People sometimes don’t realize how much of the training soldiers get is about saving lives, not taking them. Throughout my enlistment, we were often stuck reviewing medical stuff. As a combat engineer, I understood the importance of soldiers being prepared to treat wounded comrades, but I hated medical training. Evaluate a casualty: “Calmly ask in a loud voice, ‘Are you OK?’ or some similar question that demands a response.”
I’d try to alleviate my boredom. “Some other question? Could we ask, ‘Are you all right?’ or how about ‘Are you hurt?’”
Sometimes the instructor wouldn’t notice my sarcasm and would reply seriously, “Yes, those questions might also work.”
I knew the treatment procedures but hated the endless review.
Some soldiers received extra training to be “combat lifesavers.” Most notably, they were qualified to administer IVs to treat shock or dehydration. My leadership considered me for this role several times. “Reedy, how are you with needles?”
To avoid combat lifesaver training, I always said I had a terrible fear of them.
Finally, my squad leader told me I’d be joining six soldiers for the training.
“I’d love to, sergeant, but needles really bother—”
“This isn’t a request. You’re going.”
There followed several dull days reviewing the same old treatment techniques. The training culminated in starting an IV.
I had to run an IV into my friend Specialist Barton, and he did the same to me. We were far better at fighting than fixing. I discovered that pushing a needle into human flesh isn’t like in the movies, where the needle slowly pushes an indentation into the skin until it finally pops through. Instead, it punctures as though the skin isn’t even there. I also learned that getting that IV into the vein is very difficult. We were a bunch of clueless and impatient early 20s men pricking one another’s arms, cursing as we repeatedly missed veins.
“Hang on, Barton.” I held the catheter over the needle track that my repeated failure had left on my friend’s arm. “This time …. got it!” I opened the IV flow, relieved to finally be done.
Barton winced. “You f***ing suck at this, Reedy.” It turns out you can’t just run the solution into the tissue surrounding the vein.
“Hang on.” The needle had to be close to the vein. If I could just tilt it and move it on target.
Barton groaned. “I’m gonna kill you!”
That’s how I learned that if the needle misses the vein, it must be pulled back out for another try. Once in the flesh, it cannot be moved around. The instructor hadn’t covered that.
Later, Barton’s ineptitude caused him to accidentally inflict painful revenge on my arm. In the end, we looked like a squad of heroin junkies.
We all had combat lifesaver certification cards, but when I was moved from my engineer platoon to deploy to Afghanistan with an infantry company, I invoked a “don’t tell if they don’t ask” policy about that medical training. I didn’t want to be stuck carrying an extra medical kit, and I definitely didn’t want to endanger soldiers by being responsible for trying to run IVs.
At the end of the deployment, I gave my combat engineer field manual to my squad leader, forgetting that the qualification card was hidden inside.
BUCKLE UP, SOLDIER. IT’S GONNA BE A ROUGH RIDE.
“It would’ve been nice to know you were a combat lifesaver,” he said reproachfully.
My enlistment was already involuntarily extended for that deployment. My time in the Army was nearly over. “Trust me, Sergeant.” I rubbed the inner bend of my elbow, remembering our disastrous day with the needles. “It’s best if everybody forgot I ever went to combat lifesaver training.”
Trent Reedy, author of several books including Enduring Freedom, served as a combat engineer in the Iowa Army National Guard from 1999 to 2005, including a tour of duty in Afghanistan.
*Some names and call signs in this story may have been changed due to operational security or privacy concerns.
