How I Lost My Teeth in a Tank Accident (and Gained Confidence)
I have implants. No, not the kind you’re thinkin’. D e n t a l implants. And a nose job. Oh, and thicker lips thanks to a fabulous plastic surgeon. Things you didn’t know eh?
It’s not the result of some kardashian like ego driven attempt at maintaining my youth, although these laugh lines are getting thicker! I was 19 years old, new in the army, and I had a vehicle accident. A tank, I had an accident in a damn tank and my face lost.
This was single handedly the best thing that happened to set the tone of my military career. Talk about a lasting impression, last night at drinks with old friends, a stranger looked at me oddly and asked if I was ever on a certain military base in 1998? And involved in a tank accident?!? I was a little surprised. Dude remembered my face/name from 20 years ago. Yup, that was me. It was big news back then, a story that spread like wildfire.
“I had that gut instinct of this-is-going-to-be-a-whole-lot-of-bad-news-bears but climbed up into the crew commanders hatch of the vehicle just the same”
The accident happened while on my very first contract as a reservist with the regular forces. It was my first time in a brigade setting with ‘real soldiers’. We were just coming through the era of the airborne disbandment, and these gritty soldiers have been through Somalia, Rwanda, and Bosnia. Something beyond my apprehension of experiencing. It was also an era where there weren’t that many female soldiers kicking around. When my friend and I arrived to augment (both young female reservists) the regular force unit, it caused a few assumptions and heckles from the men. It didn’t bother me much, I was wide eyed and eager to prove my mettle. Thanks to those years in army cadets, I was already had some confidence and determination.
The annual brigade level exercise was coming up and everyone was preparing, which included taking the vehicles for a short drive around base to make sure they were in working order. Here I was, minding-my-own-business, when the troop warrant officer spotted me and told me to hop in the bison (armoured track vehicle we used in the communication platoon) to crew command so that the driver could take it out for a spin.
“But I don’t have a helmet” I said. Only mildly annoyed, the troop warrant rolled his eyes with a laugh. “It’s just on base, no need”. “But I don’t know how to crew command?!” I said. “Jesus Lanthier, it’s easy” he said “just say clear-right-clear-left when you get to intersections” he said as he walked away. Okay, well there was obviously no arguing. I had that gut instinct of this-is-going-to-be-a-whole-lot-of-bad-news-bears but climbed up into the crew commanders hatch of the vehicle just the same. I mean, it’s just a spin around on paved roads so no big deal right?
First intersection. “Clear left, clear right” I said into the headset. The driver responded and we proceed. This wasn’t so bad, and kinda badass to be in an armoured vehicle even though I’d never admit that feeling out loud. Next intersection, then the next. Driving further away from the troop lines. Maybe we’re just doing a big loop. I’m kinda enjoying the moment to be honest. So there I was “crew commanding” when the driver decided to swing off the paved roads and into the training area. This seems odd. “ We’re heading back soon right” I asked. “In a minute, let’s really test it!”. He’s the regular force soldier, I’m the newbie reservist, so he knew better right?
He was a guy. I was a young woman. He was showing off.
It’s that simple.
The Incident
I didn’t like it, not one-damn-bit. He was speeding through the training field. Nothing but dirt and grass and uneven terrain. I was a bit scared and with each bump in the field my heart sank a little more.
There is an area in the training fields called ‘five fingers’ which is a set of sand dunes used for training and testing vehicles. Or if your bosses are feeling spicy, then they make you run up and down those sandy inclines from hell for morning fitness. The driver took the vehicle right up the steep dune tracks, we reached the top, tilted forward and then went down the hill far too fucking fast. Before there was time to register that this was dangerous, before I had the chance to say no, or to duck in and put on a seat belt - we reached the bottom of the hill, while going full speed and hit a tank ditch.
Now, tank ditches are meant to hinder/stop tanks and it did just that. The armoured vehicle hit the ditch, came up the other side, and crashed back on to the ground with a thunderous thump. Dust from impact engulfed us. During this whole experience, I was standing on a cushioned seat with my body half out of the cupola. I wasn’t wearing a helmet or a seat belt.
Some higher power must have saved my ass that day. This is how people die in training accidents. How the cupola hatch lid didn’t come undone and strike my head or how I didn’t fly out of the vehicle completely - it’s still beyond me.
Instead, I took the hatch through the chin, knocking out four teeth whole, fracturing my upper jaw, breaking my nose, and cracking ribs. This all happened before I had time to blink. It’s the first time I met trauma in earnest.
A little disorientated I tapped the driver on the shoulder and said ‘hospital’. A least I attempted to say ‘hospital’ but I think he got the message when he turned around to see a bloody mess. I won’t forget the look of fear and shock in his face.
As we drove to the base hospital I took off my blood soaked combat shirt, went back on top to retrieve my teeth, started my own first aid, and had my military ID and health card ready. It was oddly all so logical in my head, like ‘something shitty just happened so do what you can do about it’. Time slowed, mental clarity appeared, and action was taken. There was that calm in the chaos again, just like at the cadet camp but even more so.
When the vehicle stopped, I climbed out of the hatch myself and down to the front of the tank. Clear purposeful steps. By then though, the shock was wearing off and reality setting in. The driver was already out and at the front of the vehicle, looking at me in disbelief. I looked back at him, started crying, mumbled that I couldn’t take that last step off. He came over and whisked me up in his arms, ran towards the hospital entrance, and kicked open the double doors with his foot. The hallways were empty and it was eerily quiet. He yelled ‘medic’ and I remember the fear in his voice. Then there was this rush. Medics and nurses and doctors everywhere. The shocked look on their faces. Orders being given. My only thought is that this scene was straight out of the movies…that’s neat, then ‘oh shit this is real’ hit and I burst into sobbing tears.
The Aftermath
After two days off for surgeries, I was back to work. My stubborn self wasn’t done proving that I could fit in with the regular force. So with black eyes, cotton up my nose, black sutures out of my nose looking like a bulls ring, and no teeth…I was showed up for morning physical fitness (PT) with the rest of the platoon. It was obstacle course PT. I’ll never forget the warrant officer looking at me like I was insane. “No way. You can’t do it.” he said, “Go home”. At which point I defiantly pulled out my med chit[5] and told him that out of all the restrictions the doctors listed – there is not one stating I can’t run alongside the troops and help motivate them through the course. He begrudgingly agreed to let me participate. So I did just that, and the next day, and the next after that.
The reputation
That reputation served me well. I got through this event and it opening bigger doors. Almost like the ‘little engine that could’ story, I became known as someone who worked hard and through obstacles. I got picked for military deployments and jobs because of it, was respected by the right people because of it, and most important gained confidence in myself because of it. It felt like, if I could get through that then I could get through anything.