Posts Tagged ‘Deployed Dentist’

milk n' honey_big

The winter months in Afghanistan can be cold and dry. In the river valley it rarely snows and surprisingly it gets really dry. And showering with cheap body wash in heavily chlorinated water left my skin begging for moisture.

One day I had the idea to find some nice homemade soap that was good for dry, itchy skin. I found a nice lady from Michigan who had a small business named Marmalade Hills that made and sold homemade soaps online. I ordered a couple of oatmeal and honey soap bars that were supposed to help keep skin from drying out and relieve itching. Well, when this nice lady found out she was sending some soap to a soldier in Afghanistan she decided to hook a fellow up. When I received my purchase in the mail I found that she had put at least a half-dozen different bars of soap, two tubs of scented body butter, and several tubes of lip balm. It was awesome!

My elation was short-lived however. I realized that despite the sweet soap hookup, I just became a male soldier in Afghanistan that had a bunch of foo-foo girly scented soap and lotion in his room. I got worried that someone would smell the soap in my room or, worse, smell something on me. That’s how rumors get started…

So I hid that box of  soaps and wonderful potions and lotions as quickly as if someone had just sent me a box of pornography and liquor. I knew the consequences would be huge if I got caught.

I discreetly and carefully explored the contents of the box as if I was an EOD guy disarming a bomb. Some of those soaps had glitter on them. And once you get glitter on you …it is hard to get off. And if I was seen with even a speck of glitter on my skin I would never hear the end of it.  I sorted the non-glitter soaps from the glitter soaps. The glitter soaps were immediately placed in zip-lock bags and sealed off from all other non-glitter soaps. The non-glitter soaps were inspected carefully to make sure no traces of glitter could be found.

The soaps were amazing. That oatmeal and honey bar was quite nice on my skin and had almost no lingering smell afterward. I felt guilty hoarding all these nice soaps so I decided to discreetly share them with some of those in my trusted inner circle. Here is the actual email traffic that went out:

Me: “Hey guys. I ordered a bar of all natural soap from this lady’s online
store. She saw that it was an APO address and sent me a couple extra
bars of really nice soaps. If you guys want a bar just let me know. I’m
happy to share.”
KB: “So… you ordered lady soap?”
Me: “Yup. It leaves my skin silky and smooth. I’m strangely comfortable with that.”
JS: “I would love to try a bar.”
JL: ” Mike, Don’t take Percocet or Ambien then shop online.- J***”
JL: “Mike, The way I read this e-mail, it really sounds like you are purchasing [sic] women’s soap.- J***”
I won’t name any names here, but late one night there was a tap on my door. When I opened the door there was a man standing there in the shadows. He looked around to make sure no one was looking then said to me quietly ” So…I hear you’re the guy to talk to about some soap…”


A lot of my significant memories from my deployment are negative ones – saying goodbye to my family, dealing with isolation and depression, facing the realities of the violence of war. But mixed in there with all the bad memories are some really positive experiences and great stories of Army Dentistry.

By far, my most positive experience in Afghanistan was my trip into the Jalalabad Market. I got an email one day from the head of our Base Defense Operations Center (BDOC) asking me if I would be willing to go on a short mission outside our base to deliver dental supplies to children in a school near the market outside our gates. Without hesitation I said: “Absolutely!”

An organization back home in the states had collected toothbrushes, dental floss, and other oral hygiene supplies and mailed them to Afghanistan. Not really knowing what to do with them, they arranged a mission to deliver them to some local Afghani children. Realizing that this was a great opportunity to win the “hearts and minds” I made a quick trip to the Public Affairs Office (PAO) to see if they had a combat photographer available to go with us. We were lucky and PAO was interested and readily willing to accompany us on our trip.

The day of the mission was a brutally hot summer day. Those of us going on the trip got in full battle rattle and met our security detail on the friendly side of the Entry Control Point (ECP). In addition to the photographer, the dentist, and the crew of 3 heavily armed and armored gun trucks, a partner team of Afghan National Army soldiers joined us to translate and provide additional security on our mission.

We had a short mission briefing before rolling out. We placed our weapons on “RED” status –meaning we chambered a round and placed our weapons on safe– and headed out the gate. This was my first time on foot outside the wire. I immediately felt like a fish out of water with a target painted on his back. I realized instantly that this was a perfect opportunity for the enemy to hit us with an IED. I imaged the headline the next morning: “An IED attack killed ten American Soldiers who were conducting a dismounted patrol in the vicinity of Nangarhar International Airport on Tuesday….”

I pushed that thought out of my mind and refocused on what was going on. Surrounded by our escorts we walked about 100 meters down the main road – Highway 1. We came upon a small market on the right side of the highway and began slowly patrolling down the narrow dirt road. On both sides of the road were shops – a shoe store, and a butcher shop just to name a few. We all waved and smiled and tried to make the locals feel like they should be happy to see us. The PAO photographer, a young blonde female Staff Sergeant, was drawing quite a bit of attention from the young men on the street. I overheard at least one marriage proposal.


As we reached the end of the road we were immediately surrounded by a large number of young children ranging in age from infant to teenager. Our Afghan Army security detail yelled at the kids to stay back, and a man who appeared to be a teacher herded the children to a small clearing by a tree. With the help of a translator I gave a short class on brushing and flossing. We posed for a few photos with the kids and then started to hand out the toothbrushes and floss.

Within moments the basic discipline the children exhibited while in the presence of their teacher disappeared. They began mobbing us and grabbing the boxes. We were quickly overwhelmed with dozens of surprisingly strong children who were patting us down, reaching into our pockets, grabbing pens and anything loose off of our uniforms. Fearing a child would accidentally grab a weapon, I dumped my box of brushes and the others quickly followed suit.

As the situation calmed down we started the walk back to the base. On our way out of the market we stopped briefly at an outdoor butcher shop. The locals were very friendly and hospitable and were offering us food. Knowing that the meat had been hanging outside for hours and seeing the number of flies on the food, we thanked them and kindly declined. I always felt bad turning down food from the locals as it is considered an insult. But I would rather offend on occasion than suffer from a severe bout of food sickness. I had a policy of always accepted chai if it was offered.

It took only a few minutes to return to the gates and get back to our FOBBIT lives. Later that week the photographer burned me a CD with all of the photos she took while on the mission, some of which I have included here. That mission remains one of the highlights of my year. My interactions with the Afghan citizens throughout that year made me appreciate how similar–on many levels–all people are.

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I sat straight up in bed and looked at my watch. It was 6:17 in the morning and my heart was pounding. “What the hell was that?” I thought. It was too loud to be a controlled detonation – and way too early in the morning for anyone to be at the range.

I was staring at my wrist watching the seconds tick by. If this was an attack then the alarm should go off any second…

It couldn’t have been five seconds before I heard the alarm screaming “Initiate Force Protection Condition DELTA….” which meant something bad was happening. I was now fully awake and aware that I was not dreaming. I jumped down from my bunk and started putting on my gear. This was an all too familiar routine, but the feel of adrenaline starting to pump told me that this time it was close.

I ran down to the aid station where we started getting accountability. It was the usual post-alarm chaos…people running around trying to figure out who was missing. The only difference today was that everyone genuinely looked concerned. You could feel the tension in the air. The officers and NCO’s were on the radios trying to figure out what just happened. Pieces of information started trickling in.

Apparently there had been a large explosion at the Entry Control Point – the front gate. At this point no one was exactly sure of the details. Was this an accident? Was it a helicopter crash? Did a fuel tank explode? A lot of different scenarios ran through my head.

Then we started getting some real info. Our base had been attacked by a VBIED: a Vehicle Borne Improvised Explosive Device. Two vehicles loaded with explosives attempted to gain access to the base. The driver of the lead vehicle detonated as he entered the first gate. There were dead and wounded and they were all headed our way.

Not ten minutes after waking up and getting to the aid station did the first vehicles started showing up. The surgical team was quickly overwhelmed with patients as were our two physicians, the nurse, and the PA assigned to our battalion. I was asked to go out front and triage any additional wounded.

Moments later an Afghan Military Toyota truck pulled up in front of the aid station. There were several men in the back of the truck. Those who could walk on their own stumbled out of the truck and surrounded me. They were pointing and yelling at something lying in the bed of the truck. I looked up and that’s when I saw him.

There was an Afghan soldier – a member of the partner unit that helped guard our gate – lying face down on a litter. One of his legs was mangled and mostly amputated. His arms and shirt were up over his head. His leg wound looked like meat from the butcher: pale reddish-gray. I noticed immediately that he was not moving. I quickly jumped up in the bed of the truck to look for a pulse I knew I wouldn’t find. I pulled his hands and shirt down from over his head to gain access to his neck.

I still don’t fully understand what I saw. The best way I can describe it was that his head wasnt where it was supposed to be. There was just a flap of skin: neck and hair. What was left of his face was unrecognizable as human. What remained of his scalp was simply matted hair with blood. There was no bleeding.

Two of our medics ran up to the truck to help me.

“Put him in Expectant…” I yelled, referring to the worst of the four triage categories. I told them to help me carry him to an area we had designated as the collection point for the dead and dying. As we moved the Afghan soldier out of the truck, one of the surgeons came outside and asked where we were taking him. I told the Doc that he was dead. He quickly listened for chest sounds with his stethoscope and then nodded.

We carried his body behind a wall so that the others couldn’t see him. I told his comrades that he was dead. There was nothing we could do. I don’t think they spoke much English, but they understood. The medics placed his remains in a human remains pouch (aka a body bag) and I went back inside.

The whole aid station was chaos. There were wounded Afghan and US Soldiers in every treatment room and in the hallway. Our PA asked if I could sew up a wound on a man’s face. The blast split open his chin and would require several sutures. After gloving up, I anesthetized the area, irrigated the wound, and placed five or six vicryl sutures. Not the ideal suture material to close a facial wound, but the thread is white which was essential in the situation considering the patient’s thick, dark beard.

Later that morning our Company Commander and I drove over to the ECP to survey the damage and check on our soldiers – my dental assistant had been on guard at the gate that morning. We knew very early on that he had not been injured, but we wanted to check on him and see how he was holding up. He had witnessed the entire event.

After checking on my assistant– who was shaken up but otherwise okay– we walked down to the site of the explosion. The force of the explosion threw the engine block of the vehicle over fifty feet into a concrete bunker wall. The driver was essential vaporized. Someone later told me they found a part of his spinal column hundreds of feet from the blast. There was burnt, twisted metal everywhere.

The attack that morning left nine Afghan soldiers dead and about fifteen wounded. Two American soldiers had been wounded, but thankfully none were killed. Had the driver waited a few more moments before detonating his vehicle, many Soldiers –my assistant included– would have been seriously wounded or killed.

After the situation stabilized it was back to life as normal. I decided to close the dental clinic for the morning as my uniform was bloodied and dirty and I was a bit upset. I needed a shower and some time to regain my composure. I wasn’t hungry but my head was screaming for a cup of coffee.

The events of that morning left me bothered for a couple of days. We were less than a month from the end of our deployment and I mistakenly assumed the worst was over. The attack renewed my sense of fear and left me scared, nervous, and ready more than ever to get home safely.


I don’t enjoy having conversations about Afghanistan with people who haven’t been there. It is not that I don’t want to share or help others understand the conflict or my experiences. My issue is that the stories I truly want people to understand are so visceral that words rarely due them justice. Especially when my words fall upon ears that don’t already have some basic connection to this conflict: the ears of someone who has never served in the armed forces, who has no relatives who have been to Afghanistan, who couldn’t find Afghanistan on a map.

The majority of my time in Afghanistan was divided between working hard and doing absolutely nothing. There would be days at a time where I did not see a single patient. Being frustratingly bored is what I hated the most about my deployment, but being bored is not what has affected me. Being bored is not what inspired me to start sharing my experience on my blog.

My clinic in Afghanistan was in a small concrete building near the runway on a small base close to the Pakistan border. In this building were other medical assets, to include two operating rooms and a team of surgeons. As such, the majority of seriously wounded Soldiers in our area of operations came to us for surgery. I got quite a bit of experience that year treating maxillofacial battle wounds, but unfortunately along with the split lips, broken teeth, and facial lacerations came the double amputations, exsanguinations, and other variations of modern battle-wounds that the American public has yet to see the long term effects of.

As a dentist I see bleeding and pain on a routine basis, but I am not accustomed to the level of violence and trauma that a general surgeon is. To me the images of wounded American Soldiers stand out profoundly, while to a surgeon they are likely routine and unmemorable. I hope to never again see the effects of such violence again in my lifetime, but those wounded and dying men and women that I saw will forever be etched in my memory. It is these memories that I want to share with the American public, and it is these memories that churn my stomach when I recall them.

My first exposure to the violence of this war was in the first 24 hours after arriving in Afghanistan. A suicide bomber walked onto a nearby base and the wounded were evacuated to our facility. Still, this trauma was distant, new, confusing, and as such did not yet seem real. Nine days later was when it became real to me. It was a Sunday morning and I had been called in to the clinic to see two emergency dental patients. As I was finishing, we got word that we would be receiving five incoming wounded patients. I remember feeling naively excited as our new battalion surgeon and I propped open the doors to the clinic to prepare to receive the casualties. He wanted me to stick around to triage — to sort the patients based on severity — since that was technically an additional duty of the dentist.

I recall it was a very warm April day. The sun was beating down on us while we joked, getting to know each other better. Then the first ambulance rolled up and the medics threw open the back door to get the patients out. The mood quickly changed. I ran up to the vehicle to assess the patients and to begin sorting. Thankfully there were not enough patients to really triage. There was only one that really needed surgery and a few others who were minimally wounded. But at this moment the war became real to me. I looked up and saw a man about my age with red all over his uniform, blood streaming from his face. He was shaking and violently vomiting into a plastic baggie. His left eye was ripped out.

As the year progressed and casualties mounted, I developed a bad habit of internet-searching the names of the Soldiers who died. I wanted to learn a little bit about them out of respect; and in the age of social media and online hometown newspapers, it was easy to do. Unfortunately this made the emotional burden somewhat more personal. I could no longer separate them simply as patients. They now had first names and families. Lives they had lived before the military. Wives and kids whose lives would be forever changed by their death.

One particular death bothered me more than others, probably because it was my first. He was a young Soldier whom I did not know. To this day I do not know what happened to him, but when I came around the corner of our building I saw the team unloading him from the ambulance. His uniform had been cut off by the flight medics so I could see his pale yellow skin under the hot Afghanistan sun. There was a small amount of blood on his chest but no visible trauma. Our Brigade Nurse was barking orders while doing chest compressions on him. His eyes were open but vacant. Each time she compressed his chest I could see his lips moving, un-naturally expelling air. He was dying right there before our eyes. I knew from the color of his skin that he was already gone.

He died that hot summer day in Afghanistan.

Something odd happened to me every time I saw a Soldier in the grips of death. Time slowed down and all of my senses heightened. Colors became more vivid, smells and sounds more defined. Details became more pronounced. I will never forget the smell of blood evaporating into the air under the hot sun. It is the smell of life being carried away by the wind.

Later that day I searched his name on the internet and quickly found a picture of him and his wife and children. He looked very different in life. I realized that in a few short hours that woman in the photo would get a knock on the door that would change her life forever. Her husband had been Killed In Action. Those children’s father would never kiss them good night again. A knot formed in my stomach. I thought about my own family: my wife and son, my parents. I prayed they would never get that knock.

I couldn’t get the images of his death out of my mind for days. I had a hard time sleeping at night. Every time I closed my eyes I could see his face. I can still remember his face but it doesn’t bother me as much anymore. I’m not sure if that is good or bad. I like to think that for me it is a good thing. But for history’s sake, forgetting his face is wrong.

Now that I have been home seven months, I find my mind wandering back to Afghanistan less and less often. In the fast-paced, cushioned lifestyle we enjoy in our country it is easy to forget how many are still serving in Operation Enduring Freedom. As Thanksgiving approaches this week I will take a few extra moments to thank God for bringing me home safely and pray for those who are still downrange. And I will remember to ask God to bless the families of the fallen who celebrate the holidays this year for the first time without their loved one.

This post was written almost a year ago and describes 3 of the most emotionally difficult days of my deployment.  I waited for the right time to post this, but the time never came. I guess now is as good a time as ever. These events are how I recall them and were written immediately after they took place:

The other night at 0130 I was awakened to the loudspeaker announcement “ATTENTION ON THE FOB: ALL B POSITIVE BLOOD DONORS REPORT TO THE AID STATION IMMEDIATELY.”  Disoriented,  I sat up and waited to hear it again, as I couldn’t quite make out what the voice said. Sure enough, they wanted all B + personnel down there ASAP. I jumped out of bed, grabbed my weapon, and beat feet the 100 meters or so to the aid station not knowing what I was going to walk into.

There was already a handful of half-dressed, sleepy-eyed soldiers and contractors waiting. People were running around, clearing chairs, scurrying about. I asked someone what was going on: “IED, sir. 5 casualties. Three are heading to the OR right now.”  They needed five units of B positive apparently.

Within five minutes I was laying on a table with a garden hose in my arm draining me of my precious B+. I hoped that my blood would somehow work miracles on whoever it was that was so in desperate need of it not 20 feet away. A few minutes later we were done, a lab tech came and grabbed the bag and ran a couple of quick tests and took that tomato colored juice bag of blood next door to the operating room.

“First guys dead.” I heard a SGT say. “They’re prepping the next guy for surgery.”

I didn’t know whether my blood made it into the first or the second guy, but I like to think my hemoglobin carried some oxygen to another man’s tissues. I hoped my blood gave at least one of them a fighting chance.

For those who don’t know me, I don’t usually give blood. I am not opposed, I just don’t tolerate it well. Every time I donate blood I experience orthostatic hypotension when I stand up and if no one is around, I hit the floor. Hard. I guess that is something you don’t grow out of.

As expected, I got very pale apparently. Someone got me a chair and some water. I downed the water and grabbed some Ho-ho’s I had stashed in the fridge. I sat in the hall for a good five to ten minutes waiting to absorb some of the fluid I just drank. I watched as they wheeled the second guy into the OR. In my head I wished them the best. I wanted to stand up and help, but I knew I would pass out if I did.

0630 came a lot faster than I had hoped. I was exhausted. I had not gotten back to bed until after 0230. I made it to the clinic around 0750 and inquired about the patients from last night. Two out of three didn’t make it through surgery. The third survived and was in our ICU recovering.

This is the third or fourth time this has happened since I have been here. I was honored to be able to help by giving blood that went straight into the operating room but I wish there was no need for the blood.  Sadly though, this is becoming my world. This is where I live. This is the crap that goes down in my neighborhood.

PART II: The following evening I was waiting in my office for a friend. We were heading up to the roof to smoke some cigars. Out of nowhere one of the surgeons from the Forward Surgical Team pops her head in and says “Im glad I found you! We have a guy coming in with a gunshot wound to the jaw. Would you mind helping us out?”

I spent three hours that night in the operating room assisting a neck dissection on a young man who took several rounds to the head and neck region. One of these bullets went in through his left parotid gland and came out on his neck about three inches below his left ear. Another bullet appeared to enter just anterior to the sternocleidomastoid and exited the back of his neck. This is the luckiest man in the world as not one of those bullets hit an artery, nerve, or vein. Just muscle. We dissected all the way down past the carotid to the esophagus and trachea. Everything was intact.

I wasn’t used to standing for so long. I hadn’t eaten much that day and at one point the pulsing carotid  became too much for me. Beads of sweat starting forming on my forehead and I felt my face tingling. I knew I was about to pass out or vomit or both. So instead of hitting the floor in the OR I excused myself. One of the nurses gave me a soda and let me relax for a few minutes before scrubbing back in.

I helped close up his neck and I closed up his facial wound myself. He is going to need some grafting to replace this half-dollar size chunk of face that was gone, but other than that he will probably be fine. I never thought my life as a general dentist would take me into the operating room to help handle gunshot wounds. I guess I was wrong.

Part III: How much trauma is going to happen while I’m writing this post? It was 2400 last night. Almost exactly midnight by my watch. I heard the door to my hut fly open and our brigade nurse speaking firmly, yet seeming to try and be quiet at the same time. I couldn’t make out what she was saying.

“Whats going on?” I asked, disoriented.

“A Chinook just crashed with 24 people on board. We need everyone down at the aid station. Right now.”

“Are you f*cking kidding me?” I replied. I hoped this was another MASCAL drill.

“No. I’m not kidding. We need everyone down there right now.”

My heart just dropped. I felt sick to my stomach. I could not even imagine what this could mean.

I was still waking up and getting oriented as I ran down to the aid station. People were running around all over the place. The Forward Surgical Team was up and their doors were propped open so I knew this was no drill (as they don’t usually participate in our midnight training exercises).  I tried to get some info from our platoon sergeant. All I was able to determine was that a CH-47 Chinook helicopter had gone down with 24 soldiers on board. No status as to any survivors, but we were preparing to receive 24 casualties.

In the middle of the night we executed our plan for a Mass-Casualty Event (MASCAL) flawlessly. I was really impressed at how everyone came together. We had over 30 litter-bearers show up just to help carry people. During a MASCAL my job is to triage the patients as they bring them to us. For an hour I waited out front trying not to vomit thinking about the horror that could be dropped at my feet any moment. Thankfully at 0100 we sent everyone packing. The had taken the critically wounded to a closer surgical team and we would not be receiving any of the urgent or surgical patients. We received several of the crash victims throughout the night, but they were stabilized and not surgical patients. Thankfully, not a single person was killed in the crash, though there were some very serious injuries.

That all happened in the last 72 hours. I spent most of Sunday sleeping. I was just physically exhausted.

One of my bosses had this idea before we deployed to send me all over the AO to do “cleanings.” In his office one afternoon, he explained to me that he understood how important that prevention stuff was and that this was his solution to how I would manage the brigade’s dental care during the deployment. “Anyway, that’s what our dentist did in Iraq” he said.

I immediately began repeatedly banging my head on his desk.

No, no I didn’t. But strangely that was my first instinct.

What really happened was a polite and respectful conversation in which I explained to him my concerns with his plan. But he was the commander and I was just his dentist. What did I know about effectively delivering dental care? My job was to do what I was told. I left his office that afternoon with a knot in my stomach and a headache. I did not want to spend a year in Afghanistan polishing tobacco stains off of teeth.

Fast forward about twelve months. There we were in Afghanistan and the impossibility of sending me out to perform dental hygiene on thousands of soldiers was finally apparent. However, in an attempt to show support for our Soldiers we came up with a compromise. My idea was to travel around to as many small FOBs, COPs, and OPs as I could with cases of fluoride varnish. I would fly out on a helicopter to some small outpost and just paint fluoride on the teeth of anyone who was willing. Unlike cleanings, this required minimal equipment and would actually be a way to quickly affect many soldiers in a short time and actually prevent dental decay. This plan also freed me up to do consultations with soldiers, medics, and the PAs while my dental tech administered the fluoride treatments.

We traveled on quite a few missions throughout the year. Some days I would leave in the morning and come back at night. Some times we would be out for days. At times, we had some very interesting experiences.

One particular trip took us to a small Combat Outpost up in the Pesh River Valley called “Honaker-Miracle.” This COP was named after two soldiers, Specialist Christopher Honaker and Pfc. Joseph Miracle, who were killed in 2007.  This base was at the bottom of a steep valley and was prone to mortar and sniper attacks. We arrived late at night on a UH-60 Blackhawk. A small element from the base operations cell was there to greet us and give us a quick situation report on the security of the area. The situation up there wasn’t very friendly.

Being one of the highest ranking officers on the COP that week, they put me in what they called the VIP suite. It was mostly a joke, but they had mints on the mattresses and had printed up a brochure for the VIP room that satirically welcomed visitors to their “Gated Community.” Their brochure offered amenities that included:

  • 24 hour security
  • Nightly fireworks
  • Spectacular views
  • Gun ranges
  • Free meals (prepared by our trained and certified culinary experts)

The VIP Suite at COP Honaker-Miracle

We settled in for the evening with the hope of seeing 50-60 soldiers the following day for fluoride. I actually got a great night’s sleep and woke up to some truly spectacular views of the Hindu Kush mountains. Around 8:30 in the morning we started taking sniper fire from up on a hill. The echo from the valley made each round sound like it was being fired from twenty feet away. Because of the sniper everyone had to stay inside as much as possible and wear full “battle rattle” when moving outdoors – helmet, body armor, and weapon.  If you needed to relieve yourself, you had to run in a dead sprint to the latrines and hope for the best.

Not surprisingly, we didn’t get too many soldiers willing to risk their life to come see the dentist that day. We spent the morning hanging out and watching movies in the aid station with the PA and the unit medics. We could hear the sniper firing outside all day. He would pop off a few rounds here and there at some unlucky soldier trying to run to the bathroom or go get some chow. No one was particularly bothered by this as it was a pretty normal event for that base.

Sometime after lunch an alarm went off alerting everyone on the COP that there was a casualty on the base: someone had been shot. Everyone in the aid station started preparing to receive a wounded soldier. My assistant and I picked up our gear and moved it out of the way. The aid station was very small, only holding a couple of desks and two litters on litter stands. The last thing they needed was a bunch of fluoride varnish and dental supplies all over the place.

Only a few moments later the back door came flying open and a large soldier came lumbering down the hall. His buddies followed quickly behind him and tried to explain what happened: he was outside trying to go get some laundry when he got hit.

The medics quickly but calmly hoisted him on a litter and began cutting off his uniform so they could inspect the wound. A small amount of blood was noticeable on his sleeve. Once exposed, a wound was visible on the lateral and medial surface of his left bicep. There was minimal bleeding and no swelling. The patient wasn’t feeling much pain thanks to all the adrenaline and was surprisingly very calm and cooperative. The PA did a thorough examination and determined that the round had passed through only muscle and had done so cleanly. There was no damage to any major blood vessel, nerve, or artery. The pulse in his hand was strong. They debated about calling a MEDEVAC helicopter to take him to the surgical team for an evaluation, but opted to observe him there instead. The risk of having a helicopter shot down was greater than the risk of this particular injury.

The medics cleaned and bandaged the wound, then wrapped an ice pack on top. They gave him some pain medications and assured him he would be fine in a few weeks. Members of the soldier’s chain of command were there very quickly with instructions to the patient: Call home, tell your family what happened and tell them that you are okay. Then they immediately started the paperwork for his Purple Heart.

After a few minutes things started calming down. I struck up a conversation with the recently wounded soldier. I told him who I was and what we had come there to do. He was surprised that a dentist was there. I asked him if my tech could put some fluoride varnish on his teeth while he was here. He agreed, and he agreed to let me photograph him.

Combat Dentistry: Taking dental to the tip of the spear

Later in the afternoon as the sun began to set, the sniper lost his ability to see his targets and he retired for the evening. The soldiers at COP Honaker-Miracle did not take the snipers attack without fighting back. They returned fire when they could and they mortared the area where they knew he was hiding. As the rounds landed on the side of the mountain some of the dry brush caught fire, gently illuminating the mountainside as the sun set over their tops.

There are not a lot of times in an Army dentist’s career when he has the opportunity to come so close to the enemy. For the most part, even when deployed, dentists rarely leave their post at the dental clinic. It is even rarer for us to travel so far forward to such a small outpost. Our experience in war is usually limited to treating dental patients in some cozy clinic all day long. I consider it a great honor that my unit wanted and allowed me to deliver dental care to the Soldiers out there who actually do the fighting in this war. As much as those Soldiers appreciated my visit, I appreciated my time with them much more.

FOB Fenty / Jalalabad Air Field

It’s not easy deploying an infantry brigade to Afghanistan from Hawaii. Just getting there required a multi legged trip that turned into the most convoluted journey I have ever been on. In my mind, the logical route would have been to head west to Japan or Korea. From there one could easily fly over into Russia then down into Afghanistan. Quick and easy. Instead, we flew north from Hawaii to Alaska. From Alaska we flew up over the north pole to Germany.  Then we flew over Europe to Kyrgyzstan where we arrived at Manas Air Transit Base. Needless to say, it took several days just to get to Kyrgyzstan.

Chapel-tent at Manas in Kyrgyzstan

We flew out of Manas on an Air Force C-17 after several relaxing days enjoying Air Force facilities. When we crossed into Afghan airspace the crew chief made everyone put on their body armor and helmet. That was pretty disconcerting. After about 90 minutes in the air we landed at Bagram Air Field. As we all descended down the ramp out of the back of the aircraft we were met by a gorgeous view of snow-capped mountains. It was raining and cold. It was not at all what I had expected of Afghanistan in April.

For those who haven’t visited, BAF is a complete dump and there are entire websites dedicated to humorously showing love for its peculiarities.  Most guys in my unit would up spending almost a week there living like homeless refugees in overcrowded flooded tents. I got lucky and wound up catching a flight out of there after only a few hours, skipping two days worth of “vehicle roll over” training.

About five days after leaving Hawaii I finally arrived in Jalalabad via a “combat landing” in a C-130.  For those who aren’t familiar with a combat landing, it’s when the pilots decide to go from being in the air to being parked on the ground in about thirty seconds. Its fun. Our plane actually landed at JAF/FOB Fenty around 2200. I will never forget my first look at FOB Fenty. I was standing under the tail of a C-130, it was pitch black and the only lights I could see were from across the runway where the main part of the base was.  I was hot, sweaty, and smelly. The smell of jet fuel and burning wood filled my nostrils. Dust and dirt being churned up by the propellers stung my face.  I looked out across the runway and thought: so this is my new home for a year? I couldn’t make out any buildings, just lights from windows. It looked like anywhere and nowhere at the same time.

They herded all of us together and walked us single file across the runway for accountability. My XO, who had arrived several weeks earlier, was there to meet us. She took us to the Company Command Post (CP) and had us sign in and account for our weapons. Then they took me to my room. I was pretty tired when I arrived but I had the hardest time sleeping well that first night.

I spent the year living in a one story cinderblock building. Each building had a couple of hallways with 8 rooms made of plywood. The walls went about 8 feet up but the ceilings were about 10 feet tall.  The beds were mattresses on plywood racks up high with a little desk below.  The guy I replaced basically got thrown out as soon as they heard I was coming and I believe he wound up sleeping on a filthy cot in the hallway the first night I was there.

My first morning in Jalalabad was an exciting one. I woke up disoriented and exhausted from lack of sleep. I took a much-needed shower, grabbed some food and then made my way down to the clinic. The dental clinic at JAF is close to the flight line and was two buildings down from where I lived. In the same building we had a surgical team with two operating rooms, a small physical therapy clinic, pharmacy, patient hold area, and admin area.

As I was walking out of my building I saw a lot of commotion by the clinic. People were running around. Golfcart-like vehicles called “Gators” were zipping back and forth. I picked up my pace a little bit and asked someone what was going on.

Entrance to our clinic and the surgical team

A suicide bomber had walked onto a nearby FOB and killed eight or nine individuals – mostly Afghans if my memory serves me right, and wounded several American servicemen and one civilian contractor.  I remember seeing the MEDEVAC birds coming in for the very first time and watching as the survivors of the attack were brought to our medical facility for treatment. I went down to the flight line and helped carry some of the wounded off of the helicopters. I remember the smell of blood throughout the clinic, followed later by the unforgettable odor of the disinfectant they use to mop the floor after it gets soaked with blood. I remember the look of exhaustion on the faces of the wounded and the slow defeated way they walked. There were several patients that had to be carried in that day, but I can’t remember them distinctly now as they just blend with all the others we carried in that year after them.

Those first few days were a rapid orientation to what was going to become my world for the next twelve months. By the time our year there ended, 20 soldiers from my brigade had been killed in action and dozens more from our supporting units had lost their lives as well.

E Quad: Zero Dark Thirty

The hardest part of the deployment was saying goodbye to my wife and 15 month old son. The emotions I felt the morning I left were not of pride and excitement but of dread, regret, and overwhelming heartache. It took several weeks to get the entire brigade out of Hawaii and into Afghanistan. We left in groups called “chalks” at all hours of the day. Thankfully I had some family there to see and help me off.

My parents had flown in to say goodbye and my mother in law was there to help ensure my wife and son got back home safely. We had decided that since we had no family on the island, it was in our best interest to put our belongings in storage and fly M&G back home to spend the year with friends and family on the east coast. So on top of saying good-bye, we had to pack all of our stuff up and move out of a house. According to my wife, the hardest part of that was the days after I left when she had to accomplish the final tasks of that without my help…

We had rented a beach house on the north shore the week before I left to allow us a place to rest and relax after making the final arrangements for our departure. No one really knew when their chalk was leaving until a few hours before. When my number was up, I wound up having to report for accountability formation at 0200 (see photo of miserable guy above).

Soaking up the last of Hawaii with my boy

The night before I left I spent the evening with my little boy playing in the yard and in the hot-tub. I didn’t sleep well at all that night. I knew I needed rest so I tried to force myself to bed around 8PM. We just laid there all night. I tossed and turned until my alarm went off around midnight. I woke up, showered, and put on my uniform.

I went into my son’s bedroom and picked him up and held him for a few minutes. I kissed him goodbye, not knowing for sure if I would ever see him again. Up to that point in my life, that was the hardest thing I had ever done. I was overwhelmed with nausea, fear, and anxiety. I felt like throwing up. My family woke up with me and I said goodbye to my mom and mother-in-law there at the house. We all teared up, but it was short and sweet. My dad helped me load my gear into my car and my wife, my dad, and I drove in almost complete silence the 30 minutes to Schofield Barracks. I held my wife’s hand the entire way.

We stood there for about an hour talking. After a point, I realized we should say our goodbyes while we had the privacy. I hugged my dad, said goodbye, and asked him to give me a few minutes alone with my wife.

M and I hugged and cried for several minutes together. We kissed good-bye for the last time for what would be six months.

And then they were gone. And I was all alone with the other guys from my unit. Guns, gear, and sadness everywhere. The reality of the separation was quickly becoming real and the six months in front of me before I would be home again seemed like an eternity.

I have been thinking back a lot recently to my time in Afghanistan. I kept a journal that I wrote in every day and I also wrote several longer descriptors of several significant events throughout the year. At the time, I thought that I would never forget the details of that year. Going back and re-reading what I wrote made me realize I have already forgotten a lot of the details.

So I am hoping to begin telling some of the more interesting stories from my deployment. Some of them are funny, some of them are pretty messed up, all of them are worth sharing.

The plan is to work chronologically starting with my first few days in Jalalabad in April of 2011…

While unpacking my household goods from my most recent Permanent Change of Station (PCS), I came across part of an old presentation I gave in the Officer Basic Course on the History of Army Dentistry.

I noted some interesting statistics about the US Army Dental Corps and the wartime service of its dentists.

During WWII there were 15,292 dental officers on active duty in the US Army. 20 were Killed in Action, 5 more succumbed to wounds received in contact. 10 died in captivity. 81 died of disease and non-battle injuries. One dentist, CPT Benjamin Salomon was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor.  That brings the total number of Army dentists who died while fighting overseas in WWII to 116.

In the Korean war there were 2,641 dental officers of whom 370 served in conflict. 2 were KIA, 2 were Missing In Action of which one was declared dead.

During the conflict in Vietnam there were 2,817 dental officers. 290 were in Vietnam at any given time. 4 dentists were killed and 4 dental assistants were killed.

Currently the US Army Dental Corps has about 1,000 dental officers. I have no idea how many have served in the Global War on Terror in Iraq or Afghanistan, but none has died. One dental assistant was killed in Iraq when the helicopter he was riding in made an emergency water landing.