thedrifter
02-27-07, 06:16 AM
Wounded but still fighting
Marines struggle for mobility after injuries
By John Masson
Detroit Free Press
Tuesday, February 27, 2007 1:20 AM EST
BETHESDA, Md. -- The first round blew through Maj. K.C. Schuring's helmet, creased the top of his head and popped out through his goggles.
The second round felt as if Tigers slugger Magglio Ordonez were teeing off on the center of his back.
But it wasn't until rounds three and four blasted through each thigh that the big Marine went down, a pool of his blood spreading in the street in Ramadi, Iraq. While two dozen of his Iraqi Army trainees and two U.S. military advisers took cover, Schuring took stock.
OK, he thought. I'm still breathing.
"I remember thinking to myself, with that shot to my head, I shouldn't be alive right now -- and I was," he said.
Staying that way would be another matter.
In that instant, Schuring joined more than 10,000 American troops wounded so severely in Iraq that they were sent home
Among all branches, more than 550 troops have lost legs, arms, hands or feet -- mostly to roadside bombs -- in Iraq and Afghanistan. That compares with 24,000 Americans wounded overall and more than 3,000 killed since the U.S. invasion of Iraq in March 2003.
Lying in the street on that sunny morning of Nov. 14, Schuring was determined not to add to the total of dead. The man who had just tried to kill him -- a bearded man in a gray dishdasha, a traditional long garment -- was running toward him with an AK 47.
"The only thing I could think about was, ` I'm the next captive,' or ` They're going to drag my body through the streets of Ramadi,"' he said. "And I couldn't let that happen to my wife and my family. ... I didn't want her to see me on Al-Jazeera" television.
Additionally -- and unfortunately for the insurgents -- Schuring was really ticked.
"I was mad, because, well, I don't get shot," said Schuring, 37, who has an MBA. In the civilian world, he works as a quality assurance manager. "I never get shot. And now I got shot. It infuriated me."
He also realized he couldn't get to cover.
"So I rolled to my right side and I brought up my M 16," Schuring said. "I aimed in on him and shot him in the head."
A moment later, a second armed insurgent rounded the same corner, looked down at the dead man and looked up just in time to catch three fatal rounds from Schuring's rifle.
Schuring's first steps on the road to recovery -- killing two of the six insurgents who tried to kill him -- came when he was unable to take any steps at all. And with those steps, Schuring, like other wounded warriors, began a painful journey to recovery.
Marines wounded by what the military calls improvised explosive devices often have a hard time telling a coherent story about their injuries. They remember driving away from a dusty combat outpost in Fallujah or Baghdad, then recall waking up in a hospital bed in Maryland or California or Texas.
That was the case for Lance Cpls. Josh Bleill and Eric Frazier, who last month sat beneath a scarlet Marine Corps flag at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., and described their injuries.
But Cpl. Chad Watson, who sat with them, is an exception. He remembers exactly what happened about 9 a.m. Nov. 29 as he led a team of Marines in the streets of Fallujah. The team from the 1st Battalion of the 24th Marines had just searched the car and were starting to roll again.
"We didn't get more than 100 meters, and it was like I got punched in the face like 10,000 times," Watson said.
What pummeled Watson was a bomb, not a fist. The moment he looked down, he knew his life had changed forever.
"I looked at my right leg, and it was gone -- completely gone," said Watson, 24, a college student from Mt. Zion, Ill. "There was a big hole under the driver's side; that's where it hit."
Watson's training took over. Despite his missing leg, the smashed bones in his left heel and ankle, a fractured vertebra, burns and shrapnel wounds to his face, arm and eye, he grabbed his weapon and struggled to get out of the Humvee to defend himself and his comrades. But he couldn't free his twisted left leg from what remained of the Humvee's floor. Marines from other vehicles came running to help.
"I remember them yelling, `Is anybody still alive?"' said Watson.
Finally, after his fellow Marines dragged him into a nearby courtyard, a Navy corpsman tied off his bleeding right leg with a tourniquet. The corpsman gently informed Watson that most of his right leg was gone.
"I was kind of like, `Yeah, no kidding, I saw that."'
Through it all Watson -- still the team leader, despite his grievous wounds -- was shouting orders.
"I was actually yelling at the guys to get out of the courtyard ... because there were too many of them," and a large group was liable to draw the insurgents' fire, said Watson. "I was glad how I reacted. I acted good under pressure, and I was happy to hear that they told my parents that."
Generally, Marines like to organize things by threes. Three Marines make a fire team, three fire teams make a squad, three squads make a company, and three line companies make a battalion.
Marines have always taken a perverse pride in their grueling daily doses of group PT, or physical training. It binds them together. And the equation hasn't changed much just because they're wounded. Now, the initials "PT" stand for "physical therapy."
Even for Marines like Schuring, who is getting rehabilitation through Beaumont Hospital near his home in Farmington Hills, Mich., thoughts of his fellow Marines in Iraq are never far away while he's sweating and groaning through painful physical therapy. Teamwork is something the former center on the Hope College football team in west Michigan has understood for a long time.
The ceramic plate in his body armor saved him from the shot to his back. His Kevlar helmet helped dissipate the shot to his head, which didn't penetrate his skull. And the bullet that hit his right thigh missed the bone.
But the one that hit his left thigh almost cost him his leg, shattering his thighbone in three up near his hip. An infection nearly did the rest until it was brought under control by antibiotics.
His doctors expect he'll make a full recovery -- thanks to physical therapy sessions it would take a Marine to love.
None of the wounded men is willing to let his injuries define him. None expressed bitterness. All said they would rejoin their units tomorrow, if they could.
Schuring, whose mission was training Iraqi soldiers, was especially emphatic.
"We were doing good things there in Ramadi -- I mean phenomenal things," Schuring said. "The Iraqi army, the soldiers, they're the Iraqi heroes. They're not the best soldiers in the world, but they're trying."
Ellie
Marines struggle for mobility after injuries
By John Masson
Detroit Free Press
Tuesday, February 27, 2007 1:20 AM EST
BETHESDA, Md. -- The first round blew through Maj. K.C. Schuring's helmet, creased the top of his head and popped out through his goggles.
The second round felt as if Tigers slugger Magglio Ordonez were teeing off on the center of his back.
But it wasn't until rounds three and four blasted through each thigh that the big Marine went down, a pool of his blood spreading in the street in Ramadi, Iraq. While two dozen of his Iraqi Army trainees and two U.S. military advisers took cover, Schuring took stock.
OK, he thought. I'm still breathing.
"I remember thinking to myself, with that shot to my head, I shouldn't be alive right now -- and I was," he said.
Staying that way would be another matter.
In that instant, Schuring joined more than 10,000 American troops wounded so severely in Iraq that they were sent home
Among all branches, more than 550 troops have lost legs, arms, hands or feet -- mostly to roadside bombs -- in Iraq and Afghanistan. That compares with 24,000 Americans wounded overall and more than 3,000 killed since the U.S. invasion of Iraq in March 2003.
Lying in the street on that sunny morning of Nov. 14, Schuring was determined not to add to the total of dead. The man who had just tried to kill him -- a bearded man in a gray dishdasha, a traditional long garment -- was running toward him with an AK 47.
"The only thing I could think about was, ` I'm the next captive,' or ` They're going to drag my body through the streets of Ramadi,"' he said. "And I couldn't let that happen to my wife and my family. ... I didn't want her to see me on Al-Jazeera" television.
Additionally -- and unfortunately for the insurgents -- Schuring was really ticked.
"I was mad, because, well, I don't get shot," said Schuring, 37, who has an MBA. In the civilian world, he works as a quality assurance manager. "I never get shot. And now I got shot. It infuriated me."
He also realized he couldn't get to cover.
"So I rolled to my right side and I brought up my M 16," Schuring said. "I aimed in on him and shot him in the head."
A moment later, a second armed insurgent rounded the same corner, looked down at the dead man and looked up just in time to catch three fatal rounds from Schuring's rifle.
Schuring's first steps on the road to recovery -- killing two of the six insurgents who tried to kill him -- came when he was unable to take any steps at all. And with those steps, Schuring, like other wounded warriors, began a painful journey to recovery.
Marines wounded by what the military calls improvised explosive devices often have a hard time telling a coherent story about their injuries. They remember driving away from a dusty combat outpost in Fallujah or Baghdad, then recall waking up in a hospital bed in Maryland or California or Texas.
That was the case for Lance Cpls. Josh Bleill and Eric Frazier, who last month sat beneath a scarlet Marine Corps flag at Walter Reed Army Medical Center in Washington, D.C., and described their injuries.
But Cpl. Chad Watson, who sat with them, is an exception. He remembers exactly what happened about 9 a.m. Nov. 29 as he led a team of Marines in the streets of Fallujah. The team from the 1st Battalion of the 24th Marines had just searched the car and were starting to roll again.
"We didn't get more than 100 meters, and it was like I got punched in the face like 10,000 times," Watson said.
What pummeled Watson was a bomb, not a fist. The moment he looked down, he knew his life had changed forever.
"I looked at my right leg, and it was gone -- completely gone," said Watson, 24, a college student from Mt. Zion, Ill. "There was a big hole under the driver's side; that's where it hit."
Watson's training took over. Despite his missing leg, the smashed bones in his left heel and ankle, a fractured vertebra, burns and shrapnel wounds to his face, arm and eye, he grabbed his weapon and struggled to get out of the Humvee to defend himself and his comrades. But he couldn't free his twisted left leg from what remained of the Humvee's floor. Marines from other vehicles came running to help.
"I remember them yelling, `Is anybody still alive?"' said Watson.
Finally, after his fellow Marines dragged him into a nearby courtyard, a Navy corpsman tied off his bleeding right leg with a tourniquet. The corpsman gently informed Watson that most of his right leg was gone.
"I was kind of like, `Yeah, no kidding, I saw that."'
Through it all Watson -- still the team leader, despite his grievous wounds -- was shouting orders.
"I was actually yelling at the guys to get out of the courtyard ... because there were too many of them," and a large group was liable to draw the insurgents' fire, said Watson. "I was glad how I reacted. I acted good under pressure, and I was happy to hear that they told my parents that."
Generally, Marines like to organize things by threes. Three Marines make a fire team, three fire teams make a squad, three squads make a company, and three line companies make a battalion.
Marines have always taken a perverse pride in their grueling daily doses of group PT, or physical training. It binds them together. And the equation hasn't changed much just because they're wounded. Now, the initials "PT" stand for "physical therapy."
Even for Marines like Schuring, who is getting rehabilitation through Beaumont Hospital near his home in Farmington Hills, Mich., thoughts of his fellow Marines in Iraq are never far away while he's sweating and groaning through painful physical therapy. Teamwork is something the former center on the Hope College football team in west Michigan has understood for a long time.
The ceramic plate in his body armor saved him from the shot to his back. His Kevlar helmet helped dissipate the shot to his head, which didn't penetrate his skull. And the bullet that hit his right thigh missed the bone.
But the one that hit his left thigh almost cost him his leg, shattering his thighbone in three up near his hip. An infection nearly did the rest until it was brought under control by antibiotics.
His doctors expect he'll make a full recovery -- thanks to physical therapy sessions it would take a Marine to love.
None of the wounded men is willing to let his injuries define him. None expressed bitterness. All said they would rejoin their units tomorrow, if they could.
Schuring, whose mission was training Iraqi soldiers, was especially emphatic.
"We were doing good things there in Ramadi -- I mean phenomenal things," Schuring said. "The Iraqi army, the soldiers, they're the Iraqi heroes. They're not the best soldiers in the world, but they're trying."
Ellie