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    Bullets And Bandages
    Bullets And Bandages
    Bullets And Bandages
    Ebook138 pages1 hour

    Bullets And Bandages

    By Dell Allen

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    About this ebook

    "Bullets and Bandages" by Dell Allen:

    "Bullets and Bandages" is a poignant memoir that chronicles Verdell Bjerketvedt's journey as a Navy Hospital Corpsman during t

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDell Allen
    Release dateAug 26, 2024
    ISBN9798330375097
    Bullets And Bandages

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      Book preview

      Bullets And Bandages - Dell Allen

      BULLETS AND

      BANDAGES

      by

      Dell Allen

      Copyright © 2016 Verdell A. Bjerketvedt

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

      From the Civil War to Afghanistan, 2012 Hospital Corpsmen

      lost their lives

      During the Vietnam conflict 639 Hospital Corpsmen were Killed in combat

      Four Hospital Corpsmen involved in the  Vietnam conflict were awarded  The Medal of Honor.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      CHAPTER I

      CHAPTER II

      CHAPTER III

      CHAPTER IV

      CHAPTER V

      CHAPTER VI

      CHAPTER VII

      CHAPTER VIII

      CHAPTER IX

      CHAPTER X

      CHAPTER XI

      CHAPTER XII

      CHAPTER XIII

      CHAPTER XIV

      CHAPTER XV

      CHAPTER XVI

      CHAPTER XVII

      CHAPTER XVIII

      CHAPTER XIX

      CHAPTER XX

      CHAPTER XXI

      CHAPTER XXII

      EPILOGUE

      AFTERWARD

      FREEDOM

      PHOTOS

      ABOUT THE AUTHOR

      PROLOGUE

      May, 2016

      Forty-eight years ago, on a day in May, I returned to my family from the Republic of South Vietnam.

      I also returned to antiwar protesters walking in the streets and on college campuses. Soldiers, Marines, Sailors, and Airmen bought the freedom for them to voice their opposition to the conflict in Vietnam. Veterans either melted into society or displayed the slogan of the day.

      AMERICA LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT

      High School buddies were still driving up and down main street, USA, looking for a little action.

      There was a sense of urgency. Life had nearly passed me by. I felt I was living on borrowed time, and there was no time to waste.

      I returned to a Human Resources Director who had graduated from college with military draft deferments.

      What are your qualifications, young man?

      Well, I can treat diarrhea and gonorrhea, give injections, cure infections, save lives and take lives, hand out salt pills, cook ham & mothers in a can, and sterilize your water with iodine so you don’t get the squirts.

      Sorry. We’ll be sure to call when we have another war. I returned with a maturity that was gained by being exposed to the dynamics of life and death. The average third world family lived day to day in huts with dirt floors. The plight of Mama-sans and baby-sans who would treasure everything we, as Americans, tend to complain about on a daily basis.

      Destiny became my friend. I had an ambition to get on with life. Destiny also became my demon, and the demon’s name was guilt. There must be a reason I had survived when so many around me did not. Will the decisions I make in life, when I have more than one option, be the right path to follow?

      Please tell me it doesn’t really matter.

      My son asked me if I kept a journal about my experiences while I was attached to the 1st Marine Division.

      I had not.

      I could have said diaries were for school girls, but the truth is, I never gave it a thought. I did not perceive my service, along with my father’s legacy, may interest future generations of sons and/or daughters.

      The process began rather slowly. Uncovering the past has its consequences, and I did not know what they might be. That part of my life had already been reconciled, and the wounds had finally healed. Was picking at the scab all that necessary?

      Hesitation evolved into an endeavor.

      The following events are true to the best of my memory, how I felt at the time, and my interpretation now of those experiences.

      Some I served with are not as vivid as they once were, and some names have been changed to protect their privacy or have faded over time.

      As a Navy Hospital Corpsman attached to the Fleet Marine Force, I could only hope I would serve them well. I will always remember the Marines who gave their last full measure of devotion.

      They will remain forever young.

      ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

      My thanks to those who offered support and constructive criticism. Your contribution lies within these pages.

      A special recognition to my son Erik, who always felt he should have carried the family’s military legacy into the next generation.

      Above all, to my wife Val for her love, understanding, and encouragement.

      CHAPTER I

      March 7, 1965

      Now eighteen-years of age and by law, I was required to go to the Post Office and register for the military draft. There was no preconceived notion of how that simple task would change my life. I had decided, however, that I wasn’t taking Cynthia to the Junior/Senior prom. Her goal was to be invited to the prom for four consecutive years. It occurred to me the prom was more important than who her date was. Screw that.

      It was also decided I would need to separate myself from the modest dairy farm that had been my home for some 16 years. It consisted of 120 acres of field and pasture that nurtured a dozen Holstein milk cows and younger generations of cattle. The milk was filtered into ten gallon cans picked up each day by a local cheese and butter creamery. A mixture of roosters and hens supplied us with meat and eggs. A one acre garden produced assorted vegetables for the winter, and the cucumber patch was responsible for back-to-school clothes, pencils, and notebooks.

      September of 1953

      Enrolling in first grade at District 206, a one room country school house, was somewhat of a milestone for a six year old. The local farming community paid Miss Pribinow for the task of providing the children a proper education. Each morning, Mother would send me off with a bag of school essentials and a lunch bucket filled with a glass lined Thermos of cool-aid, a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and a home-made cookie. I, along with schoolmates, would walk unescorted to and from school each day without a shred of fear of the unknown. The classes consisted of basic math, reading, writing, and penmanship for grades one through eight. Unstructured lessons included learning how to tie shoes and field trips in the meadows and wood lots. I soaked up the new-found knowledge like a sponge.

      During my third year, District 206 closed and consolidated with two schools in adjacent towns. It took some time to adjust to school in the city. The classes were very structured, and I paid the price for my rebellious behavior. My parents were invited to the school on more than one occasion for discussions of sending me to a reform institution. That got my attention, along with a healthy dose of discipline on the home front. My disrespect for my parents and teachers was met with swift and certain consequences. My father would produce his pocket knife.

      Go cut yourself a willow switch.

      Of course, I would take my time, hoping he would reconsider. Just in case he had not, I cut a dead willow and brought it back to him. One swat and it turned into dust. That happened only once.

      Eventually, my attitude improved. I also developed an interest in Margie, a petite blond who attended the same church but a different school. Not to be discouraged, I sent her love notes, valentines on February 14th, and birthday cards on July 2nd. Each night in the upstairs bedroom of the farmhouse, I listened to Dick Biandi, WLS Chicago, on the transistor radio. I thought of Margie as the Beatles sang, I want to hold your hand.

      She never did.

      Anyway, I had grown weary of the daily tasks of milking cows, feeding chickens, and hauling manure. Certainly, there must be places more exotic, more exciting, and adventurous. My dear mother desperately wanted me to attend college in Bemidji, Minnesota. The problem with that idea was I had no interest in sitting in classrooms when I didn’t have a clue why I was there.

      I would secretly admire my father’s Army uniform with all the stripes and ribbons; reminders of yesterday and faraway lands. He was assigned to Company G, 164th Infantry, Americal Division, and served during WWII in the South Pacific on the Islands of New Guinea, Guadalcanal, and Bougainville. He was wounded by a Japanese sniper on the island of Leyte in the Philippines.

      One week after graduation, I traded my pitchfork for a suitcase and boarded a Greyhound bus for Racine, Wisconsin. Renting a room

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