Rock Star for a Week

It's not often during military training that I'm the leader of the pack. There is a reason my sister Becky has always smiled to herself when she thinks of me in the military. Add to that the fact even though I am Air Force, I am deploying with the Army and having to get used to that. In Army lingo, I am more often "ate up" than I am "squared away" when it comes combat, weapons, naming assault vehicles, etc.

For example, during my recent weapons testing with the M9 (pistol), the cops and marksmen in the class rolled their eyes when the instructor pointed out which end is the muzzle, how to insert the magazine, and how to clear a round out of the firing chamber. I was busy making mental notes as this was the second time in my life handling a pistol. The instructor tried to appease the audience tactfully with "I have to teach to the lowest level." Was I upset that she was looking my direction? Nope, just raised my hand high and said, "sorry guys...I'm from med group"

After I shot, another instructor went over my target with me, got a look on his face like he bit into a lemon unexpectedly, and clicking his tongue said,
"tck...tck...tck- uh, what do you do again, sir?"
"I'm a doctor."
"oh, thank G**."

No offense taken, my good man.

Well this week it turned around. We had 40 hours of classroom instruction on how to apply First Aid bandages and perform basic airway maneuvers (this is the Army version of the 3-hour course I had to complete with the Air Force). Sitting next to me was a cop who appeared to be in mental anguish trying to wrap his mind around "pneumothorax," a kind of chest injury. I explained it to him, and we soon agreed that when 'the pigspore hits the windspinner' he shoots the bad guys and I'll treat the wounded.

And you'll happy to know that after four years in a military medical school and another four years in trauma hospitals, I passed my First Aid class on the first try.