Comedy and Tragedy Deployed

I’ve come to believe that my writing is less about “journaling” than it is about reflecting on experiences and how they line up together or create tensions. It’s been over a month since we had our talent show here. I took an idea from a Navy chaplain’s experience with his Marines during the beginning of the conflict here. In his book, he mentions an impromptu talent show that he put together and what a morale boost it was. I decided that in a camp situation, a talent show would be the right thing to break the monotony and would give an opportunity for individuals to come into relief against background of “cammies.”

For about a month before hand I advertised the talent show on power point slide during the Commander’s Update Briefing (CUB). It had all sorts of pics on it of individuals and groups singing, dancing, riding unicycles, making dogs catch Frisbees even an old Indian woman playing an accordion—anything that would conjure up people doing their “thing.” The idea was met in a lukewarm manner and I got the feeling that “if the chaplain wants to have a show, let him have one…” I decided to invite individuals to cover the MC’s slot and judges positions. (They were all perfect for the job. CPT (now MAJ) Miller has a affable way of working the crowd and a great sense of humor. LT Welteroth, a young energetic officer with a sharp wit played our critic. SGT Cassada was hard to impress. And SPC Armbrister just wouldn’t give any unearned points.) They loved the idea of having it be a “Gong Show,” so I quickly enlisted Service and Recovery to weld together a gong we could bang on for “bad acts.”I got few entries in the weeks to come, literally. And two were real entries and one was a bogus name that because of the handwriting could be read as “Joe Mannia” or “Joe Mamma.” These were not auspicious signs and I was getting a little nervous that display of talent would be How to Produce a Flop.

It wasn’t more than three days before our “Coal Miner’s Talent Show” was to happen that soldiers were actually signing up. I was relieved and amazed at the entries. We had a drummer (SGT Muskey) who assembled a rock group with two medics. The one medic, SGT Ortego was a guitarist and a huge rock music fan who had been in attendance at the original Woodstock. Then, all of a sudden, we had a list full of vocalists, dancers, lip-syncers, and others. When the evening of November 4 had arrived over 150 soldiers piled into our dining facility (DEFAC) to watch this event. Our XO, MAJ Sheehan made sundaes for everyone. The laughter was infectious. One can tell how much they had been through by how willing they were to laugh or clap whole heartedly for the smallest effort.

There were several impressive acts. 1LT Delia was not an entrant because his wife back home was helping to sponsor the prizes through the FRG. He has been classically trained in operatic singing. He sang a Pavarotti standard “Torna A Surriento” beautifully. A young woman SPC did some ballet; she had been dancing for thirteen years. We even had our Quick Response Force (QRF) lip sync a Back Street Boys number with female dance partners. We had a female sing “The Rose” a cappella and another female lip sync David Allen Coe’s “You Don’t Have to Call Me Darling” while holding a near beer. I attempted to sing “If I Only Had a Brain” with a guitar accompanist. I got gonged because I couldn’t read the tiny print of the lyrics. I said so much and the crowd started to laugh. It was assumed that my “special act” was for comic relief, but I had done it seriously… After the winners were announced, one young man came forward and did a three minute comedy stand up act. He based his material on our experiences so far. We were amazed at how funny he was and several lamented the fact that he wasn’t “in” the competition because he would have won.

Spirits were high that night and soldiers briefly were transported to another place and time in their lives while building bonds in the present. I watched a couple soldiers pretend that they were at a concert and lift their lighters high. The crowd liked discouraging the overzealous LT from banging the gong. Others sang along with the David Allen Coe song. One soldier fell off her seat when she was cheering me on.

During some time of reflection, the image of the comic and tragic masks of the ancient Greeks came to mind. I was reminded somehow that a chaplain must wear masks (as we all do) yet know especially who he is under the mask. The mystery of being both participating fully and having some element of detachment so that the work of ministry takes place. Is it a part that is prayerful? Is it a part that the world around the chaplain trusts that he will be a faithful witness to what he has observed?

Tragedy came suddenly in the form of an innocent morale visit to Ramadi. This is where we have our C med company that is home to surgeons, docs, and medics. If we were able to drive a direct route to our camp at Ramadi, it would take about 15 minutes. But, the roads through the city are far too dangerous for a convoy, so we take a route around the southern part of the lake, which takes two hours. When I arrived, I did my regular rounds of visiting the brigade chaplain and a fellow UCC chaplain who is a LTC from Vermont.
There is a room with a few beds in the Aid Station and I claimed one for myself. Two were filled with soldiers who were awaiting transfer for further treatment.

I was just about to turn in as I was walking down the breezeway when I noticed a number of the medics preparing instruments and IV bags near several stretchers. At first it seemed rather routine and I continued to head toward my room. Once inside, I decided that I may have misread what I was seeing so I decided to head out again. I made my way to the back of the clinic where a number of medics were gathered.

No sooner had walked to the back deck than the ambo pulled up and the stretchers started coming in. They were Marines who had faced a complex attack with a Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device (VB-IED) and a couple of IED’s. The first one had neck and foot wounds and seemed to be intact. The next Marine had both of his legs missing with tourniquets at the ends keeping him from bleeding out. I quickly decided that my job was simply to be there, pray with, and assist the medics in any way I could without interfering in their work (This is what we as chaplains are expected to do.) When I introduced myself to the young man without the legs, he said that he was fine and that I should pray for his buddies.

Three more Marines came in. All were missing at least a leg or in a condition where a leg would need to be amputated. At least two were unconscious from what I recall. I overheard one of the surgeons praising the fact that even though one Marines had taken his “last breath” they were able to revive and stabilize him to the point where he could enter surgery. I made my way into the O.R. and see if I could simply be there for the medics or assist. A nurse anesthetist (MAJ) quickly befriended me and told me stories of chaplains that he has known. He put me to work with setting IV’s, retrieving equipment, and hand pumping blood through a warming device as surgeons removed a mangled leg off of the African-American Marine. I thought about the very long road to recovery and life changes that this young man was now possibly facing. I thought about how things in people’s lives can change in the “twinkling of an eye.”

The O.R. was a chaotic place. Even members of the two Marines being operated on came in. There was one Gunny who seemed very broken up. I tried to encourage him to go elsewhere so he didn’t feel so helpless. There were soldiers taking down notes, others running back and forth for additional packs of whole blood. One soldier coordinated chopper times to get the Marines to Baghdad. Apparently it was difficult to get a stable blood pressure on the Marine on our O.R. table. He may have been bleeding internally. Also the surgeon was concerned that he may have cut the leg too low, but the chopper was ready to go and he decided that the orthopedic surgeons in Baghdad would have to make the call. It was the difference of being cut above the knee or at the upper part of the thigh—challenging his potential mobility even more.

As things calmed down it became clear that some of the unit members were gathered trying to make sense of what happened to them. They had the stunned look of the grieved about them who stand around waiting for something to happen. In cases like this, teams of counselors debrief the Marines (soldiers) or their chaplain will do the same. Luckily, I have not had to conduct one of these for my unit. Other chaplains in our BCT (brigade)—especially infantry—have had a few of these sessions.

How can one minister authentically in the face of wide expressions of human experience? I believe that it has partly to do with the masks one is willing to put on, that he may enter into the lives of others. The wearing of the mask is not a deceit, but an expression of the many active selves that may revolve around a still Self that is an observer and intercessor. The chaplain reflects the events around him and also gives “holy permission” by expression of the mask. The mask is paradoxically empathy and a healthy detachment that acknowledges that “yes” what the community is experiencing is real, but it is not the totality of Experience. The masks are the joy, pain and mystery of incarnate life.