February 1, 2003

Crack!

ESCHENBACH, Germany – The view from my hospital room Wednesday morning was magnificent. A fresh snow that began late Tuesday night blanketed the rural Bavarian hills.

But Monday night was what put me here. We had just watched the 1st Battalion, 37th Armor Regiment’s M1A1s shoot night qualification. Their main guns lit the range like old-fashioned photographer’s flash powder. On the way to sit in on a tank crew’s after action report, we stepped on the paved walkway behind the range control tower. Coated with a thin layer of wintry ice, I took baby steps hoping my balance would hold steady. How wrong I was.

After three steps my right foot slipped forward just enough for gravity to pull me Earthward. Cameras flew wildly, and the ground grew closer.

I extended my right arm to break the fall, but the concrete step just uneven with the icy walkway broke my right wrist in return. Not like the last time, it broke but good with a crack I would’ve heard had it not been for the earplugs. Pain shot through my body straight away.

FFFFFFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!

No 120-milimeter main tank gun would drown out that blood-curdling scream.

“Don’t move!” I commanded myself, figuring out what just happened and what still worked. I mentally inventoried the pain. Just my wrist and hand, thankfully.

And through the short time I was curled wincing on the ground, two things crossed my mind: 1) all this work was for nothing; 2) I can’t believe I broke the same fucking wrist.

“I can walk,” I told the first person at my side.

Company B medics examined me as quickly as they walked me over to their track. They pulled off my new gloves slowly, causing little discomfort. I took off my rain jacket and two layers of long-sleeved shirts to reveal a crooked wrist, bones obviously not in the proper place.

I glanced at my wrist and lay right down. (Yes, I’m that squeamish.)

Luckily, there was no big blood, I was still completely conscious and the medics mothered me with the most delicate and caring touch for tough soldiers.

The Ready First Brigade’s acting public affairs officer and Ready JAG officer (he was a tanker previously) called the Ready doctor to be waiting for us at the 501st Aid Station. Ready Photo, as I’d been dubbed, was coming in with a probable broken wrist.

Sure enough, Capt. Kinkane, the Ready doc’, took one look at my wrist after he unwrapped it and “Uh huh”’d what looked to him like a radial fracture.

Straight to Kreiskrankenhaus Eschenbach we went where I received lightning fast emergency care, something that I would have waited two to three hours for in the States. X-rays and a once-over confirmed the initial diagnosis. Within an hour after arriving in the hospital I was in room 409 in bed.

I realize there will probably be no war coverage for me. My initial thought looking out the un-shaded windows to the dark gray night sky; my mother’s prayers had been answered. I’m told that when she learned about my broken wing, she beamed. “That’s fine with me,” she’d said.

Plans to finish spending time with the Army and head to Berlin for a couple of days changed with a snap turn of my wrist. Instead, I enjoyed the finer aspects of slow and decisive movement. Quickness tends to send sharp pain through my right forearm now reinforced with two metal pins through my wrist bones. Not a pleasant feeling, really.

I’m upset that I hadn’t the opportunity to visit with Franka and explore Berlin. In lieu of that I spent three days getting to know my hospital roommate, Thomas, a German truck driver who had a mass removed from his knee. We talked about many things from our trips to each other’s countries to the impending war. His broken English was much better than my polite German. (His wife was superstitiously concerned that he’d entered hospital on the anniversary of her mother’s death. It’s the same hospital where his mother-in-law had been cared for and passed away hours after she’d been discharged.)

Herr Dr. Boos, who speaks little to no English, explained in Russian-accented German the procedure I’m to observe when at home.

“Remove the bandage and plaster splint in the evening,” began my guess of a translation. His hand motions helped me understand. “Keeping your wrist elevated and straight, exercise your fingers one at a time by touching each to your thumb. At 23.00, or when you go to bed, re-bandage your arm for safety while you sleep.”

It’s amazing what you understand when you put your mind to it, regardless of speaking the chosen language.

And with that, and the €2,339.42 bill paid, I was discharged from the hospital. The next hurdle: How the hell am I going to drive the manual Ford Focus I’d rented?

- Rich