Memories of Higgins: All in the family

I remember when I used to hear my Grandpa tell stories about his life as a medic in the 442nd. I remember how fondly he talked of his buddies; of how, even in the punishing heat of the Anzio campaign, the muddy hills in Bruyères, and the terribly cold weather along the Gothic Line, he and his buddies would find the time to out-prank each other and have fun, even while under fire from all directions. How, even in the worst of times and the worst of situations, they would make light of their predicament as glorified meat shields for a nation that doesn’t even trust them. One moment stands out for me among his stories, however: when they set out to save the Lost Battalion, his best friend—a family friend with whom he shared most of his years growing up—was shot by a sniper. He was filled with rage at that moment, even going so far as to grab his friend’s rifle, his only thought to blow every German he saw to kingdom come. His dying friend held him back, however, and reminded him that he had a more important job to do. “Do your armband proud. These boys are counting on you to keep ‘em alive. Don’t worry about me… I’ll still be here when the fighting’s over. No one gets left behind, right?” Grandpa kept those words to heart for the rest of his days. I guess it’s just sad that, with the mess that was the rescue of the T-Patchers and the subsequent advance that followed, his best friend’s body was never found. Ironic, isn’t it?

It’s not easy being a survivor, you know? It’s not easy having to live the rest of your life, knowing that you failed to save people who COULD HAVE BEEN SAVED. You wake up every morning and, when you look in the mirror, you see those faces staring back at you; bloodied, rotting faces staring you down. That’s what Grandpa had to face every day. Well, he tried to cope with it, but he really didn’t get over it until his last breath, when he finally made peace with his own crippling self-doubt. He finally made amends with the fact that, sometimes, there’s nothing you can do with the situation, no matter how good you are, how strong your faith is in yourself or in some higher being you believe in. That’s just how life goes.

I didn’t understand that when I was younger. That was my mistake.

I idolized my Grandpa’s work. That’s why I made up my mind to join the military right after high school. I tried to apply for the army, but for some reason I was rejected. Oddly enough, a family friend forwarded my credentials to the navy, and I was accepted immediately. Not exactly what I had in mind when I wanted to be a frontline medic, but it was an opportunity I could take nonetheless. Between recruit training, ‘A’ School, and ‘C’ School, it felt like I spent as much of my life in corpsman school as I did out at sea. I remember being an easily-annoyed prick back then; I was itching to get out of training and get my boots on the ground. Unfortunately, my instructors weren’t fond of my stubbornness and dropped me from the shortlist for FMTB. Instead, they sent me over to independent duty training because they thought I’d help keep sailors in line while underway. I have to hand it them, though; being a corpsman aboard isn’t really bad, especially when you can scare your crewmates enough that they won’t cut your sleep short for a sober-me-up shot.

Even with all the perks of being a shipboard corpsman, there always comes a time when the realities of your work come a-knocking to remind you that you’re a corpsman for a reason. I remember when I was still with the Lassen back in 2013. Tacloban was a mess back then; the first time I saw the rubble, I thought I went ashore to a warzone, not a disaster area. The wave of humanity trying to get away from the mess, the stench of death as bodies rot by the roadside, the weariness evident on the people I took care of. It’s times like that when you have to take a moment to pause and remind yourself, ‘this is why I signed up. This is why I’m here. I’m here to help keep these people alive.’ I felt fulfilled after that deployment, but it also left me with a sort of emptiness inside.

Los Angeles. Los Angeles was… Los Angeles was the one time when I finally understood what Grandpa felt for most of his life… Finally understood how it was to stare fear and death in the face.

I was in sickbay when the shooting started. The new kid messed up the medicine catalog so I had to fix everything he did. Oddly, I already felt there was something very wrong before I heard the 1MC. Grandpa called it the ‘doc’s instinct’, that feeling that you know your wards are in danger, and you have to spring into action immediately. I was already out the door with my kit before the first alarms blared. What I saw was… it was hard to describe, really. I mean, just seeing your friends covered in splintered metal, burns, and blood… it hits you to the core and makes you question your life decisions up to that point. Hell, when I saw one of the newer culinary specialists trying to reattach his severed forearm, my knees buckled from under me and I was throwing up; to think I’ve gone through a lot of training videos and simulations with dismembered limbs…

It took a lot of effort for me to get my mojo back in the fight. I kept telling myself, ‘focus… focus, dammit! People are dying all around you… What would Grandpa do in this situation?’ After patching up the first couple of people, everything else went by automatically, like I was running on sheer reflex; some plasma here, some gauze and splinters there, moving the incapacitated to safety, the works. I was so worked up and all, I didn’t notice how much strength I used up until the skipper got ol’ Higgins beached. The last thing I remember was seeing the smoke rising from the oil farms in the harbor, and Big Stick herself shelling those Abyssal bitches, and then everything started spinning before whiting out.

After all that, it was hard for me to go to the memorial services for everyone. I remember seeing the culinary specialist from earlier; shock got the better of him, I heard. I also remember seeing some closed coffins, and it made my gut wrench, knowing that some of the guys were no longer recognizable, probably not even having enough to call a body. What really hit me the most was seeing some of my close friends and some of the people I tried to save in those coffins. I was beside myself; I tried questioning why they had to die. I asked myself, ‘have I not done enough? How could I fail them?’ For a few weeks I was in a funk; didn’t get enough sleep, didn’t get enough food, can’t focus on anything at all. I just spent most of those days in my room, staring out the window.

How did I snap out of it? Funny thing, even from across the Sanzu, Grandpa knew how to chastise me for losing focus. I was absentmindedly scanning my bookcase, not really knowing what I was doing, when a note slipped from above me. It was a line I remember from one of Grandpa’s stories. It read, “When doubt starts to take over you, remind yourself, over and over, that you did your best. That, even in a losing battle with death, you never gave up, and that, in your buddy’s last moments, they passed on with a friendly face at their side.’ At that moment, it felt like Grandpa was right there, saying those words to me, putting my mind at ease. It’s a wonder how a small bit of wartime graffiti from a tired old man can do so much.

Where do I go from here? Well, the war is still on, and there are still a lot of sailors that need medical attention. Whether it’s a gunner’s mate with shrapnel in his gut or a CT with a raging hangover, you can trust me to be there with a smile and big needle!

--Senior Chief Hospital Corpsman Jacqueline Hanazono earned a Meritorious Service Medal for providing medical assistance to her crewmates while under fire during the Battle of LA. She is currently serving aboard USS Forrest Sherman, maintaining the health and well-being of her new shipmates while on escort duty with the Atlantic supply convoys.--