The Heart's Shrapnel (11 page)

“Where do you think they’ll be holding them?” Ryan asks, his voice low once we are a safe distance away. We all hop into our vehicle, and I peer into the rearview mirror at Dylan.

“Somewhere near here . . . underground. Let’s fall back.”

Jane

I stare at the sight in front of me. Desert sand is everywhere, sprinkled with tents—some green, some brown. A few pine trees behind the tents provide the only hint of natural greenery—a sign of life and beauty in this forsaken land.

Security is tighter here, reassuring me that I’ll be safe—that we all will.

More trucks have arrived with our med equipment since this morning, and two more tents have been added for a total of seven that are used specifically for the mobile hospital. The others are for various other purposes.

Off to my right are two platoons of ground ambulances that will move the sick and wounded between the forward-deployed locations and here. The sick and wounded soldiers not returning to combat will be transported to specified hospitals in the United States. Everything and everyone has a function.

I’ve been here for the past four days helping with the setup. General Mayfield put me in charge of my unit, and I take pride in everything I do. It’s a high I’ve never experienced before. I’m even more confident in my decision to come.

Our location makes it easy to take incoming medevac helicopters as well as outgoing air force aircraft, making us more of the middleman.

A handful of young ladies work alongside me. They are also volunteers and nervous—something I can’t afford to be. I try to comfort them and assure them it’s going to be much like how they were trained, but I know that isn’t true.

I miss Lily and Mandy already and wonder daily what they’re doing and if they’re safe. As for me, I’m not allowed any outside communication—at least not yet. My phone call home will remain my secret.

Now that my supplies have arrived, I can set up my area. I walk into my tent and start unpacking. Just as I finish setting up my personal workstation, General Mayfield opens the tent flap and comes in. He peers around the area with a smile on his face.

Standing up straighter, I cross my arms behind my back. “Good afternoon, sir.”

He continues his inspection for a few more seconds before turning to me. “Very impressive, Summers. You’ll have no problem handling everything.”

I swallow hard. I’m just not so sure.

He walks up and stops a little too close for comfort and places his hand on the side of my arm. It’s unexpected and unnecessary. Then he stares at my mouth long enough to make me uncomfortable, and my body crawls with disgust.

“I promise you won’t see anything here you wouldn’t come across in an OR.”

That leaves out nothing,
I think to myself.

“But, if it gets too much, you can always transfer back to Baumholder,” he assures me.

Why is he telling me this? Isn’t he the one who requested me? How he thinks he can make such a promise is beyond me, but his words about being able to go back to Baumholder are comforting.

“Thank you, sir.”

He grins and rubs his hand along my arm a few times before finally letting go. It’s unnerving. I instantly back away and start messing around with my station in hopes he takes the hint to leave.

“I just came by to check on the progress and to let you know I won’t be here every day as I have other obligations. But, periodically, I will be in the tent on location when you first enter here. Let me know if you ever need anything, Jane. My door is always open to you.” He winks and walks toward the entrance.

I’m left frozen in place. Did he call me by my first name? No one here ever calls anyone by their first names and army personnel made it clear on the first day we arrived in Germany they wouldn’t. I’ll have to make sure I keep busy and stay far away from him. Something isn’t right about that man.

“Oh, wait, sir,” I scurry to the doorway of the tent, halting him.

He looks back expectantly.

“Can I expect more surgeons?”

He cocks a brow. “Ms. Summers, you are the surgeon for your tent. I believe there is also a surgeon or two elsewhere. Not to mention a few doctors. In the event of an attack, you’ll all just have to pull through. Have a nice day.”

He leaves in his vehicle, and I watch him drive away until he’s out of sight. I blink and realize I haven’t taken a breath since he drove away.

I’m the only surgeon in my tent?

“Dear, God,” I whisper.

***

The hospital tent is finally finished enough to where it is fully functional. I cross my arms and admire our handiwork. I wrap the ladies on my staff in a big hug, and we all burst into a fit of giggles. They say a fully manned CSH (Combat Support Hospital) has a staff of 600, and we are probably only a third of that with a little over forty beds in my tent alone. I’m sure that number has to do with the severity of the situation.

“We can do this,” I tell them. I’m in charge of these women, and I can’t afford to have them see me any different.

A benefit of being a surgeon in charge of my own CSH unit is the on-site living quarters where I will stay with others who are in charge of various things. Sure, it’s a tent, but the support staff is forced to stay somewhere off the site because of the lack of space.

Today is my first official day on the job, and adrenaline pumps through my veins. I step outside my tent and take in the crisp morning air. The sun hasn’t risen, reminding me it’s early and I still haven’t had my coffee.

I walk into the DFAC, also known as the “dining facility,” and make my way to the coffee cups. They fixed up this place rather nicely for a simple place to sit down and rest. We’re all numbered by groups. Group one eats at noon, group two eats at twelve thirty, and so on. I’m assigned group two. Breakfast consists of sausage, eggs, bacon, and grits. It’s more than I thought we’d get. Lunch is never anything special. In fact, I’ve only eaten lunch once—on my first day of setting up. Since then, I’ve waited until dinner when the meal always seems to be the best.

I grab my cup, take a welcome sip of hot coffee, and head over to set up my station for the day.

Penny, a cute, jovial blonde, greets me as I walk in. I’m surprised to see her this early as I’ve usually been the first to arrive every morning since I got here.

“Have you heard we’ll start getting patients this morning?” she asks as she glances at her notebook and pushes her red glasses higher on her nose.

“Yes, I have. We are finally ready to help the rest.”

“Yeah, the colonel stopped me as I went outside earlier this morning for breakfast. I think his name is Tom Weathers.” She bites her bottom lip. “Anyway, he wanted me to tell you to suit up and get ready for our first official day.”

“Okay, well, I’d better make sure we have what we need. I’ll need you to let the staff know what’s going on as they arrive,” I order.

“Yes, ma’am.” Penny heads to the entrance of the tent, and I follow to check the instruments before heading to my work station.

Once they arrived and spoken with Penny, I go to them and give my unit of five women the rundown of what I expect from them today and in the days to come. All are eager to get started. I understand their excitement, but being a surgeon, I've learned that it takes just a moment for everything to go south. It’s nothing like the movies.

The nurses receive their instructions and head to their stations. I check to make sure they each have their basic instruments, remind them of the extra equipment in the back if they need it, and to call me immediately if they receive a patient who needs immediate, direct care.

***

Not even fifteen minutes later, our first patients arrive. To say that they weren’t who I thought they would be would be is an understatement.

Four Afghan locals grace the arms of two soldiers. The nurses and I could do nothing for a few moments but stare at each other in shock. When I thought about taking care of wounded soldiers, I didn’t envision it would be the citizens of this country. Then, one day you find yourself taking care of only them. But, it doesn’t matter. They’re people just like us, and they’re being mistreated by hateful terrorists. I’m a surgeon, and it’s my responsibility to treat everyone as equals.

Penny gets straight to work. “Amber and Chelsea. You take these two right here.” The soldier holding up the two locals takes them over to where Penny designated. “Jean and I will take this one,” she says to me and both girls assist the patient to his bed.

“Cause of Injury?” I ask the soldier.

“Car accident. From what they told us, they were being followed and harassed by a few Taliban.” The last local in question nods his head and mumbles in a language I don’t understand. It occurs to me I may need to learn their language. It certainly would help.

This one is in rather serious shape. I’m surprised he’s even standing, but then again, the soldier who has him is quite built.

“I’ll take this one,” I say to the soldier.

He nods. “Where do you want him?”

“Over here.” I walk him over to my station and pull back the blanket to allow the soldier to set the man down. The injured man groans in pain while grabbing at his side. Blood gushes onto the cot and spills on the floor. Whatever did this pierced him all the way through.

I leave him just long enough to wash my hands and put on gloves. When I finish, I let the soldier know I won’t need him any longer, and he and the other soldier leave.

The man in front of me is now rocking in pain. “Sir, you need to keep still,” I warn him. It’s no use. He doesn’t understand me, and I don’t understand him. It looks like medicine is the best route.

Grabbing an alcohol pad, I clean the crease of his elbow the best I can without hurting him any more than he already is. I have to put most of my weight on him to keep his arm still. His eyes follow the IV and the drugs combat that pain and help him relax.

I put the IV aside, wrap his arm with a rubber band and press on his arm to find a vein. None pop up enough to use and so I tap my fingers over it to draw up some blood. It works, and I grab the IV catheter needle again. After I insert it, I carefully place surgical tape over it to keep it from slipping out.

Once that’s done, I give him a saline flush and then attach the IV tube. I hang the bag above his bed and prepare a syringe with 10mg morphine mixed with 9ml sodium chloride. After it’s inserted through his IV, I do another saline flush to prevent clotting and to keep it sterile.

The next hour goes by in a whirlwind as I sew up the man’s wounds and keep him from losing more blood. Suffice it to say, the surgery went well. He’s heavily sedated and should be able to leave in about a week once he’s healed. Being that we aren’t a big hospital, we can’t keep people here. Right now, it’s fine because we aren’t heavy in combat, nor do we have heavy casualties from neighboring areas.

My outfit is drenched in the man’s blood.

“How’d everything go?” I check on Penny and her patient while Chelsea gathers up the tools to clean them.

“Fine. He only suffered some bruised ribs and had some deep cuts that needed stitches,” she informs me as she goes to the sink to wash her hands. “All in all, I’d say he’ll be able to leave tonight.”

“Okay, I’ll make arrangements for him to be taken back. You all did well,” I announce so the other nurses can hear.

They smile broadly at the compliment. They should be proud. This by no means is easy work. Having the skills is one thing; having the tolerance is another.

It’s even hotter than I remember this morning as I leave the tent. Others leaving the DFAC after lunch reminds me that I need to eat, but I have to schedule a vehicle to take that patient home tonight.

I walk along the rough terrain. My boots are covered in dust. Had this been my place of employment back home, this type of hygiene would not be allowed. But, over here, this is as sanitary as it gets, I’ve quickly learned.

On my way to a ground ambulance, I spot three American soldiers lounging against a military vehicle laughing and carrying on. I wonder why they’re here, and my thoughts jump immediately to Phillip. Where is he? Is he safe? What is he doing right now? I shouldn’t care. He’s not mine to care about, and I’ve already played this game with another man. Still, I’m curious.

“Excuse me.”

The men don’t hear me as they continue with their chatter.

“Excuse me,” I repeat a little louder.

Nothing.

“Hey!” I shout again, and the soldiers immediately cease talking. All eyes face my direction.

“Oh sorry, miss,” one soldier apologizes while he leans away from the vehicle. He walks closer to me until I can smell the sweat running down his body. Like the other two, he’s got dark rings around his eyes—possibly the flu. The man is impossibly tall and bulky.

“I’m Jane Summers, a surgeon here. Are you here to be looked at?”

Two of the three nod.

“Just me and Cut.” I look behind him to see who Cut is. A shorter man with jet black hair waves his hand.

The other man speaks up. “I’m Joe. I just volunteered to take these crybabies in for a checkup. I won’t need any medical assistance.” Joe is covered in tattoos. In fact, I bet his whole body aside from his face is plastered with them. But he still gives off that good-guy vibe.

“Nice to meet you, Joe, and you guys, too. Joe, I would feel a lot better if you got looked at, too. The flu isn’t something to trifle with. Why don’t you go on over to tent number 3 right there.” I point. “The nurses just finished with some patients. Go ahead and tell them I sent you and will be in a bit later to check on things, Okay?”