. Note by Jimbo: The 17th Amendment modified this clause to allow the direct election of Senators by the people. It also allows for special elections in the case of vacancies, BUT it allows for a temporary appointment until an election can be held, with no time-frame for when that needs to happen, This, an appointment could be valid for the remainder of that Senators term.
The Vice President of the United States shall be President of the Senate, but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided.
The Senate shall choose their other Officers, and also a President pro tempore, in the absence of the Vice President, or when he shall exercise the Office of President of the United States.
The Senate shall have the sole Power to try all impeachments. When sitting for that Purpose, they shall be on Oath or Affirmation. When the President of the United States is tried, the Chief Justice shall preside: And no Person shall be convicted without the concurrence of two thirds of the Members present.
Judgment in Cases of impeachment shall not extend further than to removal from Office, and disqualification to hold and enjoy any Office of honor, Trust or Profit under the United States: but the Party convicted shall nevertheless be liable and subject to Indictment, Trial, Judgment and Punishment, according to Law.
Note By Jimbo: Impeachment is mentioned under both the House and Senate sections, but it is worded slightly different in each case. While the House has the sole power of impeachment, the Senate has the sole power to try impeachment. I take this to mean that the House is granted to power to initiate impeachment proceedings, while the Senate actually executes the trial itself. If anyone has more knowledge about this, feel free to share.

Section 4 - Elections, Meetings
The Times, Places and Manner of holding Elections for Senators and Representatives, shall be prescribed in each State by the Legislature thereof; but the Congress may at any time by Law make or alter such Regulations, except as to the Place of choosing Senators.
The Congress shall assemble at least once in every Year, and such Meeting shall be on the first Monday in December, (changed by the 20th Amendment) unless they shall by Law appoint a different Day.

Section 5 - Membership, Rules, Journals, Adjournment
Each House shall be the Judge of the Elections, Returns and Qualifications of its own Members, and a Majority of each shall constitute a Quorum to do Business; but a smaller number may adjourn from day to day, and may be authorized to compel the Attendance of absent Members, in such Manner, and under such Penalties as each House may provide. Jimbos Personal Opinion: In the days where mail and travel could take weeks, a simple majority may have sufficed. In the days of completely instant communication and global travel, I find this unacceptable. Members of Congress should be there every day that Congress is in session, without some form of valid excuse. Running for reelection is not a valid excuse in my world. Each House may determine the Rules of its Proceedings, punish its Members for disorderly Behavior, and, with the concurrence of two-thirds, expel a Member.
Each House shall keep a Journal of its Proceedings, and from time to time publish the same, excepting such Parts as may in their Judgment require Secrecy; and the Yeas and Nays of the Members of either House on any question shall, at the Desire of one fifth of those Present, be entered on the Journal.

Neither House, during the Session of Congress, shall, without the Consent of the other, adjourn for more than three days, nor to any other Place than that in which the two Houses shall be sitting.

Section 6 - Compensation
The Senators and Representatives shall receive a Compensation for their Services, to be ascertained by Law, and paid out of the Treasury of the United States. Modified by the 27th Amendment, and will be covered later. They shall in all Cases, except Treason, Felony and Breach of the Peace, be privileged from Arrest during their Attendance at the Session of their respective Houses, and in going to and returning from the same; and for any Speech or Debate in either House, they shall not be questioned in any other Place.
No Senator or Representative shall, during the Time for which he was elected, be appointed to any civil Office under the Authority of the United States which shall have been created, or the emoluments whereof shall have been increased during such time; and no Person holding any Office under the United States, shall be a Member of either House during his Continuance in Office. Note By Jimbo: Section 6 essentially gives members of Congress diplomatic immunity in their own country. It also would seem, from the wording on ’emoluments’ to prohibit bribes, and could be argued that it prevents any monetary offerings from special interest groups as well. Using a Republican for example, if Dick Cheney is affiliated with Haliburton, and they contribute to his efforts while in office in such a way that it makes him personally richer, the Constitution says NO. This would also apply to anyone currently holding office, while running for reelection. It also, obviously, prevents a Congressman from simultaneously holding office elsewhere in the government, for good reason.

I will continue with the remainder of Article I tomorrow, as this is starting get long and unwieldy for a blog post. Although I may not necessarily have a note or interpretation for every section in the Constitution, I still plan to publish it all, in the spirit of continuity. If you’re really bored by it, simply scroll until you see red text, read the relevant portion of the Constitution, and move on.

New posting theme

2011-01-26T07:46:00.003-05:00

*Disclaimer* The views in this post are in no way, shape, or form representative of the views of the United States Army. They are my own personal opinions*

It feels to me like politics have really gotten dirty the past few years. It may be my perspective-I’ve only really been paying attention to it all for about 7 years now, however during that time it feels as though things have just gotten dirtier and more polarized. In the past couple years I’ve seen the tone on both the left and right sides become more and more shrill and desperate. Listening to campaigns is akin to listening to a bunch of first graders arguing, thinking that volume rather than discourse will win the day. Name calling and labeling abound. Nazi. Racist. Redneck. Communist. I can’t seem to shake the feeling that the political reindeer games in the USA are about to come to a head.

We now have two VERY vocal, very strong main political bents, that are at their cores complete and total opposites. I don’t think it’s actually possible for them to come together and work together in an effective manner. On the one hand, we have the left, that subscribes to the idea that the government knows what is best for everyone. To them, the government is like a permanent parent, whose job is to take care of everyone, and should be trusted with the power to meddle in the lives of individuals for the ’greater good’.

On the other hand, we have the right wing, with an extreme distrust of everything the government does. They advocate for the government to have the absolute minimum in size and power on the lives of individual citizens. Obviously, there are varying degrees in extremity on both sides, and this is a vast over-generalization, but I think it’s applicable, and reasonably fair.

I find it necessary to note at this point, that in saying that the two groups are irreconcilable, I am in NO WAY inciting violence or rebellion as an answer. I’m simply making an observation that the status quo will have to change at some point in order to have an effective and reasonable government. I firmly believe that this can be done with the ballot box, NOT the ammunition box.

It’s no secret to anyone that knows me even reasonably well that I’m very conservative, and I have a strong libertarian bent when it comes to social issues. Being that I’m still in my 20’s, the vast majority of my peers are fairly liberal, and the reaction that I often get when my politics come up is as if I’d just revealed that I have herpes or something. I’m getting very, very tired of my intelligence being called into question over it, or being told that I’ve been “brainwashed by the church” to feel the way I do. I’m not even all that religious.

The fact is, I’ve come to believe the things I do with careful consideration and thought. I weigh the consequences of government involvement in almost every issue. I think how it will affect myself, my family, my work, and also the majority of others. I study history, and I study statistics, and I look at similar actions that have taken place in other areas around the world, and from all of that, I find a stance. I also listen to my own personal moral compass-but I try not to let that bleed out into other peoples lives. For instance, I may not *agree* with the culture of promiscuity in America today, but I’d never vote to pass a law making sex out of wedlock a crime.

In light of all this, I’ve decided to try a new theme on my blog. I’m still going to have normal, non-political posts when the ideas strike me, but soon there will be a new series of posts called “Government By Jimbo”. I’m going to review the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, posting my interpretation. The result will be a complete catalog of how I feel that the United States would be run, if I ruled the world, and how I came to my conclusions. It should be interesting, and I strongly encourage you to subscribe and comment if you’re interested. Feel free to completely dissect it if you like. I fully welcome views across the political spectrum, I only ask that regardless of which direction you lean, be respectful and polite. I’m not going to insult anybody’s intelligence here, so don’t insult mine.

Give me a day or two and I should have the first of the series up.

*Disclaimer* The views in this post are in no way, shape, or form representative of the views of the United States Army. They are my own personal opinions*

Arizona

2011-01-12T09:41:00.002-05:00

I'm not going to make this tragedy political. I'm not going to spread the shooters name, or share his photo, or in any way respond to his apparent glee.

But, I absolutely MUST say something, in response to the nationwide political hysteria that has followed.

Stop projecting blame!

This was not the work of a right wing nutjob.

This was not the work of a left wing nutjob.

This was not caused by the music he listened too.

This was not inspired by a campaign poster that used crosshairs. That markmanship analogy has been in common use since the bow and arrow days, probably before.

This was not brought on by politics, or vitriol.

No laws in the world world would have prevented this. Murder is already against the law.

Even if this animal one day claims he was politically motivated, or musically, or because of a video game, or to impress an actress, it won't matter. Because the recent events in Arizona were brought on by one crazy man pulling a trigger. He alone bears the responsibility for it. Before you say it, the insanity excuse won't fly with me. You can't make it as long as he did outside an institution without knowing that killing people is wrong.

As to the politicians and pundits rushing in from all corners to push their own personal agendas...shame on you all. Let the dead rest, and the living mourn.

That is all.

Officers...

2011-01-06T06:55:00.000-05:00

My base is a salute zone. It has been for quite some time now, and it’s a well-known fact, however it is very often ignored. Many of the officers don’t actually *want* to be saluted, for one thing. In the first place, in many places it’s a tactical error. You don’t want to radiate importance in the danger zone. It turns you into a target. The other reason is that it’s a pain in the ass. My post is very large-soldiers are everywhere. It’s large enough, contained enough, and peaceful enough that snipers are not a major concern. But, being such a large place with many amenities, it’s also *crawling* with officers. Which means that if everyone saluted every time, we all might as well walk around with our hands up to shade our eyes.

A salute must be rendered to an officer that passes you at a distance of anywhere closer than 10 meters, if I correctly recall. The range is often an eyeballed judgment call, and the ’salute bubble’ will expand and shrink depending on where the officer is looking and how occupied they are at the time. If they lock eyes it doesn’t really matter if they’re too far away, and some officers with confidence issues will actually change course to bring themselves into saluting range. I’ve watched it happen.

Over here, we’ve developed an unspoken body language that’s generally a reliable indicator on what’s expected by that particular officer. Saluted officers are generally walking in a group. Their heads are held high, looking straight ahead. If an officer is indifferent or does not want to be saluted, they’ll shuffle of range as you get closer, cast their heads downward, and try to cover their chest rank with a rifle sling or holster strap. The response by the soldier is to alter course in the opposite direction until we’ve passed one another. It functions as an officer/enlisted force field and deceptively prevents the salute from happening.

Today I hopped off the bus and began walking down the road towards the Living Area. I was carrying a lunch tray in one hand. Heading towards me on the sidewalk were a E-7 and an 0-2. I shifted my load to my left hand so my right was free, but they were engaged in conversation, and started to drift to my left. I shifted mine to the right, beginning the circle. As we passed, the 1st LT turned his head to the side and shifted his rifle sling. The signal. I followed his lead. Took two steps past.

“HEY SPECIALIST!” The Sergeant First class. Damn. Really? I turn at parade rest. The LT had kept going down the road and was now several yards behind his NCO.

“Yes, Sare’nt!”

“That’s a U.S. Army Commissioned Officer over there. Now, I saw you shift hands and I thought you were going to be squared away. How about you render my Officer the proper military courtesy?

Under normal circumstances, I’d have swallowed my pride a little better. I’d have saluted stateside as they passed anyway. But they had started the dance. They’d abused the unspoken code. I snapped to attention, and raised a salute but I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Instead of the greeting of the day I barked out something else.

“Sniper-check, sir!”

Some pushups are worth it.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell (DADT)

2010-11-18T10:10:00.005-05:00

DISCLAIMER*The views of this post in no way reflect the views of the United States Army in any way, shape, or form. They are completely my own*DISCLAIMER

The “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy has been major news for the past couple weeks, only recently overshadowed by the new TSA security proceedings, which may become a post in the future. I thought it might be a good time to share my opinion on the policy and what it might mean for troops, should it be removed.

I could honestly care less about who a soldier wants to climb into bed with. We’re here to do a job. If a soldier is professional and competent, their private life is of no concern to me. Most troops that I’ve talked to have similar feelings. It’s mostly a non-issue, especially on deployments. I can’t speculate how well received it would be to have gay and lesbian couples quartered together on bases, together at social functions, or any of the other issues that would come up. However, those are still larger issues in society outside of the military as well.

I don’t like the idea that the military forces gays to lie in order to serve. It violates nearly all of the values that the military tries to instill in it’s recruits. In the Army, those values are simplified into an easy to remember acronym that comes close to spelling out “Leadership”. They are, Loyalty, Duty, Respect, Selfless Service, Honor, Integrity, and Personal Courage.(LDRSHIP) DADT asks homosexuals to basically violate all but two of those. Those two-Selfless Service and Personal Courage- are, in my eyes, even exemplified by homosexual troops. They must be selfless in order to live a lie, and that takes heaps of personal courage to do. Duty could also be argued, but since it’s technically the duty of a soldier to report conduct violations, that’s a gray area.

It’s also been shown that DADT can be psychologically harmful. By threatening their career if they become exposed, homosexual troops are forced to deploy without as much support from home, and their significant others must adopt pseudonyms in order to prevent an “outing”. Their loved ones back home are denied the support of family readiness groups-groups designed so that the families of deployed troops can get together to share news, commiserate, and help them remain strong. This, to me, is shameful.

There are certainly legitimate concerns to allowing homosexuals to serve openly though, and I feel that they’ve been minimized by the media, to the point where anyone who raises objections is automatically a bigot. There have also been many parallels drawn between DADT and the integration of blacks and women, which I feel are actually pretty weak, particularly with the racial comparison. Nobody doubts the capability of gays to perform their duties. At this point it’s more of an issue of if it will change the effectiveness of our forces.

The first, and I would say, biggest, issue, is that homosexuality has not been fully accepted into mainstream society. We don’t allow gay marriages, and there’s controversy about gay couples adopting children, for instance. I’m not sure what the answer to these questions should be at this point. I don’t support gay marriage, although I’d be relatively comfortable with civil unions-it’s the word itself that makes it an issue to me. Who you want to visit you in the hospital, make health and monetary decisions with, and make your ‘next of kin’ doesn’t concern me. I’m also on the fence about gay couples and children-however that’s based on my feelings that a child belongs in a standard family with a mother, and a father, and all that goes with it. The death of the nuclear family has started to turn this into a non-issue, and that’s a whole ‘nuther ball of wax. Enough children are being raised in completely non-traditional homes that it leads me to believe that a gay couple could probably do a pretty good job, but I’m just personally not ready to make that leap of acceptance yet.

While the above paragraph may seem like a bit of a tangent, the point is this: The armed forces, particularly in the midst of a long, drawn out conflict, are NOT the place to conduct a social experiment! If society as a whole is not ready to accept homosexuality, then the military should not be forced to either. The military has a culture all it’s own, but at its base, it is a microcosm of American society as a whole. We come from all walks of life, from all over the nation, and if the nation at large isn’t ready for it, I don’t think it should be forced on the services either.

The other issue that I have is not as all-encompassing, but has to do with living quarters and shower areas. In the military, not only do we work together, but we also live together, eat together, and shower together. It’s not all that hard to get used to, to the point where soldiers often have conversations in the shower with the same level of ease that we would at a supermarket. A body is a body.

However, we do separate males and females from showering together. We don’t allow people that may be sexually attracted to one another to be naked together. This makes sense, in many ways, although it could be argued as unnecessary. I find it interesting that in the very openly sexual culture that America has that nudity is regarded as such a big issue. As I said above, a body is a body, and there’s nothing implicitly sexual about nudity. That’s the way it is though, and without changing our entire culture on nudity and sex, it will continue that way.

So why should I have to shower with a man who might be sexually attracted to me? I’ve seen the counter to this argument- that it’s already happening anyway, and there haven’t been any problems, so it’s not an issue. However that doesn't hold up under scrutiny. For one thing, I don’t know that I’m being ogled. The whole point of DADT is that gays must keep their sexuality a secret. At this point, if some guy is stealing glances at my junk, I don’t know it, so it can’t really make me uncomfortable. However if I knew the solider next to me in the shower happened to favor the hot dog over the hot dog bun, it would strongly decrease my comfort level. In a society, and a military, where sexual harassment and sexual assault is prevalent, this is a problem. Even though the integration of women into the force went well, sexual harassment, assault, and even rape, are still such big issues that soldiers get briefings on it about four times a year.

Further still, in the litigious society that we live in, where a single bad joke or unwanted advance can be grounds for a lawsuit, I could see serious problems for the military. We don’t do lawsuits in the civilian sense, but consequences are still harsh. A soldier convicted can forfeit rank, pay, allowances, or even be separated. They can be flagged against any favorable actions or separated from the service. At first glance, that seems like it would discourage misconduct and make the transition easy. However crimes of this nature are often hard to prove, and harder to disprove. If I think Pvt. Snuffy is a “meat gazer” I could report it. But I might be wrong, and ruin his career. And if I just had it out for Pvt. Snuffy, he’d have a very hard time convincing others that I was lying-even if he made it past the military justice system, the individual soldiers that he works with may not be so forgiving. The criteria for what constitutes sexual harassment are pretty loose, and often boil down to how the accuser feels.

So what’s the solution? Does the military spend millions and require separate showering facilities for gays? There’d still be the chance of sexual misconduct, but hopefully they’d be more comfortable with the idea than a straight person would be. Do we simply eliminate separate showers altogether, and put everyone in the same boat? After all, that would be true equality. It’s happened on remote FOBs in Afghanistan, mostly where US troops are quartered with troops from, say, Sweden. They’ve had surprisingly few issues-the US Military is a professional and adaptable force. The most likely option is that the military will continue to segregate facilities based on sex and not sexual preference. It wouldn’t be a disaster, but it does create a new list of problems to be considered.

I don’t think that there is an easy solution to this, nor will there ever be. Overall, I actually do support removing DADT, and I don’t think it will turn out to be a big deal. The honesty and integrity of the men and women next to me is far more important to me than my comfort in the shower. But these are real issues, and things to keep in mind. There are genuine concerns here, not just simple bigotry like many seem to think. No matter what happens, it will not be the end of our military. We in uniform will drive on and succeed regardless. The idea is to make it as easy for us to succeed as possible.

I would love to hear some thoughts on this, so feel free to comment.

DISCLAIMER*The views of this post in no way reflect the views of the United States Army in any way, shape, or form. They are completely my own*DISCLAIMER

Deployment Goggles

2010-11-04T11:34:00.002-04:00

The phrase “deployment goggles” is used to describe a certain condition that afflicts deployed soldiers, namely that after several months overseas, people who would be otherwise unattractive suddenly become incredibly so. Bases filled with tired, run-down, average looking women become filled with “tens“ . This does also seem to affect the women, however I know nothing of it, so I won’t comment.

This isn’t to say, of course, that all women in the military, and the Army in particular, are ugly. It has more to do with the simple fact the Army uniforms and regulations are not very flattering to the female form. The Army *is* changing this- they’ve announced plans to cut ACU’s in 13 different sizes for women in the near future, but this is more functional than it is for form. Until then, females on post are trapped wearing pants that are designed for a mans hipless figure, and a top with broad shoulders that winds up looking like a tent. (They also have plans to move the rank patch upwards, which is a good thing, and a whole ‘nuther post. I’ve spent most of my adult life concentrating on *not* looking directly at a woman’s chest when speaking with her, and what does the Army do? Somebody was either promoted or fired over that.)

Army PT gear consists of a T-shirt and baggy shorts, which, although comfortable, and necessary for freedom of movement, gets zero points for style. Couple the uniforms with the restrictive rules on how females may wear their hair, makeup, and whatever else they use to get all dolled up, and it just doesn’t make for a population that appeals to the opposite sex. This may be intentional, and I’m not disagreeing with any of these rules, mind you. It certainly makes for some surprises sometimes if you ever run into a fellow solider in civilian clothing, however.

These conditions tend to morph perspective, but it’s a subtle change that creeps up on you. This morning I saw a female soldier on the bus, in PT gear, and found myself checking out her forearms. It hit me then. Dear Lord, did I really just do that? I checked out a girls arms? For the rest of the day, I was very conscious of what I looked at, and all the while, phrases popped to mind that would defy logic based on what most people look for back home. Wow, she has really petite hands. What a slender neck-crap that’s an officer, better salute!

It’s not that I’m a perv leering at every woman in sight, and to be perfectly honest, my love life at home is on the same tempo as it is here-nonexistent. I just had a little shock today when I noticed that the “goggles” were so firmly screwed on. Maybe it will help me notice the little things, when I get home. Like wedding rings, for instance. I’m still getting used to the notion that I’m old enough now to actually need to look for one.

Just another fact of life in the Sandbox. Stay well everyone!

Weather

2010-11-03T23:42:00.002-04:00

I vaguely remember, while on leave somebody asking me if it was true that the desert got dangerously cold at night. I also vaguely remember me laughing it off a bit, because it hadn't gotten all that cold when daytime temperatures were between "Shirt soaking" and "How did I end up in the 9th circle of Hell?"

Well, despite a distinct lack of trees, Iraq does have seasons and they start abruptly. I fell asleep with the AC on and when my alarm went off at 0-dark-thirty this morning, the CHU was an ice box. I walked out the door in my PT shorts and shirt, promptly whirled around, and pulled on winter PT clothing over them. Yes, winter PTs....in the desert! If I had to guess I'd say that the actually temperature this morning was somewhere in the 50's. It was cold enough that while running, I had some trouble breathing it it, and my ears were red and burning from the chill.

The good thing about it being so cold though is that I sleep much better that way. When outside temps are dropping, there's nothing more comfortable to me then bundling up. The issue is just getting out of bed on time. Unfortunately, ladies, I will no longer be walking to and from the shower shirtless. I'm sure you're all just devastated.

Off to enjoy a cup of "Badass" coffee. Hopefully more to come later.

Chapter 4

2010-10-22T11:34:00.002-04:00

Keeping up with the fiction theme...

I have a few other projects as well, but nothing noteworthy yet. Boring is a good thing in a war zone though.

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Halfway through the day, I was ready to turn in my ID. We’d done 6 back-to-back transports. There was no lunch break, no coffee stop. We picked up one patient after another and they were all the same. Somewhere in their eighties, diabetes, dementia, renal failure. Some needed a Foley catheter placed in their urethra for urine retention or an infection. Some were going to dialysis. Others headed to die forgotten in a nursing home where no real nursing ever seemed to happen.

My partner for the day, Jerry, was a jerk. He was 300 pounds, with a chip on his shoulder. There was no right way to drive for him. I was always going to fast for him to work, and he couldn’t keep his balance or start an IV. If I slowed down, I was driving like a grandma and somehow our stable patients were going to arrest and die along the way. I ignored him for the most part. He was out of shape, belligerent, and possibly a little jealous of my life and my past. His attitude made the day very easy to hate. After being told to drive faster for the seventh time that day I pulled over.
“Do you want to drive?” I asked, exasperated.
“Don’t get snappy with me! I just want to get to our pickup sometime today.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and opened the door. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with it today. He watched me for a moment, but didn’t move.
“If you don’t like the way I drive, then drive yourself. Otherwise shut the hell up and I’ll get us there as quickly and safely as I can. Besides if I drive slower it’s more time before we get yet another job.”
“All I’m trying to do is make you a better tech!” he growled.
“Nobody else I work with ever complains, Jerry. You’re the only person in this whole damn company that seems to find a problem with every single thing that I do. You always talk about doing things by the book-you won’t even let me get you an IV line on a rough scene because it’s out of my scope of practice. Well I drive ‘by the book’. I’ve got a wife to go home to, and I’d like to see her again tonight.”
“Fine,” he told me. “Just drive.”

I called out at Hudson Falls Hospital. Dispatch was making up for their compassion the other night and put another job on us straight away. “721, I need you to take it into the crisis unit, 25 year old male, going to St. Johns Psychiatric facility. A scrip for restraints will accompany you.” Jerry looked at me as it went over the air. He hated violent patients. He was a useless fat-body. If something went awry in the back, he’d get his ass kicked by just about anybody. A 70 year old with Alzheimer’s once gave him a black eye.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got this one.” I told him. Normally I would have let him squirm, but the name that came through with the Nextel page was familiar. In fact, it was a dead mans name. “You’ve got the next two after this though. I’ve already done four.” For once, he didn’t argue as I pulled the stretcher out of the back and dropped the wheels.

Hudson Falls was a hospital no more than the Hudson River had waterfalls on it. Many years ago, it had been one, with an Emergency Room and all. It had closed in the 1980’s, was bought by the state, and now served as a nursing home/rehabilitation facility, and a crisis center. We were here for the third feature-on the lower level was a psychiatric crisis facility.

Their job was to take despondent people and evaluate them, and then decide appropriate treatment, which usually involved a transfer to a drug rehab or psychiatric recovery center. The weather-beaten, shoddy red brick exterior was foreboding at night, and downright depressing during the day, and the plain, dark long hallways did nothing to lift your spirits once inside. I had heard they did a pretty decent job with patients, but the cloud of despair over the place made it feel like they must be fighting an uphill battle.

I pulled the stretcher through the automatic double doors that used to enter the old ER, waved at security and headed down the hall. As always, the fluorescent lights above me were dim and flickering. My heels clicked softly with each step, pausing briefly at another set of double doors before entering the crisis division.

Inside the crisis center was a bit warmer than the rest of the hospital, both in temperature and décor. The walls were a light colored wood paneling and the lighting seemed to work better in this part of the building than anywhere else. There was a carpeted waiting room with some fake potted plants in the corners, with comfortable looking chairs and magazines to read. At the moment, many of the chairs were full. The back right corner of the room led to another hallway-the main office and some private rooms for interviewing and problem patients that couldn’t be trusted to sit quietly and play nice with the others in the waiting room. My patient was apparently one of those people in the back rooms. I left the stretcher and Jerry in the waiting room and stepped around to the office to pick up paperwork and get a report.

Heather was on the desk today. She was a small, freckled redhead about my age with a neat, tidy appearance. She wore plain tan business skirt and blue knit sweater. The collars of a white button-down were tucked over the sweater’s collar carefully. It was a conservative look, but attractive nonetheless. She looked harried and busy when I came around the corner, but she smiled brightly at me.
“Thank God, Paul. I am swamped, and this guy was a handful. He’s not crazy, he just wants to kill himself and he’s very adamant about it. Veteran, like you, except he’s a bilateral above-knee amputee, and blind in one eye. He’s definitely got some PTSD goin’ on. Not married, no family. He takes Percocet for pain, and apparently took the whole bottle last night with a bottle of Jameson. A neighbor spotted him through a window and called 911. I took in in quietly, nodding. I was pretty sure I knew this guy. I’d been in that firefight.

Jerry waited around the corner while I went in to introduce myself to our patient. Kevin Burke. He’d been a 19 year old gunner on a HMMWV with me in Mosul. I’d taken the wounds that had sent me home while kneeling over his body trying to stop him from bleeding out. I’d never figured that he’d survived. I took a deep breath, pausing for a moment at the door. My memory of that battle was scattered and there were plenty of blank spots, but I could still hear the screams and smell the burning gunpowder sometimes, and now was one of those times. I steeled myself, walked through the door, and was promptly banged over the head with a chair.

It was cheap, light plastic, and the seat actually broke, but the metal frame caught me hard on the left side. For a moment I was dazed, but not long. Sitting in another chair in the corner of the room was PFC Kevin Burke, former infantry. He was smaller than he had been before, because of the missing legs, but he still had the massive frame of a young man that had once been 6’4. His skin had lost the sun baked tan he’d had in Iraq, it was pale and blotchy from long time spent indoors. One eye was regarding me with a deep fury, and the other lay lifeless and blank in its socket. He was screaming at me.
“Leave me the fuck alone! If I want to die that’s my own business. He threw in even more gratuitous profanity, and deteriorated into nonsense shortly after that. He was known for creative tirades long before he’d been hurt. I did what I’d done back then. I leaned into his face, very close-it was a risk, but calculated. I could probably jump back faster than he could swing. I let my voice get slow and icy. “Private Burke, at ease!” He stopped, the one good eye regarding me curiously. It took a few moments before he recognized me behind my goatee.
“Sergeant Bauer? Doc?” His mouth dropped a little bit, and then he grabbed me in as big a bear hug as he could manage. “I thought you were dead…” I returned his embrace.
“I’m not dead, buddy. I just got sent home. I thought you were dead too though. I thought I’d failed you. Now I find out you want to go and waste that second chance? Hell of a way to have a reunion, Burke.” He started shaking in my arms and then I realized that I’d gone too far-he was crying. It’s not easy to make infantry cry.
“I’m useless, Doc. I can’t work. I can’t drive. I can barely see. No woman wants to look at me. I’ve got nothing left. Sometimes I wish you’d left me in the sand. You wouldn’t have gotten hurt then, and I wouldn’t be in this mess.”

His words made the sounds of battle ring out in my head again. I could hear the chatter of AK-47’s and M4 rifles trading rounds. I could smell the burning powder, and oil and blood. “Back then, I would have told you to quit feeling sorry for yourself and drive on, Burke. I’m not going to tell you that now. This situation sucks, and I know that, but you’re still here for a reason. You’re going to die someday, so why rush it?”
“I’m only here because you made it happen.”
“I failed you,” I told him. “I got hit too. Some other medic saved your life.”
He looked up at me with that one-eyed, quizzical look again. “You don’t remember anything after that grenade went off, do you?” I shook my head no. It was true. The blast had knocked me out cold. I didn’t remember thinking a damn thing after I said a quick, final prayer.
“Tell ya what doc, I’m gonna take this little ’ammalance’ ride with you, and along the way, I’m going to tell you a story. About the man who saved my life.” With that, I called Jerry into the room, and Burke moved himself over with his arms. We wheeled him out talking about the old unit, and girls that used to send us photos to entertain ourselves with in the desert. I winked at Heather, and she beckoned me over to the desk.
“What the hell did you do?” She whispered.
“I told him that if he got better, you’d take him out on a date.”
“What?!”
“No, not really. I used to know him. He’s actually a pretty good guy, just lost some hope.” She nodded in understanding-her and Amy had grown up together and she knew my story through her.
“Have a safe trip, Paul.”
We wheeled down the lonely corridor once again, but it was lit up with Burke’s loud, excited chatter. It was a complete turn-around from the broken man in my paperwork, and far more like the motivated young man I’d known years ago,
“I was going to make them call the cops and shoot me,” he told me. “But then you walked in. Good thing it wasn’t your buddy there, I mighta killed him.” I thought it was possible, even with no legs. I let him smoke a cigarette in the parking lot even though it was against the rules. I could see Jerry’s discomfort and privately reveled in it. I loaded the stretcher, Climbed in the back, shut the doors.
“So Doc,” he started. “Tell me what you remember.” I started to sweat. It was suddenly getting very hot in the ambulance. The diesel engine started up and it sounded like a HMMWV turning over. I could feel the weight of my body armor again, could smell the rank odor of Mosul’s streets. And then I was back in Iraq.

Chapter 3

2010-10-14T12:00:00.003-04:00

I've been struggling with finding material-and with getting the clarity of mind to turn the ideas into words. Here's another chapter of the fictional story I've posted earlier. The first two chapters are in earlier posts, titled "Chapter 1" and "Chapter 2", respectively. I have no idea how to link to them. Yes, I'm internet retarded.
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When I’d finished, I tiptoed over to the refrigerator. I’d forgotten what day it was. Saturday, April 10th. Amy was a teacher at the Elementary School. Since she didn’t have to go into work, I let her sleep and looked over the “Honey-Do List” on the fridge. There was a woodpile in the backyard that had plenty of logs for splitting, and the yard needed a serious clean-up after a snowy winter. I headed down the hallway to the bedroom. I changed my boxers and paused in front of the mirror.

I’d aged a little in the years. My hair wasn’t thinning yet, but there were lines on my face-crows feet around my eyes, and some wrinkles on my cheeks. My skin was getting leathery. My hair was still cropped short, but I’d long since given up the clean shaven look in favor of a trimmed beard. I’d stayed in shape, too, but there were love handles beginning to show, despite my best efforts to the contrary. Luckily, my arms had stayed muscular. The daily grind of lifting obese people into the backs of ambulances had been enough to keep tone and definition, along with my daily exercise regimen.

The scars were still there. Three spots of puckered flesh, faded into my skin. They looked like cigar burns, two on my left side, within an inch of one another, and one more on the side of my neck. They were bullet wounds, shrouds covering the spots where a 7.62 bullet had torn its way through my body and spilled my blood in the sands of a foreign land. Long, jagged lines still crossed my neck and chest, where a grenade had gone off, sending me home. There was a long scar across my chest from a bar fight after I‘d gotten back, too.. The marks had grown lighter, nearly matching the light tan of my skin, but there were still there as a constant reminder of a more violent youth My eyes had grown softer, along with the scars. They were no longer the hard blue ice chips of Sergeant Paul Bauer. They had definitely seen their share of sorrow, that was very evident. But there was love in my eyes now too. It was a far more pleasing sight than what had been.

I threw on a pair of faded jeans, so old I couldn’t tell what brand they were, a plain black tee shirt, and a plaid lined denim jacket. I headed out the back door, and stretched briefly on the patio. We had about a half acre, on the edge of a large tract of state park. There was a lone, battered tool shed in the back right corner. The yard itself had no trees, except a slowly dying Japanese Maple right in the middle of the grass. The yard was yellowed from the winter, but patches of green were beginning to show up randomly. There were sticks, and leftover leaf piles that I’d neglected the previous fall. I ignored them for now and headed to the woodpile on the edge of the property line.

I’d cut down a big pine tree last fall that was threatening to take out the shed. I’d cut the log into sections a foot and a half long, but hadn’t had the time to split them before the snow had hit. I picked up one of those logs up now, and propped it upright between a couple of two by fours. The idea with splitting logs is to go with the grain of the wood, and to let the weight of the axe do most of the work for you. Done properly and even a huge log will split in one or two strokes. Then you have to quarter them so they can fit into a fireplace easier. I went through about twenty logs , then stacked as much as possible in the wheelbarrow and brought them close to the house. It took me two trips.

I enjoyed yard work. It was tedious, but it was mindless, and that gave me a chance to think things over at a basic level. I had never known anything other than Emergency Medicine. I’d enlisted in the Army straight out of high school., and spent three years on active duty before an AK-47 burst had put two bullets within inches of severing my spine. They almost finished the job with a grenade as I lay on the floor. The Army discharged me and sent me home, and I’d nearly drowned in alcohol and self-pity until Amy dragged me out of that hole.

I’d started working as a civilian EMT soon after that and never looked back. I was always frustrated about being an EMT basic, but I never went for my Paramedic. I loved doing my job, but I had never gotten to the point where it truly felt where I should be-the one secret that I’d kept from my wife all this time was that I was always on the verge of quitting, I just couldn’t think of anything else that I was ever good at besides helping folks. Or hurting them. I’d hated that part of me, but even as a medic, I’d been a good soldier, and I’d put down several people that needed it. Part of me missed that, but going back wasn’t an option. I didn’t think I had any options.

I stopped smoking years ago but I wanted one now. I remembered that my partner, Joe had left a pack in my glove box last week and went to get it. Camel silvers-they weren’t my brand and they were stale but I lit one anyway, and turned around as the back door opened. Gracie, our Black lab/beagle mix , came bounding out the door and circled me briefly before running to the far corner of the yard to do her business. Amy saw me smoking from the door but she didn’t say anything. A disapproving look passed her face, but she let me continue. I took a few more drags and reluctantly crushed it out on the driveway, then picked up a pink Frisbee on the lawn and tossed it for Gracie to chase. She took off after it with gusto, and we went back and forth like that for the next half hour before I decided to head in and shower.

Amy was sitting at the table, reading my letter on the laptop. She turned towards me as the sliding glass back door closed, Her eyes were troubled. “I love you,” she said. “And I’ve missed you these past few days. I know it’s been tough, and I don’t mean to push you too hard, if you really don’t feel up to it anymore.” I walked over and placed my calloused hand on her shoulder.
“I sense a ‘but’ coming, hon.” She giggled a little, and it lightened the mood. For a moment she sounded twenty years old all over again.
“BUT…you can’t just quit your job. You need to find something else first. Or we’ll be out of a house.”

I nodded. We’d properly invested my deployment cash and ended up with far more money than most young couples could imagine having. It had served well as a down payment for the house, and helped get Amy through school, but what was left wasn’t enough to live off of. We didn’t have a huge safety net. Without a college degree there weren’t many good jobs out there. Going back to college as a married twenty-seven year old didn’t appeal much to me either. Not to mention that I still had no ideas on what I’d even study. I gave up, went into the bedroom and grabbed a couple of small fishing poles from a rack on our den wall. Amy smiled when I emerged. “Trout’s open.”

We drove down to the creek a few miles away, and climbed down a slope of slippery, wet, leaves. The ground was still very damp from the nights storm, and the distinctive smell of spring earth hung low in the air, heavy with a feeling of growth and new life to come. The little stream was swollen and swift with runoff from the ice melt, and the previous nights storm combined to turn what was normally a trickling, tame creek into a roaring cascade of water, swirling and crashing over rocks. They held unmoving against the deluge, but it didn’t make our prospects for catching newly stocked trout very good. The water would have moved them downstream unless they could find a gentle eddy to suspend in. We found a calm spot and cast a spinner into the foam.

A few hours later we each had two fish. They would be dinner tonight. We’d neglected to take anything out of the freezer, and fish were best fresh anyhow. Amy was an excellent cook. She stuffed the fish with rice, butter and spices, then grilled them over a cedar plank. I opened up a can of corn and green beans and heated them up, then cracked a bottle of white wine. We ate together slowly, though I still had to focus on the slow part. The Army had ingrained in my mind eating quickly and it had stayed that way even years later. My wife found it humorous, but it wasn’t a romantic way to eat.

With a full stomach and a good buzz from a half a bottle of wine, I curled under the covers and wrapped my wife in my arms, but sleep was a long time coming. I watched the red numbers on our alarm clock change from minute to minute and stared over Amy’s shoulder at the wall behind her. I finally dropped off sometime after 3am, an hour before the alarm jarred me back awake to get ready for work. I was working in two hours and dreading the day. Amy rolled out of bed and slipped into her robe to brew coffee and start frying some eggs so I would have breakfast waiting when I got out of the shower. I was perfectly capable of making breakfast, but she was far better. I loved her more every morning that we woke up next to one another.

A pressed blue shirt lay on the dresser on top of a darker set of cargo pants. I dressed reluctantly and padded out into the kitchen in bare feet. I always put my boots on at the last minute. There were three eggs on a plate sprinkled with cheese and peppers and bacon off to the side. A black cup of coffee was steaming next to it. I ate quickly and kissed Amy goodbye at the door. “Hang in there.” she told me. Her eyes were bright even at this early hour. I knew that she could see my pain.

In EMS, they call what I was feeling burnout. It’s when you’ve seen all you can bear seeing, and it manifests itself in many different ways. Some guys get angry at the job, and get belligerent with patients and partners. Some start to freeze up, or worse, completely break down on scenes. Some plod through the day with a blank stare, with no emotions left to stand. I wasn’t sure where I fell on that scale. Most days it was the blank stare, but some days I felt like I was on the verge of breaking. I’d never frozen up yet. I couldn’t even be sure that I was burned out, because I was never entirely sure that this was where I wanted to be in the first place. Shaking my head, I laced up my boots on the tailgate of my pickup, took a deep breath, and walked through the station doors

War again...

2010-10-03T03:40:00.002-04:00

As I stepped off the plane and my boots hit the ground in Kuwait once more, my brain was in turmoil. My leave had felt long, and relaxing. I spent many a night around the fire pit in the backyard among friends, family, and loved ones. I enjoyed my favorite pastimes, going fishing and shooting, and I even learned to ride a quad. I was a hero to my cousin’s Cub Scout den, and the guest speaker at a college writing course, where I made some new friends. It was almost too good-I didn’t want to be here anymore.

Whatever my original reasons for volunteering to come to Iraq, they had become mired down in the frustrating Army bureaucracy and lost. So many petty rules and regs that seem like a good idea up the chain are often in practice a major annoyance to boots on the ground. Along with the “Ether Bunny”, the “Good-Idea Fairy” can be one of the most dangerous mythical beasts of the military.

A good example is the Army Combat Shirt-it’s a tight, but breathable, moisture-wicking, long sleeved shirt designed to be worn underneath body armor. It’s also quite comfortable without armor, and keeps the temperature feeling much cooler than a standard ACU blouse. But the Combat Shirt may only be worn just prior to, during, or just after a mission. Leave it to the Army to take 7 years to come up with a practical, comfortable uniform well suited to desert warfare-and promptly come up with all sorts of rules stating why it *can’t* be worn!

In any case, when my boots hit the ground, I hated it, but I resigned myself to my fate, shuffling from plane to bus, from bus to tent, to other tent. Each step brought me closer to Iraq again, but also closer to going home again. The thought of stepping off the plane for good several months down the road is a surprisingly good motivator, but I had to be careful not to dwell on just how many months it would be.

Once the in-processing was completed, late in the evening around 1800, we were released for the night. Despite traveling for 20 hours, through several different time zones, I wasn’t tired. I’d slept some on the plane, and my brain was still swirling with thoughts of my life back home, and my future. My college application was in and I was almost sure to get in. I was going to have my own place for the first time, and no more insane 70 hour work weeks-excepting maybe “Finals week”. I was thinking about failed romance, both fresh and stale. I tried to think that the time that I had left would be quick, and there were so many good things happening in the states, I couldn’t wait. I felt like a child when somebody tells him Christmas is just a week away-a week is a short time but it feels like an eternity when you’re excited about the end.

I found a buddy and we grabbed a coffee and traded stories for a good hour. While we sat, a wind began to blow, bringing thick, wet air with it from the Gulf. A fog formed in the darkness, so thick that it was a stretch to see fifty feet in front of me. It cooled the earth around me, the first time that I’d ever thought to consider the temperatures in Kuwait as pleasant. I started to laugh a little to myself at this unexpected turn of events. I’d always loved cool, foggy weather. My buddy from Georgia looked at me funny when I chuckled.
“What the hell’s wrong with you?” He asked me. I turned to him and offered a big grin.
“I’m back” I told him simply. Then I shrugged and walked off into the mist.

Back in the 'Raq

2010-09-28T10:14:00.001-04:00

Well, I'm made it safely back to my post in Iraq, and I'm settled in. It's surprising to me how comfortable I've become with things here-not complacent by any means, but the life here has become normal to me now, and although I didn't really want to get back on that plane, I'm actually kind of glad to be back now that I am.

I'll have more on this in a few days, but for the moment, by internet cables are still non-operational back in my CHU, so my access to the internet is limited by my access to the MWR facilities here. Hopefully I'll be up and running again shortly

opinions please

2010-08-22T13:45:00.002-04:00

During my day off today, I sat down and typed up a brief synopsis of two fictional stories that I've had in mind for awhile. This allowed me to solidify some plot lines, as up until now they've both been random scenes in my mind with no clear direction. One of them, Ive posted a few chapters from on this blog. I'm going to post what I have and see what my readers think would be a good choice to focus on for the moment.
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Paul Bauer is a veteran and an EMT struggling with his desire to provide a better life for his family. He has fought depression and Post-traumatic stress disorder in the past, with the help of his long-suffering wife, Amy. A recent string of bad calls has brought his misgivings to the forefront once again, along with the nightmares.
In the midst of his own internal battle, Paul is dispatched on a routine transport, and finds his ambulance under attack. His patient is a known mobster, wanted dead by his rivals, and Bauer’s successful resistance has made some very dangerous people angry. He and his wife are placed in the Witness Protection Program in the care of U.S. Marshall Pat Matthews. Matthews has an impeccable record, but can he protect the Bauer family from a group of hired guns?
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In the aftermath of WWII, retired OSS operator Jack Connery finds his world turned upside-down when expatriate Nazi’s target his family. His wife dead, he manages to save his newborn daughter, but falls into a spiral of deep paranoia and alcoholism. 16 years later his daughter finds his body in their trailer, and realizes that her father was not completely crazy-there were people after blood. With the help of a Korean War sniper, Lee Garrett, she hunts for her fathers killer, determined to take the fight to them, determined to win on her own terms.

Let me know what ya'll think!

Still alive

2010-08-09T04:11:00.001-04:00

My apologies for the lack of posting,

There's not a whole lot of excitement around right now, which is a good thing. The little excitement that I've gotten, it's probably best to wait on posting that until the mission is over, and we're home.

There have been lots of humorous events, but none of them are really 'family friendly' and since most of my readers are family, I think I should probably avoid those topics...

The Combat Roll

2010-07-25T07:17:00.003-04:00

LT asked me to do a combat roll, and I obliged. The roll is probably useless in real battle, and it would be near impossible to pull off in body armor. That said, it's a decent exercise, serving to disorient you. It's a little better than practicing a draw in front of a mirror, in completely tame conditions. It would be nice to actually be able to *shoot* from the draw like that though. I'd like to note, there was no magazine in the pistol, and the chamber was checked multiple times before completing the roll. Try this at your own risk.

Note, the roll starts at 2 seconds in. I land at the 3 second mark, my hand already on the pistol, as I was reaching in mid roll. The weapon is in my hand, up and ready, in about another half second. I think I can get faster though.

Mouse: 1 Jimmy: 0

2010-07-18T02:42:00.003-04:00

Sorry for two porta-john posts in a row, but I've got to work with the material I'm given...

Following the rule of no porta-johns in the daytime, last night I headed out, flashlight in hand. The temperature had dropped from about 140 down to 100 or so, meaning downright comfortable in my Pt shorts and t-shirt. I stumbled around in my flip flops, which are too small for my Goliath feet, swearing under my breath each time my big toe found a rock that wanted to make friends.

Eventually, I made it back to the latrine row, and entered the one with the best latch. Some of the doors are closed by string, others tend to crack open a bit, which makes them look unoccupied and leave you susceptible to being bothered by some other soldier attempting to gain entry.

I had just settled when something ran across my foot. It took a moment to register. Bugs were out, I was itchy and sweaty. My skin had plenty of stimuli. When I realized that something had indeed run across my foot, I shined the flashlight downwards. I was half expecting, half hoping for a beetle, but in the back of my mind my brain noted, those were furry, mammalian feet. that had just pitter-pattered over me. My flashlight beam fell upon a mouse scurrying away for the corner.

Now, it should be noted that I'm not scared of mice. I am, however, not a big fan of being trapped in a 2x2 foot *box* with said mouse. I'd like to tell you that I calmly cracked the door, let the mouse outside, and drove on. That would make sense, that would have been the rational, and manly thing to do. I didn't do that. Remember Ace Ventura in the bat cave? (The applicable part is about 1:30 on the video)

I yelled...I thought it sounded like a loud, manly, mice-scaring bellow, and promptly exited the porta-john in the most ungainly and clumsy fashion possible-that included my feet stomping a bit, struggling with the lock, and just about falling out the door backwards-and note that I hadn't taken the time to pull my shorts up.

I did recover quickly, and by the time a few other soldiers made it around the T-wall, my shorts were up, and the mouse was gone. I figured they'd come in response to my loud and thunderous war-cry.

"Hey, Kelly, what's going on? We thought we heard a woman screaming over here!"

Looks like the mouse won that round. But this aint over!

Porta-john humor

2010-07-14T13:07:00.002-04:00

Right now, I'm in the middle of nowhere in Iraq. It's kind of like camping, and I don't mind being on the smaller outpost. We happen to be in the middle of a heat wave though, and I wouldn't be surprised it it broke through the 130's. Plus, at our location there's humidity to contend with.

Being on the smaller outpost, we don't have the luxury of flushing, indoor toilets. Just porta-johns. Porta-johns cleaned out every few days by Iraqis. Andthere used by soldiers, who are largely not concerned with things like aim or cleanliness. And they bake in the hot Iraqi sun. Gross.

So naturally, its a pretty fast rule that you don't use the porta-johns for any length of time in the daytime. Doing so is supremely uncomfortable, and results in more sweating than working out in the sun-the temperature in those things is just insane.

The other day, however, one of our guys needed to break the rule.

Rule number two, of course, is that, if you must use the john in daylight, don't do it around anyone else if you want any peace.
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In order to finish the story, I also have to explain something about MRE's

The military "Meals, Ready to Eat" come with water activated heaters, which work decently well. If placed inside a plastic bottle, they also cause a pressure spike which causes the bottle to pop. These are called MRE Bombs. MRE's also come with Tabasco sauce, which contains similar chemicals to CS gas or pepper spray. You can see where I'm going with this...
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We quickly loaded a bottle with a couple MRE heaters, and Tabasco, then poured water inside, and let it drop down the tube in the top of the porta-john. The only sound from within, before the pop was the poor soldier muttering, "F**k". He took it well, but I'm watching out for retribution.

Soldiers are cruel, funny people.

July 4th, 1776

2010-07-03T11:30:00.002-04:00

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed.

On July 4th, 1776, delegates from the 13 colonies under British rule in North America signed their names to the Declaration of Independence, and became a nation. Though battles with the British had already been fought, and patriots had already died, this was the beginning of the United States of America, as a nation. The men who signed it knew that they signed their death warrant for treason, should the revolution fail.

I won't delve into the particulars of the text-there are so many more with far more knowledge of it than I have. The quote above sums up what I feel is the most important part: that each man be given an equal chance in the world. Everyone born is entitled to their life, and the freedom to live their life as they so choose. It is for life and freedom that I fight for now-for Americans back home, plagued by the shadow of terrorism, of men who would take their lives and and freedom from them. I fight for Iraqis, that they may know the prosperity and the chance of a long and productive life.

The pursuit of happiness does not guarantee happiness-it is a fact often overlooked. Everyone, however, has a right to seek it out, regardless of where or how you were born, your social class, or the money that you have. No person, nor any government, can take that quest away from you.

These items in the Declaration of Independence were predecessors to the Bill of Rights in our constitution, which came later on in our history, but are no less sacred. A *right* cannot be taken away, revoked, or restricted. Our rights are not granted to us by the government, but a product of birth. The governments job is simply to provide the framework so that our rights remain in place-lest the strong arm of tyranny take control. It seems that some of our elected officials, not even 250 years later, have forgotten this. They seem to think that it is their job to regulate our rights, and tell us what is best for us, like over-protective parents. This attitude must change, or our rights may quickly become "privileges" for the favored, and ruling class. Isn't that why the United States was formed the first time?

**I do not advocate revolution, or any violent actions against the government! I'm simply noting that our rights must be protected from those who can't understand what a right is!**

Of comfort in simple places

2010-06-25T13:48:00.005-04:00

A cold frost is settling on the newly fallen Autumn leaves, on a dark night in late November. I can see my breath on the air, but I am warm, under a blanket, nestled near a campfire. I can hear a flock of geese honking through the air, and just barely pick up their forms against the inky purple of the night sky. It is cloudless, and the night is clear. I make out Orion’s belt, and stoke the flames of the fire with the toe of my badly worn boots.

My companions lay snoring on out tent, out of the wind on the top of a mountain ridge line. Restless, I’d wandered out to the edge of the cliff to listen to the night and enjoy the feeling of chilly open air rather than the stuffy confines of the tent. I light a honey cigar and think of my troubles, and wonder for my future. An owl calls out and moments later is answered by another. Unidentified night critters can be heard rustling through the leaves, but away from the fire. They are undaunted by my presence in their world, and pulled by some unseen force to gather what food remains to store up fat for the winter. I wonder briefly if our food cache was hung right, and if some raccoon might manage to make mischief of it later on.

I contemplate all the usual things a man should think about in the woods. I think of cold beer, which I was then too young to enjoy. I think of women, and my many failed attempts to woo them. I am surrounded by my own little patch of wilderness, and confront my insignificance to the universe. So many small things alter our lives in ways that we never think about. The path you take on the street may change who you meet. A small chance meeting adds a new friendship to your life that may never have happened if you were just five minutes late. The ambulance call that you don’t take could be the difference between life, and death.

I wonder if these things, and the wilderness around me are all biological randomness, if these events are just chance encounters, or perhaps just evidence of the miraculous, and God’s wonder in everything. I wonder if God is truly concerned with the everyday lives of man, or if he has a greater, more Godly purpose in the universe. I wonder, if I feel saddened by the terrible things that man does to one another, what sadness might mean to God, and how he might handle that, being the only one.

These puzzles bounced around in my head, unsolved, and leaving me confused and utterly awake. The noise in my head grew, in stark contrast to the relative silence of my surroundings. Nothing but the occasional pop of a branch in my now neglected fire broke the silence for a few moments. And then the music started.
A mournful cry came from the hill beneath me, a high pitched howl, a yelp, something close to a bark. Another coyote answered, and another. For a few minutes the hills all around me were alive with song, bouncing from peak to peak, and across the valley below. The coyote’s call seemed to be timed just so. There were indeed miracles in the world, and God listens, even when you don’t think you’re speaking with him.

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It’s not quite 4am as I dress in the dark. I pull my camouflage on over my boxers, lace up my boots, and belt on my pistol. My room-mate lies in bed still sleeping, and my groggy, heavy eyelids can barely see even in the beam of my flashlight. I grab my ID card, take my vitamins, and pocket a bottle of water, then head out the door to go to work.

It’s already about 90 degrees, even at this early hour, but even that temperature feels pleasantly cool, if not quite chilly against my skin. In comparison to the 130 degree heat that I will see later on in this day, I am at ease with the climate.

I walk my way past the Dining Facility, my eyelids begging for coffee, but knowing that the DFAC won’t be open for another two hours. I head up Sharrarah Ur road, stepping light and fast, sipping water as I go. I pass a few vehicles along the way, and one or two soldiers on bicycles headed to work like me, but the base looks deserted, mournful, and lonely in the shadows of the desert night.

The wind is calm, and no dust has yet been stirred up, so I breathe deep and easy, taking the turn onto 6th Avenue, towards the swamp in the desolate far corner of the base. I walk past quiet motor pools full of war vehicles. I pass bunkers, left over from the last war in this place, when I was a child. They are torn apart, and in great disrepair. Gaping wounds have been left in the walls and roofs, where JDAM’s tore through them in bombing runs. I wonder if they were left as a reminder to the enemy.

As I walk, I wonder about the choices that have led me to be here. I think about the sense of duty I was raised with, the compassion that I was born with, and that my family cultivated as I grew up. I reflect on the strong feelings toward justice and freedom in my heart. I wonder if it will make a difference to the people here, who seem so indifferent and resigned to their standard of living.

I stop, and sit on the ground in front of the swampy lake. There are surprisingly few insects out to bother me, just crickets chirping. I look out across the water. It barely moves, with no wind to push it, but moonlight shining down on the ripples makes it look shimmering and alive. Tall water plants reminiscent of cattails rustle gently, the only noise that’s outside of my head.

I once again contemplate the random events that shape our lives-if I had stayed in college, I would be a different man right now. I would probably never have been a soldier. I would never have had the chance to experience the joys and sorrows of my job back home. I would not know the same people, or have the same views on the world.

I wonder if I will experience combat here, and wonder if I’ll perform the way that I hope. I try not to think about it, but I can’t help but ask how well I’ll take it if I lose a friend under my care. I ask myself if the mission can succeed here, with the political climate in Baghdad, and at home. I try not to think of the possibilities, and rise from my place at the edge of the lake to get to work.

From across the desert, and outside the wire, comes the singing. A high pitched howl, in quick, barking staccato. It carries from beyond my field of view, and the sound is joined with other howls in a moment, reaching me in a beautiful, if eerie chorus. I’m reminded by the jackals of a another discontented night, several years, and thousands of miles ago. They tell me that all is as it should be, come what may, and that there’s beauty everywhere, even in a war-torn corner of a desolate desert landscape.

Critters and the War on Mice

2010-06-24T09:33:00.003-04:00

I've been in Iraq nearly two months now, long enough to have some critter encounters that I think I should share. Iraq certainly has plenty of wildlife to be found if you look hard enough. I'm still trying to get my hands on a field guide to middle eastern birds, so if anybody knows where I can get one, let me know.

Camel Spiders

Camel spiders are a relative of the Arachnid family, and they belong to the order of Solifugds. And no, I can't pronounce that. There are a number of rumors about their size, speed, and habits that circulate around here.

The rumor is that they got their names by their nasty habit of burrowing into a camels viscera in order to lay eggs, which later hatch, and devour the camel. Research, of course, shows this to be false, but it still makes for a formidable reputation.

I was under the impression that they could get to be very large, upwards of frisbee sized, but most of the ones that I've encountered have been no larger than a tarantula spider. They are, however, extremely quick, and very aggressive, especially when cornered. They also do, in fact, jump quite high. I've witnessed it, despite what the Wikipedia article will tell you.

My first encounter with a camel spider was on a job site. A couple of guys chased it down to get a better look at it. They poured cold water on the creature, which causes them to freeze up-most likely because it can no longer breathe. We got a good, close look at four fang-like things at it's mouth, and talked at length about the extraordinary things that we'd heard they could do. Then one of the guys released it from the empty bottle and we moved on.

I sat down later and realized that the camel spider was still in the same spot we let it go at, unmoving, and I assumed that we'd killed it. It seemed like a safe conclusion at the time, so I poked it with a short twig, thinking that if it were dead I could examine it a bit more, for curiousity's sake. This was a mistake. I very nearly had a chunk taken out of my finger. The spider jumped up that stick faster than I could blink, but I dropped it in time. He jumped up the wall of the bunker and holed up somewhere, while I sat a little shaken. I later found out, that although the bite can be painful and prone to infection, it is not actually venomous. Small comfort.

---------------------------------------------------
I've also got a mouse problem. It started in the old platoon room. I saw the little guy, about half the size of the field mice back home. He was darting around the edges of the wall, around where I kept my spare medical gear. I was going to set out traps, because I saw the droppings on the floor, and realized he was making quite a mess, but we were switching rooms the next day. Let the new guys deal with it.

Since the re-organization of the company, myself and Sgt. McCarty have taken on the task of combining our respective medical equipment in an unoccupied trailer in the camp, and for the past few days have been doing inventory on what we have, and prepping for upcoming missions.

While going through the foot locker from the old room, I noticed that many of my bandages were chewed, had yellow stains, or mouse pellets on them. These were, of course, discarded. I was very surprised to find my mouse still inside the foot locker though, and very much alive. I emptied most of the stuff out, then tipped the foot locker over, and he ran free. I didn't think I needed to kill him at the time.

When I returned from lunch though, he'd returned to the new room. I caught a glimpse of him darting behind the vehicle first aid kits. I wasn't able to dislodge him without making a horrible mess, but in a few minutes I began to hear chewing again. So no more Mr. Nice Medic.

The house back home is over 100 years old, so I'm no stranger to war with mice. Ive probably been at war with mice for about 13 years longer than this one has been alive. I bought some traps, and they are set. If the viper that lurks underneath the shed doesn't get him, I will.

Notes on Combat Medicine and Handguns

2010-06-06T02:54:00.002-04:00

I haven't seen any combat here, but at this point I've run through enough simulated missions to have a bit more insight into what works for me, and what doesn't as far as my armament is concerned.

For the entire time that I've been reading about, and using firearms, I've been told that a handgun is nothing more than a stopgap until you can get to a "real weapon". I'd like to offer a dissenting opinion on that. As a medic, I'm carrying an M4 Carbine and an M9 handgun. My combat load, including body armor, aid supplies, ammo, and sundries, weighs about 70 pounds, give or take. I weigh just under 170 lately.

We're patrolling in heavily armored vehicles with very little room to work with inside. In the event of a hit, it's my job to get to the casualties and treat them, and then get them to a vehicle in which we can evacuate them to higher medical care-by ground, or to an LZ for the chopper.

So far, once I sling my M4, it hasn't come off my back. It tends to get in my way, even with the stock fully collapsed. The barrel catches on seats and straps, on my armor, or doors. It's not quickly accessible. Were I to keep it up front, it would bang my patients in the head, and get in the way of my hands applying bandages or tourniquets. I full realize it's utility if we were taking fire from longer range and I needed to lay down suppressive fire, but with the current ROE it's not likely.

My 9mm is kept in a Serpa holster on the left side of my chest, strapped to my armor. It gives me minor pause about muzzle discipline, as the angle can tend to flag people to my left side depending on where they are at, but with movement, I dont think that there is any completely safe place to put a handgun where it won't flag someone, at some point. That's where safety latches and trigger discipline come into play.

What this position does do, however, is keep the handgun readily accessible, no matter what position I happen to be in, excepting completely prone. In many cases when we get hit, civilians swarm the area-begging for food and water, offering to help, throwing rocks, trying to loot our downed vehicles, and just generally causing enough mischief to raise the pucker factor a bit. They also don't have a good concept of personal space or standoff distance, and sometimes the only thing that gets them to back off is an aggressive demeanor and the muzzle of a weapon. This makes the 9mm perfect. I can be treating a casualty, and if somebody breaks through security, have a weapon on them immediately and still be able to work with one hand. I'm a fair pistol shot, Ive qualified expert each time.

All of these things combine to make the M9 my go-to weapon, and really, my primary weapon. It's not ideal in terms of range or stopping power, but for my situation, its really the best that I could hope for.

Memoral Day

2010-05-29T14:43:00.002-04:00

"We sleep soundly in our beds at night because rough men stand ready in the night to visit violence on those who would do us harm." -George Orwell (I've also seen it attributed to Winston Churchill)

Memorial Day will be celebrated across the United States tomorrow, and in a subdued fashion, on our bases all over the world, in honor of those who have died defending freedom. Your freedom. My freedom. Your neighbors, and your child's freedom. In many cases, the United States has fought for the freedom of another country's citizens as well. We joined the effort in WWI to turn the tide of the war in Europe. We stepped in again during WWII to liberate the French and allow the British to keep on fighting the good fight. We once again headed to war in Korea, and in Vietnam-to stop the spread of Communism, and to keep the people in those places from having to live under misery and oppression. And today, regardless of your politics, we once again fight for freedom.

It doesn't much matter to me what the "behind the scenes" reasons were for coming to Iraq. We released the Iraqi people from a horrible dictator. We have built schools, roads, hospitals. We've trained them so that they can keep order. We've given them the power of a vote-and even in the oppressive Middle Eastern climate, even women now have a say in who their leaders will be.

Our troops in Afghanistan have done the same, and soldiers, sailors, marines, and airman are fighting the good fight in two theaters of operations now to keep the enemy from our back door.

And yet, so many people seem to forget the significance of this day. So many see it as the start of summer, the opening of the pool. Or just another day off work, to throw some burgers on the grill and drink beer. By all means, enjoy yourself on this day-but just don't forget the hundreds of thousands of men and women who have given their lives up in the course of our nations short history, so that your could enjoy that burger, and drink that beer.

Settling in...

2010-05-16T10:11:00.002-04:00

Well, I'm slowly settling in here in Iraq. I don't think that I will ever be used to this heat, and the doxycycline is doing some interesting things to my skins tolerance for sun, but I only have another ten days worth. I still haven't gotten a burn, but it feels as though I am, every time I'm out in the sun.

Contrary to what many believe about the draw-down in Iraq, that all the troops are sitting around with nothing to do, it looks like some units like mine have their work cut out for them. We'll be very busy, and potentially even jumping FOB's, so I'm not counting on being in the same place all that long. I won't give too much more detail than that.

Everyone is asking what I need, so I figured I could post a tentative list here-obviously things will come up that I haven't foreseen yet-I still may need my aid bag for instance, if things continue on their current track.

Weapons Cleaning Patches
Gunpowder solvent/lubricant
A scraper tool(like a dental pick) for hard to reach carbon deposits in my rifle
Keychain lights(like the $1.99 LED's)
Alarm Clock
AA batteries
Q tips
Listerine
Whitening Strips
Body wash(I've been using Irish Springs hair and body-that way I dont carry two bottles to the shower)
My multi tool(should be with my other knives)
Small bottles of hot sauce(Franks Red Hot is the best!)
Anti-itch cream for bug bites
Gold Bond
Protein powder

I don't have a whole lot of room here, but letters are ALWAYS appreciated, and it'll help me get a list of addresses together so I can write back. That was a major omission of mine, coming out here without those.

More later, and if you have any questions, message me!

Boots on the Ground

2010-05-05T18:33:00.002-04:00

Before today, I had never left the United States, but today I've stepped foot on the soil of three different countries. I'll be here in Kuwait for just a few days, than off to Iraq for the real fun part.

The flight was long and cramped, it's 0140 hrs here, and nearly 1940 where I'm used to, so I need to turn in for the night. With any luck I'll have some great photos and a humorous incident involving a scorpion or camel-spider to write about within the week.

Off we go...

2010-04-28T16:33:00.001-04:00

Well, my orders are cut, and I'm off to Iraq as a medic with a Engineering unit, specializing in rapid road repair missions. They blow up roads, we fix them.

I wont be posting much, due to OPSEC reasons. Funny stories yes. Combat stories, if any, will come after the mission is complete and I am home. I don't want to jeapordize our safety over there. The enemy watches these things.

A shift in review

2010-01-28T09:56:00.005-05:00

We respond to a female fallen, with a nosebleed. Sitting there in her wheelchair is a profoundly mentally retarded woman. She is dirty disheveled. She doesn't respond to me verbally when I try to talk to her, just looks at me and rocks back and forth. The bleeding from her nose is stopped.
"She fell," the nurse tells me. She hands me paperwork and tries to run off. I'm already frustrated with her.

"How about giving me a report?" I'm barely covering the edge in my voice. The nurse repeats her previous statement.
"Any LOC?" She shakes her head. "How long ago?" 30 minutes, comes the distracted reply. For some reason she wants to run. I do a quick assessment and find no other injuries whatsoever. My patient is covered in old food, and smells like spoiled milk.

"So, you're telling me that this woman was sitting *IN* her chair, and without standing up, fell forward onto the floor, landing on her face, and the ONLY injury she managed to obtain is a bloody nose with an obvious fracture?" The nurse nods and runs off. I write it in my report as it was told to me. I don't buy it. No word on if the state is involved yet. My words might have made no difference.

................................

We're called to another home, for chest pain. There are two other ambulances there for other patient, but medics have initiated care already. She is in no acute distress, alert and oriented. As we get to the elevator, her daughter comes up to the stretcher. "This is all because she was out at Lace last night!" She must be kidding, Lace is a strip club, but I play along.
"I thought I recognized you there!" We laugh and the daughter grumbles, "I'm a grandmother myself, they'd probably kick me right out of there!" She looks no older than 50.

My partner is taking her in, and because she is lucid, he explains everything to he. He even explains all of her history, and tell her what it means. He tells her each and every one of her medications, and tells her what they are for. He is very patient with her many questions. "I like that about you," she tells him. "because you treat me like a real person."

The transport is an easy one, and as I turn to leave the ER she says, "Are you married?" I shook my head no.
"Haven't met a woman that could stand me yet," I said with a grin. She smiled. "I'll pray that you find one. You're such a nice young man." She smiled, and I know that her scary moment had been turned into something a little more positive, because she had a good crew.

.....................

Dispatch must be crazy. They're sending an all-male crew to go pick up a 14 year old female psych patient. I'm ready to refuse when my paperwork says that she is aggressive and violent, and I have a scrip for restraints. A 21 year old soldier wrestling a 14 year old girl alone in the back of an ambulance is just asking for a lawsuit or jail time, even if everything was by the book, and there were no dishonorable intentions. A female supervisor comes down with us instead.

The girl is quiet, reserved. She seems friendly enough. I can scarcely believe the stories on the paperwork...punching cars, threatening her family with a bat, sending nude photos to boys, walking out in the middle of traffic, and lie after lie. She sits there and listens to her Ipod until she pops in a stick of gum and I offer to throw out the wrapper.

Sometimes it only takes a small trigger to make a psych go off. It also takes an equally small trigger to get them to warm up to you. It's a delicate balance that in this case, paid off. From those few spoken words, she began to talk. About school, and getting kicked out. About her dreams of getting into medicine. About kid stuff, like climbing trees and decorating books with aluminum foil from gum wrappers, and snowboarding. She walked into the treatment facility of her own volition with a smile on her face. Only God and she know if any of the stories she told me and my supervisor were true, but if nothing else, the talking made a difference. And those little differences are why I do what I do.

Tioga Boar Hunt '09

2009-11-16T16:23:00.005-05:00

It was 7am when I parked my ambulance, changed, and headed home to pick up two good friends, Louis and Eddie, for a wild boar hunt in Pennsylvania. I hadn't slept yet, but I was excited and it kept me up. After a few gear issues, (Eddie forgot his ammo) we headed up Rt 17. It was about a 4 hour drive, and as pleasant as you can make it for three 6 foot men and hunting gear in a Ford Ranger.

Our destination was a ranch in North Central PA. You can find their website here: www.tiogaboarhunting.com.

We made our way to the office and got checked in, then taken to our living quarters for the weekend. It was a small, cabin like house with two levels, the bottom of which was mostly a lobby type area. A small dining room and kitchen were on the left, and a TV room off to the right, but we didn't spend any time there. At the top of a steep set of stairs were several bedrooms, and we took one with 6 bunks and settled in.

Once our gear was in order, we took off for the range across the street (Ok, it was a dirt path) to the range to make sure we were still sighted in and nothing had been rattled off zero in transit. My Savage .30-06 and the Nikon scope mounted on top were still dead on, so I spent a few rounds practicing kneeling and offhand shots before I was satisfied that I would hit my mark the next day.

Louis had no issues with his NEF 12 Gauge, and we expected none. After all, it was wearing iron sights, not a scope and there is very little to go wrong with a solid single shot gun.

Eddie's rifle was a different story. Eddie is, out of the three of us, by far the worst marksman. He can generally keep his shots within a 14 inch circle at 100 yards and not much better. That's rested, of course. Ed had sighted his rifle in previously, but only to a point, and had expected to fine-tune it here. That was a mistake we'd warned him about. He couldn't seem to figure out how to use the low rest at the range comfortable, and decided to forego the rest entirely. He couldn't seem to get hits at 100 yards, so we moved back to the 40 yard target, and he still had trouble hitting. After about 10 rounds I took the rifle and fired a shot at 40. It hit about 3 inches high, which would be about right at 100. So we knew it wasn't the rifle. Frustrated, he put the rifle away to shoot Louis's Ruger .357 for a bit.

It's a fine pistol, and very accurate with a 6 inch barrel. The .38+P rounds we were shooting were mild, and they hit where you wanted them to at 25 yards. Louis and I left Eddie to shoot some more. After another 8 rounds or so, he'd managed a decent group and was satisfied with the rifle. It was a fine gun, a pre-1964 Winchester Model 70, but the scope was ancient and foggy, with a post reticle that was hard to master.

I laid down for a nap until dinner-Elk stew with buffalo sloppy joes. It was an outstanding meal. We sat up and chewed the fat with the other hunters for a little while after, then laid down for the night. Wake-up was 0600.

The morning was chilly, in the mid 40's but not uncomfortable, and very clear. We followed our guides for the day up the dirt path in my pickup and headed out to the area we would hunt.

Tioga's hunting is "canned", in that the animals are kept in fenced preserves. But it is not as simple as it seems. They have over 1500 acres of land with which to hunt, and our area was at least 300. Fallow deer, water buffalo, white-tails and of course, boar all co-exist in some sort of fantasy ecosystem inside the wire. Both Bald, and Golden eagles flew overhead, and I spotted an osprey once. There were a few Coopers hawks flying around the trees looking for songbirds as well.

Once inside the wire, we split up. Eddie went with one guide, Chase, hunting for a smaller "management" boar, while Louis and I went with the other guide, Carmen, after a trophy pig. They were in contact via radio, and we set out looking for pigs. We didn't find many right away, but Eddie did. We heard a shot ring out below us, and another just a few seconds later. Over the radio I heard that they thought he has wounded "a little spotted pig." Great, I thought. Now we're looking for an angry, wounded pig. This could be interesting.

We saw quite a few fallow deer, and heard of pigs elsewhere on the radio, but saw none in the first hour. I was glassing the pines ahead with a pair of binoculars looking for Eddie's wounded pig, when Eddie's guide said over the radio that a nice red trophy boar was headed our way. We quickly moved to head it off and I spotted him alone, working his way through the trees 100 yards off. I moved up, little by little from tree to tree at a crouch. Finally at 60 yards I took a knee and raised my rifle. I waited until he came out from behind a tree, a good broadside shot, and squeezed the trigger just as he started walking forward again. My rifle bucked, and the pig squealed, then dropped, his back legs useless. He turned and whirled, looking for whatever had hurt him, but found that he could no longer move. I moved up a little closer, and put another shot right behind his shoulder to finish him.

When he'd expired, we walked up to take a look. He was a nice sized pig as far as I could tell. I was upset because my first shot had landed too far back. It took out his spine, but wouldn't have done anything immediately lethal, and I'd ruined some meat. The second shot was a perfect heart/lung and I wished that I'd pulled that off the first time.

We linked up with Eddie and on our way, saw his spotted pig with another group. It didn't look hit at all, and they hadn't found a blood trail, so he had missed it entirely. We sat behind a stump for the next hour. I threw in a lip full of Skoal and watched a white-tail buck amble past. A group of pigs came over the rise behind me, and when I finally turned and spotted them, they took off. Louis and I moved on, splitting with Eddie once again. Our guide had found a pair of pigs bedded down in a field. They were tired and done running. We got close enough for Louis to get a shot off with a slug gun and open sights, but not close enough to endanger ourselves. Going by his first shot, we maybe should have been closer. He placed the first slug into her neck, and they both took off as if he had missed entirely. The slug passed cleanly through nothing but fat. She barely knew that he'd shot her. Eddie shot twice more soon afterward, with 2 more clean misses.

We tracked her about a mile back, down pine slopes and through a swamp. Carmen spotted her 100 yards out and wheeling back around, coming towards us. We got situated behind a huge stump and waited. She got within 10 yards and stopped, but it was a frontal shot. She might have scented us, but kept going. As she got broadside to the log, she caught a look at me. There was blood in her eyes, and she took 2 trotting steps in my direction before Louis dropped her with a well placed shot behind the ear. She died on the spot. She was no more than 3 yards from me. I realized that my hand was in my pocket looking for shells when he had shot. That pig wanted my bacon.

We trekked back to meet Eddie once again, while Carmen went back to grab an ATV and get our pigs back to the lodge. He fired once when we were walking up the hill, but once again, no pig. He was unable to get a follow-up shot in because some other hunters came up in front, they had radioed their position wrong. Lucky they were in orange.

We sat with Eddie for another half hour or so, but no pigs came through, and we started to walk back to the lodge, so that Louis and I could take a look at our pigs and get more pictures. Eddie was planning on going back out when we got back, but on the way out, I spotted a white head in the bushes. I almost didn't get us stopped in time, my first inclination was to hold my fist in the air in a military "halt", but then realized that I needed to actually say "hold up." Eddie managed to get within 25 yards from it, and finally put it down. He shot once, a little far back in the ribcage, missing the heart/lung but doing some damage to the liver and spleen. It was still on it's feet though, and he put a second shot in just to be sure.

Back at the lodge we learned that my pig was much more massive than we had originally thought. In the woods, he hadn't seemed exceptionally large, but next to some of the other pigs, all in the 200 pound range, his size was exceptional. In a class by himself really. We never exactly weighed him, but they had to use a backhoe to hang it up, and I would guess he was pushing 300 lbs, if not 325. There is more meat in my freezer than I know what to do with, so I will be having a BBQ this weekend if the weather holds, and may give some of it away as well. I still have a deer tag to fill, and no room to put it in.

It was a great experience out there, and a good entry to big-game hunting. I've hunted plenty of small game before, and tried to hunt deer and bear with no real success. I'm hoping this year will be different, and now I have little to worry about with 'buck fever', because I know that I can perform in the woods. Next time I'll be hoping for a one-shot stop.

Happy hunting, and stay safe.

Horror and hindsight

2009-11-11T19:52:00.003-05:00

I am disoriented and groggy when the high pitched, two-toned call pierces the air. It is dark and I roll over once groaning, then sit up. "WNXX-527, Stony Point Ambulance and Medic One respond to an Motor Vehicle Accident, Palisades Parkway Southbound, between exit 16 and 17. 3 month old infant involved. Time now 0230."

That woke me right up. I cursed under my breath and laced my boots up a little faster, then ran for the ambulance bay doors and cranked them open. We rolled out a moment later. We were right around Exit 15, so the ambulance had to go North past the scene and turn around where there was a spot for it. We would have crossed the median, but there were too many trees in the way. No sense causing another accident on our way. Luckily there were very few cars on the road at such an early hour.

After what felt like an eternity, but was probably less than ten minutes, we arrived on the scene. There was a blue minivan on the shoulder, perched up on a tall rock, and the front end in a small tree, maybe a foot in diameter. Shining my flashlight I can see two adults in the van, huddled over a small, crying baby. That's a good sign.

To a medic, a crying baby is a good baby. Kids cry when they are hurt or upset. It's their way of telling you that something is not right, when many times they are unable to say what. It also tells you that they have a patent airway, and they are breathing, with adequate air-flow to scream. A quiet child who has just undergone major trauma makes me nervous. He may be brave, and perfectly OK, or he may be silently slipping off the cliff that is a child shock profile.

I take the baby from Mom, who is crying and hyperventilating herself, and a quick assessment show's no injuries except a fairly deep, clean laceration on the left side of her chest by the pectoral muscle. Bleeding is mostly controlled. It looked to have been caused by one of the plastic adjusters on the car-seat that she was strapped into. I put her back into the car seat and take it with me. We don't have any C-spine materials that small, and with all her thrashing with the crying, and her parents having moved her, I didn't see a need to stress her more.

Both parents are patients as well, and Tommy is with me so they both climb in the back. They are insistent that we only treat their baby. Mom is hyperventilating and complaining of a severe headache, but refuses to let us look. Dad claims he is sore but nothing else. Neither one will allow us to board and collar. Dad is like a helicopter. As I hold pressure on his baby's wound, he leans in as if in a panic, and says " They baby is dying! The baby is dying, do something!" I am a calm individual and simply told him that nobody would die in my ambulance today. When he continued, Tommy, and our ALS for the night(at least 450 pounds between the two of them) told him that he needed to calm down, or go with the nice police officers that wished to speak with him.

I was actually shocked that he wasn't arrested on scene. The police pulled him out of the ambulance, I believe he had already signed an RMA. He was not carrying a license and driving his fathers car. He claimed that a deer had jumped out and that he swerved, and ended up on top of the low, sloping rock that we found the car on, but there was something off there. When the police took him away from the back, Mom went nuts. Her hyperventilation increased severely, she cried and screamed worse than the child laying on my cot, in a total panic. We let him come back aboard mostly for that reason.

It was an easy ride to the hospital. I made repeated offers to check out Mom, and her head- she refused, though it seemed to be giving her severe discomfort, and she kept rubbing one particular spot. Dad continued to panic, asking me once when the baby finally relaxed, "Is she still alive?? Does she still have a pulse?" I told him that she did. I told him that I didn't even need to feel for it. I could see her heartbeat causing her skin to pulse around the fontanels, and her color was fine. He tried to then grab her head, as if he couldn't see and wanted to feel the pulse I had mentioned. I stopped him and told him that touching a baby's head like that could be harmful, and not to do it again. He leaned back against the bench and calmed down a little longer until we reached the hospital. I gave my report, wished them luck, and said goodbye.

A few days later I was told that a police officer needed to speak with me about a call that I'd worked the previous week. Earlier that evening Tom and I had done an obvious domestic violence case. A woman's boyfriend had pushed her down some stairs and thrown dirty cat litter on her. She claimed to the police that she had tripped over a cat, but it was easy to see her black eyes through the makeup and I don't think the police officer bought it. She told us the truth in the truck, and swore us to secrecy but I wrote up the wounds as I found them, and wrote the Chief Complaint as I'd found it. I figured that he would want to talk about that call, but I was very wrong.

Three days later, dad had spent the day with Mom and her child. Before he returned home for the evening, he asked to hold his child one last time for the night. He then took his beautiful, new, lively daughter, and swung her by her ankles, hitting her head repeatedly against an iron railing. She had died instantly, an he was tackled by a horrified neighbor before he could run. Police were looking to see if there was any kind of precursor or warning to this. They'd found a Leatherman tool in the car, with brown hair that looked like it was from mom's head on the floor of the car. Apparently it had been wrapped up in her hair with the knife blade to her throat. The skid marks show that the car was traveling in excess of 90MPH, on a slight uphill grade. It started to click. Her headache, and her reluctance to allow examination. His panic, not because he was scared for his daughter, but because he had wanted her dead, he had hoped she would die. The crash was attempted murder. He wanted to kill everyone in the car. I felt like I had missed something. Alarm bells were ringing in my head the whole time, but nothing I could place, nothing I could act on. And now a child was dead. I held no sympathy for Mom. To me, she was almost just as responsible for her daughters death. She could have told us, while he was gone. She could have let us examine her, find out for ourselves. She could have let the police arrest him. She could have gone to somebody when she realized what a freaking psycho he was. But she did not.If only he'd gotten a bit more aggressive and I'd hit him, and THEN he'd been arrested, But I wasn't given that opportunity. And I am still left feeling like I missed something.

Neither one of us was ever called into court to testify. There either was no provable connection between the crash, and the savage murder, or they had such an open-and-shut case we weren't needed. I never found out what happened to him, or his enabling girlfriend. A google search showed plenty of stories if the incident but no sentencing info. I hope he rots in Hell. Maybe he's already dead. Even most inmates have a conscience when it comes to children.

Attention Drivers!

2009-11-10T08:40:00.004-05:00

I do not turn on my flashy red lights and sirens for no reason. I'm not making a coffee run, nor am I just trying to be cool. I'm way past the point where all that noise and red light will give me a rush. I am responding to an emergency call. Somebody is sick, or hurt, and I need to get there, without dodging your sorry ass because you can't be bothered to pull over for five seconds so I can go through. My red lights do not give me a license to speed, so no, you should NOT simply go faster than I am going to avoid pulling over. That will only piss me off. The lights and sirens are a warning to get out of my way, so that I don't have to worry so much about drivers up ahead making sudden maneuvers while I am en route. Your going faster means that at some point up ahead, I'm gonna have to snake my way through clogged up traffic at a red light, and get within inches of your tiny little car in order to make it through with my big ambulance. It only makes both our lives harder. And I'm still ahead of you. So pull the hell over already.

To the lady who looked at me this morning as I entered the busy intersection with both my sirens and horn going, I hope that one day, if something bad happens to you or somebody you love, that there are more courteous drivers on the road that recognize that there are indeed things more important than making it through the yellow light or getting their morning coffee. Hell, I didn't get mine yet.

And the the not-so-gentlemanly guy who stopped at the intersection, than darted out in front of me as I proceeded through...I don't know if you're an idiot, a jerk, or what, but trust me, the vehicle I'm driving will probably run through your little Honda like a hot knife through butter. I'm pretty sure I'd come out on top there.

That is all.

Blast From the past Pt 2

2009-10-28T09:24:00.002-04:00

This is a poem I had to write for one of my classes in my first college semester.
It made my mother and her entire office cry when they read it. The poem is about my life, and where I saw myself 10 years in the future. Back in those days I had wanted nothing more than to become a forest ranger. This poem actually helped me realize though, that a family and a home of my own were what I wanted most out of life, and how I got there didn't really matter so much. In a way, it helped validate my dropping out, to myself at least.

Morning mist muffles birdsong and squirrel call.
The sun, shrouded in cloud struggles to rise.
It casts a pale, growing glow on a moss covered cabin.
Lonely in the dark, damp forest.

The ranger is up before the dawn,
Window panes cold and growing a frost.
He lights a lamp in the dark, dresses.
Gun and badge glisten in subdued radiance.

He is tall, and strong, but his eyes are friendly.
They are seared with the memories of friends and strangers lost.
But they shine with confidence
And love for life and family.

In the kitchen, the hound stirs.
He chases rabbits in the night,
His tail, quivering, shivering,
Like the flame on a match.

Awake to the smell of frying eggs and coffee,
His wife, bleary eyed and sleepy
Pads down the hallway in her robe.
She is beautiful in her tired morning glory

They are quiet, as forks tinkle against plates
And the lanterns flicker weakly.
The heater is on, and they are warm.
But soon the ranger must venture out.

The clock says 5:04 and it is almost time to go.
He wanders down the hall once more,
And enters on the left to see,
His daughter, cozy.
She is much like her mother.

He leans over the bed,
Plants a kiss on her snoozing cheek.
She will be five in as many short months.
And she will have a sibling sooner.

In the kitchen again,
His wife, embraced in his arms.
She will be back in bed soon.
With a kiss and a tip of his hat,
The ranger is off to work.

The days are long, and demanding.
Headlights are used, coming and going from home.
He climbs from his truck, stiff with exhaustion,
But satisfied with his days work.

From the cabin comes his child, ecstatic
And she is swept from the ground,
By strong, proud father’s arms.
She tied her own shoes today.

The ranger’s wife has felt another kick today.
It was strong, and the baby is active.
She thinks they will have a son.
She smiles across the dinner table at Daddy.

It is another cold night, and snow is falling.
Tomorrow is another long day.
The ranger ponders the glistening white ground,
And puffs a honey cigar, gently.
He is wreathed in smoke.

He thinks back, ten long years ago.
He was just a boy then
Though he liked to think himself a man.
He didn’t miss much.

His high school days of falconry, had long gone.
He hadn’t the time to hunt his hawk each day.
So he had given it up.
He missed the autumn afternoons
In the crisp leaves with his hunter.

And the days of college parties,
They’re over too.
But he didn’t miss them much, fun as they used to seem.
He had a need for responsibility now, to set an example.
And his beer was much better while it could still be tasted.

His child is asleep,
And as it gets later, her parents must do in turn.
His wife clicks out the lamp,
And they crawl into the covers,
For another restful night.

Blast from the past...

2009-10-28T09:10:00.002-04:00

Some stories on my old hard drive, from high school and that failed first college semester. They're between 3 or 4 years old now. Since I haven't been writing I figured I'd out them up. Enjoy!

Popped My Code Cherry

Most 16 year olds would spend their Wednesday nights doing homework, or out with friends if their parents were lenient. I on the other hand, found myself sitting in the back of an ambulance checking its supplies. My shift had started at about 7 PM. I don’t think I was sitting in that rig very long before the tones rang out.
It was an ominous feeling, because I sort of sensed it before it happened. Almost like my brain could see it coming before the radio picked it up. It startled me nonetheless and I snapped to attention in the seat of the rig, already hastily replacing the cervical collars into the long blue bag. The sharp, two-tone alarm rang hung in the air. I don’t think there was a longer pause between the tones and the dispatch then normal, but looking back, it felt like an eternity. I knew something hard was about to hit us.
“WNXN-527 on the air, request for Stony Point Ambulance and Medic 1. Please respond to number 123 Fake Street for a 41-year-old female, not breathing. Time now is 1914.” I stifled a curse and hopped from the back of the rig to open the bay doors. I climbed back in, grabbing the giant blue first-in bag, equipped with everything from oxygen and airways to a BVM, and trauma pads. I dropped the handheld suction in the top of the bag as well. I didn’t want to bring too much in since we would have to move fast, but suction would likely be important.
Eddie Conklin, our driver, slammed his door shut. He turned back to me sitting in the captains chair and tossed a big binder back towards me. “Hey, Junior!” he yelled. “Fake Street, and make it fast!” The binder was an alphabetical listing of each street in Stony Point, with directions on how to get there. I wasted no time in locating the street and relayed the direction up front as the EMT Tom Peterson reached his seat. The rig pulled out of the bay and I was out the back, closing the doors, and back in the rig in a matter of seconds. Seconds counted.
I’m not entirely clear on how fast we were moving, or how long it took us to get there. My thoughts were moving way faster then an ambulance ever could. This was my test as a First Responder. Could I really do this? Would I remember my training? Would I fail? Would I choke? All the while I made sure that the supplies we needed were there, that the crew had gloves. As the rig stopped, Tom made sure I got right out and did not wait.
There was snow and ice still on the ground. The moon was high up and it’s light caused the snow to glitter. The beauty of it was offset by the on and off strobe of red flashing emergency lights. I ran through the door of the house where a police officer was waving us. All beauty disappeared.
It wasn’t a large house, and it was a mess because furniture had been hastily pushed aside. My eyes moved to the floor. Lying on a light brown carpet, lit from the dim glow of a dying light bulb was our patient. A police officer was doing CPR, with one hand. A man to my left was breathing with a bag-I don’t remember if this was another cop, or her husband.
The first thing that caught my eye was her stomach. It was large and bloated. “Is she pregnant?” I asked, more to the officer then anybody else. Tommy was there as I knelt on the floor next to the officer on compressions. Turning to Tom, the man bagging her said with frustration, “Her jaw’s held shut, I can’t get any air in!” Tommy pried with his hand and I handed him a measured oral airway but to no avail. They couldn’t get her mouth open.
“Let’s try a nasal,” I suggested. I dug in the bag for a few moments. A pang of fear hit me when I didn’t come up with it right away. I cursed myself. I’d just checked it myself, dammit! But there it was a moment later, under another OPA bag, a little orange tube. I measured that and lubed it, then handed it to my EMT. The medics arrived through the door as Tom was midway in getting it in.
The dialogue is a bit sketchy for a big part of this, mostly because it was curt and quick, and we all knew what needed to be done anyway. The paramedic team asked the normal cardiac arrest questions-how long she’d been down, what had happened. She was without pulse for about 10 minutes before they walked through the door. He husband had left her watching TV to take a shower. When he came back she was down. He’d started CPR and rescue breathing himself-but had not extended her airway properly, hence the stomach bloating. She was not pregnant, and each of us breathed a sigh of relief.
Though her jaw was locked before, it opened on contact for the paramedics. One of them spread-eagle on the floor pushed a tube down her throat. Now we no longer needed a nasal airway. They pushed an IV into her arm, and gave me the bag to make sure it kept dripping. Suddenly I found myself with everything, and nothing, to do all at once. It was am important job. But I found myself wishing that I could be doing more-giving this woman CPR or on the bag. I didn’t feel as if I was using my skills properly. So I became a bystander and a player all at once. I saw the medic perform accelerated CPR to circulate the drugs faster, and I saw them hook her to an AED. Asystole, no shock-able rhythm. They put her on a chain of light shocks-called pacing-to try and stimulate her heart to beat.
Eddie Conklin had grabbed a backboard and the stretcher. They rolled her, and lifted her onto the stretcher with the board beneath her. We made our way quickly to the ambulance, careful of the ice and snow. One of the police brought our equipment out.
There was music in the rig, which died down when Eddie got in. It seemed so fitting-and yet discourteous. In the movies, everything has a theme song. Here it was not the time. The husband rode up front. I sat in the captain chair, Tom to the side in the CPR chair. The medic that rode along with us, Neil, was on the bench. We quickly put a cervical collar on, a job that fell to me being at the head. It would keep her from getting whipped around and keep an open airway. I began to bag, while Tom compressed and the paramedic did his thing.
The thing about it was, everything was so different. It wasn’t at all how I imagined, to rush in and be the knight on his white horse to save the day. Not at all. This was sad, and harsh. This wasn’t like the books. This was not a mannequin. This was a wife, and a mother. And my patient.
Our ride to the hospital was a longer one then most corps. It still couldn’t have taken long. But it felt like we were driving through the next millennium. At some point, Neil leaned towards the two of us. “At this point, she is dead. But because she’s so young, and because her husband is with us, we’re going to keep working.” He looked down at her face. There was a yellow-green fluid leaking from her mouth and nose. “Do me a favor, grab some 4X4’s and clean her up a bit.” I nodded soberly. I was still holding out on a miracle for this woman, as resigned as I was that this would likely be the first patient I would ever lose.
Though I was at the head, and bagging the whole time, cleaning her up was the first time that I ever had really looked at her face. The gunk I was wiping up never gave me the willies or anything-but it saddened me. It killed the idea that we would save this woman. When I finished, however, I looked at Tom Peterson; mouth cocked half open, red in the face, pressing down on her chest over and over. CRP was no easy task, and this woman had a chest harder than most, although I‘ve since forgotten why. “Switch with him,” the medic gestured towards me. Tom insisted he was fine, but Neil stayed firm, and I slid past Tom into the CPR chair, benchmarked her chest, and pushed. I continued the next few minutes until we arrived at the hospital. Before we got there Neil gave a bit of a pep talk. “Keep working hard, put on your game faces. To her husband, it’s not over yet.”
Stone-faced we unloaded the stretcher, entered the code into the doors, and wheeled her into Cardiac 1. Doctors and nurses kept working for another few minutes. When they called it, and went outside to tell her husband, he burst into tears.

It took awhile for the full effect of everything that had just taken place to hit me. It was a bittersweet moment returning to the building, and returning home. Everyone was so proud-myself included. Tommy even wrote on my evaluation that I handled the call “like a seasoned veteran.” But I wasn’t sure there was anything about losing a patient to feel proud about. Weak, grim smiles accompanied the news for anybody who had asked about it.

It had to be two days when it took maximum effect. The day I had read her obituary in the paper. I saw it and went out for a walk. It was dark, and cold. I was walking fast, franticly. I lit up a cigar and puffed on it as if my life depended on it-ironic in that I was killing myself in the process. I broke into a run, my brain swimming with emotions and images that wouldn’t leave. The idea that she would die didn’t occur to me before. I knew the statistics on CPR, but of course I never thought that *I* would loose a patient. The idea that perhaps, she was watching me now from above was a little eerie. Voices echoed in my head. As we had left, her daughter had given her dad a hug, and through tears, said “I love you daddy.” “I love you too sweetheart,” he replied.
Before I reached home again, coyotes were howling on the hill. I listened to them for awhile trying to take my mind off it all. I sobbed relentlessly in my room later that night-that became the release, the turning point. That night I came to terms with what had happened. She changed my life. I later found out that she had suffered a major brain bleed. Even if it had happened to her on the table, she probably could not have been saved.

Burn Out....

2009-10-01T15:53:00.001-04:00

Sorry folks. Burn out's a bitch and I've been pretty well burnt all month. I'm working on a few things, I should have them up soon.

Outstanding!

2009-09-04T03:32:00.001-04:00

Great rant by a black man, on Obama. Read it here:

http://www.black-and-right.com/2009/09/03/head-niggaz-in-charge/#more-26451

Venting

2009-08-25T09:00:00.003-04:00

Dear Main-Stream Media,

The war we are fighting now is NOT VIETNAM! Instead of every day, telling me how many of my brothers and sisters in arms have died overseas, how about you report on some of our victories? Tell me how many we got, too. We may have lost 4 in a firefight that cost them 20. The way you tell it though, our armed forces are nothing but cannon fodder for an enemy we couldnt possibly win against. (My eyes are rolling as I type that, by the way) And although every life lost is important, far more important than that is the humanitarian victories. I want to hear when we put up a school, fix a road, dig a well, get those towns electricity. I'm glad that people are voting in Afghanistan right now-report on that and not just the violence associated with those who would see that those people live in fear every day.

Much Obliged- BangBangMedic

Pay Issues

2009-08-24T00:07:00.002-04:00

Just did a long-distance trip yesterday, and along the way I started thinking about EMS professionals, our hours, and our pay.

Anybody involved in EMS is painfully aware that we are the redheaded stepchild of emergency services. Cops and firemen get all the glory. Their pay is far better, even without overtime, and they usually get a pension. It's a perk that comes with being a civil service job, employed by the state or city, and one of probably the only good things that could come out of government healthcare-EMS might turn into a government job with all the perks that come from that.

EMT B's in my area start at ten bucks an hour, medics at about $16. After two years I'm almost to 11 per hour now. It adds up to about 22K a year, depending on how much overtime I pick up. My company does offer a respectable healthcare plan, and a 401K for full time employees, which is nice. That's about all though. It's kind of pitiful considering the ambulette drivers start with at least $12 an hour, and even a janitor in the school system can make enough to support a family.

What I realized though, is there is so much money there-even in this starved economy, we are always a little short staffed, and there is plenty of overtime to go around. For those that want to, an 70 hour work week is not unheard of. Overtime, like most anywhere else, is time and a half where I work, which bumps those EMT-B's up to 15 per hour. Why not simply hire a few more staff members, and raise the pay a few bucks? Burning yourself out with an insane amount of hours is dangerous to the tech, their patients, and anyone on the road with them. It can hurt patient care, and it's not good for mental or social welfare of employees either. Would it be so hard to pay everyone say, $13 an hour, and have a few more employees to cover the shifts that would otherwise be overtime?

Next up: How the volunteer EMS system is killing EMS as a career!

More soon

2009-08-13T18:25:00.001-04:00

Just got back from the shore-I have lots of pictures and a bunch of stories, I'm going to get a post up soon. Also, the third chapter of my story is taking much longer then expected, but it *IS* coming. Bear with me, folks

Sympathy

2009-08-09T22:30:00.002-04:00

I've been noticing lately, wherever I go, people tend to look at me like I'm a dead man. I tell them I'm a soldier, and invariably, theres a few moments pause. Their mouths drop open just a tiny bit, and their eyes get soft and it looks like I've just told them that I have terminal brain cancer, or that my puppy died. They they usually pull it together and shake my hand. Some of them react as if I told them that *I* killed a puppy, but those people aren't worth continued conversation.

The thing is, I don't want sympathy. I volunteered to be a solider. I LOVE being a solider. I knew the risk when I signed up-for God's sake, we've been at war since I was in 8th grade-I accept that risk freely. There is no shame, and no need for you to feel sorry for me. So please don't. I want support on the homefront, I want a president who isn't hell bent on apologizing for our actions, who isn't frightened of the men he commands. I want the proper tools to do my job, and I want rules of engagement that dont force me to fight blindfolded, hopping on one leg. Do that, instead of cringing when I tell you that I'm off to war.

I'm not a dead man walking. I'm more likely to get shot as a tourist in the nations capitol than I am in Afghanistan, actually. Is that friggin sad or what?

Disappointed

2009-08-03T23:15:00.003-04:00

I'm back from the desert about a week now, and I definately prefer being home. My unit has alot of issues, which I won't discuss in serious detail, however, not having a budget for medical equipment is a serious issue. So is spending millions of dollars for high speed desert training-and then not doing anything. I qualified sharpshooter on the M9 9mm service pistol, was promoted to E4, and helped out as a medic with another unit that HAD equipment...and thats about it. A whole month in the desert and very little to show for it. Hooah.

Chapter Two

2009-07-29T18:47:00.003-04:00

Well, I'm back from the desert, and back on the Bolance already. I'll post some pics and stories later, when I find the time. It's a busy week, I still have an Army Weekend among other things. For now, here's the 2nd chapter in my story:

“Amy,” I said to her. “I want to quit. I want to find a job where I can be here for you. Last night was too close for comfort, and they don’t pay me enough for that.” I looked up into her brown eyes, and they were full of worry. Her brow creased a little as she tried to frown at me, but I’d never seen her frown. I don’t think she was capable of it. She settled into a rueful smile instead.

“Paul, in the six years I’ve known you, I’ve never heard you talk like that. Not even a word of it. You are a great EMT. I knew that’s what you were when I married you. That sense of purpose you carry around with you all the time is one of the things I love about you the most.” She slipped into a chair next to me and started to undo the buttons on my uniform shirt. It fell to the back of the chair, and crumpled. She ran her hands up my arms, her fingers pausing on the tattoos on my upper arms. A caduceus painted on one shoulder, A soldiers cross on the other. I’d cut my teeth as a medic in Mosul straight out of high school. Underneath the boots that made up the cross were the words “We bury our mistakes.” She read that aloud to me. “Don’t bury yourself with them.”

Her touch, her words shot across me like a wildfire. I still wasn’t sure what I planned to do, but I knew she would be with me anyway. I needed her at that moment more than anything else in the world. I kissed her forehead gently, and she leaned up, pressing her lips into mine. Her hands tightened against my arms and slipped up my back, scratching my skin and sending shivers up my spine. I stood up with her, felt her tense up and I pulled in closer. Her robe fell away from her body at my touch and we made love right there in the kitchen. I was able to forget everything. My world was Amy, and nothing else could be a part of it.

We laid there together on a blanket on the floor and she drifted into a contented sleep. My arms moved with the slow rise and fall of her breathing and my mind wandered back to six years before when we’d met. I was a 21 year old just back from a war. I’d taken home a few scars and a devil-may-care mentality. I had a brand new Chevy pickup and all I wanted was to get drunk and crawl into a hole, to wallow in failure for the guys that didn’t come home with me. Some of my buddies tried to get me away from the house for awhile. They took me to a bowling alley on the main drag. I wanted to be anywhere else. I sat on the side, with a pitcher of beer to myself.

Somewhere after my first few cups I decided it was time to step out for a cigarette. I sucked at bowling and knew it. I stepped outside into the cooling September air and reached into my pocket for my smokes. They weren’t there. “Damn,” I said aloud to nobody in particular. There was another pack in the truck, so I began to walk out to the parking lot. Alongside it was a girl fiddling with something in her trunk, cursing worse than some of the infantry guys I’d run with. I unlocked the door and she turned around a little startled.

“Didn’t mean to scare you. Just needed a smoke.” I told her. The lights in the parking lot were dim and flickering. All I could see was a slim shadow in the dark, and I was pretty sure she smiled. I inhaled a long drag off the Marlboro. “I didn’t even hear that much profanity from my drill sergeants. Need help with something?” She paused for a moment. “My name’s Paul, by the way.” I couldn’t see more that a vague shadow in the dark. She came to about my chin, and she looked thin enough. Probably white. She had dark hair tied back into a ponytail that stopped about her shoulder blades. In the dark, there was nothing more to see.

“Just having a bad night. My friends and I had a falling out. I’m trying to get out of here and relax, but my fishing lines are all tangled up. And I’m Amy. It’s nice to meet you, Paul.” Her voice was clear, and musical. Not too shy, not overbearing. She held out her hand and I shook it. Her grip was soft, but not limp. My hand dwarfed hers, and the contrast between the calloused, scarred hand I’d offered, and her soft, warm skin was striking.

“Going down to the river to hit into some stripers?” She nodded again.“I have an extra pole, if I can get it untangled. I saw you in there, I don’t think you like bowling too much.”
“That would be a very astute observation there Miss Amy.” I crushed out the butt of my smoke. “I have a few poles in the truck myself though. We can use them if yours are too far gone. I’ll meet you at the sea-wall jetty then? Right by the park.” I climbed into the cab as she pulled away, and followed her out onto route 9W, through the main drag of town, stopping for a six pack of Budweiser. Just down the hill from town was the Hudson River marina district and this time of year Striped Bass ran back down towards the ocean for the winter, on the tail end of their yearly spawning run. The fall return to the Atlantic was often better than the initial spring run, and I hadn’t gotten a chance to fish in over a year. I never did tell the guys that I’d left.

There was a bar across the street from the river, mostly for older folks, and guys with boats on the smaller marinas without their own clubs. I never went in there much, but it made parking convenient. I pulled in next to Amy’s little Jetta. My heavier vehicle sank slightly in the mud but I could get out no problem. I grabbed a pair of cheap Eagle Claw surf rods and stuck a can of beer in each of my jeans pockets. The rods were already rigged up. I stepped onto the jetty next to her, and we each hooked a bloodworm on, then cast out into the inky blackness of the river. I caught the sliver glisten of water droplets as the weight splashed through the surface of the water and sank down slow, then parked the rod between some rocks, sat down on the bench and waited.

It was a dark night. There was a tiny sliver of a waning moon, mostly shrouded in clouds. Across the river, some lights from the next county fought a loosing battle to be seen. Even the lights from the power plant across the way offered little illumination. Some small boat lights added a little definition to the black water. It seemed thick, like oil as the breakers hit the rocks a few feet below. The water seemed to pull at them and leave reluctantly, willing them to slip back, underneath the surface and sink to the depths. At night it always looked like the river could swallow you whole. For a long time it seemed that the water was calling me too. I felt like sinking into the unknown beneath the black slick. Somehow that night, it became less appealing. I wanted to feel the chilly breeze on my face and listen to the whistle of wind blowing through the guides of my rod. In fact, I needed it.

“Want a beer?’ She took the can I offered her and sipped slowly.
“Thanks. I wondered where you went. Are you going to be able to drive home?”
“If the bite’s any good I’ll be here awhile anyway. I can always sleep in the back of the truck if I have to.” As I said that, her rod suddenly bent double. The reel started buzzing as line played off. She set the can of beer down and reared back sharply. The rod began to bend and twist, she had a fish on, and a decent fighter at that. I watched for a few moments in admiration. She could handle the drag like a pro, and despite her thin frame, I didn’t see any signs of weakness as she fought him in. Then my rod began to arc wildly. “Looks like we might have hit into a school!” she yelled. I grabbed my rod and began to fight.

We caught four good keepers that night but let them all back. I didn’t trust the fish from the Hudson, no matter how many times they tried to clean it. I just liked to catch them. We moved back across the street when the bite slowed down and sat down on the tailgate of my truck. I lit a smoke and we opened up the last of the beers. We hadn’t talked a whole lot while we were fishing. I liked that, but I could sense the questions coming. We were both dappled in shadows. I felt like Amy could see right through me anyway.

“You don’t talk much. And you walk like you’re carrying a big weight on your shoulders.” I never expected her to be so blunt. I figured the least I could do was return the favor. I’ve been home from Mosul about a week,” I told her. “But not everyone made it home.” I saw her stiffen up a little bit, like she had just made an embarrassing mistake in a public place.
“That’s not your fault though. You know that right?” her voice had softened. She’d lost some of her initial confidence. It was a little patronizing too. Her tone reminded me of my mother, trying to tell me a nightmare wasn’t real. No matter what was said, it never made the fear you felt any less real.
“I was a medic, Amy. My job was to bring my boys home. They didn’t all come home. So that’s on me.” She didn’t say anything for a long moment. I’m not sure what she could have said. I came home certain that people had died because I wasn’t good enough. I knew that came through in my voice.

“Are you a religious man, Paul?” I shook my head.
“I used to be. I believe in God still, if that’s what you mean.”
“I know it’s cliché,” she started. “But sometimes there are things that are out of your control. You’re still here for a reason. So don’t let the war take you. It wasn’t supposed to.” She had a way with words, and I wanted to kiss her at that moment, but I didn’t. I needed to keep talking, and she seemed willing to listen.

“I killed people too, you know. They were trying to kill me. I didn’t really have a choice.” She nodded, and I kept going. I didn’t want to. I’d just met the girl. She didn’t even know my last name, and she was sitting there next to me, a slightly drunk, psychologically distraught veteran. Once I started talking about it, I found that I was unable to stop myself. “The thing is, I felt good about it. I didn’t feel bad at all. I’m not a psychopath, please don’t think-“ I stopped when she pulled me into her arms. I started sobbing openly. Once the floodgates had opened they were stuck for good. There was no holding back, no sanctity of manhood, or macho urge to keep from loosing it in front of a female. She just held me there in silence until it passed and we both fell asleep.

I woke up a few hours later as a drop of rain exploded on my face. It was still dark, and the cold blast caught me off guard. It took a moment or two to get my bearings and figure out where I was, and why there was a woman next to me. Then the rain came hard and fast, like a summer thunderstorm. Amy awoke with a start, and laughing, we ran through the deluge and into the crew cab of my truck. For the first time, in the soft illumination of the truck’s overhead lights, I could see the wonderful woman that would become my wife.

She had a clean, plain face. Pale skin, dotted with the occasional freckle. Her nose was small and gently curved. Her lips were thin, pink. They looked soft, not chapped. There were two pale blue stones, set in silver in each earlobe, standing out from brown hair that was probably much lighter when it was dry. Her eyes were dark, and deep. There was a mixture of emotion in them I found hard to read, and I was so lost in them for the moment that I almost missed it. There was a long, jagged scar curving up the right side of her neck and across her cheek. It looked a few years old, and she’d tried to cover it with wisps of hair, but they’d peeled away in the rain. I noticed it just as she reached a trembling, hand behind my neck and pressed her lips to mine.

She kissed me deeply, each tiny movement of her lips sent an electric feeling shooting through my body. I could feel our wet clothes sticking together as she pulled me closer to her on the bench, and shivered, half with cold, and half with excitement as she started to slide my hand up her thigh. Then I pulled away.
“I’m not sure this is right,” I told her. I watched her face twist in mild confusion, and noticed for the first time her inability to frown. Then her eyes flashed with anger, despite the curling of a smile on her lips.
“It’s the scar, isn’t it? This is the same reason I left the fucking bowling alley. I wouldn’t have guessed you’d be so shallow!” Her accusation hit me worse than if she’d slapped me. It was worse than being shot. I tried to play it down.
“I didn’t even notice…” She saw right through that in no time and called my bluff. I guess my eyes had lingered there just a little too long.

“Bullshit.” Something stopped her from leaving right then though, maybe curiosity, or maybe she believed me for a moment. I never asked. “What is it then?” That blunt, indelicate part of her showed up again.
“I’ve been pretty empty for awhile,” I told her. “I’m not really myself at all. Fact is, I’ve been with a couple women since I got back. And you’re the first one who’s ever made me feel like the bottom of the river isn’t a better place for me to be.” For a few moments she froze, and there was no sound but the raindrops smacking the roof and the windows, sending streams of cascading water all around. It was a lonely sound to me, creating a tension that I wasn’t sure I was ready for. She kissed me again, and lingered on my lips at the end. Her hand slid up my thigh , then withdrew quickly. She climbed out of the truck abruptly afterwards.

“Stay in touch, Paul.” I watched her drive away, then slid up to the drivers seat and watched the sun break through as the clouds drifted away and the rain eased off. My hand reached down to where she had placed a crumpled piece of notebook paper into my pocket. In small, neat form, was a phone number, and her full name: Amanda Reese. At the bottom she had written two words. “Stay Strong.”

I had since forgotten when she had gotten a chance to write that down, but I kept that paper with me always. I let her sleep on the kitchen floor and moved to the chair where my uniform shirt lay crumpled against the back of the chair where it had fallen. I reached into the front pocket for that crumpled piece of paper. “Stay Strong”, it said. Maybe I had a little bit of strength left in me now. But I was going to give her a normal life. She deserved that much. It felt like the easy way out to her, she didn’t want to force me to choose. I knew that it took more strength to give up the career I love for the woman I loved even more. She’d understand, given the time. I sat down at my laptop that morning to type up my resignation letter.

It's goodbye again

2009-06-30T02:14:00.002-04:00

As of very early Wendsday morning, I will be headed west to Ft. Irwin for the National Training Center in the Mojave Desert for desert warfare training. I will be gone through the 27th. I'll have the laptop with me, but not so sure how much inter-web access I will have, and I don't think I have a camera going along. We'll see. I'll do my best to try to get updates published.

Hooah! I get to live the Army life once more!

Phase V Supply

2009-06-22T17:01:00.003-04:00

I'm in the airport now on my way back from Fayetteville, and although the romance didn't go quite so well as I'd hoped, I did get a chance to stop at a pretty great gun store down here called Phase V supply. The selection was excellent, especially from the perspective to tactical weaponry. In this age of scarcity, M1A's, FN SCAR's and AR's were everywhere. The staff were extremely helpful-one guy spent a good half an hour explaining to me the advantages of several types of tactical slings for my AR. I walked away with a hogue pistol grip and a Viking Tactics mkII with the quick adjust. I was very tempted to grab some Mag-pul P-mags, but I'm pretty sure they're illegal in NY, so I left that alone.

The best part is that the shop is owned, run, and staffed mostly by vets, who've been there, done that, and got the T-shirt. When I mentioned that in the next few months, I was headed to the sandbox, and that most of my AR accessories would be going with me, we spent another hour going over tactical reflex sights, even though he knew flat-out that I was not going to buy that day. I'm pretty much sold on an EOtech and will be arranging a purchase from them online in the near future. They put the gun shops back home to shame.

If you ever make it down there, they're located at 516 Reilly Rd in Fayetteville NC.
Website is here: http://www.phasevsupply.com/

Quote of the day

2009-06-18T17:31:00.003-04:00

I went to the indoor range to sight in my new AR-15 today, but it was closed to the public. It was raining or I woulda just gone to the outdoor range a little further up the road. There will be a range report soon, whenever I make it up there.

The range was closed cause a nuclear powerplant security team was training inside. The following exchange was between me, my friend Eddie, and the Gunshop Guy.

Gunshop Guy: Sorry you can't shoot today, but you can come back another time.

Eddie. Well it's good to know they're getting some decent training at least, in case Bagdhad Bob comes around...

BangBangMedic: Nope, *I'm* training to fight Bagdhad Bob, They're training against dumbasses with fertilizer trucks!

I believe the Gunshop Guy might need a new keyboard, courtesy of the coffee he sprayed on it...

Chapter One

2009-06-11T22:27:00.008-04:00

This is something I started awhile back. If you like it and want more, link it, tell your friends, and I'll try to write more soon. I'm not sure if it translates clearly, but the italics are small flashbacks, and the regular text are the current situation.

“Please save my daddy!”

A five year old girl’s tear filled voice implored me from a shadowy corner in the tiny, filthy living room.Her face seemed to disappear behind the thin pole of a floor lamp that wasn’t plugged in. The silence in the room was deafening as I donned a pair of nitrile gloves,the snapping sound as they slapped against my wrist almost startled me. I approached a limp form lying in the center of the floor. A puddle of blood had already formed beneath him, spreading and mixing with shadows to create the illusion that the entire room was now steeped in red liquid. I swept the beam of my flashlight across the stained and cracking hardwood floor, double checking that the 12 gauge shotgun that had just moments ago been pointed at me was now out of reach, should his collapse have been a clever ruse to lure me in closer. There would have been no need for that-he could have killed me any how-but crazy people weren’t rational and that was a pretty fast rule.

The old Ithaca had indeed fallen far out of reach and for the moment I ignored it, slowly approaching the body of a man who had very nearly just killed me and my partner; the man who had been-and, at least at the moment-still was, the father of the scared little girl in the corner. My partner keyed his radio, his calm voice belying the urgency of our situation. “We need a squad car down here, and have ALS step it up.” He knelt beside me as I opened up our patient’s airway. Shuddering breaths rattled his entire body once every thirty seconds, but it wasn’t enough to sustain life for much longer. Agonal respirations, they were called. They are body’s futile effort to keep the soul on the planet for just a few seconds longer. I already had the BVM in my hands and sealed the mask against his face, breathing for him, keeping him alive.

“I don’t want to die alone!” his voice came back at me. Those were the first words he had said when we stupidly walked into the house alone. The sound of police sirens approaching brought me back to a moment where I had almost died. Oscillating red lights suddenly lit up the house, like a Fourth of July show, and the terror of what had just come to pass rocked me back.

A cardiac arrest, the dispatch had said. The Paramedic crews were all tied up for three towns over. Police, likewise, were busy. They were on the way when we got there, but a long way out, and we were in the middle of nowhere. The house was dark, and it looked foreboding. In EMS, superstitions tend to reign wild-and I could see the grip of death on that house. Partner and I knew the protocols that said to wait for backup. But there was a man dying in that house. And the Barbie Jeep flipped over in the front lawn meant that the man was probably a father. So we went in to do what they paid us to do.

However nobly intentioned that choice had been, I cursed the stupidity of it now, as I rode the foot of the moving stretcher. We were running several races at once now. We raced to the ambulance, to the hospital,to the Paramedic Intercept. And we raced to save this mans life-for though he saw no other alternative than death, there was always life, and it was our job to keep him around long enough to see that choice. My muscles were already sore, pushing down on his chest. His ribs made a creepy crunching noise. Crepetation from cracked cartilage. It always seemed to creep me out no matter how many times I heard it.

There wasn’t a light on in the house, which my partner commented on as we entered. But fuck if it wasn’t 3 in the morning and who has lights on then? Most phones these days had glow in the dark buttons. So I twisted the cap of my Maglite and swung the beam in a slow, uneasy arc down the hallway. “Hello, EMS! Did somebody call for an ambulance? As the hallway opened up, the sound of a shotgun action caused me to freeze up. I raised my hands slowly.
“That’s alright, we’ll be leaving now,” I was speaking down the bore of the gun. A choked sob rang out from behind the wall of darkness. The gun stayed put though, and it was clear that neither of us would be leaving this house anytime soon. Thoughts about that haze of death sank morbidly deep into my brain. At least to my wife I would die a hero. Nobody would have the heart to tell her that I died because I was an idiot who ignored my training.

His arms tied to the stretcher with cravats, I struggled to keep this man alive. The blast had entered underneath his ribs, the way he had dug the barrel deep against his skin ensured damage to his liver, speen, and lungs. In fact, as far as I could tell, there wasn’t a liver left. The shell has been birdshot, from what the police officer had said. That meant something good, from an EMT perspective. With less power and smaller shot, there was likely to be less penetration and damage. But one of his lungs was collapsed. So the breaths I gave only went to one lung. I handed the police officer on the bench next to me tape and an occlusive dressing, running him through how to set it up on top of the exit wound a clump of pellets created through his left lung. It wsn't very efective, he needed decompression and a chest tube.

Behind me I could see the flashing lights of the paramedics and the lurching stop as we pulled to the shoulder nearly threw me across the stretcher and into the drivers compartment. The back door was thrown open and in hopped my medic, Julie. She looked at the body on the stretcher and then at me. "There's way too much damage. Were you able to shock at all?" I shook my head no as she placed the leads on his chest. "He's asystolic, I'm gonna call Med. Control and get permission to call it." The request was granted in just a few moments. I suppose the injuries could be reasonably considered an obvious source of death, but I'd been right there, and had to try.

Instantly, the urgency ofthe situation evaporated, but that couldn’t stop the adrenaline coursing through my veins. As I pushed my body back against the bench of the ambulance, breathing deep, my hands began to shake, then my arms.Within moments my entire body was shuddering, trying to rid itself of that flood of emotions, chemicals and stress that I had just placed on it. My job was over, as soon as the body bag arrived, and the hearse that would take the shell of a man before me over to the big city morgue. My Nextel phone beeped loudly, rescuing me from cascading thoughts of what had almost been. Dispatch. I pressed the button dutifully. “We’re clear from this job,” I noted, trying to keep as teady voice.
“You’re also done for the night Paul,” the dispatcher’stinny, perpetually annoyed voice rang out. There was a hint of sympathy in there as well, something I wasn’t at all used to hearing from that dreadful phone.“You’re a mess. Go home to your wife.”

I thanked her and moved from the patient compartment to the passengers seat up front. We sat in silence, pine trees blowing past us on the lonely road back to headquarters. Rain began to fall steadily, increasing the closer we got to the station, blurring the glow of the headlights on the road. That poor little girl…

My drive home should have been beautiful. The storm that had started above us ended as quickly as it came, leaving droplets to glow off wounded branches as the sun rose, a fireball igniting the sky through the clouds. I didn’t notice that so much, focused solely on the glass window between me and the lonely twin lines on a beaten road. I had done everything possible, and yet I still felt the sting of failure. My job was to help people, to get them through their crises and this man had not gotten through. Up ahead I could see the house and slowed. There was beauty there I could notice. The house sat at the top of a steep hill, the end of a cul-de-sac, but the only house there. Alternating stone and blue vinyl siding,with ivy growing up towards the chimney gave the impression of a cottage on some lonesome country lane. Some mornings, like this one, the sun would catch just right and bathe the house in a warm, cozy radiance that invited me to walk through the doors to the smell of a home cooked breakfast, and back to a zone of comfort. I didn’t have worries there.

As my muddy Chevrolet turned into the driveway I could see my wife, standing on the porch with a cup of coffee in her hands, and another cup beside her on the railing. She smiled as I put the truck into park and stepped out the door. That smile melted my heart since the day we met, and this morning was no different. It lifted the weight of the night’s troubles right off my shoulders. I stumbled my tired, achy body up the three steps to the porch. It was somewhere in the brisk, fifty degree range but she wasn’t shivering as she wrapped her arms gently around me. We stood there rocking for what felt like an eternity. It had been three days since I’d gotten to see her but it may as well have been three years. By the time our arms broke apart and she handed me a steaming cup of java, I was drowning in love. She led me inside after that, flicking on the dim lamps that had illuminated her morning. Dispatch had called her, and she’d gotten out of bed just to fix me breakfast, to make sure I was alright. There were eggs and bacon there, with salt, pepper, ketchup and rolls.I fixed myself a breakfast sandwich. I hadn’t been hungry a few moments ago, but now I was ravenous.

A message...

2009-06-04T17:33:00.002-04:00

To the other crew using my Wendsday ambulance...

Yes, my reeves was buckled to the back of the bench, so I didn't need to unload EVERYTHING from underneath the bench to slide it back in. Its easier to unbuckle a seatbelt when you need it. Yes, the Nextel was in the patient compartment. That's because I was using it to call in a run. Yes, the sheets on the cot were slightly discolored-they were, however clean. That's all the hospital gave us to work with. At least it was made.

Since those small transgressions, which happen only once in awhile, were enough to write me up this morning, I will no longer be so lenient with you, when every week, I find our oxygen empty, and the stretcher not made. I will write it up. If the Nextel is dead, I will write it up. If the fuel is a tiny bit under 3/4, I will write it up. Courtesy begets courtesy. Since you have shown me none, you will no longer get any from me.

That is all.

Fishing

2009-06-02T22:47:00.003-04:00

Fishing is my therapy. I don't care if it's raining. I don't care if it's 100 degrees or 40....or less on the rare occasion I get to ice fish. No matter what has happened on call, or in life, it all disappears for the few hours I have my line in the water. I fish for everything-trout, bass, sunnies and crappies, pike and pickerel, catfish, stripers....depending on the season, and my mood. I almost always fish alone.

The reason for this isn't so much that I'm a brooding, burnt-out loner. That may be slightly true, but I don't think so, not yet. Reason is, I never catch anything with somebody else around. It's actually a matter of legend between myself and my friends. Because of the time spent on the water, I'm the best fisherman among us. I almost never get skunked. Unless, that is, I have a partner. Now, I have pictures, evidence that fish are caught-now and again I even bring one home, so I'm not just telling fish stories. I've been in the middle of a bite, catching crappies almost every cast, and when a buddy sees my Jeep and walks over to fish with me, it all dies. No more, the rest of the evening.

Oddly enough, it works the opposite way if I have a female friend along. The Ex used to fish with me often. I've since figured that she was just humoring me, and it was a frustrating excersize that I've learned a few lessons from.(Like don't take the gf fishing, unless she already knows how) I would spend just as much time untangling her line and giving instructions as I did fishing-but I did catch fish. Lots of fish. Enough fish to make her feel really really insecure and become moody about it the rest of the day. So fishing with The Ex(then girlfriend) became a choice between fishing and getting some. Eventually she made the choice for me and I think I got the better end of the deal. Now I can fish in peace.

Time Flies...

2009-06-02T02:14:00.001-04:00

Sorry for the lack of posting-I guess thats not a good sign for a new blog, but life caught up with me last month. I'll try to have at least one new post up tomorrow.(Technically, later today)

Well That Explains Alot...

2009-04-29T23:57:00.000-04:00

Let me preface this by saying that I do not frequent strip joints on a regular basis...

...But about two years ago, after a rough night at work I found myself in our local dive. I was feeling tired, numb, and lonely, having been recently single, and wanted company. From behind the dark curtain of oddly flashing strobe lights, a scantily clad beauty came up to my seat and asked those oh-too-common words: "Want a dance?" I let this tiny brunette lead my by the hand to the back room where she commenced the festivities. Being fairly new to the strip club scene, I made the mistake of attempting conversation with the gal now gyrating in my lap. It went a little something like this:

BBM: I just got off-duty
Stripper: Oh, that's so hot, I love a man in uniform! Are you a cop?"
BBM; Nope, I'm an EMT.

I watched in utter fascination as a look of complete confusion swept over her makeup-laden face.

Stripper: An EM-what?
BBM: Ambulance man. I help hurt people.

The song ended, she got up and I left shaking my head. So THAT'S why she's a stripper...

Frustation

2009-04-29T13:21:00.000-04:00

As an Army Medic, I'm a specialist in trauma medicine. My skills allow me to keep a soldier who's been wounded in any number of horrible ways alive, long enough to reach a higher echelon of care. Unfortunately, my training is for just that-soldiers only. Acting as a civilian, or on a civilian, my skills are automaticly lowered to the level of Nationally Registered EMT-B, and New York State EMT-B. None of those extra skills matter, even if it means life or death for my patient. This is one case, where it may have mattered, or may not have. Either way, it was a difficult choice for me not to do more then I was allowed.

My 42 year old victim lies on my cot, circling the drain, but I'm helpless. She and her three middle-school aged children ran off the road and into the woods at a high rate of speed. The little Honda Civic was folded up like an accordian. One of the kids was DOA, the other two were gettin' there. I didn't get to see much of them, being the last truck on scene. One was airlifted, the other leaving by ground moments after I arrived.

Fire department spotlights illuminate the car as if it was in a patch of daylight. I climb into what remains of the car-there's no roof left, and thankfully the hose-jockeys have already gotten the door popped too. I size a collar and my partner positions the board for a rapid extrication. She is breathing rapid and shallow, dimished on the left side, and it doesnt rise quite as far as her right. She is covered in minor-to serious bleeding cuts all over her upper body from glass and twisted metal. Both legs have nasty open tib/fib fractures. One of these is bleeding very heavily and I wrap a pressure dressing on. What seems remarkable to me is that she was seen as the least serious case in the car-aside from her son the DOA. We're only a 10 minute haul from the hospital, maybe less because the State Police have the traffic lights for us, and my partner can drive like a bat outta hell when she wants to. I have no ALS. They are tied up on other jobs. One could be sent from two towns over, but she'll be at the hospital quicker then they would be able to get here. We load and go.

"Jane Doe" is unconcious, with a GCS at 3. I have an NPA in, but according to my pulse ox, she's only satting at 85 with 15LPM of 02. She needs a tube, but I have no medics. Were she a soldier, I could pop a King airway in, but she is not, and I'm a basic EMT in New York. They don't trust us with tubes, other then oxygen tubing. Her respriritory trouble is getting worse, trachea deviating off to the right. There are no left side lung sounds. If she were a soldier, I could fix that pneumo she seems to have, with a 14 gauge needle. But she's not, so I simply apply a bulky dressing and hope that the one lung is enough for another 8 minutes. Her pressure is dropping, from 110/70 on scene to under 80 systolic now. Were she a soldier, I could start an IV and push a 1000ml saline bolus, or better yet, that nifty Hextend stuff to get her pressure back up. But she's not, so I can only sit and watch. We're 7 minutes out when I start bagging, and her oxygen sat goes up for a moment, until her heart stopped. I'm still doing compressions when we arrive at the ER, but they didn't really matter. There was nothing I could do....and everything that I could have done.