A Medic in Iraq
by Cole "Doc" Bolchoz

Authors Note

Part of me died in Ramadi Iraq which never can be replaced. Yet a new person is hopefully continuing to grow in a new way through The Holy Trinity. I dedicate this book to God, my family, and all of America.  The following sentiments and day to day experiences were good, bad and ugly.  Much of the work is based on actual events, but the names, dates and places have been replaced to keep everyone happy. Even more important, the truth is a harsh teacher.  

Furthermore,  I apologize for any one who finds this opus off color or offensive.  My intention is to help reduce the 15 month deployments placed on only the Army Soldiers and not the other branches of the services.  Secondly, I  want to help  military marriages not become extinct.  Third, with God’s help, I desire to become one of the greatest writers in the realm of American Literature.

On a final note, I have been diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and Bipolar Disorder. The Army is taking great care of me during this recovery phase.  It is my profound hope to once again teach and work as a Emergency Medical Technician either in the US or in Canada…New Zealand if they will have me. America we must remember we were and are ONE NATION UNDER GOD!!!

Introduction

When I was in boot there was this noncom who shouted at us all the time. His favorite thing to say was, “You are not a person, you are in the Army!” We heard that a lot.

The noncoms have their orders to depersonalize the freshly inducted men and women; and to teach them to be part of the fighting organism known as the United States Army. We are like atoms, making up a fighting whole. If you don’t fit, you are gone. Army life is simple. You do what you are told. I am just lucky I am not a foot soldier, although I may have to do my own share of killing before all this is over.

You can call me Doc. This is my story; not a political blog, not a protest. I want to tell you about my unit. They call us the Red Platoon. I am a medic working in the combat zone with the Iraqi Police in a place near Baghdad called Ramadi.

This isn’t a pretty story. The language is rough and sometimes obscene, because men in danger don’t have the time or inclination to watch what they say. I have tried to show you what it is really like out here. There are blood and guts, and bombs exploding just outside the place where you are trying to eat or sleep. There are people screaming bloody murder and guns going off in the middle of the night.

I am going to tell you all about all that, and worse. You wouldn’t get it otherwise. They don’t want you to know what is going on. Some of the stuff I see every day would blow your mind.  

For me, this book is a celebration of young American soldiers serving in Ramadi, their lives as military personnel, their pain as human beings. Much of the material will revolve around the Iraqi Police here and their activities, which are not what you may expect. I will try to be a good journalist and just write down what I see and hear. Take it any way you can.

I ask the guys I interview if I can use their names, and some of them say it is all right, others did not want to be named and that is probably for the best. Some of the stuff here might be considered secret, but I don’t think they care unless they plan to re-enlist. What are they going to do? Send us home? For me, Clark Gable said it well, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

So, this is the story of Red Steel and how it meets Ramadi Blue. We are Red Platoon, Third Division, Iraq, stationed with the Iraqi Police in Ramadi. They are called   ”blue” for the color of their uniforms.

I am sure you will laugh, cry, and maybe even vote in November of 2008 for the next President of the United States.  May God have mercy on my soul and the words I send to you.

Amen

December, 2006

December 12

I want to tell you about the importance of Ramadi to the United States Army and the war we are trying to win.

The Red Steel Platoon is attached to 1-41 Alpha Artillery Battery, part of the Army’s First Brigade, Third Infantry Division.

We work with the Iraqi Police in Ramadi in Ana bar Province, and have secured the permeable post into one of the most insecure places in the province. This isn’t Bagdad, so most Americans listening to the news don’t think it is a dangerous place for us to be. You have to be kidding.

Only a few months ago, mortar shells were landing on our forward operation base at Ramadi. In August of 2006, the Jazeera Iraqi Police station, which we now occupy, was nearly leveled and eight Iraqi officers died due to insurgent action.

At that point, the Third Division got involved and we reclaimed large parts of Ramadi in the defensive. As a result, most of our soldiers here sit safely and watch the activities as the Iraqi Police run their patrols.

But it is ludicrous to make the false assumption that Ramadi is now safe for commerce and trade. Late in the day on July first, Jazeera was hit again with another blast so powerful soldiers on the forward base observed shock waves peeling away grains of sand from the buildings.

The blast set wooden doors off their hinges, destroyed a solid 12 foot steel storage room, shattered several windows in the Iraqi Police station, and threw A/C units around like they were matchbox cars in the hand of a first grader.

Throughout the history of Operation Iraqi Freedom, Ramadi has been the site of gun-running and explosives manufacturing by various terrorist organizations. The city has also been identified as the artery for the passage of explosive materials, and the infiltration of insurgents from Syria as well. I have attempted to put this information into a working background for the reader so you can see to why Ramadi is important to its people and to America.

Ramadi has a population of about 400,000 people. Most of these inhabitants live within the ruins of a city that has no running water or reliable utilities. The lack of an economic infrastructure leaves many of the citizens to wander about the lanes of town looking for work amid the crumbling, brown and white tenements.  

The side of town Ramadi Red Steel protects consists mainly of farmers who bring their produce to the various markets in town. To a Western observer, the heavy traffic should mean productive and prosperous people. Still, the gas merchants charge a kings ransom for gas, or benzene, as the Iraqi call it. Young boys can be found standing at attention beside 50 gallon metal or plastic containers of fuel. They use worn funnels and leaky hoses to pump this prized commodity into the waiting vehicles.

The Iraqi Police officers offer quite a story. They are different from our police back home. There are concerns about the open homosexuality among the officers at this station. The cult of male closeness may seem innocent and part of this civilization’s accepted customs, but the Red Steel Platoon soldiers are appalled when we see these men sitting on each other laps and kissing each other in their distinctive blue uniforms in the vehicles we provide for them.

The Iraqi Police are dressed in chalk-colored blue shirts and dark blue pants and are easily recognizable among the more drably dressed residents. Many of these men hold hands while strolling about their sleeping quarters. Yesterday I saw two young men lying in a crude wooden bunk fondling one another, both dressed only in boxers and wife-beater undershirts. You would think they could keep their private life private, for God’s sake. We are supposed to be watching out for each other, and our guys are getting killed while they play stink-finger around the corner. It makes me sick.

The irony of these open demonstrations of homosexuality is the fact that at least many of these officers have wives and children. It seems their philosophy tells them that women are for meant reproduction, and men are provided for sexual pleasure. The ancient Greeks were like that too. Huh. It makes you wonder.

December 21

The cigarette butts hit the desert earth and I watch as the red embers wink out in the sticky darkness. Several hundred of these butts litter the motor pool on the Forward Operating Base of Ramadi. These were strewn about by Operation Iraqi Freedoms personnel before we got there. We will get it cleaned up one of these days, but right now there is too much to do. First things first.

Some of these faces of young soldiers I encounter show a virgin-like hope. It seems to me that their young spirits are in flight from the woes of worry I have encountered through my advanced years. I am the old guy at 39.  They have technical experience, but they are still kids, skimming stones over the river of wisdom. They don’t get it yet.