All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher.

Library of Congress Catalogue Number:

2012931434

ISBN: 9781626750876

Copyright © Diane L. Klutz 2012.

Cover and book designer: James Retherford/Hot Digital Dog Design.

Copy Editor: Robert Juran

Printed in USA: Patterson Printing Company, Benton Harbor, MI

First Printing

TRI-STAR BOOKS

***

DEDICATION

This story is dedicated

to all the military nurses

who volunteered to care

for the physically and

mentally wounded soldiers,

the dying soldiers,

and the civilians

in South Vietnam

It wasn’t easy,

and it still may not be,

but you did it anyway.

Prologue

A Little Background First

BEFORE I BEGIN MY STORY, I need to set the stage by giving you a sense of knowing me: who I was and how that may have led me to the Viet-nam War.

My life began in a rural community of about 200 people in southwestern Pennsylvania, close to the border of West Virginia. A fort established in the early 1700s, called Fort Taylor, formed the basis and hence the name for the town–Taylorstown.

Patriotism flowed through Taylorstown’s blood in proportions equal to that of red or white blood cells. My family and I shared the commonality of patriotism so evident in the community. I’m proud to say that there has been at least one member of my family in every war since the forming of the colonies: from the French and Indian War through the current wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.

The first five years of my elementary education were in a four- room schoolhouse, and the sixth grade was in a single-room school-house. There was no indoor plumbing in our schools, but at least there were separate out-houses for girls and boys–three-holers at that. My grandmother only had a one-holer. Anyway, by the time I reached junior high a new school was built, with indoor plumbing and everything.

I graduated from high school in June 1966, and two months later I started nurse’s training in a girls’-only school in a hospital north of Pittsburgh. I was seventeen and I had never been away from home before, and, I was a little naïve since there were three boys and just one girl (me) in our family. Actually, I was so naïve that I thought feminine napkins were table napkins used exclusively by ladies. It was after myk girlfriend and I got caught by a teacher, while carrying a box of these “napkins” from the ladies bathroom to the cafeteria, that I learned what they were actually used forI was so embarrassed.

In nursing school, I lived in the dorm with the other nursing students. In fact, everyone lived in the dorm married or not, children or not. This was usually not an issue, because marriage was forbidden until the student was close to graduation. However, a few girls came into the program married, and one of my classmates was divorced, with custody of her two children. But no matter what the circumstances were, without exception, everyone stayed in the dorm.

The dorm was connected like an umbilical cord to the hospital and much like living in a womb–very protected and structured. We ate, slept, studied, and did nearly everything according to set rules. While freshmen, we were allowed out of the building for free time only from 6 to 8 p.m., Monday through Thursday. On Friday and Saturday we could stay out until 10 p.m. Juniors were permitted to stay out to 9 p.m. on weekdays and seniors till 10. Everyone had to be back in the dorm by 8 p.m. on Sundays. All classes were held in the basement of the dorm, and a few were in the hospital area. Meals were in the student cafeteria, also located in the basement. Except when we had specialty training rotations, we incubated and grew into nurses within the uterus of the hospital.

After thirty-six straight months of confinement, the womb opened and I graduated. It was August 1969 and I was twenty years old. I worked in a local hospital for four months after graduation. The first week of January 1970 I was commissioned into active duty as a second lieutenant in the United States Army Nurse Corps. The following week Mom and Dad drove me to the airport in Pittsburgh, and even though it was snowing, they stood outside, watching as I climbed the steps, and after a final wave I disappeared into the plane.

I wish to salute you young women who are about to become Army nurses! You will take the first steps today.

Lieutenant-Colonel Wylie addressing the new recruits. Helen Wells, Cherry Ames, Army Nurse, p. 56

Basic Training

I FELT LIKE AMELIA EARHART heading across the Atlantic as I joined the plane full of newly commissioned Army nurses heading for basic training at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. Most of us had never left Pennsylvania, yet alone visited Texas, and we were so excited to be going to the home of the Alamo.

Fort Sam Houston, Fort Sam for short, was the training site for all Army medical personnel. Nurses, doctors, dentists, physical therapists, and all other officers in an Army medical field had to successfully complete the six-week basic training course at Fort Sam.

It was January 1970, and by the time we arrived on post the sun had long ago settled into the western sky. Most of the rooms in the nurses’ dorm were already assigned, so many of us from the Pittsburgh area were housed in the married officers’ dorm. These quarters additionally housed the male nurses along with married nurse couples, physicians, and dentists. Even though men and women didn’t have to share bathroom facilities, it still seemed strange to see men in the hall, especially in their underwear.

I guess the Army did its best to prepare the nurses for military service. We had day-long lectures about weapons of all makes and sizes, tactical maneuvers, military protocol, war strategy, and other stuff too boring to remember. And we marched–in heels, combat boots, dress uniforms, and pants.

We participated in field exercises, which were actually fun. We experienced the fine culinary delight of C-rations and food served in a mess tent. We removed shrapnel and debrided wounds on goats, set up and took down medical tents, and suffered through tear gas instruction, while wearing full combat gear.

We were even set loose in the middle of the wilderness at Camp Bullis with a navigation map and a compass. Presumably, we were to find our way back to camp, but our group got lost. Fortunately there were warrant officers in helicopters chomping at the bit to rescue any stray nurses, so it wasn’t long before help arrived.

What the army did not prepare us for were the men. Willing and able officers were everywhere, just waiting for an opportunity to take out a new recruit. And there was always a band playing at either the senior officers’ clubs or junior officers’ clubs. Because several of the clubs stayed open until the wee hours of the morning, and there was no curfew, I occasionally had two or three dates in one night. Shamefully, a few times I got back to my room just in time to wash, fix hair and makeup, change into my uniform, and run to formation.

“I now am,” she reminded herself, remembering her oath of office, “by act of Congress, an officer and a Lady.”

Helen Wells, Cherry Ames, Army Nurse, p. 56

The Reflecting Pool

I SUPPOSE THE LACK of sleep accounted for my inability to absorb much during class time, especially when the finer points of the disciplined military life were discussed. In fact, I pretty much ignored the whole thing, because I was focused on another topic: having fun.

I also had, and still have, a major character flaw: accepting authority. I never cultivated this attitude, it just happened. Hearing, “just because” to my “why” questions never sat well with me. In addition, trouble seemed to hang around me like a cloud. I certainly did not go looking for it, but it was there nonetheless and usually the outcome of these encounters ended very close to disaster.

One of these encounters with trouble occurred several months after graduating from basic training and Fort Sam Houston. I was assigned to Walter Reed Medical Center in Washington, D.C. Another nurse in my basic training class, named Cindy, was given the same duty assignment, and because Walter Reed did not have on-post housing, we decided to share an apartment together.

Cindy and I were off duty on a particularly beautiful spring Saturday afternoon. The year was 1970, and a celebration was planned by the D.C. Parks Department to commemorate Congress’ recent reversal of the kite-flying law. Up to that point, kite flying was restricted near the National Mall, because no building or other type of structure could be higher than the Washington Monument, including kites. I guess it was some special law written long before airplanes and such were invented.

The weatherman promised a magnificent day: clear skies and sun. Kites were provided by the Parks Department, and throngs of enthusiasts, Cindy and I included, descended on the monument grounds. As if on cue, no sooner did the kites take flight than the sky burst forth with rain, lightning, thunder, and hail. Mad dashes were made to shelters, cars, pavilions, and whatever else was handy. Thankfully, as suddenly as the storm started, it stopped, and the sun exploded from behind the storm clouds.

Those of you who were familiar with the National Mall area of the 1970s may remember that there were many grass-covered knolls, especially surrounding the amphitheater. A few of the knolls’ banks were quite steep, and provided inclined seating to watch outdoor performances. I once watched Dionne Warwick perform in this amphitheater.

Anyway, after the downpour, the grass on the bank became slippery, proving irresistible to many of the festival participants. Like otters, the soaking mass of people who were previously flying kites began sliding down the embankment, turning the grass carpet into a giant mudslide.

Throngs of people, mostly in their twenties, joined in the frolicking on the muddy banks of the mall. Cindy and I couldn’t resist having at least one slide, but because there were so many packed-in people, the ride wasn’t fast or long. But it sure was muddy.

Perfect recollections are now lost to time, but not long after the grassy banks turned into a thick chocolate-like slide, a single voice was heard. “Let’s go to the Reflecting Pool to wash off this mud,” said the unknown male, and like sheep to the slaughter, the mud-covered group turned and followed this unknown and unseen leader. Thinking that this was a “groovy” plan, I coaxed Cindy into also going to the pool. We sat on the short wall encompassing the pool and dangled our feet while others splashed and cavorted in the shallow water. Cindy remarked at one point that this was probably illegal, but because we weren’t positive, we kept our perch on the wall splashing our feet.

The sun was shining, people were laughing, and music was blaring. There were even rainbows in the sky. Everything seemed right in the world… when without warning a man wearing Army-surplus combat fatigues and a plethora of peace signs started shouting anti-war rhetoric via a bullhorn. The man’s voice sounded very much like the unknown leader to the pool’s voice—probably not a coincidence.