After being outfitted in several sets of fatigues in olive drab green, i.e., OD green, dull rank and outfit patches, and jungle boots, I began my trek to an unknown hospital in an unknown posting. En route to my up-country destination, I overnighted in Da Nang at the 95th Evacuation Hospital. This lifted my spirits for I was housed in a well-constructed quonset hut with comfortable beds and air conditioning. Vietnam was not so bad.
PHU BAI’S ALL RIGHT
Map of Indochina
The next day, I flew in a crowded C-130 sitting on the deck covered with steel plates to adsorb bullets and fragments and slid into the anxious grunts in front of me as the plane suddenly dipped and dove into Phu Bai Airport to avoid enemy fire while landing. I do not know who I pissed off, but as far as hospital locations went, Phu Bai was the armpit of Vietnam. A ghastly sign announcing, “Welcome to Phu Bai”, greeted me. I was now about halfway between Da Nang and Hue, up north near the division between North and South Vietnam, on the east coast not far from the South China Sea in the army’s designated I Corps.
A short, dusty jeep drive deposited me in a barren, dry, dirty, hot, ramshackle space of plywood shanties on two-foot stilts with corrugated metal roofs held in place with sandbags. The stilts were to prevent flooding during the monsoon season. Wow. I was depressed, lonely, confused, sweaty, and suffering culture shock. I had been somewhat excited about the adventure aspect of going to Vietnam, but at that moment, all I wanted to do was awake from this nightmare. I would spend a year here at the 85th Evacuation Hospital.
After walking and struggling with my gear into the center of this purgatory, a savior-like vision appeared. Roger King, a fellow resident from MCV, one year my senior in the program, greeted me with a big smile and promised that everything would be all right.
I was directed to my new home, a dusty hooch near the ammunition dump. That night as I prepared to attempt sleep, the emotion of it all overcame my reserve, and at age thirty, I cried like a baby.
TRANSFORMATION
A few months prior to my departure for Vietnam, Robin and I had visited my sister, Helene, and her husband, Jimmy Parry, in Connecticut. The movie Mash had just been released, and we went to the theater. It was not only a great flick but also a primer on how a surgeon was to survive mentally in a war zone. I was determined to assume Donald Sutherland’s irreverent Hawkeye persona as a way to conduct myself. By the way, I did and it worked. Roger and I were considered exceptional surgeons and a dynamic team in the OR. But he was more sedate. What could the army do to me, send me to Vietnam, I was already there?
When not wearing my fatigues I could be seen at times in blue tie-dyed sleeveless T-shirts and Bermuda shorts. One’s length of stay in Vietnam could be gauged by the degree of washed-out color your fatigues reflected, sort of a badge of honor.
As for my attitude, I never wore a cover, i.e., hat, and avoided saluting, did not dwell on rank, befriended the ranking sergeants, for they were the source of whatever you needed or wanted, and I abided by the in-country philosophy, “don’t mean nothin’.”
Enlisted and docs alike were on a first name basis and respected the other’s space and contributions in the emergency department, i.e., ED and OR. I learned very quickly that a war zone strips one of the implied importance of heritage, educational accomplishments, title, access to wealth, and most state-side status. One could not take one’s self too seriously. We were all in the “same boat.” With these attitudes in mind, the cherished wounded benefitted from our discarding these inhibitory barriers.
OUR MISSION
From Highway 1, overrun in 1968 by the North Vietnamese Army (NVA) during the Tet Offensive, a sharp turn entered our hospital compound. Directly to the west was an immense, densely arranged sprawl of old hooches each encased to a five-foot height by a doubly thick wall of sandbags. More deteriorating sand-filled dark-green bags reinforced the stability of the corrugated metal roof. These battered structures were home to thousands of 101st Airborne fighting men (Screaming Eagles) who were all our responsibility. The hills visible in the far west distance were “Indian country” (enemy infested).
101st Airborne on Highway 1
Sequestered within a small green plywood shack protected by walls of sandbags, a group of seriously tough-looking MPs guarded the 85th Evac’s front gate.
MPs in front the 85th Evac front gate
Our mission statement was posted with large black letters on a tungsten white wooden board. It read, “To provide hospitalization in support of United States Army Vietnam (USARVN) Free World Military Assistance Forces (FWMAF) and civilian war casualties (CWC) located within northern I Corps tactical zone.”
Mission statement at the front gate
What those words meant to me was that the 85th Evac in 1970–1971 was tasked to treat the wounded, maimed, disfigured, and dying American grunts whose sacrifices were of little consequence in the global politics of a distant country the US government had not only invaded, ravaged, and poisoned with Agent Orange but also decided in 1969 to gradually back away from and desert. This distorted relationship with South Vietnam was well understood by the troops, and a sense of desperation clouded their existence. Each soldier entered Vietnam alone, not with a unit as in this current century’s deployments. They were shunned when first in country as the F–ing New Guy (FNG) who was totally inexperienced and who could “get you killed.” These men quickly learned that they were not fighting for democracy, our country, or a free society; they were fighting to survive and go home. The troops, of all colors and descendant nationalities, fought bravely and were guided by the emotion of the brotherhood they shared with their buddies.
Has not history repeated itself in Iraq and Afghanistan?
With due respect to the mission statement, we administered to few Vietnamese, and if we did, there were limitations. During the past few years, I have confronted my attitude toward the Vietnamese people I encountered during my tour at the 85th Evac. What I realized is that the dehumanizing process that allows the soldier to more easily kill another human being had infected my psyche. I did not leave the United States with this attitude. It evolved in country.
A constantly present, extremely friendly Vietnamese young man interpreted for us in the ED.
He appeared useful, efficient, a friend, and was eventually revealed to be Viet Cong. One day, he vanished (most likely executed) with our emotionally charged trust betrayed and an intensified need to protect ourselves against them.
5 In the x-ray room; our Viet Cong friend to the right
One could not determine friend from foe, so all Vietnamese became second-rate distrusted humans who were killing