The day I hit the wall

I kept waiting for the ghost of Gen. George S. Patton to barge in and start slapping me.

I was taking up space in the field hospital at the base here run by the 1st Force Service Support Group from Camp Pendleton. The cots were meant for men wounded, injured or otherwise stricken in the line of duty. Instead there I was, a wrung-out reporter with an intravenous tube in my arm.

After nine weeks as an embedded reporter with units of the 1st Marine Division, I had hit a wall. More to the point, the wall had hit back.

I was flat on my back with exhaustion, dehydration and the built-up effects of having, for several years, ignored the advice of my doctor and the pleadings of my wife. For the record, I’m four years older than the division commanding general; he’s 53.

It had sneaked up on me stealthily like an insurgent in the night. For whatever reason, I stopped drinking the recommended 2 quarts of water per day. At first, no problem.

Then I went out with an aggressive, wisecracking group of Marine reservists from St. Louis on a “soft knock” mission, where they roll up to homes and inquire about searching for weapons. They’ve had great success in finding large caches of weapons, and I thought a story was in the offing.

When we got to one home in a smallish village, I lacked the energy to watch the search. The homeowner and I just stayed outside hunched down in the dirt; each powerless to do anything.

He looked at me and I guess I looked so pitiful he offered me his last cigarette. No thanks. Next day I turned myself over to the medics.

I guess you would have to call it participatory journalism. I’ve written about the success of Navy medicine -- the Navy provides medical care for Marines -- in bringing even complex medical technology to the edge of the battlefield. Now I was experiencing it. Navy doctors, nurses, corpsmen and technicians were working on me. My urine, blood and chest were of great interest to them. My numbers were all out of whack. What was supposed to be up was down; what was supposed to be down was up.

*

Nurses with side arms

The first thing I noticed about this hospital, despite its being in a tent, is that all the personnel wear side arms. I had never before been escorted to the bathroom by someone with a Beretta on his hip. Now that’s my kind of health plan! There’s also this: Like the rest of the military, it’s thoroughly integrated. I was treated by personnel of both genders and several races and ethnic groups. I was in the world’s most diverse workplace. My care was complete and attentive. I couldn’t have asked for more if I’d been George W. himself.

I tried a feeble joke. “I’m not a candidate for mortuary affairs, am I?” I asked. I had just written a story about mortuary affairs and the heart-rending work of preparing the bodies of dead Marines for the trip home. “No,” said my doctor, Cmdr. Michael Singleton, “I’m not going to let that happen.” He then reached over and touched my knee. In the history of bedside manner never was a gesture so nicely done or thankfully received.

For 36 hours my temperature sizzled along at nearly 103 degrees, seemingly defying antibiotics. I began to semi-babble. I started to tell Perry family stories, beginning with my favorite: Big Lorraine, Little Lorraine, Big Marie, Little Marie. Allow me to digress here. My father came from a very large family. As a kid, I had aunts named Big Lorraine, Little Lorraine, Big Marie, Little Marie. I once summoned up the courage -- remember it was the 1950s -- to ask my father about the name overlap.

“Our family was poor,” he said, “and we couldn’t afford a new name for each child.” Dr. Singleton and several corpsmen looked at me with a puzzled look. That interrupted my monologue.

*

A non-hero goes home

Instead of the ghost of Patton, I got a visit from the base C.O., Brig. Gen. Richard Kramlich. I’ve known him from Camp Pendleton and had interviewed him just two days before becoming a patient at his hospital.

I’ve always found him candid and thoughtful and very attuned to the push-pull between what is best for the mission and what is best for the men. He provided some sage advice: “Don’t be a hero.” With that, I decided to accept the Marines’ offer of a spot on the next transport plane to Kuwait, where I could catch a commercial flight to the United States. Time to get out of embed.

Dr. Singleton and the drugs broke my fever and wrestled the rampaging bacteria to the ground. He loaded me with a variety of pills and a strict schedule for their intake. My numbers were normal.

We talked about getting together when we’re back in San Diego. My four-day stay as a patient was over.

Later I talked to a Marine making the same exit flight to Kuwait.

“Feels great to be going home, doesn’t it?” he asked.

I agreed and noted that Big Lorraine, Little Lorraine, Big Marie and Little Marie would also agree.