Duty Stations: Nursing Prisoners in Desert Storm

By Stacey H. Rubin

Stacey H. Rubin was an active-duty Army nurse from 1989-1992, stationed at Fort Ord, California. Her service included a five-month deployment to Saudi Arabia during Desert Storm. Currently, Stacey lives in Connecticut with her husband. They have two grown children. In addition to her nursing degree, she has an MFA in writing from Seton Hill University.

Her debut novel, The Baby Nurse (Bloodhound Books) is available at major booksellers online. Connect with Stacey at staceyhrubinauthor.com. VBC Magazine and the author are grateful to Max Holsbeke for restoring the photographs that accompany this essay.

On a spring weekend in 1989, I graduated from Villanova University nursing school and was commissioned a 2^nd Lieutenant in the Army Nurse Corps. In college, I was an ROTC cadet. The Army provided a much-needed scholarship and promised valuable nursing experience on a military base. Philadelphia, my hometown, was all I knew, and I relished the chance to live somewhere else. After Officer Basic Training in San Antonio, Texas, I was assigned to Fort Ord, in Monterey, California. Everything I knew about Monterey, its grey whales, and silver sardines, I learned from reading John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row in high school. I arrived that first day, in uniform, with a vertical yellow bar pinned to my collar. Wearing the 2^nd lieutenant rank felt like walking in new shoes with slippery soles. The gate guard saluted. I returned the salute.

Silas B. Hays Army Community Hospital sat on a hill surrounded by bristly shrubs. Ribbons of mist from Monterey Bay softened the rectangular building’s austere corners. I rode the elevator to the sixth floor, where I was assigned to Ward 6 West. My MOS was 66H, an adult medical-surgical nurse. Soldiers came to Ward 6 West when they were too sick to reside in the barracks, and veterans came with diabetes, asthma, and heart disease. I was welcomed by Major O, a career officer. She had a soft voice, and a uniform so white, it gleamed. That first day, when I extended my hand to Lt. P, a nurse who wore her blond hair in a French twist, she handed me a saline bag and said, “Can you start an IV?”

Ward 6 West smelled like coffee. In the morning, the chow hall delivered a gallon urn of it. I drank my cup, as I do today, no cream, no sugar. The aroma lingered long after the urn was returned to the chow hall.

I began each day in my ironed nursing whites with my thick brown hair pinned back. After a day of lifting patients, hanging IV bags, kneeling to measure urine from foley catheters, and running to the endless ding of call bells, my dress wilted and my pantyhose tore. I quickly learned to carry a spare.

My favorite patients were in a room at the end of the hall with a view of Monterey Bay. The mix of active duty soldiers and veterans housed there made for never-ending conversation. The soldiers described jumping from airplanes and driving tanks. The veterans reminisced about distant duty stations. Their stories were peppered with romance and heartbreak. After administering the final medication doses, I’d gaze out at Monterey Bay. No matter what shift I worked, the Bay was splendid. In the morning, its indigo water grazed the horizon, in the afternoon, taffeta fog clung to the bay, and at night, ship lights blinked in the inky water.

On a summer morning in 1990, I was promoted. Major O pinned the silver 1^st lieutenant bar on my collar. I loved being an Army nurse, Ward 6 West became family, and Fort Ord was home. I would have stayed forever, except the Army had other plans.

***

On August 2^nd, I entered Sergeant Jenkin’s room. He and his roommate were riveted to the breaking news on their wall-mounted TV. Overnight, a dictator I’d never heard of invaded a country half a world away. On television Kuwait was not much more than a dot, too small to be significant. Sergeant Jenkins, who had decades of experience in military intelligence, suffered from chronic asthma. Before plugging my ears with a stethoscope to listen to his lungs, I asked, “What do you think about all that?”

“I think you should pack your rucksack.”

At the time, I gave these global events little mind. Sergeant Jenkin’s words proved prophetic.

***

Four months later, nearly everyone on Ward 6 West became part of the 8^th Evac Field Hospital. Next came our deployment orders for Saudi Arabia. Pre-deployment was a flurry of predawn runs in the cold Northern California mist. We were warned that Saddam Hussein would use chemical weapons and trained in charcoal suits and gas masks. At the firing range, we shot at paper silhouettes. Although I’d qualified with the M16 in ROTC and officer basic training, handling weapons left me queasy. Each time I pulled the trigger, I felt like I was betraying my nurse’s oath to heal, not harm.

To prepare for deployment, we also attended classroom briefings. In Saudi Arabia, we were told, it’s offensive to show the sole of one’s shoe. The lecturer advised we sit with our feet planted. Simple enough. When he said women were forbidden to drive in Saudi Arabia, he was bombarded with comments. But our ambulance and supply truck drivers are women. What happens if a woman drives? What should we do if a woman is caught driving?

After pacing nervously, he said, “Tell them you are small men.” Later, we learned Saudi Arabia held public executions.

In late December, four months after Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, I was on a plane, along with everyone from Silas B. Hays Hospital to Saudi Arabia.

Compared to Monterey’s blue bay, the desert was a frameless canvas that stretched in all directions. Camels, with a single lump on their oblong torsos, roamed with outstretched necks. One afternoon, shortly after we arrived, a camel train came close enough to our camp for me to see their cleft upper lips. In silence, I watched them disappear over a dune. Perhaps those camels retraced their tracks in the years since we broke camp. I imagine they gave our absence the same scant notice they paid our presence.

The desert sunset was a red and orange palette. The colors faded until the night was an ebony canopy, pierced with silver stars. While the nighttime desert was dark and quiet, our barbed-wire perimeter was never silent. Generators hummed, wind slapped the tent siding, and my bunkmates sighed. On my flashlight guided midnight trips to the latrine, I heard whispered conversations, cards being shuffled and radio static.

Our mission was to heal sick soldiers. While we waited for them to appear, we filled sandbags. Everyone, except the surgeons, who needed to protect their hands, shoveled sand. Burlap sacks, which stabilized the tent rigging, were stacked into perimeter walls, and topped with concertina wire. Inside the hospital tents, we assembled cots, and dressed them with blankets. We filled flip charts with lined paper. We raised hooked poles to hang IV bags. Between chores, we waited, and ate MREs. Peanut butter packets and shelf bread were my favorite. The wait wasn’t long.

***

Shortly after the New Year, the first patients arrived. On the five-minute walk from my tent to the hospital, I wore fatigues, a gas mask strapped around my thigh, and a layer of sand on my boots. Patients came by truck and ambulance. Some walked, others were carried on a litter. Whether they flew in or were driven through the desert, I was never told. They were all Americans and if they wanted to talk, we listened.

I’ll never forget my first patient. Pvt. Callahan had blond hair, bleached nearly white by the sun, and cheeks sprinkled with freckles. His injuries were the first time I saw cuts caused by an exploding bomb. Surprisingly, he wasn’t concerned about the shrapnel in his forehead and left arm. Instead, he worried about his mother. After cleansing and bandaging him, I gave him the good news that I hoped would ease his mind. “Your abrasions are not deep, and you will heal in no time.”

But he remained anxious. “My mom is going to worry herself sick when she finds out. I promised her I wouldn’t get hurt.”

Back then, there were no cell phones. However, unit commanders sent messages to families when soldiers were injured.

“Would it help if she knew you were in good hands?”

Pvt. Callahan beamed. “That would be great.”

The Red Cross toured our hospital that afternoon and, through them, I sent Pvt. Callahan’s mother a personal message. I hope she was reassured.

***

One night in late January, I arrived for a night shift to a surprise: a gallon coffee urn was stationed in the hall outside the ward. I filled a mug. It tasted like home. The ward was dark except for a pool of lamp light over the desk. The evening nurse gave me report and left.

While reading a chart, an alarm blared. The warning was familiar, an incoming Scud missile. With only a sandbag barricade, the prospect of an Iraqi-launched missile hitting our tents was terrifying. But our greatest fear was Saddam’s chemical weapons, particularly nerve gas. Although we’d trained for this, my hands trembled each time I retrieved my mask from the case around my thigh. Wearing the mask over my face, with its bulging eye shields, was like walking through a tunnel with impaired vision and muffled hearing.

The medics, all in masks, helped the patients in arm casts don theirs.

We waited and hoped that a nearby Patriot missile would intercept the Scud missile. This could take minutes or, if more Scuds were launched, the entire night. Fortunately, this time the “all-clear” came in less than an hour. After everyone’s masks were removed, we resumed our work.

From his cot, Pvt. Nelson motioned me over. He was nineteen and an eager conversationalist who shared his future dreams, one being college. But tonight, his brown eyes were stormy.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Not so good,” he replied. “I really need a minyan right now.”

For those of the Jewish faith, a minyan is ten Jewish men, the required number to recite prayers. A minyan in our tent was impossible. There were fewer than ten Jewish service members in the entire hospital. Besides, Judaism was prohibited in Saudi Arabia. We were never told what the consequences were if the Saudis learned we were Jewish. I prayed while deployed, but in solitude, and like Pvt. Nelson, I missed being able to openly express my Judaism.

***

In February, new rumors circulated. More wounded are coming. They’re malnourished. They have no clothes. They speak Arabic.

Meanwhile, large tents were added to the hospital, causing speculation of a mass casualty. The new wards were furnished with forty cots in two rows. Each was stocked with a set of blue pajama pants.

The incoming patients, I realized, were likely enemy combatants. The notion was daunting. A practical concern: I wouldn’t know their medical histories or allergies. Meanwhile, the commanding officers were mysteriously inaccessible.

I was on duty when the rumors proved true. Trucks, driven by military police, arrived and the cots filled with unshaved, unshowered men. As far as I could tell, the Iraqi prisoners carried no personal belongings.

A pair of Marine guards, armed with M16-rifles, patrolled the ward in Kevlar jackets and helmets, yet maneuvered between the cots with surprising agility. Ammunition in a hospital was an unexpected sight. Nothing in nursing school prepared me for this.

In the initial days after the POWs arrived, the ward was unnaturally quiet. The men remained in their cots, wearing identical blue pajamas. The military police accompanied those who could walk to a shower tent. When I travelled between the cots, I felt the prisoners watching me. But when I approached them individually, they dropped their gaze.

The POWs were burned, with broken bones, and gaping skin wounds. I didn’t know their circumstances: how they got hurt, whether they’d surrendered or were forcibly detained. Yet their treatment followed an algorithm. They were prescribed the same broad-spectrum antibiotic. I administered countless doses. Thankfully, there were no adverse reactions.

The Marines received orders for a new mission, and the National Guard took the post at the rear of the ward. Initially, the POWs were given MREs. In time, the chow hall delivered cooked meals. At mealtime, the mood relaxed, and the prisoners conversed in Arabic. I got a sense they appreciated the food, and our medical care. I wanted to believe they trusted me as a nurse. But I was naïve.

***

An Arabic translator arrived to help us communicate with the prisoners. A Kuwaiti, his traditional white thobe (the name for the robe worn by Arab men) flowed as he walked between the cots. He moved with precise steps, hands clasped behind his back. His red and white keffiyeh, held in place by a black cord called an agal that wrapped around his head, brushed his shoulders. I wondered if he was royalty.

He kept unpredictable hours, showing up some mornings, but not others. I wasn’t sure if he was paid for his work or if he volunteered. However, he was invaluable, especially when it came to explaining painful procedures. Some of the prisoners had burns and deep wounds which required debriding: the removal of dead skin to promote healing. The medications they needed were intravenous, meaning I had to insert a needle into a vein. The translator conveyed all this to the prisoners in clipped Arabic.

A week or so after the first POWs arrived, I requested the translator’s help for a specific situation. An Iraqi patient, whose leg injuries were not healing, putting him in danger of amputation, was being moved to another medical facility. I was ordered to prepare him to be transferred. Chart in hand, I went to his cot. As I spoke, the Kuwaiti translated.

The prisoner paled. Despite his condition leaving him immobile, he attempted to move to the opposite side of the cot.

I repeated my explanation and the Kuwaiti translated again in rapid jabs. The Iraqi raked his fingers through his black hair, making desperate noises. I paused, uncertain what was being relayed. I asked the Kuwaiti to rephrase. His Arabic grew heated.

Then the prisoner looked at me. He was petrified. In that instant, I saw something flicker behind his eyes that I can’t describe, but revulsion is close. He detested me. Iraqis in neighboring cots shouted. Arabic volleyed across the aisle. The ward devolved. The prisoner covered his face and cried. From their post in the rear, the guards heard the clamor and walked through the tent. Their presence quieted the chaos. Confused and frightened by the uproar, I retreated. The prisoner was taken away.

Later, the translator explained that the prisoner believed he was going to be executed. He believed I’d “marked him for death” with a sign on his cot. In fact, I’d stowed his paperwork in the plastic pocket at the foot of his cot. I was devastated. Despite being a nurse, committed to helping, not harming, from the POW’s perspective, I was a captor capable of ending his life.

There was one gregarious Iraqi who spoke some English. His skin was smooth, without facial hair. I guessed he was a teenager but he insisted he was twenty. He also insisted his name was Rambo. While we worked, Rambo would leave his cot, and roam about, talking with other POWs. His socializing was harmless, but his loud antics made me nervous. Rambo paid my “go to bed” request little mind; it took a command from the guards to return him to his cot.

While Rambo was likely an adolescent, another prisoner was undoubtedly a child. He was under five feet tall, weighed about seventy pounds, and his face was round and soft. As far as I knew, he wasn’t hurt. If he spoke, I never heard his voice. Every Iraqi in the ward claimed to be the boy’s uncle.

***

Over the ensuing weeks POWs arrived and left without explanation. One day Rambo was gone. Then, a day later, the boy with so many uncles was gone. New arrivals crowded the ward. My sickest patient was one of them. I would not have noticed or even remembered him, except for the night he nearly died.

The nightshift had just begun. I was sifting through a chart pile while a medic took the prisoners’ vital signs. She noticed one Iraqi patient had an abnormally high heart rate, and fast respirations. “He’s in pain,” she called to me.

In the absence of a translator, the patient’s eyes conveyed his dire circumstance. Brown and deeply set, the light was fading from them. The superficial cuts on his arms and legs had camouflaged his emergency. He gripped his right leg which was larger and firmer than his left. A punctured vessel was filling his thigh with blood and his vital organs were failing. I sent the medic to get the surgeon. As I started an IV, the Iraqi was stoic, his eyes shut.

He spent several hours in surgery and required multiple blood transfusions. Afterwards he went to the ICU, where my tentmate was his nurse.

The next day the hospital commander spoke to me. The Colonel’s forehead was heavily creased, but his blue eyes were kind and I relaxed. “Your action saved a patient last night,” he said.

I stood in silence.

“You deserve a commendation. But I can’t write it. The patient is a POW, not an American. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

I returned to duty.

When the Iraqi returned to his cot, I went to him. His right leg rested on a pillow. His eyes shone with genuine recognition. He was holding something he wanted me to see. I stepped closer. It was a worn black and white photograph of two little girls clasping hands and smiling at the camera. He brought the photograph to his lips, kissed each girl, and pressed the picture to his heart. That night in the tent, motherhood was far in my future; too far for me to know the ardor a parent feels for their child.

Three decades later, with children of my own, I still can’t explain how the Iraqi patient, with all he’d been through, managed to keep the photograph. I imagine that he returned to his daughters, and that they remained as I saw them in the photograph. Shining with little girl light.