Terror Jump with Doc Lovy

Doc Andrew Lovy, best known as the Battalion Surgeon of the 3/506th, remembered this particular jump about 48 years later! It was my last with this unit, and the only jump Doc Lovy and I  shared in the 2/501st. It was our grand farewell to the Geronimos!

If you have followed me at all, I have a serious penchant for mischievous risk, that still brings me trouble to this very day. After morning formation, I walked the first floor hallway, toward my end of the barracks. In military parlance, all the company brass hung out on this floor; it was a brassy move to pass by those offices. I almost made it, when I thought I heard, “Thompson!” Advancing two more steps, I heard my name unmistakably the second time. I had really screwed up.

Our assistant platoon  sergeant was preparing his portion of a jump manifest. It was providential that I would pass by, just when he needed  warm body. Pulling me into his office, he reviewed my jump history. He said, “Thompson, you have almost 20 jumps, but never a night jump. You need one! I got just the jump for you.”

The reason I stacked up a bunch of jumps, was so that I could possibly avoid some. We had to jump at least every ninety days. One of those things I was avoiding was a night jump. The Sarge could see that I wasn’t excited. However, we both knew I didn’t have a choice in the matter. He said, “It’s really an early twilight jump, no equipment, and Doc Lovy is on the manifest. You’re going to like it! I am doing you a favor.” Enough said, I was had anyway. He told me to get lost and show up at 1600 hours for early chow; they would truck us to the airport.

All was pretty typical. I showed up for early chow and we trucked off. After grabbing the parachutes, I pulled a technique shared by Gary Flint Purcell. Troopers  can take all the time they need, to get their equipment in order. I would mess with my equipment until the last men were in the plane. About then, the jump master gives you that look…get in the damn plane troop! This technique gave me the armpit view of my world; second man sees everything under the armpit of the man in the door. I was in position. Life was good.

Across from me, as promised, sat Dr. Lovy with the Chaplain. These two represented my world, medicine and faith. I nodded to Doc Lovy, and he acknowledged. Daylight still pierced through the opposite door. I figured we should be out the door in five minutes flat from takeoff. Life was really good!

Dreams have a subtle way of turning into a nightmare. We flew and flew and flew. We were all a bit bored and chatting. The jump master quipped, “Air Force reserve, they’re getting in some flight time.”

The  day turned into twilight…the twilight turned to dusk. We were supposed to either fly over or towards the base. This meant that we would see the base lights, as an indictor of our approach. I never saw the base lights that entire night…no, not ever!

The green light came on and I held my armpit view. First man was prepared to spring on command. I didn’t see any street lights, the stars, nor the moon. God only knows how dark it had become. We waited the longest time, when I heard the order, “Sit down!” Friends, that phrase is no where to be found in the jump commands. We returned to our web seats.

I gazed across the plane for comfort, but Medicine and Faith looked mighty nervous to me. In a few more minutes, we were summoned to the jump commands again. The armpit view looked as bleak as ever, but I was ready to do something, even if it was wrong. The green light was on forever, when the jump master commanded, “Sit down!”

A quiet panic settled throughout the back on that plane. No one dared look anyone in the face. My thought was that we should scratch this jump and go home. The silent consensus was that these pilots were short on experience, and we were the experiment!

The terror of this jump stemmed from the abundant time we had to think. Every paratrooper at Ft. Campbell has been dutifully told of jumps that went wrong. A couple of plane loads had even been dropped into Kentucky Lake! Of course, they all went to Airborne Heaven.

Somewhere in my prayers, I heard the command, “Stand up!” Three green lights and I heard the jump master, “Go!!!” The armpit disappeared and I soon followed. Even in the darkest night, you can see the fully deployed parachute…like a faint halo, at high altitude. I saw truck lights and pulled one riser steeply towards it.

Normally, you take a good look below you, check the direction of your drift, and then look straight across from you. When we see the tree tops, you are about to make contact.  A night jump affords no information on: obstacles to avoid, the lateral direction you must counteract, nor the moment of  contact. I had the hardest time keeping my legs from straightening, paratroopers must  stay loose for contact. A straight leg…is a broken leg.

I landed in several inches of water, sliding in for a home run, at the edge of the field. Doc Lovy, on the opposite side of the plane, landed in deeper water. The plane had approached side-to-side, instead of dropping us on the full length of the field. I had pulled toward the headlights, barely making the edge of the drop zone. From then on, it was routine…that is…after they pulled a few men out of the trees.

“Ours is but to do or die.” However, I never accepted any favors from noncommissioned officers after that. When I asked Doc Lovy about that jump, he just shook his head and said, “Pilot  error! That has to be about the worst thing I ever heard him say about anybody. It still gives me a shiver to think about it.

Final War Games

What separates war games from general maneuvers is that two distinct  military units are pitted against each other. You gain a deeper sense of your own unit’s strengths and weaknesses through competing with opposing forces. Sometimes there are embarrassing blunders.

We entered the forest rather late. We were told not to set up camp, but to eat our evening rations quickly… no fires. Now c-rations are packed in grease. Cold C’s is an acquired taste.

We had experienced a sporadic rain throughout the day. It didn’t look good for sleeping dry. It was then that we were told to assemble…we were heading out. The infantry was home now. I made my way with the second squad; we fell into columns for a forced march. As usual, I didn’t know where I was or where I was going. (Medics are headquarters support personnel embedded in the line as needed.) I did know that I would go with this platoon to hell and back. We were moving out as a full company, each platoon had their own medic.

I joined the army at about 95 pounds. After flunking the first physical, I ran into my family doctor. He served as a civilian consultant for the Army at my medical training base, Ft. Sam Houston. Dr. Briggs advised me to eat all the bananas I could hold, prior to being scaled for the next weight requirement. Well, it worked long enough for me to take the oath.

I literally and figuratively grew up in the Army, on a fast track. You take the oath…you are a soldier. What I lacked in body mass, I made up in heart. The extra year of training put on most of the 40 pounds of additional muscle, that I left the army with. The Airborne Way was a lifestyle that brought out your personal best. On my last combat proficiency test, I had maxed four of the five requirements. Training builds both strength and confidence. The battle is always first won or lost between the ears. The values learned in training served to give me a winning edge, on anything I tackled, throughout life.

Moving through the woods at night, with full packs and no trail will test your metal. The showers resumed to add the finishing touch. We were past being tired. I thought we just might set up camp soon…until we entered the swamp! I am thinking to myself, “where’s this going?’ It slowly began to dawn on me, we are ‘going’ to march all night! We were soon completely soaked up well past our knees. Wet socks do strange things to your feet, after a few miles.

At the earliest hint of dawn, I could sense a slight elevation. Orders were passed, man to man, “keep total silence!” The wet ground kept our movements basically quiet; we just had to keep our equipment from giving us away. There were about 100 soldiers in our unit. We all took position underneath the bank, that separated us from the solid high ground.

Peeking up over the berm, I saw our objective. We had marched completely around the enemy force and were going to hit them from behind. Nothing was protecting their rear. They were sound asleep in their comfy pup tents.

At the first ray of dawn, we jumped the berm like maniacs yelling, “Kill, kill, kill!” The officers threw a couple of smoke grenades for emphasis. Then a couple of tear gas canisters  were thrown into the mix of tents. The ‘enemy’ poured out of their sacks, in their underwear, with tears in their eyes. I could see no evidence of leadership; I couldn’t see any attempt of resistance. I looked at their unit patches, and I thanked God they weren’t airborne! It was a total rout.

Our whole unit was ecstatic, to the man. We were good for the rest of the day on shear adrenaline. We set up an early camp, but I couldn’t get that morning sight out of my mind. I would be going to war soon. I was thankful that I would be serving with one of the toughest units America could produce. I had just seen the results of anything less. I was glad that I hadn’t settled for less.

When one paratrooper says, “Airborne,” the only proper response is, “All the Way!” It was a code spoken…and also lived.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Malpractice

Medics may succumb to many perils: alcohol, weed or perhaps prescription drugs. We were a privileged lot, having a red cross embossed on our military identification cards. My own weakness was engaging in a bit of malpractice. We were not particularly trained in a formal ‘ethics’ class, so we were susceptible to some peril. Two examples encompassed my own experience.

PFC Jackson, a well liked member of headquarters company, approached me late one Thursday night. His popularity and challenge poised the perfect storm for an ethical dilemma. He came to me and said he wanted light duty for the weekend. Jackson asked, “Doc, could you wrap me up, so that no one would question why I needed light duty?”

Wrapped ace bandages are indeed works of art. Medics spend hours perfecting that ‘look.’ Our craft is studied and critiqued by fellow practitioners. Few can mimic the subtleties of our trade, from without the medical field. I only knew of one infantryman who could come close, and he learned by wrapping sports injuries in the gym.

I felt like I could wrap him so well, and provide the finishing touch of a great arm sling, so that no one would dare ask for his light duty papers. That’s exactly what I did! My one condition was voiced, “Jackson, report to me Sunday night!”

To this day, I am not sure what Jackson was pulling with the bandages and sling. I can tell you that he reported with all smiles on Sunday night. I immediately disposed of the evidence. Even I would not dare go beyond the one Friday duty day. We laughed and carried on, mission accomplished.

The second instance of malpractice was of the very highest profile and involved unusual complicity. This was probably my all time biggest caper. I was assigned weekend field duty with a company, being the lone ranger medic. The assignment gave me complete medical responsibility.

We drove deep into the field on deuce and a half trucks. All was well, as we fell out to engage the mission. A platoon sergeant approached me and said, “We have a problem, doc.” Now this Private First Class medic turned up his ears. Sarge says, “Weather report looks mighty bad.” I said, “Sergeant, the weather looks kind of normal to me.” Sarge says, “You had best discuss this with the First Sergeant!” I am thinking to myself, this conversation is going in a strange direction. What am I getting myself into?

Top Sergeant looked me square in the eyes, as we gathered in a huddle with the Platoon Sergeant. Top says, “I got something very important to do tonight. We’ve got to get to hell out of here. I need you to go to the Captain and scratch this mission for purposes of threat of frost bite.” Top completed his instructions with the customary, “Do I make myself perfectly clear soldier?” And I automatically replied, “Yes, First Sergeant!”

Anyone in military leadership knows that heat or cold injuries, to subordinates, are career busters. Prevention of unnecessary injury is paramount. In our day, weather was predicted in no uncertain terms; weathermen were right or wrong. Thinking for a minute, while struggling in this ethical dilemma, it was my sworn duty to convince the Captain that we were about to expose our unit to unnecessary and avoidable high risk.

Risk unspoken is often assumed safe. I dutifully approached  the Captain in my official capacity. I said, “Sir, we have  extremely high risk frostbite issues, with our weather report. It is my duty to inform you as your medical support.” The two Noncommissioned Officers appeared as I made my last statement. Put on notice, as all eyes looked upon him, Captain ordered, “Have the men return to the trucks. We are cancelling this mission due to an official threat of extreme weather conditions.”

We were about half way to the base when the sun broke loose on my face. It got so hot, I had to take off my field jacket. I hadn’t exactly told a lie, but I knew that I had been used as a scapegoat, by higher powers. By the time we returned to barracks, it was an unseasonably gorgeous  winter day.

My final duty, as scapegoat, was to disappear, as fast as possible. Now that the deed was done, no one wanted to see my face. I nodded to the Platoon Sergeant and went on my merry way. I realized then, that persuasion was an essential medical skill. I also had an unexpected grand weekend.

My highest regards to the Noncommissioned Officers, who actually run this man’s army.

Night Perils

Home was a given path about twice yearly. Often there was money for a bus. If I could get home, my Dad would regularly slip me a few bucks, ensuring that I returned to the unit on time. The Port Authority bus station grew all too familiar. Every route from the Northeast funneled through New York City.

Military police regularly patrolled the Port Authority. They occasionally checked my leave papers. MPs knew the uniform regulations, for all branches of service. I knew better than to put a fancy break in my cap, or anything drawing attention.

The military experienced a love-hate relationship with the public in the sixties. We didn’t have much in the way of stolen valor in my day. But I did see one obvious character, breaking up the monotony of the long wait. He wore major insignia and three stripes…sort of a creative sergeant-major. I asked myself, “Where’s an MP when you need one?” Glory-be, a pair of MPs showed up and immediately zoned into that situation! Usually they called in a backup of civilian police. My uniformed friend disappeared quickly.

There always seemed to be a layover in Port Authority, adding needless travel time. If you haven’t ridden a long distance Greyhound  in a while, the seats were designed to punish the wayward souls that must ride them. Muscles tense throughout your body. Stretching relieves the aches, and that is exactly what I wanted to do on my usual two hour delay.

I wore my class-As. The jacket provided sufficient warmth for a cooler night. Port Authority had a stuffy smell. I needed to stay awake for the next bus departure. I thought there were some restaurants nearby the door. So I ventured outside.

Darkness engulfed the bus station perimeter. My eyes adjusted. Nothing caught my eye, so I ventured forth. I walked about twenty paces when I though I heard something behind me. Listening, I could tell someone definitely walked behind me. Halfway from the safety of the door behind, and the street ahead, the pace behind me quickened.

I reached into my jacket. Heel…toe…180 degree swivel, in an about face, I directly stared at the man following me. He stopped on a dime, not being used to a military maneuver. It gave me the element of surprise I needed. With my hand remaining in my coat, I asked, “How can I help you?” I know enough about city life, to know everyone gives extra distance at night, unless they are up to no good.

He apologized for approaching too close. His demeanor seemed a bit too controlled, as he sized up the situation. If I wasn’t packing…I wasn’t backing. Being in uniform, it was a safe bet that I could and would shoot straight. He said, ” I am going to your right.” He moved slowly and deliberately, disappearing into the night.  I moved to the left, returning toward the door.

I slipped into the safety of the stuffy station….thinking that ‘most of the time we bring trouble upon ourselves.’ My foolishness deserved a robbery or beating. I took my clenched empty fist out of my uniform. He bought the ‘Make My Day.’ The mistakes we walk away from…become life lessons.

 

 

Christian Serviceman’s Center

In infantry lingo…we all have to carry our own rucksack. The Christian Servicemen’s Center in Clarksville TN brought something priceless to my war years, hope against hopelessness. Any vet can tell you that things do not always add up. My short life at the center prepared me for the abyss called Vietnam.

I affectionately call my early family background…heathen. We all wore our brand of faith on our dog tags; mine was marked Protestant. However, we were what is referred to as an unchurched family. My Dad’s tags were Protestant. Most of my military experience was an attempt to emulate my father, but I was cut from a different cloth. I had to find my  own way to carry the rucksack.

Harold Witmer directed the center. He had a keen entrepreneurial spirit. He could raise funds and gain community support in a town in a love-hate relationship with the military. In reflection, Harold was a leader. His voice and life exampled strength and clarity.

Glen Davis served quietly as residential director and was the heart of the center. I never met a man more genuine than Glen. In a few short months he became my spiritual father. I have strong suspicions many more soldiers could say the same. His wife Jeanie was in the background of most center activities. Soldiers could be crude and hard to love. Her gentility shown in stark contrast to our normative behavior. On occasion, I would catch glimpses of their beautiful relationship…hoping one day I might find the same.

The center was designed to confront soldiers with Christianity, particularly to the Person of Christ. I bought it… hook, line, and sinker. One of the least vocal members of the team quietly led me through verses of a familiar book. He shared the military version of the Gideon Bible, that book I always wore in the left hand pocket on every jump. I sensed another Presence as he talked. Some can’t wrap their minds around that, but it helped me carry the rucksack. The Center was my piece of heaven; Vietnam became my hell. Both influence me…in all the days of my life.

The crown jewel of the center’s history was a man named David Hicks. As a young man, he also struggled. He spent time with none other that Glen Davis. David took a leave of absence and went to seminary. David Hicks returned to serve as a military chaplain and later became Gen. Hicks, Chief of Army Chaplains.

The Center has long since been torn down. It’s influence remains. This Christmas season, as many of my extended family celebrate, they have no clue of their indebtedness to a quiet man named Glen Davis. I took the message home for my first Christmas, as  a Christ follower. When I returned from Vietnam, the message had a life of its own, throughout my family.

The Message made me a more compassionate medic. It gave me the courage to make house calls under enemy fire. Faith and medicine have remained twins for me all these years. Whatever good I have done, has been as a wounded healer. For the past few years there has been a lovely niche for me called hospital chaplain. In that sense…the Center and its work quietly lives on.

 

Don’t Wear Your Patch in Little Rock

The 101st Airborne Division has always been a first serve/ first strike unit. The division remains at a high state of readiness. It also has a unique skill set for rapid deployment. Sometimes these features have been called upon within our own borders.

The 101st Division was sent to Little Rock Arkansas in September of 1957, to maintain the federal segregation initiatives at Little Rock Central High School. Ten years later, I was told to never travel through Little Rock in uniform. The patch was still not welcome in Little Rock; the patch was infamously remembered a decade later.

Trouble broke out in the Hough community, of Cleveland Ohio,  in July 1966. The 101st was called again at this turbulent time. My unit was put on full alert. The planes began flying to Cleveland. I was assigned to the next plane out.  Anticipating riot duty, we were disappointed when informed that sufficient troops were already on the ground. We were placed on standby. I never pulled riot duty. The deployed returned saying it was easy duty. The riot was quickly forgotten.

I went home on leave. Returning through New York, I was having trouble hitching a ride. Finally, a gentleman stopped to say he could get me to central Ohio. Well, that was the worst stretch and good news to me! It was obligatory to provide small talk to drivers for the ride. I soon learned that he was involved in the Cleveland riot.

My driver was a good ole boy. His ride didn’t look like much, but it was sure getting me down the road fast. He said, “I debated about picking you up, being annoyed with anything military right now. But, I was bored and needed somebody to keep me awake.”

Needing this ride real bad, I slowly began to utilize my best diplomatic skills. I encouraged him to tell me of his plight. He said he was running a full load of contraband whiskey, Cleveland  was under marshal law. He was stopped at a road check just shy of his destination. The military (probably national guard) confiscated his booze!

I cautiously asked him, “How did you get out of jail so quickly?” He grinned and said they emptied the car and told him to get lost. I kind of  chuckled and remarked, “They wanted to drink that liquor. They couldn’t turn you in and keep the booze!”

My good ole boy and I laughed for a bit. That was the closest I ever got to riot duty. Those that wait, also serve.

 

Land Between the Lakes

Fort Campbell maintains a large land mass for military maneuvers. However, the army has access to other areas for unique training experiences. The news that we would be convoying to the Land Between the Lakes National Recreation Area gave us all a bit inspiration.

We spent about five hard days in the field. Things were pretty typical for training purposes. The exception was the fact that we occasionally ran into civilians. Somehow those that dawn uniforms often become problematic, to the rest of the world.

The first culture clash happened when we took some high ground.  Of course we needed an M-60 machinegun crew to cover the access road. Within five minutes this hill was fully secured. However, tourist cars started driving up the road. Sitting on the knoll, I watched the faces of drivers, brought to the stark reality of a machinegun barrel aimed directly at them.

Some cars did a quick serve. They all tended toward knee jerk braking. This was an accident waiting to happen. But it was the panicked facial expressions that etched into my mind forever. Somehow, tourism and military exercises didn’t mix.

I think things came to a head when a station wagon ascended the hill. Two children were hanging onto the front seat (in the days before seatbelt laws) excitedly pointing toward us. I could read their lips through the windshield, “Mommy, Daddy, look!” I know they thought the children saw a rabbit or deer. Mom and dad did not expect to run into combat units on their family vacation.

Our officers quickly assessed that we were creating tourist havoc. We shifted away from the main roads, into less populated park areas. It was nice to see that we could make such a great first impression on our tax paying public. However, the park rangers probably heard an entirely different story.

I don’t know if you have ever smelled a man who has worked up a sweat for five days, without a shower. It’s best if everyone smells the same. The strategy is that everybody takes a shower…or nobody takes a shower. There is no practical middle ground.

Once we had achieved our military mission, whatever that was, we convoyed home.  Our line of trucks began to pass by a diner. We were going at a typical convey snails pace. It was slow torture to pass that country diner, and that promising civilian food. Just as I was beginning to lose all hope, our enterprising officer stopped the convoy. My truck was actually closest to our objective.

Getting the go ahead for a quick break, I was one of the first inside the diner. There had to be twenty or so customers. I suspect they were dining regulars. Once they smelled us, they began to bail en mass exodus. Management gave us killer stares. Yet, we had more customers than a tourist bus! The regulars would tell their story of inconvenience tomorrow. Today was our day.

Our orders were simple. “Cheeseburgers all the way, Pepsi  and fries” was the battle cry. Ketchup and mustard were gourmet by our standards; slices of lettuce took us to food heaven! We inhaled our chow and left. I don’t know if any of the other conveys stopped. I do know that if anyone else stopped that day, there wasn’t a burger to be had in that place…nor anything else edible!

We might have stunk to high heavens. But, we brought cash. Everyone said please and thank you. Our group was entirely courteous and thankful for a surprise break. Eating something besides typical c-rations was a nice end to unusual maneuvers.

Thinking back, it was good to run into a few civilians. I am sure that we inconvenienced their lives. However, they needed to see that soldiers sweat and maintain hard training to be our best. For them it was a walk in the park. For us…it was business.

Special thanks to that command officer for allowing the stop!

 

 

Geronimo Wine

Dedicated to one of the toughest medics I know, Christopher Smith…a real Brother.

The 2/501st Parachute Infantry had a completely different feel from the 1/321st Airborne Artillery. We NEVER walked down the center aisle of our barracks in the 321st. Artillery tended to be spit and polish. The infantry seemed a bit more relaxed. We also had a full medical platoon in the 501st, attached to headquarters company.

Christopher Smith took me under his wing. He was about two years older. They called him DZ (drop zone) because his face was slightly flat. He was a light skinned black man, and would be easily mistaken as white, especially around his younger brother (me). He had the longest legs. You had to run to keep up with him in the field. DZ was a natural in an infantry unit. He would later serve in long range recon units in Vietnam.

DZ introduced me to wine, women, and song. The music was Motown, which I still like to this day. It was more talk of women, cause we were lucky to see them from afar. But it was the wine that added the most flair to our experiences.

Orange Rock wine could be described as rot gut. Orange Rock held two important qualities, that were sadly needed. First, it was cheap. I made slightly over five thousand dollars in three years. This included jump pay, combat pay, and achieving an E5 pay grade toward the end of my enlistment. Cheap was good. Second, the wine tasted really, really bad. Guys would pop into the barracks, and of course want a share of our treasure. But, when they saw the label it was almost always, “No thanks!” Those that tried, would wrinkle their faces in pure disgust. DZ and I would chuckle, taking another sip.

One of my earliest recollections was the night DZ grew strangely tired and fell asleep. Think he had one small snort from the bottle. He had passed it to me and I gave it an obligatory wipe. (We were close, but not that close.) Anyway, I took my turn and was passing it back, when I saw that he was fast asleep.

That Orange Rock was powerful strong tasting, but I commenced to take my share of the Rock. Completing my share, I took a bit of DZ’s share. Next thing I knew, it would be insulting to leave the remainder for my friend. I slipped the empty under his bunk. He was either going to beat me, or be proud.

Well, Smith woke the next morning fit to kill.  He roared, “Who da blankity blank stole our wine!” I kind of grinned and said, “Nobody.” DZ went all over that barracks, telling the crew that I drank a whole bottle of wine. I can tell you, that he never dozed off again.

On our downside, we were noted as trouble together. Even the brass knew who to call, if they needed lug nuts and other jeep supplies for inspection. DZ always said, “If you’re going to do wrong: do it in broad daylight, have lots of witnesses, and act like you are supposed to be doing it!” We had a good time, but most of the details will stay with me. I can tell you that I was first shot at, well before Vietnam.  There are two recollections that I can share…

We went on leave broke for Christmas. Of course they asked us if we had money, when issuing the leave papers. We replied…yes. We hitched rides  from the base to Ohio, where we would split to go our separate ways. DZ had enough for a hamburger and fries with water. We shared the one meal to get us home. We were in uniform, cause rides were much easier to get that way. The waitress informed us that a lady would pick up our tab. So, we ordered a second hamburger! DZ gave me two dollars for drinks, for the way home to Maine. We were brothers who split down the middle.

The other memory was a huge divisional IG inspection of quarters. Everyone spent about two weeks preparing. DZ and I had stuff to do. The day before the inspection, we ‘found’ some spray paint to paint our lockers and put diagrams on the inside of the doors, detailing the contents of our lockers. From the outside, our lockers stood out! If you bothered to move anything in the locker, we were going to jail! The quarters inspection took place while we were about our assigned duties. The guys were really miffed, cause we were the only two men in the barracks without a gig. They had another inspection for corrections. DZ and I were exempt and about our business.

Have since lost track of Christopher Smith. I looked him up in Vietnam, during a rare divisional stand down. I saw him briefly stateside upon return. I can tell you that characters tend to make the best combat soldiers…that being said, DZ was the best.

Strong salute, my Brother!

 

 

 

Unintended Consequences

Dedicated to Dr. Andrew Lovy, Battalion Surgeon 3/506th PIR. He is the greatest leader I have ever served under, in my entire lifetime.

Infantry units are assigned battalion surgeons. I first briefly met Dr. Lovy in the 2/501st. He introduced himself to the medical platoon and then carried on duties that did not typically involve line medics. However, I would soon see him in under very unexpected circumstances.

It was a particularly cold morning, as we packed into the back end of the field ambulance. We were assigned as medical coverage for the morning airborne drop. My mind relaxed as the rest piled in. The more the merrier on a cold day. The body heat and hot air from the chatter eased up the frostbite.

This morning brought on more than the typical grumble. What I heard was a stir of mutiny! The Sarge assigned a new guy to drive the jeep. Us old hands had to walk! Since I was low man on the totem pole…I always walked anyways. So, the conspiracy developed. If he is going to drive…then he best know how to get to the drop zone!

This is the point where two facts must be clearly stated. First, I do not know the statue of limitations on issues derived on this account. Secondly, I am well known to forget key facts, with regards to legal testimony, especially after 45 years. If these two facts do not hold water, I was looking for three hots and a cot when I joined the army. I am sure they could take good care of me in my old age.

Our new driver took us past the post exchange, the hospital, the residential area, the library and a few more scenic spots. Occasionally, one of our finest would offer  right or left-handed advice to provide cursory assistance. The sun was coming up in its full glory, when the general consensus was to strive toward more accurate guesses. Quickly, we began the trek toward the general direction of the drop zone.

Within a quarter of mile, two pristine C-141 jets flew by, filled with paratroopers. We hoped against hope, that they would circle round for one more pass. We approached the edge of the field. The jump had been cancelled…due to lack of ground medical coverage. Oh man! We didn’t know, the division commander was first man in the door!

It was a somber ride back to the barracks. The ad hoc committee, in the rear of the field ambulance, held an emergency meeting. Did anyone in this jeep know how to get to the most prominent drop zone on the base? There could only be one answer. May God have mercy on our souls.

Arriving at the barracks, we all engaged in the busiest activity we could find. The medical sergeant sought us out and dutifully asked, “did anybody know?” Lame ignorance abounded. Not much was said thereafter. It appeared that this might blow over; appearance has fooled many a man.

My second look at Dr. Lovy was in a stairwell of the barracks. He came to specifically address members of the ad hoc committee. It was during that meeting that I saw Dr. Andrew Lovy, the man.

With the natural authority of a born leader, he insisted that we keep dead silent until he left our presence. Dr. Lovy is a principled man, who abhors anything less than truth. He knew we had lied by omission or commission. One more lie would not be tolerated! You could hear a pin drop, but for the pounding hearts within our chests.

Dr. Lovy had spent the last two days visiting command offices, from lowest to highest on the base. The problem with military leadership, is that it is your fault, if anyone fails within your command. Dr. Lovy had taken it on the chin for us…this time.

It is possible, as my memory is getting vague, that we were threatened with immortality, if Dr. Lovy was ever put in that spot again. Of serious note, I had just let down an incredibly fair officer. I had no idea how a goof off decision could affect such a man. I am not saying I was perfect thereafter, but I would push against any sign of groupthink, going the wrong direction.

Months later, I was the only medic from the 2/501st re-assigned to the new 3/506th. I asked, “who is the battalion surgeon?” The answer came back, “Dr. Lovy.” I can still remember when Dr. Lovy took me aside. He quietly said, “Thompson, we are going to war together. I know you are a good medic. You have a clean slate. Make me proud.”

Who else would you want to go to war with? Who else would you follow…at a moments notice…any time…any where?

Currahee Dr. Lovy!

 

What’s In The Bag Doc?

Dedicated to those who uphold the highest mission…to preserve the fighting strength. Dedicated to the medics of every generation who carried the bag.

What’s in the bag doc? The real answer is…it depends. This picture is a vintage bag from before my time, but a great starting visual. When we covered airborne drops, I carried extras for sprains and breaks. Going to the field, we kept a wide range of items. In combat, it was all we could carry, with a full range specifically suggested by our battalion surgeon.

A medic without his bag is absolutely useless. I would particularly discourage the inquisitive. Nobody messed with my bag. Nobody. If  a fellow medic wanted something…they better ask first. A medical NCO would always get you started, but you needed to know you bag.

I checked my bag frequently. We needed to reach in quick, daylight  or dark. It had to be right there…in its place. Always. There was no excuse possible when you really needed it. The bag was either on me or no more than arm’s length.

Our ‘patients’ were typically 18 to 22 year old healthy individuals, who ate a balanced diet, and regularly exercised. What an ideal population! But, they can run a fever, become infected, be stung by some unknown pest, break loose with a bad rash, cut themselves, and a host of other conditions.

A good medic learned their men as quickly as possible. They promoted healthy strategies, and always emphasized good foot care. Preventative strategies were best. Great squad leaders kept good visuals of their men to enforce common sense self-care.

A good medic listened with both ears and eyes for anything unusual. Field maneuvers were filthy by definition. The simplest infection could get nasty quickly. Everybody liked to gripe in the field. There were days when we all wanted a quick ride, in the field ambulance, toward a warm bed. A good medic could hear the difference.

We never had a ‘sugar pill’, but sometimes we went after what is called the placebo effect. After checking thoroughly, asking questions and things didn’t add up…I would reach for the horse pill and begin my spiel. We didn’t get this through official training,  it was that ‘conversation’ between medics. Army life gets to everyone occasionally. I’ll be darned if it didn’t work quite regularly, with a cure the next morning! The medical field argues about the ethics of the technique. We had the luxury of sleeping near our ‘patients.’ More than once, I asked to awakened, on the hour every hour, to check how things were going with a troop.

The best medic has a healthy respect of drugs. Winters were cold at Ft. Campbell. I carried two bottles of the army’s cure for the common cold, terpin hydrate with codeine elixir. One bottle of terp was for the troops; one bottle of terp was for me!

Settled deeply into my sleeping bag, with a couple of extra sips to cure my cough. The snow was fairly shallow, but the wind kicked up some drifts. Eased from my pain, I heard the faint spin of some jeep tires, off into the distance. My hope was in the morning light. The sun eventually glared brightly, stimulating me to full alert.

Things always look better in the morning. The cold is so much easier to bear with movement. However, I noticed some deep tires tracks about 12 inches from the indent, made by my head. From that day forward, I carried one bottle of terpin hydrate elixir with codeine… for the troops. It made for more room in the bag!

Nobody liked a sense of adventure better than I. There were times I relished the mischievous. But when it came down to the bag and the mission…it was all business. It was a very rare medic that felt otherwise. We had a passion for airborne; we had a passion to preserve the fighting strength. We cared.