|
Damned shipboard Internet! You'd think a country that can put a man on the moon, design bombs and guided missiles with Orwellian futuristic intelligence and manufacture pop sensations like Britney Spears could at least install a semi-decent internet system on a ship-of-war. I've been waiting for two solid minutes for my stock Web site to open. God only knows what's happened to my stocks since we left our latest liberty port in Perth last week! Thanks, Navy, for putting my dreams of financial freedom at risk.
We are back aboard the USS RUSTBUCKET. Iraq is now in the rearview of our consciousness. We're only a couple of weeks away from US soil. Perth was nice. Just like San Diego, with a touch of European socialism. More
Here we are, a bunch of junior officers doing what JOs do best: sitting around under a cammie net, shading ourselves, smoking, dipping, expectorating, drinking coffee, swapping sea stories, armchair-quarterbacking the decisions our command makes and watching a pack-line of enlisted Marines move boxes from the grinder into a tractor-trailer. Looks like hard work. I need a drink.
We are in Kuwait. Tonight, we go into Iraq. More
As I swing this 45-pound mass of nylon denier, Kevlar and armor-piercing-projectile-resistant ceramic plating up and around my head, letting it slide down my arms to rest, or rather, thump onto my flame-retardant flightsuit-clad shoulders, a twinge of stabbing pain shoots down my shoulder blades from the resulting cervical impingement. I wrap the neck protector around, snapping it in place. Ouch! Razor burn. But underneath the pain lies the sweet peace of mind I have in knowing that I am wearing the latest and greatest in personal protective equipment (PPE) provided by the DoD to all who serve in a combat zone.
With the neck protector secured, I have to bend from the waist to find my Kevlar helmet. Careful, I remind myself, because I am top heavy and don't want to fall flat on my grill. Laugh, but it has happened. With Kevlar compressing my spine, I can't help but wonder if there is still more protection to be had. My arms, legs and, most important, stones are still exposed to the dangers of a well-placed sniper round or errant fragment of an IED. More
I have reached the first big romance scene between our two main characters. Damn the Bolshevik Revolution for separating these two star-crossed lovers; an adolescence lost over some crazy ideology that 70 years later will come crumbling to the ground. But at last, they are reunited.
It's becoming a ritual for us. Each night, to entertain two of my corpsmen, HM2 Oldman and HM2 Fatman, I read a few chapters from a trashy romance novel, complete with different voices for each character. This is what we are reduced to. We are somewhere in the Iraqi desert with no TV, alcohol or females to numb our pain. What's worse, this is only our third night in theater. More
Summer 2007
The tongue depressor is halfway inside the patient's mouth, a strand of saliva connecting upper with lower lip, as the tonsils are coming into view. Ooh, halitosis.
I can take a lot of things: blood, guts, even mucous; but halitosis – no way. Erythema. Exudates. Positive lymphadenopathy. Yeah, Petty Officer Binatz has a definite case of tonsillitis. Probably viral, I think. Mono? No left upper quadrant tenderness or splenetic enlargement. Good. Just treat the symptoms.
More
I'm sitting in my office this morning, looking at my computer, checking a stock chart on the Internet, watching my latest purchase plummet and hoping to God that one of my corpsmen does not disturb me as I decide whether to sell or hold. The worst thing at this moment would be for a corpsman to walk in and interrupt this crucial process. A corpsman walks in. Dammit. I haven't decided yet. I quickly hit the "x" button at the top right to close out the screen. Nobody, especially one of my corpsman, is going to see that I made a bad purchase.
"Sir," he begins timidly, as I'm obviously frustrated at this moment, and he probably thinks my frustration is directed at him, and it is. "Sir, I have this guy…." More
Summer, 2007
I may not be the right guy for the job. That remains to be seen. History will tell. Or not. Probably not, since like most people, my life will be of little to no historical significance. However, to say that I love this job is an understatement.
The setup: I am a Battalion Surgeon for the 1st Marine Division based in Camp Pendleton, California. After graduating medical school, I completed a one-year internship in internal medicine at the Naval Medical Center San Diego. During that year, I spent many hours on many occasions on a phone, talking, pleading, begging and selling my soul to the detailer for a billet with the Marine Corps Infantry. You'd think that one wouldn't have to beg for an infantry billet which guarantees a trip to a far-off desert where people with a different point of view would appreciate your death and try to ruin your day with a roadside bomb. After much pestering, he cut me orders to the battalion. More
|
|
|
|
|
.JPG)
.JPG)
