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Aswad -> RE: The real cost of war (1/17/2012 6:55:28 AM)
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Translated from a local newspaper, as requested.
This is the first article in the series, dealing more with the prelude than the aftermath, but it's useful context. I will be getting around to the others, but it takes a bit of time to do them, so I'm probably not going to do another today. Note that this is written for civilians, at a time when our population was quite naïve about war and our role in it, so I feel it's important to point out that any superlatives shouldn't be construed as ignorance.
Any mistakes are likely to be my own, as this is unedited in a single sitting. Pictures have been omitted, and some formatting changes and similar adaptations have been made. Translations have been streamed with the windows side by side, so they will not be ideal. I have added some inline notes to clarify difficult to translate bits. All names have been truncated to avoid unwanted hits from people searching for the persons in question. The original is under copyright, but reposting the translation like this is Fair Use under applicable law.
If the mods have any issues with this, I can have the paper in question fax a permission if needed.
--
The Iraq nightmare that went untold
In April of 1991, T.M. signed up for a UN-assignment in Iraq right after the Gulf War. An assignment virtually no-one here at home would hear about or discuss.
28th April 1991: T.M. gets off the bus. He just has to see this. This is where one of the greatest tragedies of the Gulf War took place. This is what the Americans refer to as the "Highway of Death". 2 miles (3km) with more than 3.000 destroyed vehicles, burned out tanks and general debris. A collection that was on fire on the 26th of Febuary, 1991. The estimates vary, but it is probable that several thousand humans died here. These vehicles were largely headed back to Iraq when the convoy was bombed by the American forces.
The 22 year old from Bjerkvik in Nordland is back in the Gulf War area after a ten day vacation back home. Earlier this winter, he completed a three month tour in the medical detachment in Saudi-Arabia.
During the war, the American forces dropped about 700.000 rounds of depleted uranium in Iraq, many of them here on the "Highway of Death". Already in 1991, this ammunition was sufficiently controversial that the British nuclear energy comission published a warning about the contamination in Iraq. Everything is covered in an unfamiliar white powder as T.M. and the other UN-workers have a look around, some even climbing inside some of the wrecks.
At this point, they have not been informed of any potential health risks.
--
The fifty Norwegians are headed for the village of Umm Qasr, located inside the 240km (160mi) long demilitarized zone between the two countries. Their task is to set up a field hospital. At present, there is peace, with an armistice in effect and the UN about to ship 300 observers to the region. And the passengers on this particular bus are to provide healthcare for the observers. They are the first contingent of the Norwegian medical detachment of UNIKOM.
On the way over, they've landed at the airport in Kuwait. The capital, Kuwait City, is empty, silent and has been extensively pillaged. They've driven past the areas where the oil wells are ablaze, with pillars of fire 40m (120ft) tall. Aside from the roaring, they're also spewing large amounts of thick, black smoke.
By the side of the road north, someone has placed a sign saying "Highway to Hell".
--
Outside the [decomissioned? unused?] naval hospital in Umm Qasr, T.B. and G.R.J. are coughing and vomiting. In a few days, the rest of the medical detachment will arrive, and it's up to these two to prepare the hospital for use.
Both T.B. and G.R.J. are experienced UN-veterans. 32 year old T.B. is from Oslo, 36 year old G.R.J. is from Stokke in Vestfold. Both of them have served several tours in Lebanon. T.B. is in the logistics branch, and G.R.J. is his assistant. This place is one of the worse they've seen here, crawling with rats. Packs of wild dogs circle the area, used to stealing from the hospital.
The Iraqi have left the place in something of a macabre condition. It's filthy, with junk all over the place, the basement littered with bandages, garbage and waste materials from the surgical wards.
T.B. and G.R.J. work their way through the building, spraying it with some insecticides they brought over from Kuwait. They've no protection beyond a dust mask, as the older gas masks they were supplied with are unsuited to the job and lack a water supply in the 40C (104F) heat.
The hospital was originally a rather tasteful building, constructed by Swiss engineers some time in the 80's, back when Saddam was considered a friend of the West. It has some 200 beds, as well as surgical wards. Its location is near the mouth of the Shatt al-Arab, the only port to the Gulf in Iraq.
The first few weeks, the Norwegians choose to sleep outside with mosquito nets. Conditions inside are unlivable.
--
For 13 of the participants, the story starts somewhat earlier that winter. Already around the end of January, some 231 Norwegian troops were dispatched to Saudi-Arabia to assist the allied forces in the war effort against Saddam. The medical detachment was under British command in the camp at Al Jubail, and was saddled with some at times rather objectionable assignments.
Three of them were T.M, T.B. and G.R.J.
Prior to the assignment, each was required to provide an up to date will, then went through an extensive medical program. There were vaccines and drugs, some of which hadn't been tested before, many with substantial side effects. The aim was to protect against Sarin gas, Anthrax and so forth.
A number of these drugs became subjects of controversy in later years.
The war effort in Iraq was extensive. Despite being some 160km (100mi) from the front lines, the fear of gas attacks was pervasive. The alarm would go off quite frequently, with a metallic voice repeating "Gas! Gas!" throughout the camp.
"We were scared whenever it went off," comments T.B.
G.R.J. also remembers his time there quite vividly. And during his stay, he picked up some tips from the British, such as how to use soap and diesel, a trick which would prove particularly useful in the medical detachment in Iraq later on.
--
One day in early May of 1991, a Swedish engineer enters the NM camp. He measures and calculates, arriving at the exact position of the border between Kuwait and Iraq, and draws a line in the sand to mark it off.
Then the Norwegians start building a bar. On the Iraqi side of the border, of course. On the other side, in the strictly Islamic country of Kuwait, drinking alcohol is illegal.
They track down an old counter for the bar. Rig up a tent and some plain benches. Some go to Basra to buy cheap beer and other drink of decent and familiar brands. Rumors of the bar start to spread. It becomes fairly popular in no time, with western soldiers and UN personell travelling from around Kuwait and the demilitarized zone to have a drink and a chat. Many point out that a drink is about a dollar, while phoning home is about ten dollars a minute. This makes it the bar a water hole for many, and important to cohesion for the unit. Some of the medical staff note that the drinking may be somewhat excessive.
--
The days go by. The unit quickly realizes that they can't limit themselves to the UN observers, as once the local population hears that there is a hospital in the area, they come running. Some have old wounds from war, others have diseases. On one occasion, a young woman arrives that has been shot in the ass. By her little brother. The boy sat playing with the family Kalashnikov when it accidentally went off. Fortunately, it's only a minor wound.
Come June, the alarm goes off. There's been a major explosion in the railway area of Umm Qasr, and T.B. and several others are sent to assist in putting it out. The stench of brimstone is heavy, and the fumes sting their eyes and lungs. Some of them are curious what they're actually breathing here; what it might do to them.
After a while, the field hospital runs out of equipment and drugs. T.B. and G.R.J. drive to Kuwait City to pick up more. The windshield gets so dirty it's hard to see the road. In Kuwait and some places in the desert, the wind makes the smoke from the oilwells far denser than back at camp. It's difficult to breathe.
At a medical depot, they manage to obtain drugs and plasma bags. Without revealing its intended use. "If we'd told them it would be used in Iraq, they never would've let us have anything," T.B. comments.
--
In June and July, there are several reminders that the area they're in is a turbulent one. On one occasion, three wounded Iraqi men are flown to the Umm Qasr field hospital by a medevac chopper.
Doctor M.A. treats the most severely injured, a man of 22 years. He has been shot while attempting to cross the border into Saudi-Arabia, including hits to the abdomen. He goes through surgery, is stabilized, and receives a transfusion from the staff.
The next day, two police officers pick up the young Iraqi, and Dr. M.A. comes along to Basra to file a report. When they get there, the young man is taken into a backyard and summarily shot as the civilian doctor watches. Apparently, he was a deserter.
Over time, the incidents get to some. After such occurences, they tend to gather in the bar, where they can talk about their various experiences and express themselves freely. Later on, the bar is to take on a more central role in the camp, for better or worse. As on the 22nd of September, things start happening.
--
A pickup pulls up in front of the sector tent of T.M. and ambulance driver J.O.G. deep in the desert. With ambient temperatures of 50C (122F), several hours drive from the hospital, the detachment has three sectors in the demilitarized zone, each with two people, one of which is a driver. Their purpose is to be of assistance to the observers from the UN. But this car brings an unexpected cargo that changes the picture.
In the back of the pickup is a mangled Iraqi man, casually tossed atop a pile of undetonated mines. T.M. and J.O.G. are baffled, but they've no time to spare: he's just the first of many.
At times the small field hospital receives eight mine blast victims per day [alive on arrival, that is]. The two northerners [regional reference] work intensely, providing first aid at the sector tent. Stabilize, bandage, morphine, then they're dispatched via helicopter or ambulance. The injured are laid out on the floor of the small tent for triage.
One day, a man comes in with his foot blasted off, and the next arrival is his son, injured in the same manner and location. The inevitably macabre jokes present themselves.
"We'd talk about how he was following in his old man's footsteps," T.M. reminisces.
More bothersome is the smell. The place stinks of burnt and blasted body parts. The small medical detachment finds itself in a mine nightmare, and the people stationed at the sector tents in the deep desert, many of which have no real medical experience, are the first to find the tragedy dumped into their laps.
"It was harder for me to be in the desert than back at the hospital," notes J.O.G.
--
It is only later that the Norwegian medical detachment learns the cruel truth: that Saddam Hussein and his men have promised the population money for every mine they collect. Poverty stricken Iraqi risk life and limb in the desert for about one dollar per mine they retrieve [current exchange rates].
There are more than two million mines deployed at that time.
In the days to come, there are many pickups driving around in the unsecured desert area. Young and old, many bolstering their courage with cheap booze. The problem is that these are civilians. They've no idea how the mines are laid out. Or that sandstorms shift them about.
Field priest D.R. eventually realizes the how the process works. The mines are usually deployed with antipersonell mines in a ring around a central antitank mine. To disarm the mines in question, they have to turn a tap at the bottom counterclockwise. However, every seventh mine requires one to turn it clockwise instead.
"But how were the Iraqi civilians to know this?" asks D.R.
--
"Wake up! We've got two incoming wounded," yells one of the UN observers to A.H. The tall and compact man of 24 has been dubbed Tiny [nick is untranslatable, conveys 'tiny', 'son' and 'boy'] by his buddies in the unit. As a car mechanic, his job in the sector tent is supposed to be as a driver. He's just nodded off in the car when he is started awake by the yelling. Right now, he feels pretty tiny. His colleague, who is from the medical corps, has been called away to keep a patient alive during airlift. It's been a hectic day, with many mine injuries.
Suddenly, the mechanic is alone with two dying Iraqi. They have entry wounds in the abdomen and are still conscious. 'Tiny' has no idea what to do; this is far outside his area of expertise. He radios the field hospital in Umm Qasr and asks the nurses and doctors there for help.
"I'm here with two wounded. I think they're dying," he reported.
He is unable to help, and the wounded pass out and die while he can only watch. The other Iraqi refuse to take the bodies with them as they leave. 'Tiny' is distraught. He can't stay here with the two bodies baking in the sun, and decides to fetch his service rifle.
"I gestured indicatively with the rifle, but without threatening them directly. Still, they got moving," he says.
As they load the bodies into the car, 'Tiny' realizes what has happened. In the back seat is another dead man, while a fourth is packed in the trunk, cut in half. They've been killed by a hopper mine [mine that 'hops' up before explosively dispersing plate shrapnel horizontally].
"I don't remember much of the next day. The whole mine thing was a continuous soup of blood that really got to people. Some coped well, others were brought to their knees," he explains.
At the field hospital in Umm Qasr, things are equally grim. The doctors turn to the mechanic's toolbox as the surgeons start to run out of supplies. Among other things, they borrow a hacksaw to perform amputations.
--
Heart rending scenes play out over time. One day sees seven wounded arriving simultaneously. Sixteen have already died before they could be transported. Several more are dead on arrival. Their injuries are characterized as dramatic.
Sometimes, the events impress themselves more deeply.
T.B. in particular remembers one family arriving with a young man whose leg has been mangled. The rest of the family is with him, and stand by in silence. Not a sound. The next day, they bring the young man's brother. The boy is just as badly mangled. The family remains as silent as before. No tears. And the next day, they return yet again. With their third son, also this one mangled as the other two. Still they don't cry. The silence remains deafening.
"They never said a word. They were dirt poor and needed the money," T.B. relates.
--
Communications officer L.S. out of Nittedal is thirsty, and heads to the kitchen for something to quench his thrist. The path down there takes him past the surgical ward. Suddenly, he finds himself in the middle of the chaos, and has to assist with the surgery of an Iraqi that has severe burns to 70% of his body.
"I seem to recall he died," says L.S.
Chefs T.S. and H.M. switch back and forth between cooking in the kitchen and assisting with the surgeries. The intensity of the work leaves them no time to reflect on what they have to do.
"We developed a pretty black sense of humor to pull through," says T.S.
T.M. is also back in the hospital after the rough experiences in the desert. There's no time to rest. He's a radiologist assistant, and takes part in countless exposures. At times, he has to hold the images for the surgeons when there is no lightbox available to hang them on. T.M. assists with the surgeries, and is assigned the task of monitoring patients that have been recently operated on: mine injured people that will wake up to find one or more limbs missing. The civilian tragedy disturbs him.
Many have no experience with this sort of work, and accumulate some pretty strong experiences.
Not everyone is coping very well with the situation. In the field hospital, head nurse J.V. is worried. She can see many of them aren't doing well with this, and discusses the matter with the doctors. They all agree there will be some fallout from the whole thing.
While the medical personell is used to debriefing and talking to each other throughout the surgeries, the other personell frequently hits the bar instead, to drown out the impressions and thoughts they struggle with.
--
In the middle of this chaos of injury, death and tragedy is surgeon J.P.L., working. He notices that some of the patients coming in from the sector tents have severe blood loss, despite having had traditional treatment with a tourniquet before being shipped to the hospital.
J.P.L. is one of the foremost experts on wartime injuries, and he can tell something isn't right. Instead of continuing to use tourniquets, he issues an order to pack the wounds with compresses and to only use a compressive, elastic bandage over the blast injuries to stop the bleedings.
It works. The blood loss is limited, and several lievs are probably saved by his discovery. Later, J.P.L. writes an article on this in the journal of the Norwegian doctors' association, so that the method can be applied in other areas where such injuries are to be treated.
There's some bleak days in the field hospital, but discoveries like this make it slightly less so.
For there is one point on which most parties agree: the Norwegian medical detachment unit of UNIKOM is doing a great job with the very limited resources available.
Over the course of three weeks, they treat 101 mine injuries.
--
For many of the medical staff, the mission is professionally both extremely challenging and also confers important experience and opportunities to learn more. The surgeons who had been twiddling their thumbs in the calm period are now testing the limits of their abilities.
Other participants also establish a particularly good rapport. The extreme conditions drive people closer.
Nurses E.L. from Stavanger and R.S. from Vågå are quite happy [might be 'well adjusted'], despite the work pressure and countless tragedies taking their toll. They both feel rather powerless. They both bring a long history of E.R. medical experience to Iraq. They're both used to drama and strong impressions, and used to talking through it. The two colleagues hit it off pretty well as time progresses.
The only problem is, E.L. is married back home...
--
Throughout this period, there are small fires burning in the desert outside the small field hospital in Umm Qasr. That's where we find G.R.J. and some of his colleagues supervising. He's putting some of the tips he got from the British back in Saudi-Arabia to good use.
He's mixing napalm.
Out here, with ambient temperatures of 40-50C (104-122F), getting rid of body parts and surgical 'leftovers' is a challenge. They can't bury it, so they have to incinerate it. There can't be anything left.
So G.J.R. mixes the sticky stuff himself out there in the desert, the infamous fuel that killed so many civilians during the Vietnam war. The Norwegian personell in Iraq use it to dispose of the materials from the surgeries. They even construct suitable vessels to make it behave optimally.
And it works. For three weeks, G.J.R. is out there, cremating, making sure the dogs don't make off with the body parts.
It's the sort of thing that sometimes happens during international assignments, but which few want to talk about afterwards. And which they can't forget.
--
It's the 28th of September, precisely five months into the assignment. The recovery ward still has four severely injured Iraqi. It is on this day the highest commander of UNIKOM has decided to drop by. He wants to hand out medals to the unit. It's a very bad time to do so.
Yet the UN general arrives. Along with the Austrian G.G. and his chief of staff. The requisite honors and protocols are done, and the general starts handing out medals.
Then the alarm goes off.
Two new mine injuries are inbound. The ceremony falls apart. But To.Mu., the leader of the Norwegian unit, politely invites him to visit the ward. Thus, he can get a better impression of what they're actually doing.
In the ward, G.G. is leaning on one of the walls as the Norwegian unit treats severe mine injuries. The chief of staff feints and slumps to the floor.
"The general was pretty pale, too," To.Mu. relates.
But G.G. has grasped the insanity of the situation, and the pressure the unit is operating under. That afternoon, he sends a fax to the UN headquarters in New York. It reads:
"I strongly recommend you approach the Iraqi UN ambassador Al Anbari, and instruct him to do what he can to end this needless bloodbath."
It doesn't work. At least, not at first. Two weeks pass before there's any change for the better. The 15th of October is the first quiet day. No 'incoming wounded' alarms. Not a single mine injury. Someone has finally told the leaders of the Iraqi army to stop offering money for mines collected by the civilians. Who finally got through, is not known.
But in the Norwegian medial detachment, they can breathe a sigh of relief. For a while.
--
A day earlier, G.J.R. called the Norwegian armed forces HQ back in Huseby, Oslo to file his report. He introduces himself, along with where he's calling from.
"The person on the other end replied: Huh? Iraq? We don't have anyone down there," relates GJR. "My response was roughly 'WTF'."
This conversation stays with the unit's members that fall. The silence and emptiness after the steady stream of mine injuries has ended is heavy. Though To.Mu. keeps sending his weekly reports, the feeling that they've been forgotten by the people back home starts getting to some of them.
Several of the personell show obvious signs of wear after the three dramatic weeks of mine injuries. Some grow withdrawn, distant. Others spend more time in the bar.
It is at this time that the high command in UNIKOM decides to move their headquarters up to Umm Qasr, where the Norwegian detachment is located. This leads to the unit losing the kitchen and being forced to eat in a run down mess hall instead. Several are severely food poisoned as a result.
Yet, at this time, another matter becomes a major issue: wages.
--
Back in April, the armed forces were in such a rush to ship the crew off to set up the field hospital in Iraq that they never finished negotiating wages for the fifty-odd participants.
The time for their scheduled rotation back home is approaching, and still there's no agreement on wages. Officers and enlisted alike are upset. The offer is well below what the Norwegian UNIFIL units received in Lebanon. Many are offended that the wartime rates are not applied, despite the prevailing conditions. The staff aboard the frigatte "Andenes" were given [approx; current rates] USD 4.000/mo additional pay due to wartime rates. Here, in the desert, they get USD 600/mo. This is felt to be unjust.
"It's intolerable," says field priest D.R., "to ship people out on such an assigment without compensation being negotiated properly."
A couple of weeks before rotating back home, the unit completes negotiations. The news are met with shrugs and bitterness. They're going home, now, most of them.
The 30th of October, after a six month rotation, they're on a plane home. It lands at Gardermoen, and they are transported to the camp at Onsrud, whence they originally departed what seems like ages ago.
There's some healthcare staff there. The unit's members answer questions about their current health condition before being allowed to go on leave. The questions are brief, the answers superficial.
Most just want to put this assignment behind them as soon as possible, before getting on the bus to Jessheim, then the train to Oslo, and from there to their various points of origin across the country.
--
Back in Umm Qasr, the medical detachment is reduced from a staff of 50 to one of 19. The field hospital is almost more like a doctor's office now.
But T.M. is one of those that volunteers for another rotation, even though the first signs are appearing that something is wrong. Very wrong. Chunks of hair start falling off. He develops lesions over most of his body. He'll be staying until next spring. A total of 15 months in the polluted environment left by the first Gulf War.
The young man from Bjerkvik ponders as he lay in bed. Feels the emptiness after everything he's seen and been through. He dwells on the mutilated bodies he has saved, the endless screaming, the burned bodies, the smell of blood and gunpowder... Saddam's agents, hunting him... they are, aren't they?
"Whenever I had beef stroganoff, I would see it as tissue from the ward," he relates.
He thinks back to the surgeries in the field hospital. The patients he was assigned to. Everything he's been exposed to. And the constant fear of the mines; two million in total, many a mere stone's throw from their front door.
The nosebleeds get worse over time. One morning, getting up, he finds that the pillow has been glued to his head by the blood.
Something just doesn't seem right.
--
How did things work out for TM, TB, GRJ, JOG, AH and the other personell in NorMedUnit / UNIKOM-1? In the years after they returned?
[ Plug for the BT newspaper goes here. Credit where credit is due. ]
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