The Desert…….again.
THE DESERT
People enjoy the desert, people love the
austere open beauty of the desert, people who speak of the simplicity and
silent majesty of the desert are completely full of crap. The desert sucks. The
desert wants your moisture, the desert will take your moisture; leaving you a
broken shell of what you once were and replace you with a dried husk devoid of
life……..and moisture. The desert takes. The desert takes your moisture and
replaces it with dust and scorpions. As soon as you open your mouth to curse
its very existence the desert is robbing you of vital moisture and wetness. The
infernal blazing sun is baking you. Back home, I enjoy slow cooking ribs in my
oven at around 200F for about four hours. Then I give the ribs a healthy rub of
salt and secret spices finishing the process on the grill. The entire operation
takes about five to six hours, and the meat is tender, falling off the rib and
melting in your mouth with its spicy goodness. The desert has similar plans.
The desert has infinitely more patience than you or I. First, it will simmer
you in the morning raising the temperature as the day goes by. By early
afternoon, it will likely begin to slow cook you in the 110 degree range, your
clothes help contain your moisture, which you will marinate in over the next
few days. If you’re unlucky enough to not have a source for water replenishment
the cooking process typically takes about 72 hours depending on how stupid you
are. The desert will effectively cook and bake you into a large chunk of salty
beef jerky, suitable for the palates of blow flies, coyotes, and buzzards.
The Mojave Desert, I’m out here again, and I
actually like it even less than the last time I was out here in June. At least
this time I look forward to a daily cold shower and flush toilets. It is truly
a blessing to have a flush toilet, this is not usually the case. Over the last
several years, due to my operational tempo I have become more than intimately
familiar with large plastic blue toilets that reek of ammonia and human waste.
I do not like this. The toilet paper is such that with any contact with moisture
it almost instantly dissolves. Attempting to wipe your ass and nether regions
with such material usually results in great suffering on your part. Your hot,
sweaty stuck in a tight, hot, heat absorbing plastic tomb. And you’re trying to
clean yourself with paper that instantly sticks and dissolves to your ass. It’s
quite ridiculous. However, there is a solution: BABY WIPES. In the field baby
wipes are the cloth that makes all things tolerable. Need to clean your butt
sweat – BABY WIPES. Need to clean your filthy, filthy service weapon? Again:
Baby wipes. That’s why at least one of my ammo pouches is filled with baby
wipes. No really baby wipes; I prefer the unscented but beggars can’t be
choosers so take what you can get. Getting off the bus at Camp Wilson, I am
greeted with the traditional desert greeting. A blast of air that is akin to
opening the door of a blast furnace. Jeez this is going to really suck it feels
like a million degrees. All that talk about it being a dry heat is just
complete nonsense. It’s hot, just plain hot, and from the moment you get off
the bus to the moment you leave its geography, the desert is looking for anyway
it can to kill you. To turn you into another “example”. The popular and tragic
story around Camp Wilson is a young marine was set out to guard one of the road
intersections out on the ranges. The ranges of Camp Wilson give the word
desolation an entirely new meaning. It looks like the moon out there, no really
the moon, or the planet Mercury which is worser. The last truck which is set
out to pick up all the road guards doesn’t go all the way to where our young
Marine is standing guard. They leave him out there. While everyone is back
eating dinner and getting showers, and drinking beers this guy is out there
panicking and trying to walk back to Camp Wilson. He gets turned around,
probably because of dehydration, and he dies out there in the desert. They
don’t realize he’s missing till two days later. Of course by the time he’s
found it’s all over, the desert has made another “example” out of someone.
TRAINING AND OTHER
STUFF
We get settled into
our shelters for the day, and our training schedule begins. We’re setting up
tents, and our shock trauma equipment. Stretchers, monitors, oxygen, hang-down
bags filled with bandages, and assorted equipment designed to save life and
limb. Trauma care in the battlefield setting is focused on saving life and
limb. Tourniquets have once again come back into style. They definitely save
lives down range. Once one is placed you generally have six hours to reach
surgical care to save the limb. Tourniquets are not the end all be all though. Sometimes
it takes a combination of pressure dressings, tourniquets, and creativity to
get it all under control. One of my favorite ways to control hemorrhage is a
single point pressure. That basically means just plugging the whole with your
finger. It reminds me of the little Dutch Boy who sticks his finger in the
Dyke, but I digress. I’ve seen more than one person nearly bleed to death from
lack of proper hemorrhage control. The last guy, a young man was flown into our
Trauma Center from Sevierville he fell through a glass table severing his
brachial artery. By the time he got to us, he’d bled himself white. However, he
was still conscious, and because he was young and healthy, he compensated
wonderfully. Luckily, I talked the trauma resident into letting me start the
emergency release blood. However, on the way to surgery, I see Athena and
Daniel with this “look” on their faces. I look down at the patient, he’s unresponsive.
What’s going on? Uhh ohh. I check his carotid, and can’t feel anything. To
begin CPR, Daniel jumps over the guard rail up onto the stretcher and starts
cranking on the guys chest. Clearly, Daniel was a gymnast before his foray into
healthcare. Athena’s squeezing the blood in, and I’m steering this nightmare
down the hall, through the double doors into the main OR hallway. People are
literally jumping out of the way. They know a train wreck when they see one.
Magically, the doors to surgery open wide, and in we go and then it’s all one,
two, three on to the surgical table. At this point our young man is moaning and
Daniel stops CPR. I quickly give some semblance of report, and hand off the
rest of the blood. Couldn’t you have at least gotten him intubated, asks the
anesthesia provider? Well, at least he’s got a pulse now so I guess you’ve got
that to work with, I say gathering my equipment and beating feet out of their
“sterile” environment. Then we spend the next 45 minutes in OR Holding putting
the chart together and documenting, last I heard the kid made a full recovery.
FLIGHT LINE
Today, our training is taking place out at
the flight line. Not only do I hate the desert I hate the flight line. I
especially hate this flight line which is located out in the middle of the
Mojave Desert. The steel decking has the wonderful ability of reflecting heat
and “ultraviolent” radiation back from the ground. I like to think of the steel
decking as a force multiplier for heat stroke. Also, we are all kitted out in
Plate Carriers and Kevlar Helmets. This adds about 60 pounds or so to your
uniform. Also, the Armored Plates make you feel like a turtle, greatly
hindering mobility. It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just dislocate my
shoulders. Then I could access all the straps and buckles. You learn to make
do. I’m sweating, constantly sweating. When/IF you stop sweating you die, but
I’m still sweating so I’m good. We’re practicing loading and unloading on the
V-22 Osprey platform. The V-22 is a tilt rotor, vertical take-off airplane. The
Marines love anything that is vertical take-off. Vertical take-off makes long
runways obsolete. The V-22 can outperform any helicopter by a long shot and can
land almost anywhere a helicopter can land. However, it does kick up a lot of
dust, those rotor blades are not a joke. I’m talking like you better have your
goggles on, mouth shut, and be ready. It’s like walking into a sandstorm, with
you and 3 of your closest friends schlepping some poor guy strapped to a
stretcher. Luckily, today there is no rotor wash we’re working a static
display. We load and unload, working the clamps and getting used to the cramped
interior, the ramp is pretty steep and slick, all the nonskid paint has been
worn thin through use. It could be a lot worse.
After a few hours of
loading and offloading, news arrives that we’re getting a flight. We even get
to have a fake patient. Now we’re excited. Training opportunities of this
caliber are few and far between. In the NAVY patient transport is taken care of
by “The En Route Care Team”. The “Team” typically consists of a corpsman and a
nurse. They have to go through various trials, tribulations, inspections, and
embarrassing molestations to obtain their “flight status”. Once cleared they
are eligible for “The Dunker”. This consists of a day or so of water training
where they strap you into a fake cockpit and throw you into a twelve foot pool.
There you sit waiting, sinking to the bottom of the pool. Only when you’re
completely submerged upside down at the bottom of the pool are you allowed to
panic, grab, pull, and jerk your straps free and then crawl/swim your way to
the surface. OK, but what if it’s at night you ask? Well, of course the NAVY
has thought of this. You are also afforded the opportunity to do this little
maneuver repeatedly in black-out goggles. I think this entire course of
training is very similar to water boarding, or worse. Believe me, after this I
will tell you anything you ever wanted to know. If it will make you happy, I’ll
even make stuff up. Just please do not strap me into a cockpit and throw me
into the bottom of a pool. Needless to say, this training is very expensive,
difficult, and not everyone gets around to it.
PO Bentheredonethat, LT Newbie, HM3 Snacks, and
myself get strapped in and ready to go. Snacks is strapped into the litter,
which is secured to the side of the fuselage. Snacks is all smiles, he’s
never flown on the Osprey. Snacks has also never been stuck for an IV in an
airplane either, today he gets both. The plane taxies and then quickly gains
altitude pushing me back and to the left of my seat. Crew Chief said the Osprey
could pull some G’s, he was absolutely correct. I’m stuck to my chair, grinning
enjoying the ride, soon it levels out. Then Crew Chief gives me the thumbs up
signal we unbuckle and go to work. But it’s awkward, not only are we wearing
flak jackets and Kevlar helmets we’re also tethered to the fuselage. A thick
canvas belt is secured around our upper torsos, a long strap reaches out from
the back which is secured to the bulkhead. It’s easy to get tangled, I have to
readjust my tether to avoid this. I pull out my kit bag. It’s a mess, nothing
is where it should be. Note to self, rearrange everything to make it more user
friendly. I grab the emergency cricoid kit, Newbie starts pulling IV stuff
together, and Bentheredonethat quickly applies a tourniquet to Snack’s right upper
thigh. This is really basic stuff, but you gotta crawl before you can walk. The
Marines have a saying, “Be Brilliant at the Basics” take that to heart and run
with it. It’s a great way to organize your thoughts. Lighting is a bitch in the
craft, and my headlamp batteries are dead in the water, more notes to self. Luckily
I have a backup flashlight. Always carry two. Two lights, two sets of trauma
shears, two knives. Then when something goes wrong you have a back-up. This is
why we rehearse, to get the kinks smoothed out. I get the Cricoid Kit set up
and go to work. I’m not really going to cut a hole in Snack’s neck and shove
a tube in it, but I sure do act like I am, holding his throat, visualizing the
incision site, using the tools in the kit as if I was really doing it. To my
right, Newbie is getting the IV in, for real. I spike the bag and hand it to
her. After much work we get it secured and start his fluids. Snacks is still
smiling. We get about 30 minutes to work on Snacks before Crew Chief motions
for us to get back into our seats. Talking in the Osprey is pointless and
hearing anything is nearly impossible. The sense of touch is also compromised
if you’re wearing combat gloves. Patient care is definitely a challenge, but
I’ve already gotten some ideas. For example, plastic soda bottles make great
sharps containers. Also, the humble trash bag, can hold trash or vomit (the
Osprey makes pretty sharp turns). If possible, prepare your IV solutions prior
to transport. Magazine pouches make great IV equipment holders. There’s much to
learn and think about for sure. The landing is uneventful, we taxi to a halt.
The Crew Chief approaches me screaming and thrusting a map into my hands, “Go
to the right and down the hill.” He points at a building informing me this is
where I need to be. Off we go into the light.
MARINES CONFUSED
Out the back of the fuselage, between the
still whirling rotor blades into the middle of a boiling hot runway we descend.
Me, Newbie, Bentheredonethat, and Snacks still clutching his IV bag high over his
head. We must look like something crazy. “I can smell the ocean!” Newbie laughs
at me for some reason. We make our way over to a distant fire truck. I notice
distant fire breaks, and think we’re probably at Camp Pendleton. The Lance
Corporal in the truck jumps up out of his seat. Yes Sir, can I help you? Marines
are ridiculous. Ridiculously adherent to military courtesy. It’s pounded into
them during boot camp. I just roll with it and try to nice. I ask, Where
exactly are we? Your at blah-blah airfield at Camp Pendleton. Ohhh, that’s
nice. Thanks, I say and we continue our walk hoping to find this mysterious
building and get a ride back to 29 Palms which is many driving hours away.
Snacks still has his IV. We’re walking nonchalantly four abreast down this
dusty road. The LCPL calls out, Hey Sir, we need you back here Sir, our CO
wants to know what’s going on. I brief the LCPL, who in turn informs the CO.
Snacks, sits down and Bentheredonethat discontinues the IV. Almost immediately a
Marine sticks his head out of the truck and says, Hey can I get one of those?Everyone looks at me. Sure why not, and out he climbs. Do it quick Bentheredonethat. She
does. We get his IV going and the SLCPLIC
(senior lance corporal in charge) says, Hey they’re sending escorts to
get you. Crap! We hurry and get our gear together, making our way down the
runway. This runway is long and bleak, lacking any visible support structures.
No hangers, no towers nothing just a long stretch of concrete in the middle of
a vast nowhere of creosote bushes and scrub oaks desperately hanging on to life.
The sky is cloudless and bright sky blue. My eyes are squinting in all this
light, and sure enough I see a couple of Marines walking towards us from down
the runway. A couple of fuel trucks and a camo net are rigged up down there.
The PVT’s are staring at the ground not daring to make eye contact. We get to
the end of the runway where the trucks are and immediately the PFC’s retreat
into the background only to be replaced by a Marine Captain, who immediately
begins his interrogation. In my best smirk and southern drawl I proceed to
answer all his who, what, and what in the hell are you doing here questions.
When he is sufficiently placated I begin my line of questioning which begins,
So what are ya’ll doing out here? He tells me we’re the first plane he’s seen
all day, and they are out here to refuel planes and provide security for the
air strip. Cool, I reply. Reaching back into my memories of refueling, which is
mostly nothing at all I ask, so does that mean you’re the Fuel Daddy out here?
Perplexed, he stammers what? The fuel daddy you know, the guy in charge of
refueling. Snacks and Newbie are grinning busting at the seams wanting to
laugh but daring not to. The Captain changes the subject telling us to climb up
the hill and get under some shade. We comply. At the top we can see the length
and breadth of the runway, the distant mountains, and the unmistakable smell of
the Pacific. The breeze is welcome after being cramped in the stifling Osprey.
The Colonel and his XO come out to greet me, and I spend the next 45 minutes or
so talking with the Colonel about everything from V-22’s to ISIS, to the
abomination that is 29 Palms. I try to come off not too retarded, but from the
wide grins the XO is giving me I’m not too sure about my success. The Colonel though
seems to be pleased with my responses so I don’t think too much of it. We hear
the distant roar of the Osprey, and my team pops out from under the camo net
eager to get back. I excuse myself. We
make our way down the way too steep hill and onto the runway. The ride back is
only remarkable for it’s speed. We make it back to 29 palms in like 20 minutes.
The runway is still a boiling hot cauldron. Everyone is excited and chattering
away at the good training we’ve just had. We’re like a bunch of thrilled school
kids.
