War Poet.ca - A CFAP Project by Suzanne Steele


medics, sigs. always there. in the pantheon. always protected.

at the Brigade Officers’ Mess Dinner. jokes. songs. poems. each trade taking the piss out of one another. except when it was time to address the Medics. one does not mess with the gods.

“we know if we get to Role 3 alive we’re getting home alive. you guys are awesome. truly awesome” a room of officers rose, raised a glass, toasted the men and women that follow the pointy end into danger.

and at X, outside the wire in A’stan, I watched the medics treat long lines of sick Afghans. clean wounds, treat as best they could the horror show of ordinary life in the world’s 3rd poorest country. knowing they were helpless to treat the more difficult things such as the open spina bifida of a six year old girl they found in one of the villages. paralyzed. or the TB. or… the long list that kills the women and children and the elderly.

I watched the medics prepare for a big Op. I spent time on sentry at sundown with a medic. she was unnerved. not really meant for carrying a weapon (though trained as a soldier). each time a truck passed below us, or a young man walked by, she flinched.

I met another medic who had two young children at home in Canada. she worked in Role 1 (think medical walk-in clinic). she was so switched on. had me treated and out the door in minutes.

to lose medics. two. is hardship, great loss, not only for the troops but quite frankly, also for the villagers. but there will be two more ready, prepared and more than willing to step in. because that’s what they do. that’s what they want to do.

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The page you're reading contains a single diary entry entitled medics. It was posted here on June 28, 2010.


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