{"id":896,"date":"2014-12-15T14:40:27","date_gmt":"2014-12-15T19:40:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/newplum\/?p=896"},"modified":"2025-02-28T07:53:44","modified_gmt":"2025-02-28T12:53:44","slug":"blame-it-on-bad-luck","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/blame-it-on-bad-luck\/","title":{"rendered":"Blame It On Bad Luck"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/small>\u00a0<\/small>\u201cHow long are you back for?\u201d It was a question I would be asked a million and one times. \u201cAre you home for good?\u201d was only asked about half a million. \u201cNo,\u201d I would tell them. \u201cI\u2019m only home for about two weeks. I go back at the end of the month.\u201d Their faces would sink, a look of pity mixed with disbelief. \u201cYou mean you actually have to back there<\/em>?\u201d I would smile and reassure them, \u201cI do. I don\u2019t want to think about it, I\u2019m home now.\u201d<\/p>\n

Two weeks out of the entire year I was a free man. I could do just about anything I wanted within that time. I drank, I smoked, and I thought. I thought a lot. Those nights, if I didn\u2019t pass out first, I would be up going over every detail of where I was, where I wasn\u2019t, and where I just came from. Afghanistan, a country whose name had become a taboo in my small social circle back home in Greenfield, Massachusetts. Often replaced by the term, \u201cover there\u201d or simply, \u201cthere.\u201d The thought that I didn\u2019t have the right to be having the time of my life hung heavy on my mind. I knew my brothers and sisters were still over \u201cthere\u201d and things wouldn\u2019t be easier on them just because I wasn\u2019t \u201cthere.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow many people do you think you\u2019ve killed?\u201d Ryan, my friend of almost ten years, asked one night at the dingy bar we chose at random. By that point, I was only two drinks in, more than I had all year, and I felt it. \u201cThere\u2019s really no way to tell,\u201d I would say to him every night we went out (which was every<\/em> night). \u201cThe way battles are fought nowadays, you hardly ever see the guys shooting at you. Besides, I\u2019m just Doc, the medic.\u201c I would come to discover the idea that war isn\u2019t like what you see in video games and movies is surprisingly new to most people. \u201cWell,\u201d he said before taking a swig of his stout. He leaned in a closer, and put his arm around my neck, an attempt to lessen the seriousness of the next question. \u201cHow many people have you treated?\u201d \u201cToo many, but it\u2019s what I wanted to do over there.\u201d I felt the flush of annoyance creeping up my neck slowly, and changed the focus to the Celtics losing on TV. I knew people had questions, it\u2019s only natural to wonder about something you\u2019ve never experienced, but I was home<\/em>. For two weeks, I wasn\u2019t in Afghanistan, I wasn\u2019t a soldier, and I wasn\u2019t over \u201cthere\u201d anymore.<\/p>\n

There were a few days left of leave, and I meant to make the most of them. I tried to think of things to do that would remind me of the pre-army days. \u201cLet\u2019s go to the movies, I haven\u2019t seen anything new in too long.\u201d As my friends and I waited in line for whichever movie we had chosen, I couldn\u2019t help but take everything in as if going to the movies was something I had never done before. I glanced at a poster for the movie The Expendables<\/em>. I watched little kids running in and out of the arcade, screaming and laughing, having the time of their lives just being kids. I heard a few of the college kids talking. \u201cThis has been the worst week of my life.\u201d A small, blonde girl said to her friend. They both donned crimson hoodies with the logo \u201cUMass\u201d proudly spelled out across the chest. \u201cTell me about it, I\u2019ve had like three exams in the past four days and still owe an essay.\u201d<\/p>\n

The airport was almost entirely empty when we arrived early that morning. I was relieved; I hated walking around in my uniform when there were crowds. My mother and stepfather sat on the opposite side of me at the terminal. Mom was doing her best to keep it together, but her puffy, red stained eyes gave away what she was feeling. \u201cIt\u2019s okay, I made it half way. There\u2019s no way I won\u2019t make it through the other half.\u201d I hoped that my upbeat outlook on it would cheer her up, but from the look of it, the only thing she had heard was, \u201cI won\u2019t make it.\u201d As much as I wanted to hug my mom, and make her feel better, I just wanted to get on that plane and get back even more. I love my mom, but I love my platoon just as much. At that moment, I felt they needed me the most. Two weeks was enough, maybe even more than enough. It was enough time for me to see that home wasn\u2019t where I was supposed to be right now. There would come a time, very soon in fact, that I wouldn\u2019t mind being a civilian again. To not have to wear a uniform and stand in formation. Until then, I wanted to be with everyone else, going through the hell of deployment with everyone else. When all the goodbyes were said and I had let my mom hug and kiss her youngest child, her only son, before watching him go off to war for the second time, the plane finally on it\u2019s way, I closed my eyes and slept. For the first time in two weeks, I slept like a baby.
\n****
\nChow time was nearly over, and Garnica was nowhere to be found on the base. He was three years younger than me, and as na\u00efve as they come, but he and I had become the closest of friends, thrown together for being the lowest ranked guys in the platoon, \u201cthe fuckin\u2019 new guys.\u201d I searched his bed and the latrine, his two favorite spots. I had been kept later than normal at the aid station, to help stock and clean it, and figured he must have already made off to his third favorite spot, the chow hall.<\/p>\n

Tonight was the over-hyped, and long awaited steak and lobster night. Neither were really steak nor lobster, but I didn\u2019t care. Nothing was more important to me that night than stuffing my face with as much fake lobster as humanly possible. When I rounded the corner to the chow hall, I was met with the longest line I had ever seen. I scanned the winding snake up and down until I noticed the short and stocky Garnica, who had saved us a spot in line. There was no mistaking him and his laugh. \u201cAbout time you showed up,\u201d Garnica said, as he went for his go to greeting, the classic \u201cball tap.\u201d \u201cThree days away from going home on leave and you think you can just slack off and disappear all day,\u201d he said with a smile.<\/p>\n

The fake meat was glorious. The steak looked brown and burnt, the lobster just the right amount of red to make it believable. Slathered in butter, you couldn\u2019t tell the difference.<\/p>\n

Time ran on, and the Afghan sun began to sink below the sandy mountain surrounding the base, its orange hue crept through the tiny cracks of the chow tent windows. It blew my mind how beautiful that hellhole of a country could be at times. \u201cWhat are you going to do on leave? Get a girl pregnant?\u201d Garnica asked, as he undid his belt, to let his gut breathe a sigh of relief. I laughed, \u201cNo, bro. I\u2019m not like you.\u201d Garnica shrugged and finished off his plate. \u201cHonestly, I have no idea. It might sound weird\u2026 but at this point, I\u2019d rather just stay and get this over with. I wish I had gotten leave earlier. I\u2019m too set on being here now to think about going home for two weeks.\u201d Garnica shook his head and waved his hand until he could muster to swallow his food. \u201cNo, man. No, It\u2019s not weird at all. I totally get where you\u2019re coming from. I felt the same way when I went on leave.\u201d<\/p>\n

A random BOOOOoooooom<\/em> rang out and echoed across the base. I say random, but they\u2019re about as normal as it gets in our area of operations. This one was different though. It was close, too close. We sat for a moment to listen more closely, but couldn\u2019t pinpoint where it came from.<\/p>\n

\u201cWere those our mortars?\u201d Garnica asked me, with a seriousness you rarely ever see from him. Another rang out, closer than the last. BOOOOoooooom<\/em>!<\/p>\n

\u201cI don\u2019t think so, you can usually tell the difference between outgoing and incoming.\u201d I said, as I scanned the chow hall.<\/p>\n

By now, it was mostly cleared out, except the cooks cleaning the mess of plates left behind. \u201cNobody else seems that concerned about it.\u201d I reassured him, along with myself.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe should head out to the aid station anyway, I left some of my things there,\u201d he told me, as he got up to leave.<\/p>\n

A stray cat that we see around the base had wandered into the chow hall as we began to make our way outside. It was a mangy old thing, tan with patches of fur missing all along it\u2019s torso. As dirty as it was, I couldn\u2019t help but think of my cat back home. I picked some leftover \u201csteak\u201d off my plate and gave it to the eager feline at my feet. \u201cYou and cats, man. I don\u2019t get it.\u201d Garnica said, as he gave it a pat on the head. \u201cI\u2019ll be outside smoking, don\u2019t take too long.\u201d That cat was in heaven, purring up a storm and rubbing up against my leg, as if its life depended on it.<\/p>\n

BOOOOooooooom<\/em>. The sound was louder, and closer than ever. The next ten to fifteen minutes are still a blur in my memory. Garnica and I would come to find out much later that upon walking back from the chow hall to the aid station, we had passed right by where the Rocket-Propelled Grenades had been landing without ever realizing it. How could we have missed it? A normal RPG doesn\u2019t leave much carnage behind where it lands, but how could we have not seen the wounded if we had walked by the impact zone? If I hadn\u2019t held us up with feeding the cat, would we have been hit too?<\/p>\n

The aid station was empty when we arrived. An eerie sign for sure, but with no clue as to what was actually happening around the base, we carried on as normal and grabbed our things to head back to our tent. \u201cWhere the fuck is everyone?\u201d I asked an equally confused Garnica. When we made our exit, I got my answer. The injured and the medics working on them lined the road that, only a few moments ago, when we walked down it, had been completely deserted. Another explosion went off in front of the aid station on the other side of the barrier, which separated the inside of the base from the hostile outside world. I remember hearing the rocks clank and ping off the side of the concrete building and metal doors. The light, ankle-deep dirt, which we referred to as \u201cmoon dust,\u201d kicked up into the air and stung my eyes. I didn\u2019t realize it at the time, and wouldn\u2019t until now when I really think back on it, but I was afraid. Not so much for my own well-being, but for everyone else\u2019s out in the road working. I somehow found my bulletproof vest and helmet in all of the chaos before grabbing an aid bag and rushing out to help.<\/p>\n

I came upon Sargent Smith hard at work on a casualty. For the few years I had known Smith, I never really liked him all that much. He was lazy and dopey. It drove me crazy how someone like him could get the respected rank of sergeant in todays U. S. Army. After that day though, seeing him so composed, in control, and doing the best he could to save a mans life, I\u2019d argue that you probably couldn\u2019t find a better medic than Smith.<\/p>\n

\u201cI need an IV in his arm!\u201d He yelled to me as I came running up. Smith had already been hard at work, putting a tube through the man\u2019s throat in an effort to assist him in breathing. It was a bad scene; the burns and shrapnel wounds covered his face, making him totally unrecognizable. His nametag was the only evidence of who he actually was. It read DynCorp, a company of contractors from the states, sent to help us with equipment upkeep. He wasn\u2019t military, but an ordinary American here to make sure our computers and generators worked properly. The thought wouldn\u2019t bug me until much later when all was said and done.<\/p>\n

The sweat running down from my helmet was too much to bear as I attempted to find a vein in the guy\u2019s arm. I didn\u2019t care anymore; a helmet wasn\u2019t going to stop an RPG round anyway. I tore my cumbersome gear off as fast as I could and threw it to the side. If I were going to die, I would die comfortable at least. \u201cI can\u2019t find a vein, he\u2019s lost too much blood and I don\u2019t feel a pulse.\u201d I told Smith as he was beginning to help the man breath with a bag through the tube. I would have to go in through the sternum. I desperately searched for the FAST 1 in the aid bag, a device that has what looks like a million tiny needles. It\u2019s designed to act like an IV, but instead of fluid going into the veins, it goes through the bones of the sternum. I took a deep breath with the FAST 1 in hand. I had practiced this same medical skill thousands of times on dummies, so that I could do it right at this very moment. I didn\u2019t hesitate, bringing it down with two hands, square on the chest. It made a sickening thump<\/em>, but it worked. Fluid was moving, and after a few moments the pulse returned.<\/p>\n

It was and still is one of the greatest feelings in my entire life followed by the second greatest, quickly after, when he stopped breathing. I bagged him as fast as I could, hyperventilating him to make up for the loss of air until he began to breathe on his own again. We had just saved this mans life, twice. Smith gave me a pat on the back and smiled before turning back to the casualty. \u201cHang in there, buddy. We\u2019re here for you. Keep fighting,\u201d Smith reassured him, as I continued to bag. I doubted he could hear Smith\u2019s words until I felt his vitals start to get stronger; I leaned in closer and told him, \u201cStay with us.\u201d<\/p>\n

It wasn\u2019t until the worst had passed that I heard the conversation behind us. \u201cHe\u2019s gone, there\u2019s nothing we can do anymore.\u201d It was Sergeant Roberson. One of the smallest females you\u2019ll ever see, and there she was, reassuring a man in tears, ten times her size. The other contractor they had been working on didn\u2019t make it. \u201cThere has to be something you can do!\u201d The man yelled at her, as she shook her head and began covering the body with a blanket. Garnica was across the road from me, covering up the body of the contractor he had been working on. I had never seen him so expressionless, and I couldn\u2019t bring myself to feel as happy as I was ten seconds ago.<\/p>\n

The hours that followed were some of the toughest of my entire deployment. This would be the first time we lost any American casualties in our aid station. We were still kicking ourselves for having two local Afghan nationals die on our table a few weeks before, and now this. We had saved six out of the nine critically wounded, but we weren\u2019t ready to call that a victory by any means. \u201cYou medics are the finest in the entire unit, I want you to know that.\u201d The Commander would tell us and we would smile and shake his hand. Nobody truly felt like it. Garnica and I hung around the back of the aid station after most of the medics had left to go to bed. We both had our headphones on, listening to anything that would help take our minds off the day. Blame It On Bad Luck<\/em> began to play in my ear. \u201cI don\u2019t want to go on leave.\u201d I told him. \u201cReally? Even after all of this shit?\u201d he said somberly. \u201cBecause of that shit,\u201d I replied. He sat down next to me in silence and we both just smoked in the dark for the next hour or so. He finally spoke up as we began to make our way to bed, shattering the quiet that finally fell upon the day. \u201cDon\u2019t worry, bro. I\u2019ll hold down the fort until you get back.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0\u201cHow long are you back for?\u201d It was a question I would be asked a million and one times. \u201cAre you home for good?\u201d was only asked about half a million. \u201cNo,\u201d I would tell them. \u201cI\u2019m only home for about two weeks. I go back at the end of the month.\u201d Their faces would … Continue reading Blame It On Bad Luck<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3604,"featured_media":953,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[6855],"tags":[],"issue":[6874],"class_list":["post-896","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-non-fiction","issue-6874"],"publishpress_future_action":{"enabled":false,"date":"2026-05-25 08:57:14","action":"change-status","newStatus":"draft","terms":[],"taxonomy":"category","extraData":[]},"publishpress_future_workflow_manual_trigger":{"enabledWorkflows":[]},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/896","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3604"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=896"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/896\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/953"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=896"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=896"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=896"},{"taxonomy":"issue","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.gcc.mass.edu\/plum\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/issue?post=896"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}