Medical Tent

Dedicated to the Medics of the 3/506th 1967-1968!

It was just another general purpose tent, erected over a wooden floor, near the aid station. What made it special were the men who belonged there. It was a haven for unassigned medics and those of us passing through for a few hours. If you didn’t wear a combat medical badge, you didn’t belong. Stay out!

We couldn’t cut loose in the field. The medical tent was our place to de-stress.  We had a lot of fun…it was  truly cool place to be. What went on in The Tent stayed there. When I made Sp/5, I became a bit worried that we were having too much fun. I truly desired to take my rank home to my Dad. However, the lure of The Tent was irresistible.

There are two gatherings that I will talk about. The first was  early 1967. Doc Mark Jones stood up and announced that two of our own had been killed. Due to our varied assignments within the battalion, we were not always privy to mourn our own. From that day forward, Doc Jones seemed to take the task of bad news bearer. Their names were mentioned once…we rarely spoke of them again…not until after the war. I breathed a sigh of relief in those gatherings, when Doc Jones didn’t stand up to make another pronouncement.

The second was near the end of tour, late summer of 1968. The medical tent was unusually full of medics. We would all return home soon…never to see each other again. We had almost made it, so the mood turned quite light hearted. An icy barrel of beer stood on my end of the tent. It was a glad time to know we had survived; it was sad knowing this was possibly our last stand down.

This was a night to shake the dust off a long year. I normally had one or two beers. When I popped the third can, Doc Jones grinned from ear to ear. He says, “You are drinking heavy now Thompson.” I replied, “We have a lot of beer here. Somebody’s got to do it.” The beer was truly icy cold and my mood turned pure festive. We did a lot of damage to that barrel full of beer.

When I saw nothing but ice floating, I got the great idea of sitting my butt in that barrel. Man, that water felt good. Jones looked up and said, “What do you think you are doing Thompson?” I said, “What does it look like Jones?” He replied, “You are going to pay for this in the morning Thompson.” Well, about that time the Chaplain’s Assistant came looking for me. He was my friend. In a blurred conversation, he took off. We had shared of faith and life together. Being shot at on a regular basis was an experience we didn’t share. I needed to forget…I drank until I had no memory.

Haven’t a clue as to how I got out of the barrel nor about the three steps needed to return to my bunk. A sergeant tapped me to wake up for morning formation. I tried to move a finger to no avail. I slept soaked. Someone had mercy to throw a blanket over me. I apologized to the sergeant and told him that I would gladly attend the next formation. My state was pretty obvious. Nothing was ever said.

Currahees…I pray that I didn’t offend the Chaplain’s Assistant. I think his name was Smitty.  I just needed one night to forget. However, I have never forgotten him