by Marc Dauphin
Oh well. C’est comme ça.
1 In Canada, for the safety of patients, the radiologists have agreed to let us ER physicians use the ultrasound, ONLY if we conform to a strict protocol without deviating from it in any manner. This cardiac window is not a part of the protocol and exposes me to making a mistake. I am not a radiologist.
2 When using an Airtraq, you’re supposed to warm it up so that the patient’s body heat won’t fog up the window. But in Kandahar the air temperature is generally more than 37°C and thus, so are inanimate objects, so that was not an issue.
September
Suddenly it was mid-September and our replacements arrived. We were not due out for another month, but our replacements came early because they were untrained. The U.S. Navy was taking over from us and, unfortunately, they hadn’t had a Wainwright at which to mesh their people into a team. They came from all over the U.S. and had never worked with one another. Not only that, but they had to take over from us Canadians and had no corporate knowledge of the place. They had some fast skating to do.
Phil, Dave, and Cameron, an American ICU nurse, prepared a rigorous training schedule for them, based on the one from Wainwright. Every day, helped by the hospital staff, and especially Captain B, for ten to twelve hours, they put the new trauma teams through some tough training.
There were at that time an excess of 450 people working in the Role 3. It was impossible for me to know them all.
And, fortunately for us, the war seemed to die down for those three weeks. There were so few casualties coming through that some of the staff grew idle. There was even a day when the whole ICU was empty of patients. Yet when the end of the month came, the stats told us that September 2009, considered separately, would have qualified on any previous roto as the second-busiest month in all the Role 3’s history. I guess the human mind can get used to anything.
One day, I remember it was a Sunday, we were expecting some casualties and were waiting for the choppers. Rob was on his day off, and was busy outside in the sun (it was only in the high thirties), fixing the side windows on one of the hospital’s SUVs. I ambled over to see what he was doing and he asked, “What are you expecting?” To which I remember answering very casually, “Five Alphas.”
Awaiting six incoming. Weather as usual.
“Oh, you can handle that easy.”
He was right. Six months earlier, everybody would have been on edge.
We’d come a looong way, baby.
In early October my Canadian replacement, Brent, arrived. He was an ER doc so he caught on to our routine like a fish takes to water. I didn’t have much of a job at that point because Brent could handle those of my duties that devolved to him, and the two Americans also filling in could handle the others. So it was that I went with the CASEVAC boys for a few missions. They had been asking me for months. I’m AE qualified, and I can shoot, so I went. I knew my boss wouldn’t have let me go if I had told her the whole truth, so I fudged it a little. Hey, I had no more responsibilities so I felt like a kid again. No reason I shouldn’t act like one. And just to make sure she wouldn’t ask too many questions, I waited until she was really busy, then casually asked her, “Ma’am, is it okay if I go out for a helo ride with the boys?”
She hardly lifted her gaze from her work and said, “Yeah, sure.”
When I returned from six dust-off missions, she was waiting for me.1 Fuming mad. I’ll spare you the speech I got, but every word of it was deserved. I had acted irresponsibly. I had acted like a prima donna. I didn’t deserve a medal for my conduct. In fact, I merited a reprimand. She was right all the way. How would I have reacted if one of my staff had pulled a stunt like that? Then she concluded, “Oh, and damn you, I can’t stay angry at you!” and stormed off. I guess we had become comrades in every sense of the word. And Pierre Voyer, the DCO who had vouched for me, had taken the brunt of her anger. Thanks man, I owe you one.
It was mid-October. Dave was leaving the next day. I also packed up my stuff from the office; I’d be going in four days. Dave was waiting for me in the corridor. A pair of very young U.S. Navy nurses walked by and greeted us: “Good afternoon, sir.” I reply.
Dave asked “Who are they?”
I shrugged. I dunno. I guess they must be ours. There are just too many of them for me to remember them all.
I looked around. Everything seemed so different. I guess it was time to go. I looked at Dave. He shook his head and grinned. “Well, it’s over.”
I nodded. “Yup. It’s over.”
Then, both at the same time, “It’s been a hell of a ride, eh?”
We broke out laughing. When we left, we didn’t turn back.
Well, it was finally time to hand over to the Americans. Pierre Voyer was already gone because he had been posted away from Quebec, our home base, and had to take over his new command. So I took his place on the big handover parade. Almost four years of uninterrupted Canadian command was coming to an end. I felt the responsibility of what I was about to do.
During the ceremony, Colonel Savard signed off to the U.S. Navy CO, Captain Via. They hauled down the Canadian flag. Then I marched off the parade and the U.S. DCO2 marched on to take my place at the head of the troops.
It was time to pack up: my flight was scheduled to leave during the night.
I was so exhausted that I didn’t have the strength to make my goodbyes to everybody. I just packed up and left.
1 Many months later, Pierre Desrosiers, the Flight Medic I rode along with, told me we had done eleven hours’ flying in eighteen hours. I hardly remember anything from September on, so this is possible.
2 Ironically, the U.S. DCO, or in U.S. Navy parlance the XO (for Executive Officer), was a Canadian, Lieutenant-Colonel Chris Linford, who wrote a book, Warrior Rising, about his subsequent fight against PTSD.
Cyprus
The very name of the island with the troubled past was enough to keep me going all through the roto to urge me to make just a little more effort. Soon, Marc, you’ll be in Cyprus and it’ll all be over. Right now, give it just a little more. You can do it. Then you can rest.
I suppose that’s how marathoners do it. Or prisoners.
Well, there I was. I remember following the crowd into the civilian terminal after getting off the C-17. The smell is what I remember the most, that humid perfume of vegetation, so all-pervasive that I felt it on my skin, even under the sweat and my dusty uniform. They say that smell is the oldest, deepest, and most primitive of our senses. That morning, it wasn’t hard to believe. In fact, after six months of dry desert, dusty, shitty (mustn’t forget the nightly wafts of latrine odour), exhaust-filled, sandy, bloody, charred-flesh, rotting-flesh smells, that explosion of grass, flowers, trees, and damp earth was overwhelming. And there was no way to prepare for it. One minute I was on the plane in my dirty uniform, the next, my whole body was filled with all those glorious, delirious vegetation perfumes that my brain had forgotten and for which I wasn’t prepared. I remembered casualties from Afghanistan getting off the ambulance-bus in Landstuhl and marvelling at how green it was in Germany. Now I knew exactly how they felt.
Suddenly, I was on the bus, with enough space that I had my own seat. Then they were driving us along a paved road without any worry about IEDs. And there was all this normalcy around us, all those people doing their own thing, not staring at us. No one seemed afraid. And there were trees everywhere, and shade, and flowers, and shops with windows, and signs, and writing everywhere, and cars with no dents, and with all their lights and windows. It was all so civilized, all so sudden, that tears welled up in my eyes. It was good that I was sitting alone.
Then I got to the hotel. There’s no way for me to adequately describe the beauty of that two-storey-high wall of blooming flowers with its cascade of water. And then, inside the lobby, there were my comrades, on their way to Canada, still in uniform. They would be taking the bus I had just arrived in to the airport. They were all standing there, two rows of cheering, clapping-you-on-the
-shoulder friends, so happy to be going home after their four days of R&R in Cyprus. It was all so sudden, so unexpected, that my knees almost buckled under the emotion. And then I was talking with Dave. He’d been gone only four days, but it felt like an eternity. Then he was gone again. “Gotta go, Marc. Gotta catch my bus. Enjoy your stay. Relax. It’s all over now. You did good, man. See you soon.”
When I got to my hotel room, the first thing I did was open the window and turn off the A/C. Twenty-five degrees Celsius? That’s too bloody cold! Besides, I wanted to let all those glorious odours come in. I couldn’t get enough of them. I inhaled deeply as I walked out onto the balcony. My eyes were overwhelmed with greens and blues as I silently stared out at the sea. I looked at Dan, my roommate, and suddenly we were both laughing for nothing, still not believing that it was finally over, just happy to be there, to be out of the maelstrom. And to be alive.
I looked at my bed. I was almost overwhelmed by the urge to sleep, yet I was so used to denying myself that I just ignored it. I quickly showered, changed into civvies, and I was out of there. Gone. Exploring the world. First things first: lunch. And a beer.
Some of the troops I came in with were already at it. Some very seriously. Fortunately, on our plane, it was mostly older fellows: senior NCOs and high-ranking officers. So there would probably be no jumping off second-floor balconies at 0200. with a parasol to see if it acted like a parachute. There were few young troops in our group, so very little of that boisterous energy. Just old fellows like me, sitting quietly at their tables, conversing through monosyllables and grunts, their eyes fixed far, far away on a horizon that only they could see, and trying to forget.
Yup, it was hard to believe, but I was in Cyprus.
Home
It would only be a few more minutes before we landed, an hour at most. We had entered Canadian airspace. Soon I would be with Christine again. Everything seemed like a dream. But then, all of the past few days had been like a dream. Cyprus, the food, the chance to rest and just to wander around the town of Paphos, stopping whenever I felt like it, to eat or to have a beer. Well, now that was all over.
Soon I would see our new home. While I was over there, Christine had sold our house in Sherbrooke and moved us to Quebec City. She did all that unpacking by herself — one hell of a job. I was curious to see it.
Soon I would experiencing the cold. And rain. I hadn’t seen rain in more than six months.
I was startled as the intercom announced, “This is the captain speaking. We now have two escorts flying, one on each side of the plane. I will let them speak over the public address system.” People scrambled to the Airbus’s portholes to look out into the night. Sure enough, off each of the plane’s wings, a CF-18 was flying escort. Then one of the fighter pilots came on, distorted by static. I don’t remember his exact words, but they were in French. And when he said “you’re safe now,” it made me think of similar words we used to say to our casualties. Suddenly, an overwhelming sense of gratitude engulfed me like a tidal wave. After having cared for so many people, now someone was taking care of us. The reversal of roles was instant and brutal. Yet it brought an enormous sense of relief. It still brings tears to my eyes today. It was finally true. We had made it. It was over. The words keep repeating in my head, but they just didn’t seem to sink in.
As I waited for my baggage in Quebec City’s terminal, I could hear a brass band playing on the other side of the wall, and every time a soldier crossed over, there were cheers, loud cheers. I was so tired that I wished they hadn’t made such a fuss. Fortunately, my baggage was among the last on the conveyor belt, and the cheers were more subdued when it was my turn to come out.
The customs officer asked me if I had anything to declare. I felt like saying, “About a pound of dust in my lungs,” but he must have heard all the lame jokes, so I just shook my head and said no.
Then it was my turn to cross. There were still several hundred people there. Whole families — husbands, wives, children, mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, even grandparents — all brimming with enthusiasm. And there was Christine, all alone at the back of the crowd, timidly waving at me. The rest of my family had wanted to come with her, but she adamantly refused. Good woman. She knew what state of mind I’d be in. As we walked to the doors of the terminal, everything was a blur. My comrades who were on the plane gave me a final handshake or a final hug. Two of my nurses were crying.
Well, this is it, I thought. I am no longer your boss. In fact, I am now a captain once more. Just like in 1976, thirty-three years ago.
Some senior officers were present. Colonel Grondin, the CO of 4 Health Services Group, responsible for all the health care personnel of Eastern Canada, was there with his sergeant-major. My new boss at 5 Field Ambulance, Lieutenant-Colonel Steve Plourde, was also there. He had arrived while I was away. And Jimmy. Big Jimmy. He must have been in town for a few days only, and yet he was, there for us. Thanks, Jimmy, I don’t know how you do it. I wouldn’t have had the strength to come to the airport. I gave everything I had over there. There was nothing left.
A TV guy stuck his mike in my face. I put out a bland smile and answered with some platitudes about how happy I was to be home. My family would get to see me after all, if only on the local news. Then we were out the door and finally alone. My God! I had forgotten how cold it could be! In a few days, it would be November. And November in Quebec City is cold — very cold and very humid.
Soon I was home. It was overwhelming. Christine has gotten all our stuff unpacked and the apartment arranged perfectly. And suddenly, it felt like I never left. We were laughing and drinking wine as if I had just returned from a day at the clinic.
The next morning was beautiful, crisp, and sunny. We went out for a walk. My God, we were within a stone’s throw of where my grandparents used to live. Christine wanted to tell me all about our neighbourhood, but it was me who told her about how it had been fifty years before. And suddenly the memories were flooding back. I was no longer a war veteran, but a little boy telling her about how I used to skate right here while the loudspeakers would play the same song over and over again. “I’m gonna knock on your door, ring on your bell, tap on your window too …”
Aaron gave me that song while we were over there.
I could almost smell the snows of my childhood, under a heavy grey winter sky. My God, I had to go halfway around the world to come back to this place.
Return to Normal
Coming home was not easy.
In the first days after returning, I felt restless, irritated. People and things would get on my nerves. Can’t you do your f---ing job right? In Afghanistan, acting like that could have cost someone their life! The least little thing would set me off. Fortunately, I controlled myself and all most people got was a very dirty look. Plus, I realized that I had grown estranged from “normal” society. My brain told me that I was out of step, but my heart kept pulling me back to Afghanistan, saying over and over: this society is not normal. I felt I was the normal one, and the only place I would feel normal again was back over there, with my own people. Those in uniform. In those first few weeks, if you had offered me the chance to go back, I would have. At the drop of a hat. I felt that estranged in civilian Quebec.
I had no outlet for this pulsating, restless energy that wanted to come forth. Those first few days, I got to fixing our old computer, which Christine hadn’t been able to set up in our new apartment. Then, disaffected at the old thing, I just walked out and bought a new one. Once it was installed, I grew restless again. People got on my nerves: I couldn’t stand them. When I listened to the news, I grew angry: what a bunch of whining cry babies! Get a life! So I isolated myself from the others. I would spend hours that way, locked up in my office, away from society. I started playing Sudoku on the internet, trying to get the fastest time, then trying to lower my average time. The hours flew by and I didn’t care. This was out of character for me, as I had always tried to make each waking minute count. I felt like t
hose fellows in Hearts in Atlantis, ceaselessly playing cards while their lives were remorselessly running into a brick wall.
I just wanted my leave to be over with so that I could get back to work. With others in green. With my people; those who didn’t mind that I had been “over there,” but who also knew. When I was at work, we didn’t really talk about “over there,” but it was always there, unspoken and reflected in our thinking, in our way of doing things, of reacting to situations.
I quickly found out that alcohol would mellow all those emotions. And the more there was on board, the better I felt. Christine and I had always had an aperitif before dinner, and shared a bottle of wine during the meal. Seldom more. But now, after dinner, I would imbibe in the strong stuff: brandy, calvados, rum, and any one the three gentlemen from the South (Jack Daniel’s, Jim Beam, and Jose Cuervo). Anything to pack a wallop and calm that restlessness. I also noticed that I could talk all I wanted while drinking wine but that once I started on the hard stuff, it was better if I just shut up. Otherwise anger and an impatient absence of empathy would violently pierce through like the sun suddenly peeking through the clouds.
My nights were very restless. I had always enjoyed my dreams, and been amazed at how much imagination my brain had to come up with those weird situations, and all those beautiful images. But now, when I slept, I just went to a hostile place from which I awoke more tired than when I had gone to bed. Plus I didn’t remember what I had dreamed about, but I knew it was very unpleasant. I did have a few nightmares from which I would wake up with the classic heart-pounding, drenched-in-sweat terror, but fortunately not too many. They were just constant, unremembered bad dreams that made my nights an exercise-filled, toss-and-turn, uncomfortable time. It would keep Christine awake. A few times I kicked, punched, and squeezed her hard. Her sleep was now affected.
