"So, Sailor," the waitress demands, turning her attention back to Legalman 2nd Class Rachel Christofferson, "where ya headed?"
After recovering from being put on the spot, Christofferson replies in her soft voice, "Iraq."
The effect of her response is instantaneous-as if the entire establishment has been frozen in time.
The waitstaff stops mid-clap and looks as if someone had just popped all their balloons. Loud gasps and quiet, anxious murmurs ripple through the lunch crowd. In the back corner booth a woman whispers not at all discreetly, "They're sending that little girl to Iraq? Good Lord, that's no reason to celebrate."
Only Christofferson and her co-workers manage to maintain their light-heartedness by bursting into fits of laughter at the overwhelming absurdity and awkwardness of the moment.
Almost a month to the day following her memorable farewell luncheon, Christofferson (who has since traded her crisp, starched working whites for some slightly dusty desert cammies) sits half a world away from the cramped restaurant table. She's administering an IV to Pablo Fonseca, a civilian firefighter and fellow student at the three-day Combat Lifesaver Course (CLC) at Camp Victory, Iraq.
With an array of needles, tubing and bandages spread out on the sterile white cloth in front of her, Christofferson tightens a rubber tourniquet-like strap across Fonseca's bicep, hovers a 14-gauge needle over his rapidly fattening vein and listens attentively to last minute details on the optimal number of drips per minute from the CLC instructor observing her.
"As first responders to the scene of an accident in the states, only certified medical personnel would be permitted to start an IV," Army Spec. Troy Galvan, a medic and CLC instructor, tells the group while weaving between the students and first-aid equipment.
"But things are different here. In Iraq, after an ambush or attack, it may take a while for help to arrive on scene. At that point, the only thing that may save your buddy's life is your ability to stop the bleeding and quickly get some fluids back into him or her." He pauses, eyes the group, then continues, "This is particularly important for those of you who will be traveling in convoys."
As if on cue, a loud explosion caused the compact trailer to shudder slightly and the sound of small-arms fire erupted in the distance. But, in their short time in country, the sound of incoming rocket fire has become so familiar to Christofferson and her fellow Camp Victory residents that barely a moment passes before most of them have successfully inserted their very first IVs.
Minutes later, another instructor ducks into the trailer with news of the explosion. A suicide driver has detonated his vehicle-born improvised explosive device (VBIED) on Route Irish (a notoriously dangerous five-mile stretch of road connecting Camp Victory to downtown Baghdad), killing a civilian medic and injuring three other passengers. Attacks along the route have become so frequent that helicopters have become a means of travel to and from the city.
