For Life, and For Peace

Taking a little break for the holidays, but first wanted to post a few photos that seem appropriate at this time.

Whatever our faith, all around the world we use this season to celebrate life. We who are blessed to live those lives in freedom owe special honor to those who gave their lives to secure our liberty -- from 1776 to the present.

In an epoch where untimely death seems to surround us, we must realize that we have the power to conquer -- certainly not death itself, but perhaps deaths of the most horrific, premature kind: from six-year old children, to young men and women on the battlefield; on our nation's highways, on our city streets, and in healthcare and elderly facilities.

We, the people of the world, do have the power to bring peace on earth. We only need to try a bit harder.

Happy Holidays, and best wishes for a peaceful New Year.

A section of Arlington National Cemetery, Va., shows a fraction of the

110,000 wreaths placed at the graves of fallen service members during

Wreaths Across America, Dec. 15, 2012.

A member of the U.S. Army Honor Guard, 3rd U.S. Infantry Regiment, carries a

wreath donated by Wreaths Across America at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier

at Arlington National Cemetery in Arlington, Va., Dec. 15, 2012.

Marine Corps Staff Sgt. Michael A. Cornelio pays respect after placing a

wreath at a grave marker during Wreaths Across America at Arlington National

Cemetery in Arlington, Va., Dec. 15, 2012. Cornelio is assigned to Marine

Cryptologic Support Battalion on Fort Meade, Md.

 

Our Tank

This is an Abrams tank:

This is a United States Marine:

This is what an Abrams tank can do to an automobile:

Imagine what an Abrams tank could do to a Marine. Gruesome, eh? But maybe you don't know Marines like we did in Navy Medicine. Maybe you never met our Tank.


Tank arrived at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, MD in the very first wave of injured Marines from Operation Iraqi Freedom in the spring of 2003. Tank was not his real name, but it's how we came to know him, and how we introduced him to the Commander-in-Chief when he visited his wounded Marines. Among the early American heroes from that conflict, Tank epitomized the toughness and resiliency of the men who had gone into harm's way.

We named our poster Marine  after the U.S. combat vehicle that caused his injury. During a short break from sustained operations, Tank dozed against a mound of warm Iraqi sand. By design, his desert camouflage uniform blended into the terrain. The driver of the maneuvering vehicle never saw his comrade in arms. As one track of the Abrams ran over Tank's body at pelvic level, the sand absorbed enough of the crush that he sustained only reparable injuries, a fractured pelvis and ruptured bowel.

Thanks to emergency surgery on the battlefield and in forward deployed hospitals, Tank survived the initial trauma. Just a few days after the mishap, he arrived at Bethesda with a repaired bowel and temporary colostomy, bedridden from the fractured pelvis.  Physically and emotionally, he remained in combat. 

This indomitable Marine did not wallow in his rack. He soon overcame the restriction to bed, got up on crutches, and made daily rounds on the ward where about 30 wounded Marines recovered from a variety of injuries. "Oo-rah, Marine," he would say. "Look at me. If I can survive, and walk, so can you!"

In the nearly ten years since Tank returned from the battlefield, thousands of Marines and soldiers did survive their wounds, and got on with their post-traumatic lives -- attacking their disabilities with the same spirit as they did the enemy at arms. 

Military medicine rightly touts the advanced trauma care and sophisticated technology that have resulted in the best survival rates of any modern war. In truth, those are just adjuncts to the primary healing force we saw on that ward: Tank and other Marines who refused to quit, refused to consider themselves disabled, and rallied each other to health.

I recall another recovering young Marine's immediate response when asked where he wanted to go for convalescent leave upon discharge from acute care in the late spring of 2003:

"Bagdad!"

Semper Fi, Marines!

A Different Badge of Courage

YOKOSUKA, Japan (Nov. 20, 2012) Operation Specialist 2nd Class Barrett Lafferty, from Grapevine, Texas, greets his newborn child after the aircraft carrier USS George Washington (CVN 73) returned to Yokosuka, Japan. George Washington and embarked Carrier Air Wing (CVW) 5 provide a combat-ready force that protects and defends the collective maritime interest of the U.S. and its allies and partners in the Asia-Pacific region. (U.S. Navy photo by Mass Communication Specialist Seaman Brian H. Abel/Released)

The photo above packs more than pathos into a single image.  

Among sailors, it tells a familiar story. Whenever a Navy ship returns to home port, some seagoing dads meet their newborn children for the first time. Absent complications, deployed dads don't get to leave the ship and go home for the birth of their children. That Navy fact of life struck me as odd when I was a newly commissioned Navy medical officer. But I learned that to "provide a combat-ready force that protects and defends the collective maritime interest of the U.S. and its allies and partners"  requires the constant presence of sailors sworn to protect and defend. Keeping that oath often requires absence from home and family for a gamut of life's milestones, including the birth of one's own child -- first or otherwise.

Under current operational tempo, sometimes those children aren't so newborn by the time Daddy finally gets to sprint down the ship's brow and sweep the infant into his arms. Yet these scenes always bring joy to our hearts and tears to our eyes. 

A deeper story exists in the photo above: the location is Yokosuka, Japan, the headquarters of the U.S. 7th Fleet and many of the Navy ships forward deployed to protect and defend. Two tours of duty in Yokosuka marked the highlights of my Navy career. Among the benefits of those tours, I learned about the resiliency, commitment, and outright courage of our Navy's young sailors and their spouses.

Imagine being a 19-year-old (or even a 25-year-old) recently married woman. Such is your love and commitment to your sailor-husband that you've accompanied him half-way around the world to an unfamiliar country where not only the language but even the alphabet presents a mystery. Behind in the U.S., you left your parents, siblings, close friends, extended family -- the entire support group on which you would otherwise rely for that blessed event, the birth of your first child. 

Did you know when you said "I do" that you would bring that baby into the world in a foreign land without any of the traditional helpers, not even the father of your child? Your husband went through boot camp and other training to prepare for his deployment on the gray ship that took him away for months -- not long after you arrived in Japan. Who trained you for the challenges of birthing your first baby away from everyone you love?

On the brighter side, the Naval Hospital and the Navy community in Yokosuka rise to help meet that challenge, and make a positive experience under the circumstances. I've heard that the community support makes Yokosuka a good place to have babies. True that. But it does not minimize the courage and endurance of our young Navy couples and their families. And that's why it is good to highlight the photo of one such family, each of whom -- mom, dad, and baby -- deserve to be called American heroes. Without their willingness to make personal sacrifices to support the sailor's oath to protect and defend, the 7th Fleet would not have sailors in Japan, and the U.S. Navy would fail in its mission to support one of our nation's most important alliances.

At the end of his tour, someone will pin a well-deserved medal on that sailor's chest. No such award will be given to his wife, the mother of his child. Perhaps she doesn't need a medal. Perhaps she knows in her heart that she has done her part, contributed to the mission, and will be justly proud of her own service to our Navy and our nation. 

At at time when we give thanks and celebrate family, let us honor all Navy spouses -- men or women -- who sacrifice and give so much to our Navy and our nation. 

Bonded in Blood

Today marks the 237th birthday of the United States Marine Corps; and tomorrow (not Monday) is Veterans Day. In honor of those two events, I've reworked some prior posts to reflect on the deeper meaning of these two events:
 
Two Latino-Americans grew up in the Texas Hill Country, not far from each other, and both entered military service soon after high school. Staff Sargeant Alameda, USMC, and Hospitalman (HN) Alvarez, USN (not their real names) became  friends when both were assigned to a Marine Corps Logistics unit just prior to Operation Iraqi Freedom (OIF). Staff Sergeant Alameda was a regular Marine. HN Alvarez was a Navy hospital corpsman assigned as medical support to that Marine unit.

Navy Medicine provides health care to the Marine Corps, which owns no intrinsic medical assets. Navy doctors, dentists, nurses, medical service corps officers, and hospital corpsmen assigned to the Marines wear Marine Corps uniforms, drill and exercise with their Marines, adhere to the same physical standards -- fully integrating into the units they support. The most revered relationship is that of a hospital corpsman to his Marines. Every Marine depends on his Doc to be prepared to save his life or limb.

Which one is the Doc?

In the early days of OIF the two friends traversed southern Iraq, miles behind the initial assault. The unit had stopped for rest and chow. Diving into his MRE, Staff Sergeant Alameda strolled around his vehicle. A sudden, deafening explosion rocked the area, quickly followed by a primal scream. The young Marine had stepped on a concealed Iraqi land mine. He lay in agony on the sand, blood gushing from the remant stump of a leg blown off.

"CORPSMAN UP!" Hospitalman Alvarez, as any corpsman would do, rushed to the aid of his fallen comrade, mindless of his own personal safety. As he knelt beside the victim, another explosion scrambled the scene, the primal scream coming from HN Alvarez himself. His knee had detonated another concealed mine, whereupon he became not the rescuer, but the second casualty to lose a leg.
 
Thanks to the most sophisticated and capable field trauma care in military history, both amigos were medevaced to a nearby emergency resuscitative surgery site. They underwent immediate life-saving operations to control bleeding from their traumatic amputations. Then they were air lifted out of Iraq to the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany, where they received secondary definitive surgery. Within three days of the initial explosions, the two comrades in arms arrived at the National Naval Medical Center (NNMC) in Bethesda, MD. They were two of the first four OIF casualties received there.

Even though ensconced in a hospital room thousands of miles from the war, both were still in combat -- emotional and physiological. The support they gave to each other in those first few days, and that given from fellow Marines, aided them in that battle. Both survived their initial wounds, and ultimately wore state-of-the art-prostheses. If you passed either of them on the street six months after their injuries, you would not recognize him as an amputee.

Once he recovered from his injuries, newly promoted Hospital Corpsman Third Class (HM3) Alvarez elected to stay in the Navy and requested orders to NNMC Bethesda. He wanted to continue caring for wounded Marines.

The year after his knee hit that land mine, he and his spouse (also a corpsman) were honorees at the annual Hospital Corpsmen Ball, ill at ease sitting at a head table with a Navy Medical Corps Captain and his equally uncomfortable spouse.

The HM3 didn't feel particularly worthy of all the honor and attention. He never considered himself a hero. He was just the Doc taking care of a wounded Marine.

Similar scenes occurred thousands of times since OIF began in early 2003, and will recur as long as any conflict involves Marines going into harm's way. Their Doc will always be with them, ready to do whatever it takes to care for that Marine.

Without doubt, one of life's higher callings.

Semper Fi, Marines!