Larry and I were both corpsmen in 3rd Platoon of Lima Company, 3/1/1, and our platoon was fighting for its life against the 36th Infantry Regiment of the Peoples’ Vietnam Army. Only minutes before, as we approached Hill 50 in Quang Ngai Province, South Vietnam, a hail of enfilading rifle and machine gun fire had stopped us in our tracks. At least five Marines had been wounded, some fatally. By the end of the battle, 10 Lima Company Marines would be dead, and 20 would be wounded.*
It was a long time before Larry could get to me. In fact, no one could move on that hill without danger of being shot. I had been about to work on a wounded Marine when I was shot, and two other Marines who worked their way up to us to help were also wounded.
Remarkably, I was not in much pain. Larry did not give me any morphine, because I told him that I had given myself have a syrette.* He did apply a battle dressing. I remember talking with him, in the midst of battle, about mundane things. I learned that although he was from Illinois, and that he had married a girl from my hometown, Silver City, New Mexico.
Larry and three Marines eventually half-dragged, half-carried me down the hill on my poncho. (Now that hurt!) By that time, the shooting had died down. While we were waiting for medevac choppers to arrive, Larry and I and other Marines talked. One Marine was in tears; he had just seen his best friend killed. I asked Larry to take a picture of me with my camera, and I took one of him. These are the photos:
Fortunately, my wound was not immediately life threatening, and I would probably have survived even without Larry's intervention. However, he offered something just as important as medical treatment: he was calm and self-confident, and seemed unconcerned that he himself could be wounded or killed at any moment. He helped me to concentrate not on my wound, but on the fact that I was alive and headed for safety.
Both Larry and I knew, of course, that I had been severely wounded. My femur had been shattered, and the muscles of my inner thigh had been pulverized. Without prompt surgical and medical care, amputation or even death were distinct possibilities. But Larry did a great deal to lessen my anxiety. In that alone he quietly proved himself to be a thorough and professional Fleet Marine Force corpsman of the highest order.
It was almost 43 years before I had any more contact with Larry. When the initial version of this web page was publshed, it contained a plea for anyone who knew Larry to help me contact him, because I wanted to say just two words to him: "Thank you." However, it seemed that he had disappeared and I never woud get to say those words. Then, on 21 September 2008, I received an e-mail:
We were recently searching for our grandfather that we never had met.... we googled his name and came up on your web page. We found him and let him know that we were not the only ones looking for him. He asked us to give you his e-mail address.... I hope we have been some help to you.
Larry's grandchildren did indeed help. My subsequent contacts with Larry, by e-mail and telephone, melted away the years, and I have finally been able to tell him how important he was to me on what was arguably the worst day of my life.
* Larry's memory about morphine and my memory don't match, unlike most of the other experiences we shared. I remember trying to give myself morphine, but the I forgot to puncture the seal on the tube, which burst in my hand when I squeezed it. I don't recall whether I had another syrette, but by that time I was too weak to try again. Larry remembers me telling him that I had given myself half a syrette of morphine.* Read more about Operation Utah and learn more details about my wounding and recovery in "Corpsman Down", as published in the April/March, 2007 issue of Navy Medicine.