Battle Field Angels (27 page)

As thousands of corpsmen and medics were discharged from the military following the end of the Korean War, career medical officers assessed what had been learned during three years of combat. Beginning on April 19, 1954, top-ranking Army medical officers and doctors met for nearly two weeks at Walter Reed Army Medical Center.

They assessed nearly every factor of battlefield care in Korea. They devoted one afternoon to the medical aspects of body armor, experimental wound ballistics, and postoperative care of battle casualties. They spent a morning on a critical analysis of rectum wound treatment, new vascular surgery techniques, urinary tract wounds, and the treatment of eye casualties. They identified problems as well as achievements.

Mobile hospitals and helicopter evacuation were the principal advancements in battlefield medicine in Korea. Helicopters evacuated more than 21,700 wounded soldiers. Only 2.4 percent of the wounded died after reaching a hospital, a mortality rate half that of World War II.

The Korean War also validated a fundamental shift in thinking about combat care. During World War II, “shortest litter time” to an aid station was deemed paramount. In Korea, the effectiveness of helicopter evacuation proved that “the smoothest litter time” was more effective. Even if it took a few hours longer, a wounded soldier who hadn’t been tossed about on the hood of a jeep was in better shape to withstand surgery. Smooth, seamless transport from the battlefield to a MASH unit became the standard for military medicine on the battlefield.

Despite suffering through brutally cold winters and sweltering summers, MASH surgeons pioneered other advancements. Once the war bogged down and MASH units became fixed, surgeons developed new surgical techniques. Two new vascular clamps as well as arterial and vein grafts enabled surgeons to save many limbs from amputation.

For the first time, penicillin and other antibiotics became widely available in war, providing a broad spectrum of efficacy against infection.

It also became clear that corpsmen and medics needed more training in the use of plasma in battle. Too many corpsmen assumed there had been no need for a plasma transfusion in the absence of overt symptoms of shock. Even soldiers bleeding from a severed leg sometimes didn’t receive plasma until they reached an aid station. Postwar analysis highlighted the need for revised battlefield medicine training that would teach corpsmen and medics the value of using plasma transfusions before shock set in.

A decade would pass before the new treatments and expanded frontline training would be tested, before the lessons of medevac protocols under fire forged in the mountains of Korea would be refined for the jungles of Vietnam.

Vietnam War

I
nvisible night prowlers ruffled the jungle’s underbrush as the Marine patrol approached the bamboo stand silhouetted against the star-filled sky. Men soaked in sweat stepped single file out of a rice paddy filled with water and onto a game trail. The newcomers to Delta Company, 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines jumped at every sound. Veterans who had survived earlier South Vietnam night patrols scanned the vegetation for unnatural shapes and lines that might betray the enemy only yards away.

The war between South Vietnam and communist North Vietnam began in 1959. The United States began advising South Vietnam in the early 1960s and sent combat troops in 1965. In 1967, skirmishes between American soldiers and North Vietnamese Army troops intensified throughout the Que Son Valley. Two fresh NVA enemy regiments had moved into the area located south of Da Nang and midway between the coast and Laos. Repeated multibattalion sweeps by the Americans had failed to roust an increasingly entrenched enemy. U.S. intelligence officers speculated that the increased NVA presence was a precursor to attacks intended to disrupt South Vietnamese elections scheduled for September.

As the Marines continued their night patrol, less than fifty yards ahead, a tree line exploded in a blinding staccato of enemy gunfire. The string of Marines evaporated as mortar shells exploded. Startled Marines yelled for help or orders as Captain Robert Morgan consolidated his men into a defensive position. Just before sunrise on September 4, 1967, the Marines’ weapons turned blister-hot as they shot at intensifying flashes of enemy weapons firing from the dense brush surrounding them. The enemy began infiltrating Delta Company’s perimeter as the Americans reached into their pockets and satchels for the last of their ammo.

When they activated a strobe light to guide reinforcement helicopters, enemy fire grew mercilessly accurate. As the American air strikes forced the NVA to temporarily disengage, Bravo Company was ordered to hike two miles to reinforce the beleaguered Delta Company. When Bravo reached the battlefield at about 0820 hours, it, too, came under heavy fire. Huey helicopters dropped more than four hundred pounds of tear gas on the Vietnamese and forced them to disengage anew. It was clear to those at the regimental command post several miles away that Delta and Bravo companies were nearly surrounded by a superior force. The enemy had preempted an upcoming Marine operation, codenamed Operation Swift, with a carefully planned attack in a killing zone of its choosing.

“Mounting casualties! We’re getting low on ammo! Request immediate support!”
⁷⁵

Officers huddled around the radios at headquarters. They noted the frantic voices, crackling with fear and confusion. When the radios fell silent, the officers debated how to rescue Delta and Bravo. A few grabbed clipboards and gathered around a map pinned to a bulletin board. Battalion chaplain Vincent Capodanno sat quietly to the side, taking notes. Others stood by, knowing the situation was dire, especially for the wounded.

“Dust-off” was the tactical call sign that meant wounded soldiers needed to be evacuated. By 1967, medical evacuation by helicopters had become a defining characteristic of battlefield care in Vietnam. The first Army air ambulance detachment arrived in 1964, flying UH-1 Hueys.

These rescue missions proved extremely dangerous. The Hueys were practically defenseless. Sometimes the pilot, copilot, crew chief, and medic were accompanied by a single rifleman or machine gunner to suppress enemy fire. The modified helicopters were equipped with a hoist-and-cable mechanism that lowered an empty stretcher to the ground at the rate of one hundred fifty feet per minute and retracted the wounded soldier slightly more slowly. When the helicopters hovered just above the tree line, they were extremely vulnerable to small-arms and rocket fire. Several dust-off pilots became famous for their willingness to fly into intense firefights to rescue wounded soldiers. In one famous instance, Chief Warrant Officer Michael Novosel flew into intense enemy fire fifteen times despite being wounded. He evacuated twenty-nine men who had been wounded or pinned down by the enemy and later received the Medal of Honor for his bravery.

At 0925 hours, the Marines decided to send two more companies, Mike and Kilo, as reinforcements. They would be flown to a landing zone about two miles away from the combat zone and would hike to the Marines’ rescue before time and ammo ran out. Corpsmen would have to establish a medical aid station near the battlefield. Chaplain Capodanno decided to fly out with the companies.

Vincent Capodanno, a square-jawed Staten Island native, had a gruff voice that belied a gentle demeanor. His commanding presence led Marines to unconsciously lower their voices in his presence. The thirty-eight-year-old priest’s career began when he entered the Maryknoll Missionary Seminary in 1949. As the war in Vietnam intensified, Capodanno decided to become a Navy chaplain. In 1966, after graduating from officer candidate school, he was assigned to the 5th Marine Division in Vietnam. He voluntarily extended his tour of combat duty.

While some chaplains seemed to disappear when fighting erupted, Capodanno frequently joined a medical unit in the field to be closer to the stricken. He refused to share a gas mask with a man in combat, saying the soldier needed it more than he did. The dozens of St. Christopher medals he distributed became the prized possessions of young Marines.

The corpsman tent quieted at the announcement from Armando Leal that the Marines were taking serious casualties in the field. The corpsman had grown up on the south side of San Antonio near Kelly Air Force Base, where his father worked as an expediting clerk. Leal loved basketball, although his short and slight stature made it a sport with a finite future. He often spent his free time in the recreation center at Southcross Junior High School. During high school, Leal played chess, joined a number of clubs, and played on the football team. In 1966, he enlisted in the Navy. His father beamed with pride, eager to share the news with coworkers. He started thinking about a transfer to a civilian job in Vietnam so he could be near his son if Leal was sent to war.

Leal met Nory Trevino within a day of arriving at the Navy’s Great Lakes boot camp. He was as homesick as any recruit at Great Lakes, but Leal worried more than most about his parents, brothers, and sisters. Responsibility to his family was everything. His job was to set an example for his younger siblings and to make his family proud. Becoming a corpsman in the United States Navy seemed a good way to do that.

The daily corpsman training regimen at Great Lakes began with 0600 reveille, followed by medical classes from 0800 to 1500. After dinner, Leal and Trevino studied together to prepare for weekly Friday tests. They fired questions back and forth:

“Protein deficiency can result in which of the following conditions?”

“A corpsman may administer morphine to which of the following patients?”

“Which of the following is/are a recommended step(s) in treating deep frostbite?”

“Signs and symptoms of heat exhaustion include a weak rapid pulse, nausea, headache and ————?”

“After applying a splint to a fractured forearm, you notice the fingers develop a bluish tinge and are cool to the touch. What should you do?”
⁷⁶

Everyone knew that many advanced corpsman school graduates would be sent to Vietnam. Some of Leal’s classmates intentionally failed classes to avoid the war in Southeast Asia. Others, like Leal and Trevino, stayed the course, while talking late into the night about what it would be like in a war. Leal worried about how his mother would cope if he were sent to Vietnam.

Almost a year later, Leal jogged toward the rescue helicopter’s roiling dust cloud. He scanned his bag of medical supplies one last time before tossing it aboard. Seconds later his stomach sank as the helo lifted, nosed over to the left, and leveled on its way to a jungle clearing where wounded men were waiting.

In another helicopter sat Craig Sullivan, a muscled Southerner whose cap sat low and shaded a moustache that curled upward at each end. He was a sergeant in Mike Company’s first platoon and had arrived in Vietnam only a month earlier. When Sullivan was eight years old, his father had taken him to a theater in Tallahasee, Florida, to see John Wayne in
Sands of Iwo Jima
. By the time the credits rolled, Sullivan knew he wanted to be a Marine.

Sullivan had been struck immediately by Leal’s easygoing nature. The corpsman enjoyed sharing stories and playing cards. Sullivan also had grown to respect Leal’s eye for detail, especially out in the field. “You need a salt tablet,” Leal told a sweat-soaked Marine slumped under a tree, whose shirt and fly were open in search of every imaginary wisp of air in the tropical heat. “How’s your feet? Socks dry?”
⁷⁷
Leal usually carried extra socks for the troops because wet socks produced crippling blisters. He frequently asked each man if he had brushed his teeth recently.

The thundering noise of the helicopters swallowed conversation as the rescuers approached a landing zone near Dinh An. The trees surrounding the clearing shuddered as the helos touched down at 1245 hours. Leal, Chaplain Capodanno, and the Marines jumped out, hauled their gear clear, and prepared for a four-kilometer march to a battle in the jungle. Capodanno approached Sullivan and a group of Marines.

“Sir, would you mind if I said a prayer for your men?” he asked. Sullivan, a Baptist, agreed. Over the whump of the helicopters, Capodanno led a brief prayer that ended with “May you go with God.”
⁷⁸
Mike Company began its march toward the sound of gunfire.

Sweat rolled down their spines as they slogged through rice paddies and followed game trails through stands of eucalyptus trees and hedgerows of dense brush. They walked under a cloudless sky in sweltering heat, jumping at every sound, praying the next step didn’t trigger a land mine. Every few minutes they heard “
pop, pop … brrrrrrrpt … brrrrrrrrrpt
” in the distance as enemy snipers and machine gunners took aim at the trapped Marines ahead.