
"I only have one good eye, but I can see that my Marines are OK." Heidi had drawn in her breath when she saw what was under his eyelid. A thin, dark stem of tissue protruded from the gaping empty socket.
The back cover of Dr. Heidi Squier Kraft's book, Rule Number Two calls it the M*A*S*H of the war in Iraq, but if so, it's the M*A*S*H of the movie, brutal to watch, not the television M*A*S*H you could comfortably watch while eating supper.
Rule Number One, Henry told Hawkeye, is that young men die. Rule number two, of the rules of war, is that doctors can't change rule number one. Rule number one, Heidi points out, would be slightly different today. With modern body armor, Rule Number One might now state that war damages people. Rule Number Two, of course, would be unchanged. Heidi discovered something, though, that Henry didn't mention. War damages doctors, too. They are damaged by Rule Number Two.
Heidi Kraft was a Naval Flight Psychologist who was sent to Iraq in 2004 to treat Marines fighting in Iraq. Her book is brutally frank. I raced through it, trying to get to that page where Bobby is taking a shower, and we find out that the entire season was a bad dream. We find plenty of bad dreams in the book - but Victoria Principal never opens the shower door. It's real, and while Heidi is in Iraq, her twin babies are growing up without her. The book Rule Number Two, it turns out, is damaging to readers as well, socking them right in the gut.
At one point, Heidi is in the Expectant Room. Triage is the act of classifying medical cases into three groups - those that will survive on their own, those that will survive only if they immediately receive critical care, and those who will die no matter what is done. The expectant room is where they send troops who are expected to die, to provide fluids, pain management, and comfort in their last moments of life.

Corporal Dunham was the first of 14 to enter the SST from the Black Hawk, and Jess, a pediatric cardiologist worked rapidly on him, with his team of corpsmen. There were two obvious entrance wounds to the frontal lobes of his brain. There was no meaningful movement, and Dunham was moved to the Expectant Room.
We told him, Heidi writes, that we were proud of him, and the Marine Corps was proud of him. They waited for his breathing to become labored and his heartbeat to become irregular, but neither had happened. Many minutes passed. Heidi moved his arm; it looked uncomfortable. She continued to hold his hand, and she felt him squeeze. If you can hear me, she said, squeeze again. He did.
Five physicians - all the company had - arrived in about one minute flat. The corporal left by medevac. The chaplin wandered back in, looking confused. "I told him, laughing, that I thought this young man might need a different prayer." But nine days later, Corporal Dunham died at Naval Medical Center Bethesda.
It turned out that Dunham had thrown his helmet over a live grenade, and tucked it under his body. Jason L. Dunham was the first Medal of Honor winner in over a decade.

Deb Dunham, Jason's mom, got a phone call that he was in critical condition, and she prayed for his survival for a while, but in the middle of the night, she started praying that he not be alone or afraid. In Deb's opinion, Heidi appeared to have answered that prayer.
There are other stories, about "Mr. Oda", an Iraqi who is suicidal because he has fingered a relative as an insurgent, and about a Marine who's trying to quit smoking. He managed to get himself down to two packs a day before asking Heidi to use hypnosis to cure his habit. What do you call a Marine in a combat zone, one of her patients asks, who is worried that two packs a day will someday give him lung cancer? An optimist.
Five of her group of six motivated smokers became smoke-free during her deployment. Only one Marine left treatment, explaining that after trying, he became convinced that people need to start smoking in Iraq, not stop.
In the end, we see everyone getting excellent care, except, perhaps, the psychs giving it.
Sometimes the Black Hawks bring in a patient that isn't a Marine, Sailor, or Soldier - at least the kind we normally think of. Sometimes, the patient is a dog. The beautiful, sinewy German Shepards are "treated like royalty, with guaranteed air-conditioned spaces and terrific food." Wearing a fur coat in the heat of the Iraqi desert, air-conditioning would not be optional for those dogs. And sometimes, they need treatment.
Sometimes, the dogs provide treatment, as well. A female sergeant in the Marine Corps, afraid she would let herself and her unit down as the only woman, found caring for a dog cured her depression.

Both the movie and the television version of M*A*S*H tended to be laugh-a-minute entertainment, but the theme song is called "Suicide is Painless", because in the movie, the dentist decides to kill himself. The television series has a painful moment in the episode where Henry finally gets to go home - only to be aboard a plane that spirals into the sea.
There's a little of both in this book as well, but it tends towards the latter. When we read "Band of Brothers", it's about a war over before the Boomer generation was born. Korea happened when many boomers were too young to remember. Vietnam touched our lives, claiming the lives of our classmates. Iraq is killing our children and our grandchildren. There's nothing funny about that, nothing at all.
And yet....
Thank you, Heidi, and thank you to the soldiers you cared for.