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FORK IN THE ROAD
Memoirs of Major Donald Babb
(17
September 1968 to 5 October 1968)
Written, June 2008
Some
days are never forgotten; they are indelible.
As I regained consciousness, my vision was
blurry. I could not focus but I could hear
sounds of some kind. The sounds became voices
and I began to see some light, fuzzy at first,
then I was able to focus on the source of the
light – a single light bulb hanging down from
overhead. The source of the voices took on shape
and I felt someone grip my right hand and say,
“Skipper, you lost your legs.” It was First
Sergeant Barfield. I had to be in Tay Ninh. What
happened? How did I get here? I seemed to fade
in and out of consciousness.
On the evening of September 17 there had been an
all out attack on Fire Base Saint Barbara by
elements of the North Vietnamese Army and the
local Vietcong. I was seriously wounded and was
evacuated by helicopter to the 45th
Surgical Hospital in Tay Ninh. Major Meyers,
Battalion Executive Officer, came by helicopter
to Fire Base Saint Barbara to take temporary
command was also wounded and evacuated. There
were many more casualties and evacuations. PFC
Kevin Dugan, Battery Supply Clerk was killed
during the attack. Two of the gun section chiefs
were among the wounded and evacuated as were
several soldiers from the attached Infantry
platoon.
On
September 18 Battalion assigned Captain Neil
Springborn, Commander, Battery B, 2nd/32nd
Artillery, to take temporary command at Fire
Base Saint Barbara. He stayed for a week until
Captain Wardell Hollis was assigned to command A
Battery. That night the entire 105mm crew was
evacuated after sustaining multiple wounds.
On
September 18 a teletype was sent from
Headquarters, US Army Vietnam, to the Casualty
Division, Headquarters, Department of the Army,
Washington, DC. The message stated,
“Captain Donald N. Babb, O95774,
SERIOUSLY WOUNDED, 17 Sep 68 at 1830 hrs.
Traumatic amputation left leg above knee, right
leg below knee. Indiv in base camp vic coord:
XT 275 679 Tay Ninh (22) III CTZ RVN when
came under hostile mortar attack. Indiv adm to
45th Surg Hosp 17 Sep 68 at
1935 hrs, and placed on the SI list 17 Sep 68 at
1940 hrs. Condition guarded.”
This teletype became the basis for a
telegram sent by the Adjutant General,
Headquarters, Department of the Army,
Washington, DC, to Mom and Dad stating,
“The Secretary of the
Army has asked me to express his deep regret
that your son Captain Donald N Babb was placed
on the seriously ill list in Vietnam on 17
September 1968 as the result of traumatic
amputation of left leg above the knee and right
leg below the knee. He was in base camp when
area came under hostile mortar attack. In
the judgment of the attending physician his
condition is of such severity that there
is cause for concern but no imminent danger to
life. Please be assured that the best medical
facilities and doctors have been made available
and every measure is being taken to aid him. You
will be kept informed of any significant changes
in his condition.”
The telegram was delivered to Mom and Dad at
3:30pm on September 18, 1968. Dad immediately
contacted the office of Congressman William J.
Randall to verify the information. A call back
from Congressman Randall stated the information
had been verified and was correct. Another
telegram dated September 19 stated, “Your son
Captain Donald N. Babb has been removed from the
seriously ill list. Period of further
hospitalization is undetermined.” And on
September 23 a follow up telegram stated, “Your
son Captain Donald N. Babb is making normal
improvement. Period of further hospitalization
is unknown. Evacuation is not contemplated at
this time.” Then on September 30 a final
telegram stated, “Your son Captain Donald N.
Babb has been evacuated from Vietnam to Japan.
His present health and prognosis are good.
Evacuation to the United States is contemplated
in approximately four days. The destination
hospital is undetermined at this time. You will
be notified of his arrival by the commanding
officer of that hospital to which he is
assigned. I share your hope that he will have a
rapid recovery.” A Hospital Arrival Notice Form
dated October 5, 1968, was sent to Dad from
Fitzsimons General Hospital, Denver, Colorado,
stating, “Your son, Captain Donald N. Babb, was
admitted to this hospital as a patient on
October 5, 1968. His present condition is
satisfactory.”
On September 18, 1968, I was moved from the 45th
Surgical Hospital in Tay Ninh to the 12th
Evacuation Hospital in Cu Chi. I was awake and
alert enough to ask for some paper and a pen to
write letters to Mom and Dad in Missouri, and to
Judy Clark in Hawaii. On Red Cross stationery I
wrote, “Sit down – I have to be blunt! I got hit
yesterday – real bad in the legs. So bad in fact
that the doctor had to amputate both legs from
the knees down. I’m fine and resting comfortably
now at Cu Chi in the 12th Evac
Hospital. I’m told I’ll be here for a few days
at least and will then be going to Japan I think
it is.”
What I didn’t say in that and future letters was
anything about the pain – the constant pain.
Whatever the normal dosage schedule was for the
pain medication, I was told later they cut it in
half and gave me shots every two to four hours.
And sleep always came after each shot. Regaining
consciousness I looked around and soon realized
the hospital ward I was on was really a Quonset
hut. A door was located at each end and an aisle
ran the length of the hut from door to door. On
either side of the aisle were hospital beds and
the nurses station was near the center. Each
time I was awake I was aware of many people
moving around the Quonset hut, usually nurses
going from bed to bed checking the patients.
Doctors would come and go too. Back to sleep and
then awake again, I didn’t seem to really be
aware of the actual passage of time.
Suddenly I was aware my legs were being moved
and they really hurt. A doctor was removing the
bandages and looking at the wounds. I recall the
doctor said something to the effect, “He’s
ready, let’s go.” And then I was on a gurney and
moving. First we go outside the Quonset hut then
across an open area and into another Quonset
hut. And then it hit me. This new Quonset hut
felt cool, very cool. It was air conditioned.
This was one of the operating rooms at the 12th
Evac Hospital and I was going to have more
surgery. The doctor who had earlier looked at my
wounds had determined they were ready for final
closure. I was told about the surgery, but what
I really wanted to do was to stay in this air
conditioned place for a while. The next thing I
remember is being told to count backward from
100. I came awake back in the hospital ward
Quonset hut in a bed next to the nurse’s
station. My legs felt different somehow, but
they still hurt like blazes. It was time for
another pain shot and some more sleep.
When I woke up I discovered I was shirtless and
I had an IV in each arm and an IV in my chest. A
nurse stopped by and propped me up a bit saying,
“You’ve got visitors.”
In the picture below Major General Walter
Richardson, Deputy Commanding General, II Field
Force Vietnam, is talking to me about the
actions that took place on 17 September at Fire
Base Saint Barbara. Colonel DeArment, 23rd
Artillery Group Commander, and Lieutenant
Colonel Billy McDonald, my Battalion Commander,
were also present standing at the foot of my
bed.
General Richardson, Colonel DeArment
and Lieutenant Colonel McDonald took a few
moments to talk about the actions and situation
that occurred at Fire Base Saint Barbara on
September 17, and plans for the future of the
fire base. We shook hands and he departed.
My condition stabilized and I was ready to be
transferred to Japan and then on to the United
States. On September 25 I was moved to the
hospital at Bien Hoa, the air base near Saigon.
I was taken by gurney to a ward and transferred
to a bed about half way down the aisle. I looked
around and all I could see were empty beds. I
was the only patient. Another doctor came to see
me and to evaluate my wounds. He said I was
doing well and would be going to Japan on the
next available flight. Then he looked at me and
said, “Want a beer?” “Sure” I replied as the
doctor and orderly walked away. Ten or 15
minutes later I began to hear footsteps then
running. The next thing I knew the orderly had
placed a can of Budweiser on the nightstand near
my bed and he left. I was alone, just me and a
cold can of Budweiser. I reached out to pick up
the can of beer and discovered I could not do
it. It was too far away. The can was right in
the center on top of the nightstand; it might
has well been on a nightstand at the far end of
the ward. Then for the first time since being
wounded I tried to use my feet to move closer to
the nightstand. No feet and my stumps were
hurting again. What to do. I began to move
myself little by little from the center of the
bed towards the side of the bed away from the
nightstand. This seemed to take forever. When I
felt my shoulder reach the edge of the bed I
stopped. Then I extended my arm out away from my
body and in a sudden movement I threw my arm
across my body and the bed and succeeded in
turning myself over from my back to my stomach.
Now I was able to reach the beer. I opened it
and drank that beer while on my belly.
On September 27 I was air-evacuated to Japan to
the 106th General Hospital located
near Yokohama. Another doctor, another
evaluation and assessment of my wounds, and a
decision that there was nothing they could do
for me. It was time to get me on to the United
States as soon as space on a flight became
available.
Most of the soldiers on the ward with me in the
106th General Hospital were Warrant
Officers and all were pilots who had been
wounded while flying helicopters in Vietnam. Leg
wounds mostly with some pretty severe fractures
that required some weird looking traction
devices holding their legs in position during
the healing process. With some assistance I
could get out of bed and into a wheelchair and I
was mobile. On one occasion I recall one of the
nurses stopping me while I was maneuvering a
wheelchair around the ward all the while trying
my best to keep from hitting anything,
especially my stumps. The nurse asked me if I
had any money with me. I didn’t know for sure so
I checked the canvas wallet I still had on me.
“Nope”, I said. “No money, I just have my
military ID card.” She directed me to the agent
cashier office in the hospital and I was able to
obtain a cash advance payment of $100.00. When I
returned to the ward, the nurse was talking with
two young men dressed in casual civilian
clothes, short sleeve shirts and trousers. She
told one of them to let me borrow one of his
shirts and we should then go to the Officers
Club. I changed into the shirt but kept the
hospital pajama pants on. And off we went to the
club, walking wounded types so to speak. They
were both pilots and recovering reasonably well
from leg wounds. Once we got to the club and the
bar area we ordered drinks. I wanted a scotch
and water while they each ordered beer. I
probably should have ordered a beer and even
though I did order a “weak” drink, it was too
much for me and before long I fell asleep. When
I woke up I was in my bed back in the hospital.
October 3, 1968, I was finally on an
air-evacuation flight to the United States.
Strapped onto a litter, we made the trip from
the hospital to the airfield by bus and on
arrival we were unloaded and carried onto the
plane. It was an Air Force C-141 modified to
carry both litter patients as well as those who
could walk and would sit in regular type seats
for the flight home. I was still up to my new
routine, asking for a pain shot on a frequent
basis. I don’t know how long the flight took or
even if there was a stop somewhere along the
way. I do remember the lights being on and an
announcement we were landing at Travis Air Force
Base in California. The wheels touched down and
we were home, back in the USA. Then it was time
to be transferred to another bus and a short
trip to the base hospital. As we came to a stop
at the hospital, the interior lights were turned
on. An officer boarded the bus and welcomed us
home. He also told us we would be taken from the
bus to the dining hall where steak dinners were
being prepared for us. After eating we would be
taken to our assigned rooms and then we would be
allowed to make a phone call. The steak tasted
okay but I only managed to eat a few bites
before I was full and could eat no more. I
looked at the clock on the wall and saw it was
2:00. It was 2:00am and here I was eating a
steak, rather eating a few pieces of steak. Now,
off to the room I had been assigned until
arrangements could be made to get me on the
air-evacuation flight from Travis AFB to Denver,
Colorado. I was going to Fitzsimons General
Hospital for my rehabilitation. I made my 5
minute phone call to Mom and Dad in
Independence, Missouri, telling them I was at
Travis AFB and would be going on to Denver and
Fitzsimons as soon as a flight became available.
During early morning rounds a doctor looked at
my stumps and said I was healing very well and
the sutures were ready to be removed. Sometime
closer to noon on October 3, a couple of
orderlies came into my room saying they were
there to take out the sutures. I had just had a
pain shot so it was an easy procedure. Late in
the afternoon I felt my bowels move and knew I
needed to get to a toilet, soon. The room I was
in had three beds, two of them near the window
and the one I was in near the door to the
hallway and across from the bathroom. I pulled
the cord next to my bed to alert the staff at
the nurse’s station I needed assistance. Several
minutes went by without any response. I tried
again and again and did not get any response. I
was the only patient in this room so there was
no one there to provide me with help. I looked
around and saw just what I needed, a wheelchair.
But it was too far away from my bed for me to
reach it. Sort of reminded me of the beer on the
nightstand back at Bien Hoa Air Base near
Saigon; this must be some kind of test and I
didn’t like it one bit. I looked at the sheets
on my bed and thought, why not give it a try. I
undid the sheets, twisted and rolled them up
lengthwise and made myself a sheet lasso. I
twirled it around a couple of times and tossed
it at the chair. Beginners luck; I got it and
began to pull it toward my bed. I got out of the
bed and onto the chair and wheeled into the
bathroom. Then I realized it was not a regular
wheelchair, but an over the toilet style chair.
Even better I thought as I maneuvered myself
over the commode. Ahhhhh…yes, how do you say
relief? Success; now to get back to bed. Just as
I left the bathroom one of the orderlies entered
the room and helped me get back into the bed.
On October 5 I was on an air-evacuation flight
from Travis AFB to Peterson AFB in Denver. And
from there another bus ride to Fitzsimons
General Hospital. I was taken to a room on the
Orthopedic Ward and transferred into bed. A
while later a doctor came to see me and told me
he would be my primary care doctor. He reviewed
my medical chart, asked me several questions,
and told me that it was time for me to get off
the pain medication. I was taking too much and
taking it too often. I needed to detoxify.
Turned out October 5 was a Saturday and the
doctor told me I should be able to reduce my
cravings for the pain medication by the time
Monday arrived. He would leave an authorization
for another pain medication, one with a lower
dosage, at the nurse’s station and I was to use
that when necessary. It was a long weekend for
me as I sweated and cursed and hit the walls
with my balled up fists. I was miserable but it
worked and when Monday finally arrived I
actually felt some better.
Grand rounds were conducted each week and on
Wednesday I met the Chief of the Orthopedics
Department when he came into my room. I was
sitting up near the head of the bed, the Chief
of Orthopedics stood at the foot of the bed
looking into my eyes and my doctor standing near
me at the head of the bed presenting me and my
medical situation. When my doctor finished his
presentation, the Chief of Orthopedics said to
me, “Now that you are going to be confined to a
bed for the rest of your life, what are you
going to do?” Momentarily stunned by this crass
statement, I looked at my bedside table and saw
the “Duck” [a “duck” is the term used for a
urinal kept for bedside use]. I picked up the
urinal and threw it in his direction just as he
left the room. “You miserable sonofabitch!” I
said. “Did I mean him or me?” I thought to
myself as the grand rounds group moved on to the
patient in the next room.
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