GREEN GRASS IN A BLOODY LAND
The dead, the brave
Another sleepless night in Iraq's endless war
By Grant Monge
August 5, 2007
Today I helped put another fellow service member in the morgue. That's part of my job at the 28th Combat Support Hospital in Baghdad -- guarding the living and bringing in the dead.
Sometimes the job entails taking off whatever gear or clothing the dead have on, which was rather easy in this case because this fallen service member was missing the bottom half of his body, along with his right arm.
In one of his pockets was an unfinished postcard, tucked into his flak jacket.
All it said was, "Hey honey."
It made me feel strange. Angry and sad and helpless too. If the man could have known he was going to die, what would he have written? He started it, then simply put it away, assuming he would finish it after his patrol.
Instead, I found it -- unfinished and unsent, covered in blood.
And so I felt compelled to put my own thoughts on paper, to share a vivid portrayal of what is really happening in Iraq from the viewpoint of a soldier serving his second tour.
We stripped the fallen service member down and moved him from the bag he was in to a body bag. I had the head section. Lifting him, I saw his mouth fly open, and all I could smell was mint Listerine. I don't think I'll ever use that brand again.
After putting what was left of his body into the body bag, we had to scoop up the man's entrails with our gloved hands, and then put on his toe tag. It went on his ring finger. Then we drove the short distance to the morgue.
There are signs by the manicured lawns in the Green Zone that read "Stay off the grass." At first it seems comical. Grass in the desert. And we're to stay off? OK. Got it. Stay off the grass.
But I had an epiphany this day when reading the sign on the way to the morgue. Here's this grass. It's there when we wake up. It's there when we clock out. It's there when we sleep. The only thing here that's guaranteed to be there tomorrow is this green grass, so we are ordered to stay off it.
It is said that in parts of Africa, the soil is stained red from the blood of all the wars there. If that's true, then why is this grass green here in bloody Iraq?
We arrived at the morgue, opened the door and turned on the lights. Those infernal lights -- almost taunting, like life and death with a switch. Here we are with a man who gave everything for his country, and there is no switch in the world that can turn on this brave American.
So, into the refrigerated drawer goes the body, normally feet first, but this soldier is missing that half. We unzip the bag so he can be identified. Then the door is closed, and off go those infernal lights.
It's time for a cigarette, a brief clemency.
"How is your night?" some patients back at the hospital ask. I reply with a lie, and I can tell they see it in my eyes, but I grimace a smile anyway to bolster their morale, and mine.
After a long night, I walk the short distance to my room, making sure not to step one foot on the grass. There will be no sleep tonight. I will end up back at the hospital, wandering around, trying to find something good to do to counter the feelings of hate I have inside.
All the patients are asleep. All the medical supplies are neatly restocked, ready for the next emergency. Off in the distance I hear another helicopter, and I get ready for another tragic round in what seems to be, literally and figuratively, an endless war.
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Originally Posted by Laura's Babies
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