The helicopter ride afforded us a distant view of North Vietnam, which was just ten miles away. The enemy country appeared to be a restored green jungle while the area of South Vietnam below us remained filthy, scarred, and brown with only scattered patches of green. The most noticeable feature of the region was a 700-foot tall pyramid-shaped rock mass known as The Rockpile. This seemingly out of place centerpiece dominated the otherwise flat and open area of the Cam Lo River basin. The area was once considered a critical piece of military real estate because it contained a maze of natural caves ideal for hiding enemy soldiers and supplies. However, our AO was beyond The Rockpile in the mountain area between Mai Loc and the abandoned US Marine base camp at Khe Sanh.
We landed in an area pulverized the previous year by B-52 bombings. The remnants of this once lush jungle had become a patchwork of scarred trees, bomb craters, and new-growth ground cover. The new plant life benefitted from the monsoon season, now at full strength with constant rain showers and infrequent sunshine. We hated the idea of being wet for long periods but willingly traded our comfort for the positive side of the monsoon: the lack of insects.
Our job at the DMZ was no different than anyplace else we had been: seek out and destroy the enemy through daily patrols and nighttime ambushes. One afternoon, while slashing through elephant grass, our point man found the skeleton of an NVA soldier. The flesh had been picked clean by animals and insects leaving behind bones, a helmet, belt, and boots. We guessed the soldier had been dead for about six months, but still radioed in the location so the remains could be used for the body count.
This was the first time many of us had seen a human skeleton, so we propped the bones against a stump and took turns posing for pictures. When we left the area, one of the men put the skull on a stick and carried it with him. At first we considered the skull a good luck charm to keep the NVA away, but waking up to it every morning eventually gave us the creeps. Besides, we knew we would not want our head separated from our body no matter how long we’d been dead. We decided to leave the skull behind. Someone placed it high on a large boulder so it would have a commanding view of a lush valley.
In the five days since we had arrived at the DMZ we did not spot a single enemy soldier. But we were not without problems. Our food supply dwindled because the poor weather prohibited re-supply. To avoid surviving on toothpaste and roots like we had in the A Shau Valley, a strict rationing program was put into place. To compound matters, several of us were plagued with diarrhea. My condition not only included the GI shits, but also a mysterious case of sore testicles. Eventually, the pain became intolerable and I decided to tell Doc Meehan about it.
“When was the last time you got laid?” he asked, quite seriously.
“More than a month ago,” I answered honestly, wondering what kind of medical problem he thought I had. “What’s that got to do with it?”
“That means it’s not gonorrhea. It sounds more like you have testicular tension.”
That didn’t sound good. “What?” I gasped.
“The only cure is sex, but out here you’ll have to settle for masturbation. Do it tonight. Nothing fancy, just get the job done. You’ll feel better in the morning and your balls will get back to normal.”
Was he pulling my leg? “I don’t know Doc,” I winced, “that sounds pretty bizarre.”
I was waiting for him to break into laughter, but he didn’t. “Don’t worry, I’ve heard about this before,” he answered in all seriousness. “You’re the only one who can get yourself back on track.”
The discomfort was so bad I was willing to try his prescription for relief, but I had to be careful. Grunts had an unspoken code of conduct about masturbation. Everyone was aware of it and often joked as if masturbating was a common practice. Getting caught, however, was more than just embarrassing and many GIs were shunned because of it.
When the time seemed right that night, I mentally prepared myself for the task. “Doctor’s orders” I thought, almost laughing. If masturbating would relieve my problem, I may as well enjoy it. I did the deed as fast as I could, but pleasure was nowhere to be found. Instead, at the moment of ejaculation a sharp pain stabbed deep in my abdomen. In the morning I didn’t mention anything to Doc because I figured the discomfort was normal for such therapy. However, while sitting down for morning chow my scrotum felt oddly uncomfortable. Without looking, I instinctively scratched at it and continued eating. A few seconds later, I scratched again but when I brought my hand up, the fingers were red. I jumped up to find my crotch was wet with blood, so I immediately I dropped my pants. Horrified onlookers started to back away at the sight of blood pumping from my pecker with each heartbeat. I fell to my knees, as if to beg for help, but no words came out. My voice was weak and garbled as I began slipping into shock.
Doc Meehan called for a medevac and went to work to stop the bleeding. With no wound to patch, he started to wrap gauze around my penis. I vaguely remember him asking for someone to “hold it” while he wrapped, but instead of help he got remarks like “not me” and “I’m not gonna touch that thing.”
Doc finished rolling the bandage to a lemon-sized wad. When the flow finally stopped, the wad had soaked up so much blood it felt like a lead weight was attached to me. Doc attached a medical tag to my shirt that boldly read: PROFUSE BLEEDING FROM THE PENIS.
Not knowing what kind of bizarre affliction I had, the tag could have just as well read: “One hour left to live.”
When the medevac came in I was in such a daze that two men had to guide me to the LZ. Some of the guys patted me on the back to say what they thought would be a final good-bye, figuring that in my condition I might not be seen or heard from again. I certainly liked getting out of the field—but not this way.
I stumbled onto the medevac and it quickly lifted off. I sat paralyzed, feeling as if my life was draining away through my penis. One of the door-gunner’s, curious about my lack of visible wounds, leaned over to read the medical tag to see what was wrong. He studied the tag as if it made no sense, but when he noticed the blood stains on my pants, he knew the condition was real. Rather than being sympathetic he radioed the pilots, figuring they would get a kick out of my ailment. They did, and everyone had a good laugh. I became angry. “I have an advanced case of genital leprosy,” I said in all seriousness, leaving the impression it was terribly contagious. Whether they believed me or not I don’t know, but they kept their distance and stopped snickering.
Ten minutes later we landed at the Mai Loc aid station, where a team of doctors was waiting to treat me. As I undressed they began to smirk and joke about the condition.
“Boy, that’s some case of the clap you’ve got there,” said the first one. They all laughed. “What were you trying to do?” asked the second doctor. “Mummify your pecker?” More laughter.
“Maybe he’s the first man to have a menstrual cycle,” added the third.
Looking back, they were probably just relieved at the break from treating a steady flow of combat wounds, but at the time I did not see any humor in their remarks. Worried about what kind of treatment these three clowns would give me, I nervously laid down on an examination table.
One of them carefully unwrapped the gauze. The bleeding had stopped.
“I think a leech crawled inside the penis and attached itself to the urethra,” proclaimed the first doctor, as the others nodded in agreement. “We’ll have to use a probe to pull it out.”
“There’s no leech in there!” I shouted. “You’re not sticking anything in me!”
“Now take it easy,” said the second doctor, as an orderly appeared with the instrument. “The probe might be uncomfortable, but it won’t hurt.”
“Bullshit!” I protested. “You guys are just guessing about the leech. I got this problem from masturbating.”
They laughed at my announcement, giving me just enough time to leap from the table and run off. Two orderlies chased me as far as I dared run without my pants. I was captured behind the mess t
ent and returned to the doctors.
After explaining the masturbation circumstances, the doctors had second thoughts about their leech diagnosis. Figuring I had other problems, they decided to send me to the nearest hospital. To prevent further bleeding, they re-wrapped the penis but got carried away with cotton balls and over ten feet of gauze.
“We are the penis protectors,” one of them mused. At least they stopped short of using a splint.
I was medevaced to the 18th Surgical Mobile Hospital at Quang Tri where a sign greeted me that read: 90% OF THE PATIENTS THAT ENTER THIS UNIT HAVE SUFFERED INJURIES CAUSED BY WEAPONS. PLEASE LEAVE YOUR’S OUTSIDE.
A supply sergeant locked my M-16, rucksack, and equipment in a conex for safekeeping. From there, I was directed to the outpatient clinic where a dozen REMFs were on sick call for everything from hangnails to paper cuts. I thought I was in worse shape than any of them, so I asked the desk clerk to get me moved to the front of the line.
“I’ve got a problem,” I said, holding up the medical tag for his inspection.
“Everyone has a problem,” he replied without looking. “Get in line and wait your turn.”
“But I’m really sick, look at this tag.”
“Yeah,” he said, reading it but not showing any emotion. “Is it bleeding now?”
“I don’t know, it’s all bandaged up.”
“Get in line; you’ll be taken care of.”
I was too discouraged to argue so I sat on the bench with the rest of the sick call. After a few minutes, the guy next to me leaned forward to read the tag. Then he looked at my blood stained pants and cautiously edged away. I felt like I was lost in a continuing saga where everyone laughed, ignored me, or kept their distance. It was just a good thing I had mobility or I would really be in trouble.
About fifteen minutes passed when an emergency brought doctors and nurses rushing out to the hospital entrance. A mud covered Grunt, laying face down on a gurney, was wheeled in. The staff prepared him for surgery right in front of us. As the GI’s clothing was removed, he let out several tortured moans. With the staff crowded around him I couldn’t see what the injury was, but the harsh odor of human waste left little doubt it was an open abdominal wound. After the GI was prepped and wheeled toward the operating room, I saw it. A two-foot long bamboo splinter protruded from his rectum like a spear. The hapless GI had slipped and fallen in the mud, jamming the stick up his ass. The splinter sliced open his intestines causing a loss of bodily functions. And I thought I had problems.
The REMF on the bench who had earlier moved away from me felt no sympathy for the injured Grunt as he joked with another soldier.
“Man, what kind of hospital is this?” he whispered, motioning toward me. “We’ve got a bleeding pecker over here and a GI on a stick over there. I just hope my infected tattoo will get looked at.”
As they laughed at our misfortunes, I lost my cool.
“Mother-fucking REMFs!” I shouted at them. “You guys have no idea what it’s like out in the bush! What’s the biggest problem you have to face here in the rear—seeing the same movie two nights in a row?” Embarrassed, they got the message and kept quiet.
The patient line kept moving until I finally got to see a doctor. He didn’t bother with an examination and he didn’t want to hear my story. Instead, he handed me a specimen cup for a urine sample. I wanted to fill the cup in his office, but he had other patients and sent me outside.
I was not ready to unwrap ten feet of gauze at a piss-tube with the whole world watching so I went into the closest latrine. It was a four-seater occupied with two soldiers. Since I wanted privacy I paced the floor while shooting glares at them to leave. They quickly finished and left, but not before mumbling something about a “latrine queen.” After they were gone I began unwrapping, worried at the thought of pissing blood into a cup. As the gauze piled up on the floor, a hospital orderly walked in. Startled, I quickly gathered the strips together and turned away.
“Is something wrong?” he curiously asked.
“Y…Yes,” I answered, spinning around. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”
The orderly flinched and took a step backward. “What do you want me to do?” he asked, unsure of whether to stay or run.
“I have to give a urine sample but I’m too nervous to get these bandages off. Would you help me?”
“All right,” he said, slowly kneeling to the floor and looking outside. “Just warn me if anyone comes this way. I don’t want anyone thinking we’re in love.”
As he finished I felt uneasy recalling that, up to now, at least three different men had handled my penis. I shuddered at the thought of any of them enjoying it.
“Thanks for the help,” I sighed. “Now would you leave me alone?”
“Are you kidding? I just removed a pound of gauze from a penis that’s about to give a urine sample. I have got to see this.”
I agreed to let him stay, figuring it might be good to have him standing by in case something went wrong. I held the cup in one hand and my penis in the other then took a deep breath and let out a squirt. There was no pain and it was pure urine. I felt so relieved I continued filling the cup as several tiny blood clots mixed in. Since the hemorrhaging had apparently ceased, I didn’t bother to re-wrap.
“I guess you’re all set,” the orderly said with a nod.
“Not really, now I have to take a crap.”
“You mean they want a stool sample too?”
“No…I’ve got diarrhea!”
“In that case, I’m leaving.”
I brought the urine sample back to the doctor, but he wouldn’t let me stay while it was analyzed. He did allow me to remove that stupid medical tag. While waiting, I searched for a clean pair of pants but none were available. The only jungle fatigues on the premises were shredded, having been cut from wounded GIs. After a few minutes I was called back to the doctor’s office.
“Well Doc,” I asked, prepared for the worst, “what have I got?”
“Blood in your urine,” he shrugged. “I don’t know what caused it, so I’m sending you to the 95th Evacuation Hospital in Da Nang for more tests. A C-130 is flying down there shortly. I’ll have a clerk arrange a seat for you.”
The uncertainty of my condition had me worried, but at least he wasn’t jumping to conclusions like the doctors at the Mai Loc aid station.
There was no airport terminal at the hospital, so I just walked out the back door and across the runway to the waiting airplane. I stepped through the doorway into one of the most depressing places I had ever seen. The C-130 was a fully staffed airborne ambulance loaded with GIs on stretchers and in wheelchairs. Some were amputees; others had limbs in a cast or were wrapped with heavy bandages. Many were hooked to an intravenous solution. I tried to sit out of the way, ashamed to occupy the same space as men wounded in combat. I just hoped my masturbating wound would never be revealed to them.
We landed at the giant Da Nang airbase and were taken by bus ambulance to the 350-bed 95th Evacuation Hospital. I was assigned a doctor and told him the entire story about the diarrhea, the testicular tension, Doc Meehan’s masturbation prescription, and the leech theory.
“Only an idiot would give masturbation advice, and only a moron would follow it,” grumbled the doctor while glaring at me like I was a fool. “Masturbation and leeches will not cause a hemorrhaging penis. It sounds more like a possible bladder tumor. We’ll give you a flagging test to determine where the hemorrhage originated.”
The flagging test began with me lying on a cold marble table while a radioactive dye was injected into the femoral artery. As the dye pumps into the bloodstream, the flow is scanned by X-ray and displayed on a screen. Any abnormality in the path is most likely the area where the bleeding occurred. However, my test revealed nothing to suggest an abnormal blood flow.
The next test was a manual probe of the lower intestinal track through my rectum. I had told the doctor about my diarrhea so he put on an arm’s length rubber glove whil
e attempting a joke about not being able to use his shit-shield because it was at the cleaners. I didn’t laugh. When the doctor was ready I closed my eyes, spread open my buttocks and bent over. The entry felt as if he shoved his whole fist up my ass. As I adjusted to the uncomfortable poking and prying, he touched something tender. I howled from the pain and lunged forward out of his reach.
“Sorry about that,” he sympathized. “But I found your problem.”
“What is it?” I grunted, trying to pucker my ass back down to normal size.
“You have prostatitis. It’s an infection of the prostrate gland, something that is common in elderly men. Apparently your diarrhea and continued urination was dehydrating your system, complicating the condition. The pain you experienced from masturbating was coincidental to an internal rupture.”
This could be good news! “Am I going home?” I asked hopefully.
“No, not for what you have,” he laughed. “But you’ll be out of the field for a couple of weeks to heal the prostate and get your system back to normal. There’s no medication but you cannot perform any strenuous activity. You also need to drink lots of fluids like milk, juice and water. Absolutely no tea, coffee, soda, or beer.” No beer. What a bummer.
The next day I returned to Camp Evans. News from the DMZ came in that our company had seized a huge enemy food cache without firing a shot. The cache consisted of more than a ton of dried fish, nearly two tons of rice, and several hundred cans of meats and vegetables. It seemed strange that the NVA would leave such a giant food supply unattended. G-2 suspected a mass enemy troop build-up was being planned, but the NVA must have forgotten where they left the food or else their guards were scared off. If I were out there, I would be worried that if the troop build-up took place, the NVA would be pissed off about their food stash missing and go after whoever took it. But I stopped myself from being overly concerned about the problems in the field. After all, I had two weeks of ghosting to worry about.
I spent most of my convalescence with Howard Siner, who was now assigned to our battalion headquarters at Camp Evans. Each evening we got together to have a few beers and live the life of a REMF. Of course, after serving nearly six months in the field, Siner was no REMF, but I noticed that he was not his normal confident self.
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