Through the Eyes of a Tiger: An Army Flight Surgeon’S Vietnam Journal

Through the Eyes of a Tiger

An Army Flight Surgeon’s Vietnam Journal

Copyright © 2009, 2014 Jay Hoyland.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-3305-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-3307-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-3306-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009925370

iUniverse rev. date: 08/25/2014

Contents

Preface

Doc Hoyland’s Vietnam Journal

Afterword

Glossary

Endnotes

References

Also by Jay Hoyland

The Palace of Versailles: A Novel

In memory of those men of courage I knew—and those to me unknown—who did not come home from Vietnam

DRY SEASON SOC TRANG

Incessant hot winds desiccate the dry Delta of my mind.

Wind-tossed shards of shattered memories

Bite, burn, blast, scour away layers of veneer.

Unbidden images—now unleashed—form and reform on the surface

Of the mighty Mekong, distorting watery riffles which

Reflect back bright sun and ink-black shadows.

Unimpeded thoughts race across the timeless river,

Force through dense tree lines, over canals, along dikes,

And spill into ancient rice fields yellow-brown.

Dust-devil eddies claw wildly at the parched crust of earth,

Scorched by long days of relentless sun,

Fractured open with cracks and fissures as deep as the soul.

Stripped raw from the protection time offered,

Bleeding memories erode to expose nerve endings

Desperately longing for the monsoon.

Jay Hoyland

THE UNIT … to which an officer is assigned consists of a closely knit group around which are entwined official duties and athletic, social, and cultural activities for the benefit of all … An officer should be a good military citizen, sharing with other good citizens responsibility for the unofficial life and activities of the garrison.

The Officer’s Guide

22nd Edition, January 1956

Page 225

Preface

There are as many reasons for war stories as there are soldiers. Memories from a combat zone are enduring presences—peripheral ghosts not to be believed, yet remembered because they are real—some terrifying, some among the best life offers—worthy friendships.

Memories—points of view—are ultimately determined by military duty assignment and training. This journal is an attempt to describe my experience as a young doctor in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. Rapidly trained to be a reasonably confident army flight surgeon, I was an uncertain soldier during the early years of the United States’ involvement in the Vietnam War.

From late 1962 to 1963, I was assigned as the medical officer in charge of the 134th Medical Detachment. We provided medical support to the Ninety-Third Helicopter Company—located in the Mekong Delta and widely known as the Soc Trang Tigers. This would prove to be a pivotal year for Vietnam, the United States, and me.

Only now, more than four decades later, am I learning about the broader picture. It has taken me these many years to want to read the history or to organize my thoughts. Much is forgotten in forty years, but entries in my sporadically kept diary, as well as letters preserved by my family, helped prompt recall.

To place events in context, I primarily used five books: The Best and Brightest by Pulitzer Prize winner David Halberstam; A Bright Shining Lie by Neil Sheehan, for which he won both the Pulitzer Prize and the National Book Award; Vietnam Diary, the George Polk Award winner by Richard Tregaskis, author of the widely admired World War II Guadalcanal Diary; and Vietnam: A History by Stanley Karnow, a companion to the PBS Television series. This historical information is in bold print and can be either read or ignored. References are attributed in the endnotes. Military terms and acronyms are unavoidable; a glossary is provided to help sort these out.

Be aware that I write with a pen name. To respect privacy, I changed the names of most of the people involved. I have combined the personalities of many colleagues, officers, and men—including seventy helicopter pilots—into only a few characters. Conversations and some personal situations are embellished reconstructions in an attempt to make the narrative coherent and readable. These liberties, in the spirit of my story, make it no less true.

I am proud to be a Soc Trang Tiger. Once a Tiger, always a Tiger.

Jay Hoyland

Laguna Beach, California

Doc Hoyland’s

Vietnam Journal

LAGUNA BEACH, CALIFORNIA

JULY 26, 2001

This perfect summer day would be a turning point in my life. At noon, I walked up our steep hillside driveway to see if the postman had left any mail. At the top, a little winded, I looked out at the ocean. In the distance, a cloudless blue sky turned the depths azure; the sun shimmered silver-gold on the surface. I opened the mailbox and found the usual mix: junk mail; bills; unwanted credit card offers; an Automobile Club magazine; a welcome two-weeks-late copy of The Versailles Leader-Statesman, my local Missouri hometown weekly paper to which I still subscribed; and on the bottom, a plain white business envelope with my name and address precisely printed by hand in blue ink.

I looked at the return and saw only the last name McCloud, a street address, and a city I had never heard of with the postmark: Fresno, California, July 23, 2001. Intrigued, I opened this letter first.

Dear Sir,

I am trying to locate a flight surgeon with the 93rd Transportation Company, Soc Trang Vietnam (1962–1963). And if you are our unit doctor, I would like to contact you further for I need help with Veterans Administration.

Sincerely,

Thomas (Mac) McCloud

Below the name was a telephone number and e-mail address.

I sent an e-mail to let him know he had indeed found the right person and asked what I could do to help. I also asked how he tracked me down after all these years.

He e-mailed back.

Hi Doc,

I found u by luck … seems my records are incomplete and they say that I was never a door gunner and the only proof I had was from a book Vietnam Diary … was thinking you might enlighten them as to the type of flights we did do, for I was the gunner the night we went and picked up the small boy with arm missing … maybe (you remember) the time u pulled me into your clinic and weighed me, only 114 pounds and over 6 feet … you told me if I didn’t put on weight, you would get an IV and put 10 lbs. on me.

He indicated he got my address from someone in a veterans’ chat room online, and he admitted he had attempted to forget about our time in Soc Trang, that he had never asked for help until August 1996 when the company he worked for medically retired him. He added he wouldn’t even talk with the doctors for years, although he thought, now, maybe he should have.

I responded and asked him to get back to me if there was anything I could do to help. I wrote that I, too, had talked little about my Vietnam experience.

When I opened Mac’s letter on that fine July day in Laguna Beach, something inside me opened as well. Some memories, suppressed for years, pushed their way into consciousness.

I had not spent a lot of time thinking about my experiences in Vietnam forty years before. I had not talked much about it to anyone; like Mac, maybe I should have. But why? What difference would it make to me or anyone else? Quite an admission coming from a psychiatrist in practice for more than thirty years. Maybe it happened because I had all this free time when I retired in July 2000.

After my return from Vietnam, I never attended any war movies or plays, no matter how well-reviewed. I never read any books about the Vietnam War, although friends suggested titles and gave me several volumes, which I promptly put on a shelf in my library. I avoided the Pentagon Papers and never talked to anyone who took the time to read them. I never marched in our town’s Patriot’s Day parade. Friends knew—or did not know—I had been in the Army Medical Corps in the very early years of the Vietnam conflict, but no one, thankfully, pushed me for my opinion. That was good; I had nothing to say.

After Mac’s letter arrived, I took out of the storeroom my two boxes packed with memorabilia. Inside, I found musty old papers, orders, unit patches, ribbons, and many photographs. I also found and re-read my old copy of Vietnam Diary, remembering fondly Richard Tregaskis, the author, and the time he spent with us in Soc Trang. His book, published in 1963, proved to be a valuable chronicle of the early years of the war. I looked for Mac’s name; sure enough—just as he wrote me—there in black and white, proof he was a gunner.

I studied my passport photo. Could I ever have been so young? I looked thoughtful but detached, as if I was perhaps somewhat removed and knew this was my ticket for military duty in a far-off country about which I knew so little. A place, at that point in time, few in the United States had even heard of. It was a conflict not yet considered a real war.

I decided to read the books collecting dust. These contained surprising answers to some of the questions I had for forty years about what was really going on back then. Buried in one box, I found my old diary. When I now opened it and read, I felt the need to write my story.

FT SAM HOUSTON, TX

MON

27 AUG 62

Hey, Doc Hoyland. Wait up.

I recognized the familiar voice of Scott, my friend from internship, and turned around. It was impossible to pick him out of the crowd of 126 commissioned officers dressed identically in new khaki uniforms. Young civilian medical doctors only moments before, all of us now transformed—literally in an instant by swearing to uphold an oath—into active-duty captains and medical officers in the U.S. Army Reserve.

Filing out from the brief ceremony, we walked as a group toward the huge, grassy Fort Sam Houston parade grounds to stand our first official military inspection. On my right collar and the left side of my olive-drab garrison cap, I wore shiny silver captains’ bars. Pinned on the left collar was the brass caduceus—two snakes wrapped around a winged staff—signifying the U.S. Army Medical Corps.

Scott caught up, a little out of breath. Looking good, Captain Hoyland.

Likewise, Captain Mitchell, I said.

We’re in for it now! Scott’s eyes squinted in the Texas sun and heat, bright and humid in contrast to the cool, dark auditorium.

I remembered hearing him say those words—those exact words—six months before.

Scott Mitchell, MD and I were good friends and had been since we met on July 1, 1961—the date we started our internships at Harbor General Hospital in Torrance, California. Just out of medical school, we were both eager and excited to begin our general medical internships, the final year of training required to qualify for long-sought licenses to practice medicine.

From Syracuse, New York, he was about my height, a little under six feet, but more muscular and athletic than I ever could be. He had dark hair, olive skin, and bright, inquisitive brown eyes. The cleft in his chin, he told me, was his best feature and made him irresistible to airline stewardesses. Later, I learned this to be true.

We worked hard! All of us in our intern class suffered sleep deprivation and exhaustion from too-long days and nights delivering babies on the active OB service; dealing with trauma at all hours in the busy ER; standing up overnight to assist in lengthy emergency surgeries; innumerable ward duties; and writing with a ballpoint on paper or dictating into a Dictaphone lengthy records to document everything. Time literally passed in a blur, but it exhilarated us to finally practice medicine.

Scott and I were both twenty-six, but he was a few months my senior. The future of the world lay ahead of us. Admittedly, I would always be surprised when one of the patients I attended said something like, Are you sure you’re a doctor? You don’t look as old as my son, or grandson, or some other youth.

I pointed to the MD behind Jay Hoyland on my official hospital work badge, feeling more than a little cocky. No longer a medical student, I had graduated from medical school, passed my state license boards, felt confident in my skills, and was moving on with my life as a real doctor.

After six rewarding and exciting months of training: disastrous news.

While eating a quick lunch in the noisy hospital cafeteria, Harold Baxter, an intern from Louisiana, put his tray down and joined our crowded table. Tall and slender with straight brown hair that fell down on his forehead, he usually was a fun companion and had a great sense of humor. Like most Southerners, he embellished on experiences for hilarious effect. Today, he looked glum.

Well, y’all, it’s official, he said. Congress has done it! They passed the Doctors’ Draft. He sat down heavily and slumped in his chair. Interns will be called up first, he continued in his slow drawl, right away.

We’re in for it now, Scott said and exhaled noisily.

Although it was not unexpected, we felt stunned at the news. All of us vaguely knew the Vietnam problem was escalating, but with demanding schedules, consuming workloads, and only brief snatches of a social life, we had neither time nor energy to pay much attention to current events.

Max Schmitt sat across the table. Now what? From Galen Springs, Kansas, his heart was firmly set on going into family medicine back home. With his dry sense of humor, something had to be funny to make him laugh. No laughing today. We’re screwed, he said.

Totally screwed, Scott echoed.

Harold looked up. We’ve got to go with The Berry Plan. Right away. He added, as he often did for emphasis, You hear?

Why? Scott and I asked almost simultaneously.

To get deferred.

Deferred? A teddy bear kind of guy, Max loved gadgets: sports cars, cameras, tape recorders. He had short brown hair and brown eyes that closed when he laughed. Right now, his eyes were wide open.

If we join The Berry Plan, the Army lets us finish our internships. Rather than leaving right away, we can stay here at Harbor, finish the end of June as planned, and then start active duty in July or whenever. That’s what I’m doing. For sure.

Max shook his head in disappointment. So much for going back home to start practice.

I stared at my half-finished tuna on rye, my mind reeling. This isn’t what we signed up for.

Harold nodded. Yep. They just changed the rules of the game, moved the goal posts two years farther down the field. It won’t be too hard on you single guys, but Barbara and I are getting married in July.

You’ll have to cut the honeymoon short. Scott rolled his eyes. I’m glad I’m not the one who’s got to tell her.

That night, lying in the dark on my cot in the bleak interns’ quarters, I thought about my life. I stared at the bare ceiling and bulb hanging from a cord above my bunk. First, I thought of my parents, who had provided unconditional emotional and financial support. It had taken many years of education and training and sacrifice to get this far. Now, with my goal almost in reach, this unexpected two-year delay. They would share my disappointment.

I thought of my family’s army service when our country fought wars. My great-grandfather, whose name I shared, served in the Sixth Kentucky Volunteer Infantry U.S.—the boys who feared no noise—during the entire Civil War. My father had a horse shot out from under him while a cavalry officer in France during World War I. After Pearl Harbor, he tried to get back in but was turned down; at fifty, he was over the age limit. My brothers, both older, served on active duty: Russell, a bombardier in the Army Air Corps, flew in the European Theater throughout World War II; Robert, an artillery officer, served during the Korean War. My only sister, Marilyn, served as a physical therapist in the Women’s Army Corps during World War II.

I remembered when I was six years old, our family visited my older brother at Camp Robinson, Arkansas, where he was stationed for training. While a sophomore in college, he was in the national guard and called up for active duty immediately after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. He told us of recruits who did not follow the rules and got sick from food poisoning. They didn’t take the time to wash and sanitize their mess kits properly. He told us of some slackers who, to avoid duty, would put soap up their rectums and go to sick call with a fever. I remember thinking this seemed disgusting, but a good tip if I ever needed to avoid school one day.

Tomorrow would be busy; every day at Harbor General Hospital was. I’d need my energy. I made an effort to go to sleep and finally drifted off.

The next morning, things were clear. I would get deferred to finish my internship; the rest would take care of itself.

At breakfast, our somber table—Harold, Max, Scott, and I—all agreed; we were going with The Berry Plan.

President Kennedy and Congress are making damn decisions about us, and we don’t even know about it, Max said, mostly to himself.

Yeah, I said, Washington, DC or Honolulu or Saigon—someone sitting somewhere right now is determining the next two years of our lives. I thought to myself: right this moment, while I eat these scrambled eggs, which don’t seem as tasty as usual, some military officer is probably planning for us all.

Scott finished a last sip of coffee and stood up. I’m due in the ER. Have a good day, soldiers.

We resumed our routine duties. The future would have to wait.

In May, we received orders to report to Fort MacArthur in San Pedro to start the paperwork process, get pre-induction physicals in Los Angeles, and prepare to report for active duty in August after we officially completed our Harbor Hospital internships on June 30, 1962.

The pre-induction paperwork at Fort MacArthur was non-demanding, but it set off the official process; the army almost had me now. After I completed filling out all the forms, I took some time to look out from this historic fort located high above the harbor. The vista was breathtaking with blue-gray ocean, wispy clouds, and massive harbor traffic. Ships from everywhere moved back and forth; this old fort faithfully guarded the entrance as it had since 1888. A bronze bas-relief plaque informed me that the fort was named after Lt. Gen. Arthur MacArthur, father of Douglas MacArthur. This famous family had certainly contributed through the years with their commitment to the U.S. military.

My next appointment, a week later, took me to the immense Los Angeles examining center. Several hundred of us, none of whom I had fortunately ever seen before, reported to this huge space, which smelled like an overheated high school gym. All groups of mankind on earth seemed to be represented—every color, size, ethnicity, and shape. America was diverse with equal opportunity; this crowd proved it. The first thing we did was strip to our underwear and socks—mostly new or clean, I noticed, but not all. Everyone seemed subdued; there was little chit chat and no locker room humor here. We secured our clothing and belongings in wire baskets, guarded by bored army personnel, and moved on, papers in hand. We went from station to station in large groups to have our systems evaluated: eyes and ears, vision, nose, and throat; chest and lungs; arms and legs.

I coughed twice for a quick hernia check; I passed. Next, I joined a large circle of men; we all faced away from the doctor in the center. Upon request, we dropped our underwear, bent over, and simultaneously mooned the examiner. He came around the circle checking for hemorrhoids, fistulae, or any lesions which might interfere with active duty. I prayed I wouldn’t get stationed at an examining facility like this for my active duty assignment, and I couldn’t help but briefly think of my brother’s story of slackers and soap and sick call—camp myth or reality? I was still not sure.

So far, so good. I finished with a picket-fence profile—ones in every area. A one meant no defects. I proved fit to be inducted. Several in this large, motley group apparently were not. They were mixed about being declared unfit—some relieved, some surprised, some embarrassed, and some hiding tears of keen disappointment and distress. I put my clothes back on and quickly left this mass human-flesh inspection zone. The Los Angeles air smelled fresh and cool with only a hint of petrol.

Now—on this hot and humid late August day in Texas—Scott, Harold, and I were joining other young doctors from all over the United States at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. Max would not report until the next class. He elected to be deferred until October so he could help his dad with the wheat harvest in western Kansas.

Recruit medics in casual civilian clothes before, we now all had short hair and the standard look of the military—officially preparing for new and mostly unwanted careers in the armed forces.

As we headed toward the quadrangle for inspection, I watched Scott walking tall. His face tanned and dark brown hair cut short in a buzz, he was the epitome of an army officer, as comfortable in this military uniform as when I last saw him in June wearing hospital whites.

I didn’t feel as comfortable as he looked and hoped it didn’t show. We formed ranks on the field. I reviewed in my mind where the brass was supposed to be, and with a resigned sigh, felt sure I’d pinned my name tag and brass in the right places, sewed on my patches correctly, and given my shoes an acceptable shine. The U.S. Army was serious, and I wanted to get it right.

This basic medical course at the Medical Field Service School at Fort Sam Houston would prepare our group, in a matter of weeks, for active duty. We would study advanced emergency medical care, counterinsurgency training, military justice, communications, code of conduct, the Geneva Convention, and escape and evasion. We would learn about the political and social history of Vietnam as well as a survey of their basic language.

Later in our training, they would send us on a weekend field maneuver to Camp Bullis for battle indoctrination. After completion of the course in early October, we would be ready to provide medical care anywhere in the world the U.S. Army was deployed.

As we assembled, I looked around at historic Fort Sam’s handsome, sprawling red-brick buildings, tall trees, and mowed grass. I thought of all the classes which had preceded us, parading in front of the reviewing stand to the cadences of the marching band. This looked like any large college campus quadrangle. We were called to attention; my reverie evaporated as I stood straight and tall, chest out as far as it would go.

After passing inspection, we returned to quarters and resumed the student life. We sorted through newly issued books and manuals we would use to study for lecture classes, laboratories, dissections, and tests; none of these tasks would be new. Military customs, organization, ranks, saluting; all of these would be new. At first, we went out of our way to avoid senior officers and the uncomfortable expectation of salutes. The evasions took too much energy, so that tactic didn’t last long. With a little practice, I soon found a snappy salute a surprisingly pleasant greeting to both give and receive. I also grew to appreciate name tags and insignias. You knew immediately just who was who—a good idea.

We studied the organization of the armed forces and military history. We learned and practiced triage, advanced first aid, and how to deal with mass casualties that come from warfare, a disaster, or—heaven forbid—nuclear attack. From this training we also learned that medicine historically made more advances during wartime than during periods of peace. We practiced the grim task of proper registration of the dead: the use of toe tags, dog tags, and olive-drab body bags.

During a break, I found a quiet spot away from the others and sat on some cement steps, the hot Texas breeze offering slight cooling in the shade of the portico. I felt glad to be a medic. I wouldn’t have to shoot anyone with anything worse than a needle. I wouldn’t be shot at. I wondered if I would have the guts and courage to shoot another human being with a gun. I didn’t think so.

My thoughts wandered in the heat and my aloneness. Why did I choose to go to medical school? Why did I want to be a physician? I thought of my hometown family practitioners. Two brothers, they were devoted to the community; they were revered and deserved to be. Valuable citizens. I knew I wanted to be a valuable citizen, to help others, to relieve pain. My mother had rheumatic fever as a child and later suffered severe deformity and arthritic pain. I couldn’t help her. I wanted to. My family and community respected physicians; one of my dad’s uncles had been a physician. I knew I wanted to earn respect; deep down, I guess I wanted the power to work miracles, to be like the Great Physician. I shook my head at my own naiveté. But medical education, for whatever my motivation, had been exciting up to this point. I had learned much more than I could have thought possible. I felt ready. I wanted to get out there and get to work.

That evening, Scott and I and most of the others in our class were hanging out at the cave-like Rathskeller in the basement of one of the oldest buildings on the quad. It was dark and cool and welcoming. We drank beer, ate peanuts we peeled from shells, told bad jokes, laughed, and complained; together, we awaited fate to play its hand.

FT SAM HOUSTON, TX

THUR

30 AUG 62

Here they are, gentlemen. What you’ve been waiting for. Your next duty stations. The captain posted the long list.

Scott said, You first, Jay.

I read mine and couldn’t help but smile. I’m going to Ireland Army Hospital. That should be great. I’ve never been to Ireland.

Harold Baxter let out a whoop. Hey, y’all. I’m going to a hospital near Towson, Maryland. What luck. It’s close to Barbara’s folks in Washington, DC. Great assignment.

Scott cheered. It’s back to California for me. Fort Ord.

You lucked out. I couldn’t help but feel some envy.

Jay, have you ever been there? Harold asked. To Kentucky?

Kentucky?

Sure. Fort Knox. I’m pretty certain Ireland Army Hospital is there or Fort Campbell. Somewhere around there. You know that?

Oh. I hesitated. No. I’ve never been there. Could I really have thought there were U.S. Army troops stationed somewhere in northern Ireland? I hated to admit it even to myself, but I guess I had. Oh well, I’d never been to Fort Knox either.

At least Scott won’t need the dreaded exotic immunizations for yellow fever and dengue. Harold laughed. Doc Hoyland, on the other hand, I’m not so sure. You may require those for Kentucky.

FT SAM HOUSTON, TX

FRI

7 SEP 62

We reported to a lab that was so well-equipped, it looked like medical school. Loaded with examining tables for teams of six and all the equipment, we practiced intensive first-aid skills. I was glad I had experience in emergency room training at Harbor General, a very busy ER due to freeway and nearby industrial accidents. I had enjoyed the fast pace of emergency medicine so much that I took a second month for an elective. Today, our training focused on mass casualties.

Triage, during internship, meant sorting out the truly emergent and urgent from patients using the ER for routine care because they didn’t have a regular doctor or any insurance. Here, it meant honing skills to deal with mass casualties and backup systems. During the Korean conflict, medical evacuations were greatly expedited by designated medical helicopters. This innovation remarkably reduced mortality; wounded soldiers, stabilized on the battlefield, could be flown by med. evac. choppers to a surgery suite in a remarkably short time. The results were impressive.

After class, Frank McClaren and I were called to the personnel office. I hadn’t met Frank before. He had pale blue eyes, light freckles, and even though his sandy-colored hair was cut short, it still was curly. He told me he was from Kentucky, and his speech had a pleasant twang. His summer uniform, fresh in the morning, looked rumpled. Where are you headed? he asked as we walked to our appointment. For your next duty station?

Ireland Army Hospital.

Damn. I wonder if we could trade assignments? I’m married. I’d love it there—close to our folks.

How about you?

Fort Lewis, Washington.

Captain Hoyland; Captain McClaren. A young lieutenant handed us a large sheaf of orders. There are several copies here, as you may need them. But be sure and keep the originals.

What’s the deal? Frank said.

Your amended orders. Changes to your next duty assignments.

Now familiar with enough military jargon to read and mostly understand orders, I quickly saw that I was no longer going to Ireland but had been re-assigned