Headlights give them away.

    As they make their way from their homes and barracks to morning physical training, post is quiet except for the chirping of insects. Only a row of bright beams sneaking along the winding roads signal the beginning of another day at Fort Riley.

    Singing about “dawn’s early light” might evoke patriotism for many Americans, but the soldiers of the U.S. Army’s 1st Infantry Division begin their days long before the sun comes up.

    Each soldier’s day has a different rhythm. Medics spend their days and weeks balancing the work of a health care specialist, providing basic medical care and a combat medic, working under intense pressure. The medics of Special Troops Battalion, 2nd Brigade Combat Team, said their days are like rollercoasters, changing momentum without warning — which is just how they like it.


Thursday 5:30 a.m.

    Sgt. 1st Class Billy Mitchell arrives to open the brigade’s aid station for sick call. He speaks to a building guard and heads into the station, which is located in a former weapons storage room. A desk, some chairs, and several shelving units of supplies and records fill the room. Temporary walls create two make-shift exam rooms.

    The station serves all members of the 2nd Brigade for any basic injuries or illnesses. One physician assistant and 11 medics take turns assessing soldiers and prescribing treatment Monday-Friday. If patients need to have X-rays, pick up prescriptions or receive treatment from a doctor, they are sent to the Consolidated Troop Medical Clinic. Irwin Army Community Hospital is also available for emergencies.

    The aid station is almost empty this morning, with several medics on leave and no patients. Spc. John Flores and Spc. Billy O’Neal trade friendly jabs in the back of the room while checking supplies and talking with visitors. O’Neal, who goes by “Big Country,” repacks the medic aid bags, which weigh 30-40 pounds each, while Flores demonstrates how tampons are used to stuff bullet holes.

    A commotion at the door grabs the men’s attention. Two soldiers in PT uniforms have come in, one supporting the other, who is slumped to one side and shaking violently. Flores and Mitchell ask him questions, coaching him to blink once for “yes” and twice for “no,” and soon determine that though he wears a red bracelet denoting a morphine allergy, he had been given codeine at the hospital for his broken arm. The narcotic has caused him to go into anaphylactic shock, a serious but not life-threatening condition.

    Mitchell asks one of the medics to drive the patient to the clinic across the street. Though vehicle traffic is forbidden in the area during morning PT, Mitchell hesitates only briefly before saying, “It’s better to ask for forgiveness sometimes than for permission.”


Thursday 9:40 a.m.

    “Hey, guys, can you put my guts back in?”
    The request, made with a smirk, warrants no attention from the six soldiers working on their casualty. This is Combat Lifesaver, a week-long program designed to teach non-medical soldiers the necessary skills to keep an injured comrade alive in the field until they can be seen by a medic or taken to a hospital, and though stress is high, the stakes are less than life and death.

    Flores explains that there are two main phases of care taught in CLS training. Care Under Fire involves finding a casualty in the line of fire, applying a tourniquet to stop bleeding and carrying the soldier to a semi-protected area. Tactical Field Care begins then, and bandages, IVs and chest decompressions are the focus. The goal is to rescue a soldier, radio for a helicopter and have the wounded person ready to go in 20 minutes, a scenario that is the focus of today’s class.

    There will be a more intensive training session Friday, but today’s light practice seems to be getting the better of several of the soldiers.

    “Oh, the things I’m seeing,” O’Neal says as he covers his eyes and shakes his head.

    Though these soldiers will not deploy until October, they will receive refresher lessons from the battalion’s medics until then. The class is taught by ex-military civilians, but Flores and O’Neal have been observing this week so they can teach the class in Iraq during the 12 months the battalion will be there.

    Only one of the unit’s medics has been deployed to Iraq before, and that was five years ago. Sgt. Nakia Wilson has little to say about the specifics of the experience, but he does not mince words about what it meant to him.

    “Before I went, I took the States for granted. Now, I don’t.”


Friday 10:30 a.m.

    Shots from unseen shooters whistle by soldiers as they run to their fallen comrades by an Army helicopter. After securing the injured troops on stretchers, they race across a field, through a large metal tube and over a barrier to safety.

    The ammunition is paintballs, the field is full of mud instead of sand, and the helicopter is a disabled Vietnam-era Huey, but as a substitute for Operation Iraqi Freedom, this CLS training exercise has the running and yelling down pat.

    “What do you need to do first? Think, use your heads!” screams Melinda Whitney, trainer and facilitator at the Medical Simulation Training Center. Soldiers rush into a dark, smoke-filled room and start working on their casualties, who have arm and chest wounds, as well as double leg amputations. The victims today are not fellow soldiers, but computerized dummies who breathe, blink and bleed. Trainers monitor the soldiers’ work through cameras and adjust the dummies’ responses according to the quality of care they receive.

    O’Neal and Flores hover around the two five-person teams, pushing those who are hesitant or waiting for help and shouting reminders to those who move too fast.

    “Just slow down for a minute and think. What’s going to kill him first?” O’Neal says, frustration evident in his voice. “Put the tourniquet on first — don’t worry about the bandages now.”

    “I cannot believe no one has decompressed his heart,” Flores says as he stalks around his group. “Get an IV in. Oh, it’s dark and you can’t see? Too bad. How many times do you have guaranteed light in Iraq?”

    Whitney continues her yelling, providing help and derision in the same breath. At the announcement that the medical helicopter has landed, the training soldiers rush out of the room, sweat pouring off their faces, leaving the medics to assess the work they still have to do.

    According to a March 24 article on www.medicalnewstoday.com, over ninety percent of soldiers injured in Iraq survive, and O’Neal and Flores say training like this is the main reason why, making their reinforcement sessions even more important.

    “This is the basic stuff they need to know so they can save their buddy until we can get to them and do our job,” Flores says. “We just have to keep working with them and practicing over and over until it’s automatic and they won’t freeze up under pressure.”

    Flores, who previously deployed to Afghanistan, bases his teaching philosophy on a poignant mix of common sense and self-preservation.

    “[Non-medical soldiers] need to be able to do this work in the field, because if I’m running around out there trying to help everyone, I’ll probably get hurt and then everyone will be screwed,” he says. “Plus, I’m going to teach them everything I can, because if I get hurt, I want the people taking care of me to know what they’re doing.”

    He glances at his comrades and lifts his chin a little.

    “I mean, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m planning on coming home.”

Comments

2 comments

Your name

Mon Aug 25 2008 17:29

Very nice article, Rebecca. The Collegian should write more stories about Fort Riley — it truly is a gold mine of stories.

Michael Wieser

Tue Jul 29 2008 17:33

This was a very interesting article. I really appreciate reading about the training our soldiers are getting and from the horses mouth so to speak. This has been something I have wondered about and now I know the facts. Thanks everyone!

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