Update IX

There is a sound that wounded children make, it is not a cry and it is not a moan. It's a sort of trilling coo of pain. It is not less heartbreaking for all of that. And with the trilling of that sound echoing in my ears, it is time for another Update.

This week has been eventful in ways minor and major. I completed my semester of school, so that is pleasant. The slightly less than a month break that I now have stretching in front of me looks like fun. Margaret and I, over the phone, managed to take apart two computers, consolidate their innards and come out the other side with a working single computer. She is to be congratulated on her deftness and quick wits. If you get the chance, you see.

And I had the unfortunate duty of telling a Commanding Officer that his man had died. That was a bigger one. I'll tell you the story. I came into work, as usual at about 2200, (10PM). There was a flight on the board, by which I mean a flight had been called for to help someone, an American Marine who it said was a double amputee. The call came in just moments before I did and was being written on the board as I entered. The poor fellow had been an Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) Marine. He was in the middle of a minefield, or something like a minefield, disposing of something hazardous, when he was blown up. They called for helicopter assistance to get him to the hospital, but due to the area, the helicopter could not land. After about 50 minutes they finally got him to a location where the bird could land, but by then it was too late. He had already passed.

I was working on other things for most of the time, but when his Commanding Officer came in, about ½ an hour into the wait, I spoke to him, got the patient's information and discussed the situation. We did not yet know, as it had not yet happened, what was holding up the flight. After we found out, in the Operations section where I work, I had about 10 minutes more work to do on other things. When I went to go into the Emergency Department (ED) I crossed through the little overhead covered area between the two buildings and the Commanding Officer and Senior Enlisted Member from the deceased's command were standing outside. As I came out they asked me, "What's going on? Is he on his way? What's the hold up?" I realized no one had told them yet and I said, "Sir, I am very sorry to have to tell you, but your Marine did not make it. The helicopter could not land in time." They had all known the fellow well and were all shocked and pretty devastated. I felt terrible for having to be the one to tell them.

In the Hospital we call these guys, the ones who do not make it home, Heroes. (As in, "Did you get the Social on the Hero that came in last night?") They used to be called Angels, but that term has been phased out. I like Hero better. I think that, if there is a definition of the word it would include a person who dies carrying out their duty. I know that, as I was raised, dying in the cause of Freedom is a great honor. It makes me wish that Valhalla was real, a place for Heroes; a hall of drinks and food and revelry for all these Heroes to go to. The Vikings knew what they were about.  

The children whose coos of pain I mentioned at the outset are here because of a fire. They have burns all over their little bodies. I don't know the circumstances of the fire, I can't imagine, really. But I know that they look like… does anyone know the Disney cartoon The Water Babies? They look like the opposite, The Cinder Babies. Adorable, but they make your insides churn, not with disgust, but with the painful knowledge that hurt children bring to us all: The world allows this.

In other, brighter thoughts: I noticed this week that next month is the half-way point. On the 12th I will have been here 3 months, on the fllowing 12th I will have been here 2/3rds of the time, then it is just to make it through March and I am nearly home. It will go quickly after the holidays and I hope to see you all before long.