Christmas 2003
I was deployed as a critical care air evacuation physician. Our mission was to safely transport critically wounded U.S. and allied troops from the battlefields of Southwest and Central Asia to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany—and from Germany back to the United States.
Christmas Day 2003 was quiet at Ramstein Air Base. There was turkey and all the trimmings in the dining hall. A few phone calls home. A Christmas movie binge on the Armed Forces Network. My holiday doldrums were finally jolted by a brisk knock at my door early on the afternoon, the day after Christmas.
“Sir, mission briefing in Ops at 1500. Wheels up at 1800. You’re going to Baghdad.”
It would be my first time into a combat zone.
Our team was dispatched to pick up three critically injured Polish soldiers—truck bomb blast injuries. As we entered Iraqi airspace in the early morning hours of December 27th, the standard cabin lights were switched off and the aircraft’s exterior navigation lights went dark. A few dim red combat lights glowed in the back of the C-141.
After a moment, a crew member yelled,
“Get ready! We’re going in! Put on your gear!”
I reached into my A-bag, I strapped my M-9 to my side, pulled out my helmet and body armor, and quickly donned both. Looking around, I noticed everyone else was wearing their helmets—but sitting on their body armor.
The back end crew member yelled,
“Sir, gotta sit on your vest! Possible small-arms fire! You don’t want to get shot in the ass!”
I immediately took off the vest and sat on it and strapped in tight.
Everyone was seated except two crew members, who stood clipped to the sides of the aircraft with straps and carabiners. Peering out the port and starboard windows, their job was to watch for ground signatures of surface-to-air threats and relay that information to the cockpit so countermeasures could be deployed quickly.
The large, lumbering C-141 began a controlled, spiraling fall from a moonless night sky—tight hairpin turns in a combat approach into Baghdad International Airport. I said a quick prayer. My heart was in my throat. It was exhilarating.
After several gut-wrenching turns, the crew member at the starboard window began shouting animatedly into his headset. The pilot released countermeasures. A loud pop, followed by a distant boom and a flash—and moments later we were taxiing on the runway.
The poor starboard crew member had wet his flight suit. Or maybe his Camelbak had leaked. Either way, it had been close call.
While taxiing, we put our body armor on the correct way. We felt ready. Tense. Prepared.
A Humvee buzzed up alongside the aircraft as we rolled to a stop. Our welcoming party—a physician and a nurse—boarded to brief us on our patients. They were wearing shorts, shower shoes, and T-shirts.
It looked like a scene straight out of MASH.
I smiled, took a deep breath, and relaxed.
** the picture above is from the trip out of Baghdad with our patients. Fortunately, it was uneventful.
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