Crew bonds with Haitians through karaoke, Cheez-Its, church

ABOARD THE BATAAN

It happens every Saturday night that the Bataan is deployed, and the tradition is predictable enough. At 7:30 p.m., the crew gathers in the enlisted sailors' mess hall for two hours of karaoke. The ship's commanding officer usually takes a turn at the microphone. Inevitably, someone does a rendition of "Come Sail Away" by Styx.

But this Saturday was special. The Bataan had guests.

Eight of the Haitians brought aboard last week for emergency medical treatment were seated among the audience. In casts and wheelchairs, they smiled and laughed as a corpsman belted out "I Will Survive." Those who were well enough clapped and danced. One even got up to perform.

Take away the bandages and put them in uniform and you'd think they were part of the crew, one sailor remarked.

Since the Norfolk-based Bataan arrived off the coast of Haiti last week, its doctors and corpsmen have treated roughly 50 victims of this month's devastating earthquake. Many are still too infirm to leave the ship's hospital. Others are well enough to move around and make friends. For all of them, the Bataan has become a refuge.

"I wish I could stay here forever," said Robinson Louisjeune, 9, who was airlifted aboard last week and treated for a shoulder injury he sustained when his family's house collapsed. Wearing sunglasses, an oversized flight jacket and gray athletic shorts stamped with the word "Navy," he was among the patients who attended karaoke night. "Everything is fun here," he said in Creole, sipping a Coke and munching on Cheez-Its. "I don't want to leave."

For many sailors on the Bataan, the feeling is mutual.

"We've fallen in love with some of these patients," said Senior Chief Petty Officer Huben Phillips, who helps lead the ship's medical department. "The connections that we've established with them are like nothing else this crew has really experienced before."

Several of the Bataan's Haitian guests have begun regularly attending church services onboard. The daily gospel worship is now staffed with a Creole interpreter; the ship wide evening prayer is recited over loudspeakers in both English and French.

The hospital ward is busier than ever, and not just because of the influx of patients. Many hospital corpsmen and interpreters have been staying long past their scheduled hours in order to spend more time with the Haitians. They play games, watch movies and run wheelchair races.

"A lot of people have been coming down just to visit them and talk and keep them from getting bored," Petty Officer 1st Class Richard Rock said. "I'd say they're pretty popular."

Another Bataan corpsman, Petty Officer 2nd Class Deshun Jackson, said she stayed five hours past the end of her shift Sunday so she could be there when her favorite patient came out of surgery.

The 14-year-old boy, named Baker, spent two days trapped under his family's destroyed home. As it fell, his sister ran back inside to try to pull him to safety. They both ended up trapped. Baker watched her die.

"They tell you their stories and they're just so unimaginable," Jackson said. "He reminds me so much of my son.... They're saying he's going to the (Navy hospital ship) Comfort in 48 hours for recovery. I'll admit I'm dreading it. I'm attached."

Other crew members described the goodbyes that have already taken place as heart-wrenching. Some said they wanted to keep their patients longer, even though it wasn't medically necessary. They chose to send them home only because shipboard hospitals in the area are facing intense demand.

"It's especially difficult because you don't really know what you're returning them to," said Cmdr. Brenda Bradleydavila, a Bataan chaplain. "Especially the children - having them here has turned everybody to mush."

Many said the hardest goodbye so far has been the send-off of a 1-year-old boy named Wilson, who was among the first patients to come aboard.

Phillips plucked the baby from a crowd of desperate Haitians on the Bataan's second night here. He'd gone ashore to pick up another casualty but said he couldn't leave Wilson behind when he saw him. "He was just lifeless and so thin - like a limp noodle," Phillips recalled.

Wilson was airlifted aboard with his mother and diagnosed with severe dehydration and malnutrition. Doctors believe he got sick from contaminated water and couldn't hold down food.

"We started an I V and 36 hours later, he was like a brand-new kid," Phillips said. By Saturday, Wilson was well enough that his mother brought him to karaoke night, where sailors took turns holding him and fussing over him.

A Haitian woman who attended, Ketsia Cirius, took a turn at the microphone to sing a cappella in French. She wore a green sling on one arm; someone brought her a folding chair so she could sit for her performance.

At the end of her song she said, "Please pray for Haiti. Please pray for the children."

When the time came for Wilson and his mother to go home the next morning, most of the hospital staff followed them out to the flight deck to say goodbye. Phillips flew with them in the helicopter that dropped them off.

"A lot of people were crying, including the baby's mother," he said. "For me personally, it was very difficult.

"But I think we all understand that, unfortunately, we need to clear beds for the next wave."

Corinne Reilly, (757) 446-2949, corinne.reilly@pilotonline.com