Christmas Eve 1990, Saudi Arabia, a few miles south of the
Iraqi border - it is cold and dark as I lay on my cot, my sleeping bag around
me, the constant hum of the generators in the background. I am listening to
Pachabel’s Canon in D minor on my cassette player. Rain pelts the tent I share
with nine other Army doctors. The sides move rhythmically with the wind, my
heart beating in unison, a concert of emotions being played in my mind.
Two months earlier, I, along with two hundred plus soldiers,
left Ft. Campbell, Kentucky for the desert of Saudi Arabia as Operation Desert
Storm began gearing up. I was the Chief of Medicine for the 86th
Army Evacuation Hospital based at Ft. Campbell. Two months prior to this Saddam Hussein had invaded
Kuwait and the normalcy that was my life disappeared. After weeks of
preparation and too many “go/no goes”, we finally left not knowing what to
expect or how long we would be there. We only knew that war was imminent and we
faced a crazy man who had already showed he would use chemical weapons.
We landed in Dharan, Saudi Arabia. The next two months were
spent preparing for the war to come. We stocked up supplies, equipment, and
medicine. Physicians cross -trained the nurses and corpsmen so that together we
could best care for the 600 new casualties we expected every 24 hours, mainly
from the 101st Air Assault Division. Many of our nurses were married
to those soldiers. Would their husbands be among the dead and wounded? That
weighed on everyone’s mind.
On 23 December we moved the 400 - bed hospital 8 hours north
to the Iraqi border by 112 flatbed trucks. We got the hospital set up by the evening of
Christmas Eve. It was a dismal time. Our only contact with our families was
through mail. There were no phone lines established. Internet, cell phones, emails, and Skype did
not exist, only letters. How special every letter was! We lived for mail call.
I wrote home every day. Letters were my only connection to my family, to home,
and to the hope that one day I would see them again.
That evening word came down from the 101st
Command Center, that a large armor (tank) contingent of Iraqi Republican Guard
was less than 10 miles north of us poised to attack. At that time, we had no defensive perimeter
and no armed security. That night, and into the early morning hours of
Christmas Day, in the cold and pouring rain, the Engineer Battalion from the
101st worked tirelessly setting up anti-tank barriers and digging deep
trenches between us and the Guard. I quit feeling sorry for myself as I thought
about what those soldiers were doing. How could I ever repay them except to
insure, if and when they needed our medical help, we would be there for them?
It gave me a new appreciation of sacrifice and what it looked like to be part
of something much bigger than myself. My perspective on life, my family, and my
priorities had changed.
I know how hard you work, the frustrations you face, and
the sacrifices you make. It is easy to lose “perspective” on what is truly
important in life. Keeping a good perspective can be critical as you do the
work you do. It won’t necessarily solve the problems nor remove the
frustrations you face. Remembering past challenges or hardships, though, can
help you view things through a different lens. Like those soldiers on the front
lines working through the cold and rain that dreary Christmas Eve, I thank you
for the sacrifices you make and all you do to care for our patients. You are
greatly appreciated!
Andy Lamb, MD
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