After the Medevac
I woke again as the helicopter landed, and even as the blades still whined overhead soldiers ran towards us. I was lifted out first, and the two soldiers bent low as they carried me, racing across the gravel to a waiting gurney. I knew I was at a Combat Support Hospital, the modern version of M*A*S*H that was made famous by the TV comedy series. I had in fact intended to spend some time here later in the year, but as an observer, not a patient.
Unlike the TV show, there was no laughing in here. As I was wheeled into the Emergency Room a soundtrack of pain greeted me; moans and groans, whimpering, the odd scream, and plenty of swearing and shouting. I was still face down on the stretcher, and the ER floor was covered in blood-soaked camouflage uniforms, cut from patients with surgical scissors, lying where they were dropped.
As soon as my stretcher stopped moving I was surrounded by a horde of professionals. Nurses began to strip me, one cutting off my trousers while another removed my watch, ring, etc. At the same time someone was furiously forcing needles into my arms. And all the while I was reciting the same coded litany as those other wounded soldiers around me who could talk for themselves. “A pos (my blood group), NKDA (no known drug allergies), 3/71 CAV (the unit I was last embedded with).” On and on it went. They pumped a lot of morphine into me, but it turns out I have a high tolerance. I kept hearing people say, “He’s still not out, give him some more” and stuff like that. Eventually I was told I was going into surgery, not to worry, they would keep me alive. And then everything went ………………….
Waking up, I wondered where I was. My head was fuzzy, and all I could hear was an incessant rhythmic beeping. As my blurred vision receded and the room came into focus, I realised I was in a hospital. Now, I thought, what am I doing here. Then came the panic. I couldn’t remember anything, and worse, I couldn’t move. I tried to lift my head, but it wouldn’t budge. I tried again, harder, and relief flowed through me as it rose slightly. I could see my arms now, with tubes running from both. I twitched my fingers and I saw them move too, even if it was weakly. OK, I’m not completely paralysed. Then I concentrated on my legs, and feet. I thought I could feel my toes wiggle, but I couldn’t see them, and I was aware that amputees often suffer from phantom limbs, believing they can still feel arms or legs that are no longer there. Fear washed over me again, and as my heart raced so the beeping became faster on the machine beside my bed. A nurse appeared, alerted by the sound. I asked her where I was. In the Intensive Care Unit at Bagram Air Field, the main US base in Afghanistan. And then it flooded back. Damn, I’d been shot. The nurse explained that the bullet had entered the left side of my chest, just missing my heart, and had torn open my colon, cut my diaphragm, damaged my spleen, and then exited my back. The hole in my lower chest was the size of a penny, but she told me the hole in my back was the size of the palm of my hand. Because of the damage to my intestine I had been given a colostomy, and I was on a ventilator in case the damage to my diaphragm caused my lung to collapse.
I spent four pain-filled days in the ICU in Bagram. I was visited by a General, who handed out Purple Hearts to other soldiers like I’d seen candy handed out to Afghan kids. But there was no medal for me, just a firm handshake, and the thanks of the American people for risking my life so that they could know what their soldiers faced. I wish I could have talked more with the General, but I was hit by a new spasm of pain, and he squeezed my hand again, and said he’d leave me to rest, as I was obviously having pain-management issues. What an understatement.
After midnight on the fourth day, when I was stable enough to fly, I was loaded onto a cargo plane with other wounded soldiers. We were strapped down to our stretchers, and then locked onto shelving units either side of the fuselage. Like all military planes I have travelled on, this one was utilitarian inside, which meant it really did feel like I was cargo rather than a wounded passenger. The only light was a dim red glow, which added an eerie feel to the whole experience. Before take-off a crew member moved among us, handing out air-sick bags. He told me that the takeoff would be tough, because they had to do a combat lift. Now I’ve been through this before, flying in Iraq, and I knoew exactly what he meant. The plane takes off and then banks hard, turning in tight circles like a corkscrew, gaining altitude while minimising exposure to rocket attack. It is very tough on the stomach at the best of times, but I had just undergone major internal surgery, and I was dreading the pain if I had to puke. I lay on my elbows, facing down on my stretcher, and I swore to God I wasn’t going to be sick. Many were, but not me. Not allowed, nor even able, to get off my stretcher, the 8 hour flight to Germany was uncomfortable, and I slept as much as I could.
Landing at the US Landstuhl Regional Medical Centre (LRMC), I was loaded onto a converted bus, again with apparatus fitted to hold stretchers. It was as though I was in a bad IKEA dream. A short drive, over far too many speed bumps for a hospital road, and then a crowd of soldiers swarmed as the doors opened. I was hoisted out, and in no time at all I was off the stretcher, and in a gleaming room. I had my first hit of morphine for hours, and immediately the pain retreated. And then, like an angel, my girlfriend appeared. The military had informed her I would be arriving in Germany, and arranged for her to get visitor’s access. With my brother, she had made the trip the night before, and had been waiting since the dawn for my arrival.
I spent 9 days in Germany, in the care of amazingly dedicated doctors and nurses. Other patients came and went, with wounds that varied from small shrapnel punctures to multiple amputations. Some of the cases were horrific, and heart-breaking, and all the time I felt my amazement grow that I had survived with wounds that should heal completely. And then, as I began to believe everything was going to be ok, there was another blow. A large blood clot was found in the cavity the bullet had left in my abdomen, and suddenly I was being rushed for emergency surgery. Not though, before the Catholic priest had given me the Last Rites, which I am sure was meant to be comforting, but in fact had the opposite effect. I survived the latest drama, but now I had an open wound in my back, as the Doctors were afraid another clot could occur.
Finally I flew home to London, where I was immediately admitted into yet another hospital. Here I ran into some good fortune. I had been referred to a British Army surgeon, a specialist in gunshot wounds, who had in fact been deployed to Afghanistan in 2006. He is a fantastic Doctor, and especially supportive because he understands the circumstances I have been through. Unlike other surgeons who predicted 12 to 18 months of recovery, he told me that he would remove and reverse the colostomy as soon as possible. This lifted my spirits immeasurably, as the sooner I was finished with surgery the sooner I could start regaining my strength properly. He also spent some time talking to me about the ambush, drawing out the smallest detail. He asked me how I was sleeping, if I had any bad dreams or intrusive memories. Not so far, I said, but I have read plenty about the warning signs of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), and I will be vigilant.
He sent me home after 5 days in hospital, and at home I slept a lot. My small reserves of energy evaporated swiftly, and my body demanded rest. My plans to read and write through my convalescence were thwarted. Instead I struggled to concentrate for more than a few minutes at a time. I was told that this is normal, and as my body recovered from the trauma the need for sleep would subside.
I returned to hospital mid July, exactly 8 weeks after the ambush, to undergo more surgery. This was to reverse my colostomy, and it was successful, though immensely painful, again. My Doctor told me that with the right exercise regime, and commitment to it, I would be back on my feet in 3 or 4 months. He said it would be tough, and I wouldn’t enjoy it, but getting back to work, and Afghanistan, was my motivation.