Angels of war
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
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| Louie Favorite / AJC |
| Spc. Keith Martin of the 1st Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment, goes over his medical supplies before setting off on a patrol in strife-ridden Ramadi, Iraq. |
Ramadi, Iraq — Spc. Keith Martin learned to kill and heal with equal verve.
The former Marine pursued his love of medicine in a second military career in the Army and after intensive training, emerged as a “68 Whiskey,” the designation for a combat medic.
Here, deep in the devilish heart of Anbar province, Martin is savior to soldiers in 1st Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment.
Combat medics, affectionately called “docs,” are a special breed of men and women who run instinctively toward guns and bombs, to where blood is flowing.
The pace is particularly unforgiving in Ramadi, a stronghold for al-Qaida sympathizers where war’s bloody imprint surfaces daily in brazen bombings, explosions and shootings. Fierce fighting has systematically leveled this city of 400,000 on the banks of the murky Euphrates River.
The medic’s motto here: “I love not doing my job.” But few days go by without incident. To date, 273 soldiers and Marines have died in Ramadi; hundreds of others have been injured.
Still, in this 360-degree-angle war that lacks front lines, medics are apparently making a difference. The killed-in-action rate in Iraq is half what it was in World War II and a third less than Vietnam and the Gulf War, according to the Pentagon.
But every irreparable injury, every lost life, adds to a young medic’s burden.
It surfaces on Martin’s wilted face — the 29-year-old Oklahoman has been patching up his brothers in arms since last fall when Colorado-based 1-9 Infantry arrived here.
The quiet, introspective father of 4-year-old twins knew that he would be the first line of defense for his company. He came to this war with a bag full of medical supplies.
And faith in God.
On an overcast day, Martin stands ankle-deep in mud, waiting to make the return journey from central Ramadi to Camp Corregidor a few miles east.
In the Humvee, he always positions himself facing outward in case he has to get to an emergency. Behind him, he keeps his olive drab backpack teeming with supplies.
“It’s a lot different in Iraq,” Martin says about a war in which horrific bomb blasts have become the No. 1 killer of U.S. troops. “We have to know procedures and carry equipment to treat severe trauma and hemorrhaging.”
Martin trained hard for his job. The Army expected him to have the skills of a second-year medical student after only 16 weeks of class at Fort Sam Houston, Texas.
Later, he spent extra hours teaching himself how to slap on tourniquets, coagulating bandages and chest seals. He learned to perform a tracheotomy at lightning speed. And he practiced it all in the dark. Then, a night came when everything he learned was not enough.
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During a routine trip back to Corregidor, like the one he was about to make today, a makeshift bomb exploded under Martin’s Humvee. The truck’s 600-pound armored door blew off. The pressure from the blast sucked the gloves off Martin’s hands. White hot shrapnel seared his neck.
“Jesus, Jesus, Jesus!” Martin cried.
He patted himself down, checking to see if everything was intact. He did the same for the gunner, and the driver, and began calling Staff Sgt. Joshua Hager’s name.
From the injuries he saw, Martin knew could do nothing to save Hager. The vow Martin once made to himself, that he would never let a buddy die, was about to become a farce.
He wanted to hear screams of pain. He wanted to feel Hager cringe when he bandaged him up. He wanted a chance to save him.
That was Martin’s job. No U.S. patrol ever leaves a military base in Iraq without a medbat hospital doctors say it’s vital that a soldier is treated within the first 15 minutes after an injury. They refer to the “Platinum 15,” because massive hemorrhaging kills so many soldiers. If the medic on the field is able to quickly stabilize the bleeding, the soldier then has a “Golden Hour” to get to a hospital for care.
The medics know they are there to buy time.
“They are the absolute key to success,” says 1st Lt. Ken McKenzie, a trauma nurse in the 28th Combat Hospital in Baghdad. “Without them, we’d be lost. If you have a heartbeat when you come in through [the hospital] door, you’re going to go home.”
That night, as he watched Hager mouth his last incomprehensible words, Martin was helpless.
“I feel cheated. I feel responsible,” Martin says, his head dropping. “It’s a different burden we carry,” he says.
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