“Ain’t ain’t slowing down no way… Everybody’s steppin’ on their accelerator
Don’t matter where you are… Everybody’s gonna need a ventilator” — Rolling Stones, “Ventilator Blues,” Exile on Main Street, 1972
Are you bored enough yet to read some memoir? At least Mrs. B will read it, anyway.In 1967, I was a rifleman with 2 nd Battalion, 9 th Marines, 3 rd Marine Division. We were up in the north of what was then South Vietnam, close enough at times to see the DMZ. Our primary adversaries were the North Vietnamese Army. One evening I had a rude awakening.
It was sometime around midnight. A mortar shell hit near my accommodations (another Marine and I had snapped together shelter halves, one right and one left, to make a sort of a pup tent). We were on 25% alert, which meant that three Marines slept for every one that stood guard. I’d drawn the two to four a.m. shift, so I was sacked out.
The mortar shell wounds were severe. A Navy corpsman offered words of reassurance, injected morphine, and patched up my sucking chest wound. I was med-evaced to a Battalion Aid Station, akin to a tent hospital MASH unit, where they gave me blood and put me on another Huey to fly me to a Navy Hospital ship, the USS Sanctuary. I had some surgery, and was put on a ventilator. I was unconscious for five days or so, and then drifted slowly back toward more consciousness.
One of the interesting changes was my connection to the ventilator. Ventilators are much in the news lately, primarily the shortage thereof. I was intubated. The vent pushed air into my lungs. It seems likely that the exhalations were achieved by natural response to the increased pressure during the on/off cycling of the machine, although some ventilators actively pull air out as well as push it in.
I was rather foggy for a few days, and not all that cognizant of how things were working. I wasn’t communicating much, and I usually have plenty to say — those who know me will attest. One of those first days back into some level of consciousness, I would guess it was five days or so since getting hit, I was asked what beverage I would prefer. I didn’t offer a response. The corpsman narrowed it down for me, and suggested a variety of choices. I nodded at pineapple juice. I was brought four ounces of pineapple juice. Every four hours, for a couple of days, I was brought another four more ounces of pineapple juice.
I was encouraged (directed) to drink. Eventually, I spoke my first words; “no more pineapple juice.” Once a favorite, I still reject pineapple juice. I had a feeding tube. The ventilator. A chest tube. An IV. A temporary colostomy. A catheter. Drainage tubes for my wounds (leg, buttock, chest, surgical wounds in the abdomen); it seemed like a lot.
One of the first tubes to go was the vent. It was odd. I would consciously inhale and exhale. I remember feeling uncomfortable, and wondering why. Oh, yeah, I thought to myself, breathe. I would forget. Not for long, obviously, but I’d lost the habitual, non-conscious breathing I had been doing for my 20 years, since that first doc slapped me on the butt in the Florence Crittendon Home for Unwed Mothers in Detroit.
I’d gotten a little lazy on the ventilator, and I missed the ease of the having it done for me. The consciousness of awareness soon faded.
The other tubes were pulled as time went on. When it was time to disembark the ship, and fly a USAF hospital plane back to the states, the corpsmen pinned a note on my Navy issue pajamas encouraging the successors to take good care of me. It was written in some sort of marker. I still have it. I went to Great Lakes Naval Hospital for something like nine months. My colostomy was re-sectioned successfully. My leg and I graduated from sand bag traction to window cast, to hip-to-toes cast and wheelchair, to crutches, to walking cast, to cane, to no cane but a limp, to a nearly undetectable limp that only my dad could see.
I’ve always had positive feeling about US Navy hospital ships, and the dedicated navals that work them. Military methods are not always exactly like how things are done in civilian hospitals. I recall on day a Navy doctor came strolling around the wards. He said, “Last night we had a couple of Marines come in that didn’t make it. Behind me will be a couple of corpsmen, each carrying a lung from the two Marines. One was a smoker. One was not. See if you can guess which was which.”
These two navals walked through the wards, each holding a lung at shoulder level. One was brownish and gray. One looked nicely pink and fresh. In 1967, there was not a lot being said about the dangers of tobacco use, but that was a memorable lesson. Good for the Navy to provide a memorable visual lesson. Shame on USMC for providing us with twelve cigarettes per day while in the field.
The USS Sanctuary was built in 1944, and went to Okinawa. The taking of Okinawa was devastating to the Japanese effort in World War II. The Sanctuary was sold for scrap in 2011. It was 522 feet long, and the beam was 71 feet (similar in size to a destroyer). It had capacity for 800 patients, with 505 crew, and 60 officers. There were operating rooms onboard, and ICUs.
The official motto of the USS Sanctuary was Latin for “We Serve The Troops.” The unofficial motto, hugely displayed by the hello deck, was, “You Find ‘Em We Bind Em Open 24 Hours.”
Basura, I have never had anyone from the ground troops in Vietnam tell any story from his time there. Your little memoir is chilling, so I’m grateful it has a happy ending, unlike the two whose lungs you saw. I am so sorry for all you experienced, especially in light of what a waste of young manhood it was. Am I thankful for your sacrifice? No, not in the least. I am embarrassed that you suffered so much for so little.
I am thankful for the eye-opener, though.
Thank you, Lynn. I had no idea if anyone might be interested in my personal experiences, although with vents and hospital ships much in the news now – along with the thirst for distraction – I was hoping it would be OK. It’s ancient history, but it’s all part of the mix. There were funny things, too. There was a time when General Kelly came on the sanctuary to pin purple heart medals on our pajamas. Some photographer took a polaroid of the event. I sent the picture to a girlfriend I had at the time, wrote on the back, and because of my crappy penmanship, she thought I was of the impression that Gene Kelley had visited me. (Gen. – Gene). She thought I must have had a brain injury too. Well, it seemed funny at the time.
Mr. Basura,
Thank you for your sacrifice for our nation, the Purple Heart is the oldest and in my view the most prestigious of all awards and decorations.
The folks at Great Lakes are good very good. Also good you did not end up with the Gene Kelly young lady. The story is still funny.
Thanks for the column.
Thanks, Bob. I appreciate it.