By Suzanne Laurent
LONDONDERRY — Zachariah Gray, a 2005 graduate of Londonderry High School, has been serving as an Air Force medic for over a month in Iraq.
He sent a letter home to his parents, David and Jeane Gray, describing a day in his life.
"Zac became an emergency medical technician," David Gray said.
"While he was in high school, he did an internship program with the Londonderry Fire Department and I believe that sparked his interest."
Gray said he thinks his son was the first Londonderry High student to complete the program.
"I'm not sure when it started," said Londonderry fire Chief Kevin MacCaffrie who joined the department in January 2008.
"It is quite possible that he is the first student we had."
MacCaffrie said the department takes one high school senior each semester and that they complete 80 hours of training. The students study the same materials as for a Level 1 firefighter and complete the on-line National Incident Management Systems course.
"They go through the same daily routines as the firefighters when they're here," MacCaffrie said.
Gray said he is very proud of his son and hopes that some of the firefighters may remember him when they see his account in the newspaper.
A day in the life of a medic as written by SrA Zachariah Gray, USAF, 447 AEG/ EMEDS from somewhere in Iraq:
I was assigned to work at the Army Combat Support Hospital, the only Air Force medic amongst a team of Hoo-ah Army Soldiers. I already had the mind set I was going to be the outcast for the whole shift (12 hours.) The second I walked into that door I felt at home. Sergeant First Class welcomed me and set me up with two PFC's I needed to follow. They gave me the run down on the floor and showed me how everything worked.
The day started pretty well until the radio started to crackle, "Three Host nation civilian casualties incoming; one with severe burns, other two emergency surgical. ETA 5 minutes."
I prepared myself for the pain to come. Two minutes later, the doors flung open and the smell of fresh blood filled the room. The sergeant behind me pushed me forward, trying to get me to jump on the patient and start my work. Still in shock, I look back at the sergeant behind me and he responds, "Get some!"
My mind clicks and all my training begins to flood my head. I shift into medical mode. The doctor at the head of the patient starts barking out orders to me and the other two medics I'm supposed to be following. We pull this 200-plus pound Iraqi soldier into the trauma room. The doctor asks the flight-medic, "What's the deal with this guy?"
The flight medic lifts up his left arm and tears off the bandage. Behind the smell of body odor, sweat, and the coppery fumes of blood I begin to see what an improved explosive device (I.E.D.) blast can do to the human body. This particular gentleman was missing his entire underarm. Bone and burnt shredded flesh is the only thing visible. The Iraqi begins to scream at the sight of his own bodily destruction. The interpreter begins to tell mutter something in Arabic behind me. I knew what he was saying. Something along the lines of, "Holy (expletive)."
The worst part was that he had more injuries we didn't see right away. Our first priority was to get this man stable so we popped two large bore I.V.s as fast as we could and put him on a monitor. Meanwhile this man has the most terrified look on his face. He moans and cries out as we begin to wrap his wounds and prepare to send him into the operating room. The doctor administers a heavy pain medication I.V. and his cries begin to fade. We finish stabilizing this man and he opens his eyes and looks straight at me; maybe because I bear the closest resemblance to an Iraqi myself. He grabs my hand and begins whispering something in Arabic. The interpreter stands behind me and whispers something in my ear.
"He's praying," he tells me.
A cold chill creeps up my spine. I glance behind me and notice another patient being transferred onto the gurney. This man looked maybe 25 years old. At least from what I could tell behind all the heavily charred flesh on his face and body. He was blindfolded with white gauze and shaking uncontrollably.
"85 percent third thickness burns!"
I hear a nurse say to the second doctor entering the room.
"Get em' out! We need the bed! There are four more inbound!"
The doctor responded.
When a doctor says this it usually means he's not going to make it. By this time the entire Combat Support Hospital is alive with people running around with blood stained uniforms. The Iraqi man I was working on was now asleep, probably from the extra pain meds the nurse pushed earlier. We wrap him up and send him to the Operating Room.
I work on at least four more similar to more severe patients throughout the day. There were a total of nine people going through the CSH that day. I'm drenched in sweat, blood, and feel worn-out from all the work stress I just went through. Sergeant First Class slaps me on the back and says,
"We'll make a soldier of you yet, Flyboy!"
I chuckle to myself and step out of the Trauma room. I notice a little Iraqi girl with a few of the female nurses and doctors around her.
"Her father was the burn patient who died today," one of the medics said.
My face drops and I feel my heart break. I sit down and just try not to think about all of the hate and bitterness I have towards the enemy I've chosen to fight against. As a medic I'm a non-combatant. The only reason I have a weapon is to protect myself and my patient.
I tell myself, the only thing I need to think about is how long I can keep us alive.
