Practicing neurosurgery in a community west of
Boston came after studying and training in four
cities. The geographic cycle had come full circle,
born and raised in and outside of Boston,
undergraduate studies in Cambridge, medical school
in St. Louis, general surgical training in
Baltimore and neurosurgical residency in
Boston, work in Stockholm both as a medical
student and as a physician. The two most intense
years in my career came during service in the
United States Army in Asia during The
International Armed Conflict in South Vietnam.
The following is very much a work in progress as
I reflect on my life and the times during which I
practiced neurosurgery both as a civilian and as
an officer in the United States Armed Forces. This
text is a rough draft that will be often revised
until I am satisfied that the finished narrative
is the best I can produce. Many of the graphics
are heart-wrenching and horrible to behold, but
they are pictures of some of the best young men of
that generation.
The draft notice arrived in May of 1967, shortly
before my thirty-fourth birthday. I reported to an
army facility in South Boston for a physical
examination and was pronounced fit for service. I
was ordered to report to Fort Sam Houston in San
Antonio, Texas in August. The international armed
conflict in Vietnam was continuing with no clear
end in sight. Doctors were needed and the
draft provided them. The previous year 3,692 were
commissioned. The numbers would gradually decrease
as our nation disengaged from the conflict, 2,229
in 1967, 1,126 in 1968, 246 in 1969. The draft
ended in 1973.
Looking back decades later the figures of troops
in country and numbers killed illustrated our
presence through the years during our
nation's involvement:
SOURCE: Dept of
Defense Manpower Data Center
https://www.americanwarlibrary.com/vietnam/vwatl.htm
End of Year
U.S. Troops in South
Vietnam
Total Killed to Date
1959
760
-
1960
900
8
1961
3,205
24
1962
11,300
77
1963
16,300
195
1964
23,300
401
1965
184,300
2,265
1966
385,300
8,409
1967
485,600
19,562
1968
536,100
36,151
1969
475,200
47,765
1970
334,600
53,849
1971
156,800
56,205
1972
24,200
56,845
1973
50
57,011
The total number of U.S. military members killed
in The International Armed Conflict in Vietnam
from 1959 through 1975
was 58,169.
At the time of the dedication of The
Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall in 1982
only 57,939 names appeared.
The time span for inclusion on The Wall then
extended from November 1, 1955 to May 15, 1975.
As of May, 2018 there were 58,320 names on The
Wall.
In April, 1966 Secretary of Defense Robert
McNamara had proposed constructing a "fortified
barrier" south of the Demilitarized Zone (DMZ),
the line of demarcation between North and South
Vietnam, to interrupt supplies of men and material
from North Vietnam. It seemed like a good idea.
During the summer of 1966 forty-nine prominent
academics, including some of our nation's best
scientists, had gathered at Dana Hall, a private
girls school in Wellesley, Massachusetts and
produced the Jason study. The study concluded that
our current reliance on air power and the bombing
of North Vietnamese and Viet Cong sites were
having limited effect on the enemy's infiltration.
They finally endorsed McNamara's proposal for a
one hundred mile electronic fence that would
impede enemy advances from the north.
On September 7, 1967 at a press conference in
Washington, DC, Secretary McNamara announced plans
for building that electronic barrier. It would
extend from the South China Sea to the Laotian
border with roads and trails monitored by
high-tech electronic equipment. Khe Sanh would be
the linchpin of this barrier defense. The
Secretary of Defense's announcement came when I
was back in Boston after completing my training at
"Fort Sam" and before deploying to the 249th
General Hospital outside Tokyo, Japan.
The project began despite opposition from General
Westmoreland and other army officers. The
principal purpose of this "McNamara Line" was to
sound the alarm when the enemy crossed the
barrier. Allied firepower in the form of air and
artillery strikes would rain down upon the
People's Army of Vietnam (the North Vietnamese
Army) in order to curb penetration from the north.
This McNamara Line was an attempt to merge modern
technology with one of the oldest defensive
techniques in warfare. The United States would
unfortunately learn that more than sophisticated
technology was necessary to make an effective
barrier. The project was begun, but it turned out
to be impractical and was eventually discontinued.
On September 3, 1967, four days before Secretary
McNamara's Washington press conference, Nguyen Van
Thieu was elected President of South Vietnam and
Nguyen Cao Ky Vice-President. During these events
in the summer and fall of 1967 I was making the
transition from civilian to military life. Also in
September General Westmoreland began to fortify
Khe Sanh
Caring for patients and raising a family had
consumed most of my time, energy and attention
since entering medicine. I had been practicing
neurosurgery and worked primarily as an attending
surgeon at the Framingham Union Hospital and as a
clinical associate at the Massachusetts General
Hospital where I had trained. I knew only vaguely
about the conflict in Southeast Asia. I had paid
little attention to the news from those distant
lands. I began a course of self-instruction to
understand what I would soon be experiencing.
Current events were to become quite important in
my life. During the two years that the selective
service system required physician-draftees to
serve I would become more knowledgeable about both
the political and the military challenges facing
the nation.
I had been happily surprised when orders came
through assigning me to Japan after the month of
training in Texas. I knew that the evacuation of
gravely wounded soldiers from Vietnam was a
multi-tiered process and Japan was in that stream
of traffic. I also knew that there were ten
military neurosurgeons in South Vietnam and that
yearly tours of duty meant that twenty
replacements would be needed before my own two
year deployment was completed.
The conflict was escalating, and with the
increase in hostilities there was an increase in
casualties. In 1965 there was only one army
hospital in Japan and that facility at Camp Zama
had 100 available beds. By 1966 there were four
hospitals, including the 7th Field Hospital (400
beds), the 249th General Hospital (1,000 beds),
and the 106th General Hospital (1,000 beds). The
U.S. Army Hospital at Camp Zama had increased the
number of its beds from the original 100 to 700.
It was in the summer of 1967 that I drove to San
Antonio, Texas for an introduction to the military
and basic training at the Medical Field Service
School and Brooke Army Medical Center before
assuming responsibilities for the neurosurgical
care of soldiers wounded in what was called the
International Armed Conflict in Vietnam.
The view of Fort Sam Houston as we approached in
a helicopter while transporting a severely wounded
soldier from the 249th General Hospital later in
my tour of duty.
Fort Sam Houston provided a four-week overview of
the military and the practice of army medicine. It
was a very relaxed and low-key experience. Certain
aspects of the training seemed quite unnecessary
but the weeks of instruction necessarily had to
follow a one-size fits all program. Among our
group were all the medical specialties:
internists, dermatologists, general surgeons,
psychiatrists, ophthalmologists, obstetricians,
pediatricians, and on and on. Our assignments
after Fort Sam would be worldwide, from stateside
to Europe, the Far East, South East Asia, wherever
our nation had army installations.
It was at Fort Sam that I acquired some historical
background of the facility that had been
established in 1876. More recently, in May of
1962, one of the first military units sent to
Vietnam from San Antonio was the 178th Signal
Company. Twelve medical units shortly followed. In
1967 medical training reached its peak with the
graduation of 29,000 from the Medical
Training Center.
The common experience shared by my classmates was
that we were all qualified to practice medicine.
Most were younger than I. Most had experienced
long work hours and the responsibilities of caring
for ill patients. But the transition from civilian
to military practice was going to be a jolt,
especially for those who would be practicing in
the combat zone.
Because of the large number of our entering group
there was insufficient housing on base. We were
billeted in local motels, posh compared to the
quarters located on base. Outside my room was a
swimming pool and the weather during the length of
my stay in Texas was ideal for unwinding and
relaxing before turning in for the night. Another
unanticipated benefit was the equestrian stable
with horses available for recreational riding in
the afternoons after classes and training were
completed. I took advantage of as many free late
afternoon hours that I could to enjoy riding the
extensive grounds of the installation. The
Artillery Post Stables had been moved from West
Point in 1955 and were included in the United
States Modern Pentathlon Training Center.
We received a clothing allowance that covered the
basics and early on we purchased the required
uniforms. A number of approved civilian tailoring
companies had contracts with the army and they
were on the base to outfit us with the
necessities. We were fitted for the Class A and
Class B uniforms, green coat and trousers,
long-sleeved tan shirts and trousers, four-in-hand
black neckties, dress blue uniform, head gear,
black shoes, boots, insignias.
The dress blue uniform seemed quite inappropriate.
When were we going to wear it? In my case it
turned out to be only once during the next two
years. That one time was for an early morning
inspection when the entire class stood in
formation for inspection. After my tour of duty I
gave this uniform to a recently drafted plastic
surgeon with whom I had worked during my years of
residency on the neurosurgical service at The
Massachusetts General Hospital. With the
hostilities gradually subsiding I hoped that John
would have more use for the dress blues than I
had. At the PX I purchased a copy of The Officer’s
Manual of 1967-1968 in which I read the regulation
that introduced me to one of the many things I
came to know as “the army way.”
“The Army Blue uniform is the prescribed uniform
for officers and warrant officers for social
functions after retreat. Its wearing may be
prescribed by local commanders for specific
occasions. On other appropriate occasions it may
be worn as desired by the individual. All officers
and warrant officers are required to own the Army
Blue uniform for wear on appropriate occasions,
except Reserve Component officers in a Reserve
status or on active duty for training for periods
of 6 months or less. They may purchase the Army
Blue uniform on an optional basis.”
Although my orders were to report for duty in
Japan I assumed that I might be diverted or later
transferred to Southeast Asia because that was
where the need for qualified neurosurgeons would
be the greatest and I would not be needing this
dress blue uniform overseas.
Contemplating the immediate future before leaving
for basic training I had read as much as I could
about what to expect during the next two years,
the duration of my military obligation. In
civilian training and practice I had cared for
many patients who had suffered injuries to the
nervous system and I knew that I soon would be
seeing many more. The four-week basic training
course was rudimentary. There was no need to
transform health professionals into fighting men
and women.
There was a fair amount of classroom instruction
and studying printed handouts on army rules and
regulations.
We marched in formation, carried out physical
training drills, ran through woods at night with
compass and map, crawled under barbed wire while
blank tracer bullets were fired overhead. We had a
gas mask drill. On the shooting range we qualified
with M-14 rifles. We received immunizations
against smallpox, typhoid, tetanus, typhus,
cholera, yellow fever, influenza, polio, and
plague. We went through field training and
exercises at Camp Bullis, the army's 27,000 acre
facility.
There was one session spent debriding gunshot
wounds on anesthetized goats. The exercises on
these goats reminded me of the fundamental
operative techniques I had taught third year
medical students when I was the Harvey Cushing
Fellow in the Hunterian Laboratory at The Johns
Hopkins Hospital.
We learned that the conflict in Vietnam had
brought about significant changes in military
medicine since our nation's most recent extended
fighting in Korea. Two major improvements were in
aero medical evacuation and in the mobility of
well-staffed and well-equipped hospital
facilities. Combat medical support had to be
modified in this region where the battlefront was
ill defined and the guerilla tactics of the Viet
Cong gave the enemy the opportunity to strike deep
within areas once thought to be well under our
control.
The UH-l (Huey) helicopter could transport as
many as six to nine patients at one time. Most
patients could be evacuated within 30 to 35
minutes of wounding and the skill and competency
of the medics both on the ground and in flight
resulted in salvaging the lives of many soldiers
who would not have survived in earlier conflicts.
Before our involvement in Vietnam came to an end
7,013 Hueys had been deployed in country. 3,305
were destroyed, 1,074 pilots were killed along
with 1,103 other crew members.
A second major change was to be in the deployment
of the MUST (Mobile Unit Self-Contained
Transportable) structures that had been developed
to replace the MASH (Mobile Army Surgical
Hospital) units of the Korean conflict.
A prototype of this unit was set up on the base.
In the field we were told that such a hospital
could be set up within 25 minutes. With varied
configurations these structures could have a
capacity of 200 to 400 beds.
The MUST comprised three basic elements in their
own shipping containers that could be transported
by cargo plane, helicopter or ground transport.
1) The utility element had a multifuel gas turbine
engine that supplied electric power for
air-conditioning, refrigeration, heating and
circulation, water heating and pumping, air
pressure for the inflatable elements, and
compressed air or suction.
2) A rigid-panel surgical element was expandable
with accordion sides.
3) An air-inflatable element with a doubled-walled
fabric shelter could contain wards for patients
and other expandables could contain central
supply, laboratory, X-ray, pharmacy and kitchen
facilities.
The following are pictures of various MUST
components:
Individual containers before assembly
An expandable shelter in place
A utility module
The interior of an expandable unit
Central Material Supply with autoclave
X-ray room
Laboratory
The first MUST hospital to arrive in Vietnam had
been the 45th Surgical Hospital that was set up in
Tay Ninh in October, 1966. Its commander, Major
Gary Wratton, MC, was killed in a mortar attack
before the unit began functioning in early
November. In time a total of six MUST hospitals
was established in Vietnam.
I had brought along my copy of the NATO Handbook
“Emergency War Surgery” that I planned to study
before turning in each night.
At Fort Sam the most potentially useful booklet
the army gave us was a ninety-four-page
publication entitled “Military Surgical Practices
in the United States Army in Vietnam.” The
introduction’s first sentence I recognized as a
quotation from the NATO handbook:
“Military surgery is a development within the art
and science of surgery which is designed to carry
out a specialized, essential and highly
significant mission under the adverse conditions
of war.” Not included in the booklet was the
second sentence from the NATO Handbook:
“It is distinctive in that, contrary to the usual
medical practice, the care of the individual must
necessarily become secondary to the military
effort whenever a given tactical situation so
demands.”
[Emergency War Surgery, NATO Handbook, US
Government Printing Office, Washington, D.C.,
1958, p. 1.]
The initial sentence I remembered from the text
that I had first studied as a Halsted intern at
The Johns Hopkins Hospital. The second sentence,
omitted in the booklet that we received, troubled
me when I first read it and would continue to
trouble me over the next two years. I was not
alone in my feelings about this subordination of
the individual soldier-patient to the military
effort. I had earlier read a study of several
thousand army physicians many of whom who had
similar misgivings.
This study of 3,000 army physicians conducted over
an eight year period and published early in 1967
included in its summary:
“The most difficult concept for the group to
accept was in the area of the philosophy of
military patient care. It appeared to be based
upon an assumed conflict involving principles of
medical practice. Most physicians found it
difficult, if not impossible, to accept that their
responsibility might be to an organization rather
than the individual patient. To many of the
entering physicians, one of the cardinal
principles of military medicine, namely, ‘The
greatest good for the greatest number,’ was
unacceptable.”
[Archives of Environmental Health, Volume 14,
February, 1967]
My only extended personal interaction with a
single individual during the month-long
introduction to the army was an interview
regarding my future in the military. The
interviewing officer explained the advantages of
extending my term of service from two to three
years. He assured me that this would make my
posting to Vietnam much less likely. I could have
an assignment at one of the major army hospitals
outside the theater of operations in Southeast
Asia. I didn’t bite. I had no doubt that the needs
of the service would determine where I might be
stationed during the three years. My interviewer
couldn’t convince me that the three years in a
non-hostile setting could be guaranteed. I opted
to let the army send me where it wished, but I
wanted my two-year obligation to be the total of
my service time. I had read enough about the
current conflict to know that the sooner I
returned to civilian life the happier I’d be.
There was a two-week interval after Fort Sam Houston
before my flight from the West Coast to my
assignment in Japan. I returned to Massachusetts to
make arrangements for the army to ship family items
overseas and to rent our house to a colleague who
was emigrating from the United Kingdom to practice
medicine in Boston. I had left the family station
wagon in San Antonio and it would be sent overseas
in time to arrive in Japan about the same time as I.
Two of my four children were in elementary school
and I explained to them the advantages of living
overseas for two years, and the great opportunities
that we would have contrasted with two years in our
Boston suburb. In any event it was certainly
preferable for all of us to be together rather than
separated for these years. Transportation for my
wife and four children was arranged. They would join
me in Japan after I had arranged for housing and
schooling for the two older children. In late August
I flew to the west coast and stayed with a fellow
medical draftee and his family in San Francisco
before boarding a chartered flight at Travis Air
Force Base midway between San Francisco and
Sacramento. We flew to Tokyo with a refueling stop
at Elmendorf Air Base in Alaska. I arrived in Japan
in mid-September and my family joined me in
mid-October.
These are a few photos taken on the hospital grounds
soon after my reporting for duty:
The 249th General Hospital was located northwest
of Tokyo in Asaka prefecture. This unit was among
the nearest complete hospital centers for army
casualties in South Vietnam. We were 2700 miles
from military action. The order of evacuation of
the sick and wounded followed an established
protocol. Five echelons of care determined the
disposition of the individual soldier. The
exigencies of combat in Vietnam dictated this
evacuation process. Military medical facilities
varied in distance from the combat zone. The
nearest U.S. logistical support base was in
Okinawa, ca. 1,800 miles from Saigon. I would
serve a short TDY (temporary tour of duty) stint
in Okinawa during my tour of duty. The nearest
complete hospital centers from Saigon were in
Japan, 2,700 miles distant. Travis Air Force Base
in California was 7,800 miles away and Andrews Air
Force Base outside of Washington D.C. was ca.
9,000 miles away. We would be caring for young
soldiers.
"The average age of the American soldier in
Vietnam was nineteen, seven years younger than his
father had been in WW II." (Stanley Karnow,
Vietnam: A History, page 26)
One major difference between practicing
neurosurgery in the army and in civilian life was
that the continuing care I could provide patients
in the latter was no longer practicable. Severely
wounded soldiers would pass through the five
levels of care. I would be working at the fourth
level where patients could be treated for as long
as sixty days if they could to return to active
duty in Vietnam. The men who required longer
hospitalizations would be evacuated to hospitals
in the United States - the fifth level of care.
This five-tier system determined where patients
were hospitalized.
The first echelon: In the combat zone the Medic
would render emergency care and begin evacuation
to the forward aid station where a medical officer
would continue care and resuscitation if needful
while preparing the patient for further evacuation
to the second echelon (the division clearing
station) or to the third echelon (a definitive
treatment center).
The second echelon: This is the division
clearing station where relatively minor injuries
were treated. More complicated injuries received
continued resuscitation and initial surgery before
continued evacuation to the third echelon, a
mobile surgical or evacuation hospital.
The third echelon: More definitive surgery was
available here along with full resuscitation. This
third echelon Surgical Hospital would often
receive the seriously wounded directly from the
first echelon, the combat zone itself or the
forward aid station. These seriously wounded would
go directly from the forward aid station to the
surgical hospital as rapidly as practicable. The
Evacuation Hospital would receive not only the
soldiers from the aid station but also those
needing specialty surgery from the second echelon
division clearing station and patients already
operated on at the Surgical Hospital. Medical and
psychiatric patients also came to the Evacuation
Hospital.
The fourth echelon: These hospitals were based in
Japan and Okinawa and were much like the stateside
ones with general surgical and surgical
specialties along with medical and psychiatric
facilities. This was the level at which I would
work. These facilities provided care for three
types of patients:
1) Those who might return to duty within sixty
days.
2) Those who were so severely wounded that after
ongoing care they would be transferred back to the
continental United States.
3) Those who were unlikely to survive because of
the extent of their wounds and would likely die
before reaching home..
The fifth echelon: These hospitals were located
in the Continental United States and received the
men and women who were unlikely to return to
continued service in Vietnam.
In the combat zone small arms automatic weapons
accounted for about one-third of the injuries and
fragmentation missiles, most often from booby
traps, comprised the majority of the others.
Most of the men who reached us at the 249th
hospital had been thus injured.
The pattern of evacuating the wounded by ground
that had served in so many previous conflicts was
not practicable in Vietnam. Distances and
hostile terrain necessitated aeromedical support
on a scale not before realized.
Prompt evacuation of the wounded from the
battlefield saved many lives that would otherwise
be lost. The use of the helicopters that had
provided rapid air evacuation on a large scale in
the Korean Conflict in the early 1950's was
essential in Nam. It was now possible for a
casualty in Viet Nam to have extensive life-saving
surgery within an hour of being wounded in the
field. An advantage of air transport was that it
was often possible for a wounded soldier to be
flown directly to the unit best equipped to care
for him, whether that was in the first, second or
third echelon.
During my tour of duty the number of army
hospitals in Vietnam increased to twenty-three
with five thousand, two hundred and eighty-three
beds. In Cam Ranh Bay the 6th Convalescent
Center provided care for men who would be
sufficiently fit to return to active duty within
thirty days.
Our patients reached us from South Vietnam in
stages and by progressively smaller transports.
The longest leg of the trip was in C-141 planes
especially outfitted to accommodate not only the
most seriously injured but also those who might be
able to return to Vietnam within sixty days. The
C-141s landed at Yakota Air Base and then
helicopters would transfer the most severely
injured soldiers while buses and ambulances would
transport the less critically wounded to the
general hospitals.
When I arrived in Japan there were some hectic
days of settling in, meeting the hospital
commander and getting acquainted with the hospital
facilities and staff, especially those medics,
nurses and doctors with whom I'd be working on the
two neurosurgical wards. Before assuming my
responsibilities on the neurosurgical unit I
retrieved and registered my station wagon that had
reached the depot in Yokohama and then arranged
with a local broker to rent a house that I felt
could accommodate my young family for our
anticipated stay of two years. The house was some
distance from the hospital - a commute of one and
one -half hours on the congested Tokyo roads but
only a few blocks from the bus stop where a
commuter bus from the American School in Japan
would pick up and deliver our two school age
children.
It would be one month before my family's arrival
in Japan. By then I was settled into the hospital
routine and was immersed in the challenges of
caring for the quantity and variety of injured
soldiers who had reached the fourth echelon of
care at our hospital.
Our two wards could accommodate eighty soldiers.
For any overflow we could find beds on other
wards.
My reading in anticipation of military service
had raised some strong feelings about our role in
the conflict in Southeast Asia and it did not take
long for me to feel that we were sacrificing brave
young men in an ill-advised adventure far from our
own shores. As I made rounds on our wards, treated
the continuing stream of casualties that passed
through our operating rooms and pronounced dead so
many soldiers who had been grievously wounded in
combat I resolved to do what I could do to end the
carnage. I was enough of a realist to know that
while I was on active duty there was nothing I
could do but strive to do the very best that
training and experience had taught me. I would
treat, comfort and whenever possible restore to
some semblance of well-being those who came under
my care. However, I knew my own tour of duty in
the army would last for only the mandatory two
years, and if the war had not ended when I was
discharged then I would do what I could to help
end it. How I would do that I did not know, but I
did know that it must end.
[From Washington Post - 04/30/2017:
The year 1967 saw the deaths of 11,400 Americans,
and 1968 claimed 16,900, the worst yearly toll of
the war, according to the National Archives.
These two years account for almost half the 58,307
names on the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in
Washington, which honors those killed in the war.]
Early on I purchased at the Tachikawa Airbase PX
a 35 millimeter Nikon FTN camera that I kept close
at hand and recorded much of what I experienced
both on and off base. Towards the end of my tour I
gave a slide presentation of my impressions and
thoughts to my colleagues at a Grand Rounds
session. Choosing which slides to show from the
hundreds that I had by then accumulated was
difficult. There were no objections to the efforts
of myself and those who wanted to see an end to
our involvement in Nam but the highest ranking
attendee, a career colonel, adamantly refused to
join the post-presentation discussion of what he
considered to be a political issue.
A partial view of our ward with trapeze and
safety rails on almost all beds.
Nurse and physician caring for a paraplegic
patient on a Stryker frame, enabling the patient
to be rotated 180 degrees frequently in order to
prevent skin breakdown and the formation of bed
sores.
View of patients in beds with safety rails and
CircOlectric beds in background.
A nurse caring for a paraplegic patient on a
CircOlectric bed.
Two nurses with recovering patient.
Two general surgeons consulting on one of our
patients.
In the neurosurgical operating room.
The 249th General Hospital was not so very
different from the major hospitals where I had
received my general and neurosurgical training in
the States. Both health professional draftees and
career army officers represented the various
specialties. The medical staff consisted of
captains, majors and colonels with the rank
determined by degree of training and experience.
The nurses who were the closest to the continuing
oversight and care of the patients were drawn from
both military and civilian lives. Assignments of
the doctors on the neurosurgical wards overlapped
so that there was sufficient time for the outgoing
surgeons to orient the newcomers to the individual
patients and their clinical situations. Our two
wards at the 249th had two fully trained
neurosurgeons and two medical officers attending
the patients throughout my tour. The chief of
service was a major who would be promoted to
lieutenant colonel during the tour, and I began
with the rank of captain to be promoted to major.
Two captains completed the physicians' staffing on
our unit. The military nursing staff on our wards
contained lieutenants and captains. There were
also a number of civilian nurses, spouses of
active duty military personnel who were stationed
in Japan. The medics varied in rank. The
census on our wards during most of my tour varied
between sixty and eighty patients.
The soldiers on our neurosurgical wards often had
injuries that extended beyond the nervous system.
Many of these patients had sustained multiple
fragment wounds from high-velocity missiles, land
mines, booby traps, and mortars. They had received
excellent initial and ongoing care in Vietnam
before evacuation to Japan. By the spring of 1967,
when I received my draft notice, there were ten
neurosurgeons operating at the five army hospitals
in the combat zone. In addition all the medical
and surgical specialties were available for acute
care in country. The quality of care available to
the wounded soldier was superior to that in any
previous conflict in large measure due to the
talents of the skilled medical/surgical staff and
the supporting team members and facilities.
The majority of our patients would not be
returning to active duty in the combat zone within
the allotted sixty days and therefore much of our
work was devoted to repairing and stabilizing
wounds and preparing patients for evacuation and
the return home to the fifth echelon of care. For
most of these returning men the war was over. The
long-term effects of the conflict and their
residual deficits would not be over.
The pace and stress accompanying our workload
varied with the progress of hostilities in Vietnam
as most of our days and nights were centered on
the tasks at hand. We concentrated on admitting
and evaluating patients as they arrived at the
hospital from the C-141 transport planes that had
evacuated them from Nam. Our assignment was to
provide continued surgical treatment in our
operating rooms, and then prepare them for further
evacuation back to the States or, in fewer cases,
back to active duty in Southeast Asia. It was
years later when I could correlate the conditions
that obtained in the combat zones with what we
were witnessing in our hospital. It was not until
1972, three years after my tour of duty, that I
went to work in Vietnam and saw first hand some of
the results of our intervention..
The soldiers who reached our hospital presented
many of the same challenges that I had encountered
and treated in civilian life but the extent,
variety and devastation of injuries far exceeded
what I had encountered in my previous years of
residency and practice.
We were not the first neurosurgeons to care for
our patients. The majority of soldiers whom we
treated after evacuation from Southeast Asia had
injuries that required additional cranial or
spinal surgery before continued transport to the
continental United States. Rarely would these men
be returning to active duty in Nam. Now and then
we could chuckle at our circumstances and those of
our patients. One such event was the evacuation
from South Vietnam of a soldier who had no injury
but had gone through induction, training and
deployment to Vietnam despite lacking a
significant portion of his skull. One quarter of
the bony protection of his skull had been removed
following an adolescent injury and this had never
been replaced. The scalp was well healed and he
was in fine physical shape, but the skull defect
and the underlying pulsating brain were prominent.
The private enjoyed a few weeks of unanticipated
rest and relaxation after the replacement of the
defect with a methylmethacrylate plate insertion.
Then he was back to fight another day.
During my tour of duty military actions in Nam
and events at home occurred that were to influence
the course of the hostilities and eventually the
departure of our own troops from South Vietnam. At
the end of 1967 American troops in country
numbered 485,600. Total deaths of U.S. troops in
the "Vietnam War" had reached 19,562. General
Westmoreland had started to fortify Khe Sanh, the
linchpin of the contemplated electronic barrier
monitoring infiltration from the north. Anti-war
protests were escalating at home. Our workload at
the hospital followed a routine - regular arrivals
from the airbases, helicopter or ambulance
transfer to our wards, triage, evaluation,
observation, pre-operative treatment, surgery as
needed, post-operative care and preparation for
continued evacuation to the continental United
States or occasionally back to the combat zone.
The years of 1967 and 1968 were pivotal as events
unfolded both at home and in Vietnam. Although
what was happening on the "home front" had little
impact on our daily activities the battles in Nam
did. On October 21, 1967 there was a march on the
Pentagon that brought out 100,000 antiwar
protesters. In November there were heavy
casualties in fighting around Dak To in the
Central Highlands. That same month the Secretary
of Defense, Robert McNamara, who was having
misgivings about our involvement, resigned. A day
later Senator Eugene McCarthy, who had long
opposed the war, began a challenge to President
Johnson for the presidential nomination in 1968.
Anti-war protests increased.
The Tet Offensive began on January 31, 1968.
Our workload had been steady and heavy up to Tet
when it increased with the escalation of
hostilities. Each year from 1965 had brought
greater numbers of army patients evacuated from
Vietnam.
1965 - 10,164
1966 - 12,606
1967 - 22,702
1968 - 35,391 (with the greatest number yet
recorded in a single month - 3,576 in the month of
February during the Tet Offensive)
1969 - 35,916
[Medical Support of the U.S. Army in Vietnam,
1965-1970 by Major General Spurgeon Neel,
Department of the Army, Washington, D.C. 1973,
page 77
Source: Army Medical Service Activities Report,
MACV, 1965; Army Medical Service Activities
Reports, 44th Medical Brigade, 1966, 1967, 968,
1969.]
Belatedly, but happily, after 1969 a gradual
de-escalation of our nation's combat role in
Vietnam began.
Before then General Westmoreland had requested
206,000 more troops. Clark Clifford, who had
succeeded the unhappy Robert McNamara as Secretary
of Defense advised against this buildup and
President Johnson concurred. 1968 was an election
year and antiwar protests were increasing. On
March 12 in New Hampshire's Democratic primary
Eugene McCarthy received 42% of the vote. On March
16 Robert Kennedy announced his candidacy for
president. Creighton Abrams replaced Westmoreland
in Vietnam and the latter was appointed Army Chief
of Staff.
We knew about the unrest at home. In early
November, 1968 I accompanied a critically ill
soldier from the 249th to Walter Reed Hospital.
Passing through the streets of Washington I saw
the lingering results of the rioting and
destruction that had followed Martin Luther King's
assassination in April. One thousand, one hundred,
ninety-nine buildings had been badly damaged or
destroyed. Many remained abandoned and boarded up.
Over one thousand citizens had been injured.
Twelve had been killed. To combat the unrest and
looting the White House had dispatched some 13,600
federal troops. That occupation of Washington was
the largest of any American city since the Civil
War. How ironic that our marines had deployed
machine guns on the steps of the capitol while
their comrades in arms were fighting for their
lives halfway across the world!
In Japan the census in the medical and surgical
services remained high. The flow of head, spine
and peripheral nerve injuries continued. Many of
the spinal injuries we encountered brought new
experiences. I had previously operated up and down
the spine in what were textbook situations: disc
disease, fractures of the vertebral column,
tumors, neonatal deformities, vascular anomalies,
degenerative disease, but our patients returning
from combat presented new and unique challenges.
Closed wounds of the spine were less frequent
than open ones. The former usually resulted from
helicopter crashes or explosions below vehicles.
The latter, caused by penetrating missiles, were
more common and more complicated because of
associated injuries to other parts of the body.
In the combat zone life-threatening wounds
frequently mandated the treatment of associated
chest or abdominal trauma that took precedence
over surgical intervention at the spinal column.
When many such patients reached us the medical and
surgical hurdles were unique.
Some patients who had lost movement and sensation
in their lower bodies arrived with extensive
breakdown of their skin and muscle below the site
of injury. These pressure or decubitus ulcers were
often infected and required removal of gangrenous
tissue, frequent cleansing, Betadine
(povidone-iodine) applications and dressing
changes. Skin grafts or flaps were necessary in
many of the more extensive wounds and further
surgical procedures would often be deferred until
evacuation back to the States.
Necrotic decubitus ulcer
Deep wound of low back
Removing infected vertebral body from soldier's
back
Necrotic vertebral body now freed from back and
surrounding infected site
Exposed spinal nerves and nerve roots of the
cauda equina (Latin for "horse's tail") in an open
low back wound
As previously noted The Vietnam Veterans Memorial
Wall in 2018 listed 58,320 names. The names of the
3 million Vietnamese who perished in the conflict
have no such wall, but as Philip Jones Griffiths,
the renowned photographer of the conflict,
observed,
"Everyone should know one simple statistic: the
Washington, D.C. memorial to the American war dead
is 150 yards long; if a similar monument were
built with the same density of names of the
Vietnamese who died in it, [it] would be nine
miles long."
(Messer, William, "Presence of Mind: The
Photographs of Philip Jones Griffiths," Aperture
No. 190 (2008),
http://www.aperture.org/jonesgriffiths/)
Some of our patients were doomed to die before
further transport could be attempted. However, a
greater number were ultimately sufficiently
stabilized to allow transfer to stateside
hospitals where the prognoses for meaningful
recovery for a large number were unhappily
exceedingly bleak. We did not lose many patients
whose wounds were below the head. Even those men
with extensive associated injuries involving the
chest, abdomen and limbs in addition to the spine
could often be treated and stabilized before
further evacuation.
The causes of wounds in Vietnam reflected the
increased use of small arms and automatic weapons
contrasted with the earlier experiences of World
War II and the Korean Conflict. In these earlier
engagements about 75 per cent of all wounds were
attributed to missile fragment wounds from
artillery, mortar and aerial bombs. In Vietnam
such missile wounds made up 49.6 per cent of
injuries while gunshot wounds made up 42.7 per
cent (Military Surgical Practices of the United
States Army in Viet Nam, Medical Field Service
School, Brooke Army Medical Center, Fort Sam
Houston, Texas, 1966 by Yearbook Medical
Publishers, Inc.).
Soldier with multiple fragment wounds of back and
buttock
Bilateral lower limb injuries necessitating
further revision of amputation stumps
Leg amputation
Multiple fragment wounds with loss of right lower
leg
Gunshot wound to head with breakdown of scalp
closure
Scalp breakdown following debridement of infected
entry sites over
the skull of a soldier who had sustained multiple
fragment wounds
Death after uncontrollable generalized infection
of brain
Disruption of base of skull after devastating
facial and sinus missile injury
On January 30, 1968 the Viet Cong and North
Vietnamese began the Tet Offensive and the next
few weeks were the busiest of my tour of duty.
During the second week in February the 543
Americans killed in action marked the highest
weekly total of the war. The soldiers had the
support of 116 air ambulance detachments.
Five to seven Huey helicopters were assigned to
each detachment and they could carry six to nine
casualties on one flight. On
average the wounded often reached a surgical unit
within thirty-five minutes. That the men who
survived to reach a hospital survived in over
ninety-seven percent of cases was a testament to
the medevac crews' skill, heroism and devotion.
Thirty-nine crew members were killed and two
hundred-ten were wounded in a two-year period as
they flew rescue missions [Neel, page 73].
The number of flights increased in proportion to
our escalating involvement. 1965 - 13,004,
1966 - 76,910, 1967 - 85,804, and in 1969 -
206,229 [Neel - page 75]. In 1969
hoist retrievals of casualties by dust-off
helicopters rescued 2,516 patients [Neel - page
75].
As the numbers of wounded reaching our hospital
escalated my determination to do whatever I could
to protest the enormity of the conflict became an
obsession. I had to wait until September, 1969.
In contrast to the hospital environment and
ongoing care of casualties life away from the base
provided a welcome respite. Our home for the
overseas years was a classic Japanese house, a
wooden structure of two stories and much like what
I had come to expect from my preparatory reading
in anticipation of the move. With the help of
colleagues at the hospital I had found live-in
help, a young woman who had a fair command of
English and whom I hoped would make the transition
for my family as easy as possible.
My wife, four children and one beagle arrived in
mid-October and I introduced them to what would be
somewhat less than two years in this country. I
would likely be at home even less than when I had
been in private practice. In Framingham I lived
within fifteen minutes of my office and hospital.
The longer commute and the responsibilities of
treating wartime casualties would likely result in
my having not much time at home. I was thinking
that the relatively comfortable and somewhat
exotic living arrangements, the presence of
live-in help and the opportunity for the older
children to attend school with a group of
international students would help in this
transition. There would certainly be new
experiences. Living in a home with movable Shoji
screens for walls, tatami mats for flooring,
sleeping on futons that would be folded for
storage each morning. The wooden components of the
house were Japanese cypress. The fenced-in garden
allowed a safe place for the children to play and
our beagle Tammy to run. Our full-sized Ford
station wagon could fit in a detached garage that
was constructed of sturdy plastic walls and a
corrugated roof. One of the many novelties was the
deep cedar tub that afforded us the unique
Japanese bathing ritual. Food stalls and shops
were less than one hundred yards down the street
as was the local railroad station with direct
service to downtown Tokyo. 218 Karasuyama,
Setagaya-ku was to be our home for most of the
next two years.
Directly across the street from our home was a
Shinto shrine. During comparatively "quiet"
periods at the hospital we were able to visit
sundry Shinto shrines and Buddhist temples while
exploring further afield.
The majority of my days was spent at the hospital
but there were also opportunities to take
advantage of free hours and vacation days to
explore some of the attractions of not only Tokyo
but also of other parts of the country. It was a
long two years and much of my work was necessarily
heart-wrenching. The respite from the hospital
activities was welcome and there was much to see
and value about this country that I would never
had had the opportunity to appreciate were it not
for the ongoing hostilities in Nam. Needless
to say, I would have gladly forgone the adventures
of traveling in this land had there been no
conflict responsible for bringing us here.
Temples in Kyoto:
The Temple of the Golden Pavilion (Kinkakuji) in
northern Kyoto:
The Great Buddha of Kamakura, over 37 feet high,
cast in 1252:
Cherry blossoms in Ueno Park:
A chance to picnic:
Kite flying:
TV before bedtime:
Bath time in a ryokan, a traditional Japanese inn
Hear no evil, speak no evil, see no evil
During the same period that we were working in
Japan the conflict and military activities in Nam
itself occupied most of the news. Much of what was
happening during that time I learned only after
retiring from active duty. Journal articles and
books appeared with increasing frequency as we
slowly reduced our commitment to the South
Vietnamese government. General Westmoreland
assigned Major General Spurgeon Neel the task of
preparing a monograph of the army's medical
activities in Vietnam for the years 1965-1970. It
was from this monograph, Medical Support of
the U.S. Army in Vietnam, 1965-1970, that I
came to more clearly understand the challenges
that faced our troops and the physicians tasked
with their care in the combat zone during those
years.
After leaving active duty in 1969 I returned to
the practice of civilian neurosurgery in
Massachusetts, but I continued to closely follow
the news from SouthEast Asia and became
increasingly active in opposing our continued
military activities in Vietnam. I presented my
impressions and slide presentations on TV stations
in Boston, New York and Baltimore and college
campuses both locally and as distant as Kansas
City, Missouri. On December 7, 1970, thirty-nine
years after "a date which will live in infamy" the
University Program Council Lecture Committee at
The University of Missouri-Kansas City sponsored
my slide presentation. The campus magazine quoted
one of the more telling points of this talk, the
fact that had continued to disturb me as the
hostilities continued:
"81 per cent of the Vietnam War's wounded survive.
Although this is an improvement over previous
wars, there will be three times as many men who
are totally disabled as there were in World War
II."
I shared a platform with Ramsey Clark in Chicago
at a meeting of Business Executives Move for
Vietnam Peace. I presented facts and figures to
colleagues at meetings of The Massachusetts
Medical Society and the New England Neurosurgical
Society.
By the end of 1971 56,205 U.S. troops had been
killed in the Vietnam War. In our country
opposition to the war continued. On March 23rd of
1972 the United States suspended the Peace Talks
in Paris, and a week later the North Vietnamese
began a new offensive, the heaviest since 1968.
The next month saw the initiation of Operation
Linebacker, expanding air strikes against the
North Vietnamese fighters in South Vietnam. During
these same months, sponsored by the Agency for
International Development of the Department of
State, I was in Vietnam.
I had traveled to South Vietnam to see for myself
not only the results of our ongoing intervention
in country but also the conditions under which
medical teams tried to deliver care to the large
numbers of sick and wounded. I worked primarily in
Saigon as a Visiting Neurosurgeon at the Cho Ray
Hospital and Lecturer in Neurosurgery at the
medical school, but was also able to travel
further afield to military and civilian medical
facilities in Pleiku, Kontum and Nha Trang.
Scenes from The Cho Ray Hospital in Saigon - the
unit in which I spent the most of my time.
Patients lining the corridors waiting to be seen
Three infants - one crib
A representative ward
Two nursing instructors
Nurses and student nurses - 1
Nurses and student nurses - 2
Child with scalp wound
Child recovering from head wound
Wound care
Despite the wartime conditions education of young
doctors and ancillary health professionals
continued at the medical school and hospital with
conferences, bedside rounds, x-ray review sessions
and anatomical studies, including "brain cutting"
as in training programs throughout the world.
Operating rooms functioned with state of the art
equipment, facilitated by contributions from
around the world.
Conference and review of skull x-rays
"Brain cutting" demonstration
Operating room
Operating room during cranial surgery; overhead
lights provided by
The Republic of South Korea
Contrasting technologies - from a state of the
art operating room to
an abrasive wheel for re-sharpening metal
intravenous needles.
Entrance to military hospital
Grounds of the Cong Hoa army hospital in Saigon
Audience of army doctors as we discuss
neurosurgical challenges in wartime
Entrance to children's hospital
Outside the hospital I spent as much time as I
could exploring Saigon, visiting the orphanages
and schools, photographing street scenes and
contrasting how removed from life in the hospitals
and rehabilitation units were the everyday
activities in the capital city. Striking were the
smiles and cheerfulness of the children,
especially the younger ones.
A few pictures from Kontum in the Central
Highlands:
An army helicopter about to transfer patients from
Kontum to the next echelon of care
Performing a lumbar puncture while Montagnard
tribesmen observe
|