Helpless
Apr 28, 2010 13:38:26 GMT -6
Post by Moderator on Apr 28, 2010 13:38:26 GMT -6
Helpless
by Jeff Seeber
Forty years ago today ... April 28, 1970 ... I watched a United States Marine die less than five feet away from me. I did absolutely nothing to help him. I couldn't. I had never known such a helpless feeling before that moment and I have never known one since. I just laid in my rack and watched him die, unable to do anything when he needed it the most.
Curly and I had arrived in the critical care respiratory ward at Great Lakes Naval Hospital within a few days of each other some two months earlier. We were placed in the same room because we had contracted a somewhat rare and deadly strain of pneumonia. We had both been in comas and then in and out of consciousness too many times to count. My weight had dropped to under 100 pounds and I'm fairly certain his had too, judging from how easy it was to lift him from his rack after he was gone. The main complication our doctors and nurses faced was the fact that we were both allergic to penicillin.
Curly was a Marine Corps combat infantryman who participated in the secret invasion of Laos in 1969. He was seriously wounded during a Viet Cong ambush and became separated from his unit deep in the jungle. During one of the many long nights in the hospital when we were awake at the same time and could speak loud enough for each of us to hear the other, he told me he laid there covered by dense foliage with his head turned so that he could catch an occasional drop of water falling from the leaves just above him.
He couldn't feel his legs or one arm because of multiple shrapnel wounds. He kept his one useful hand on a .45 he had taken from his platoon's Navy Corpsman who was killed when the attack started. He told me he made sure the weapon was pointed at his forehead. He assumed he only had a few rounds of ammunition left and he had no intention of allowing himself to be captured by the VC. Every sound he heard, or thought he heard, was magnified so loudly that he expected his eardrums to burst at any moment. He laid there through the night, dozing off for only minutes at a time as he slowly bled to death, not sure if he was dead or still alive.
Sometime the next morning, he thought he heard footsteps. He wasn't sure until he heard them again, and then again. They were getting closer. He rechecked to make sure the safety on his weapon was off. He placed the end of the barrel against his head and prepared to take himself out. As the sounds got closer, he heard two voices talking very softly to each other. The language didn't sound like anything he had heard before. Seconds later, the large leaf above him began to move to the side and a voice repeatedly said, "Hmong! Hmong!"
Curly had been discovered by Hmong Freedom Fighters. The two men were soon joined by a dozen others. They quickly crafted a litter out of tree limbs and leaves, picked Curly up, and started through the jungle. That was the last thing he remembered for more than a week, the time it took for the Hmong who rescued him to hand him over to a unit of the Royal Laotian Army. The RLA soldiers transported him back to the Vietnam border and turned him over to a U.S. Army unit a few days later. He was airlifted to the Philippines, then to Pearl Harbor, and finally to the Great Lakes Naval Hospital in Illinois.
A couple of days before he died, Curly and I had both regained consciousness and neither of us were happy about it. We started talking about anything and everything so we didn't have to constantly think about the rib-shattering coughing, the stinking sweat, the painful shivering and, most of all, the 104-degree body temperature that was literally consuming us. After telling me the story of how he wound up in the bed next to me, he asked me if I would do him a favor.
He told me he knew he would never leave that room alive and he was fairly certain I wouldn't either. But, if I did, he asked me if I would thank a Hmong Freedom Fighter for saving his life if I ever had the chance. Guys in that situation always agree to anything, no matter what it might be. After I told him I would, he said, "Dammit, I mean it, Doc! I'm not kidding. I'm never going to be able to do it. You might. Will you do it?" I waited about a minute before assuring him I would do my best if I survived. It took 36 years and 5 months for me to fulfill my promise, but I finally did it.
I was dozing off when I heard Curly cough and make a noise I hadn't heard him make before. I knew something was wrong, but I wasn't sure I was actually awake so I waited to see if I heard it again. Suddenly he started to gasp for air. I instinctively tried to go to him but I couldn't even sit up. Realizing I couldn't help him, I tried to holler for a Corpsman. I had barely enough lung capacity to talk quietly, so the only thing that came out of my mouth was a pitiful whine that no one else could hear. I have never known such frustration.
Forgetting that we were both attached to monitors, I was surprised to hear a platoon of shoes squeaking down the hall towards our room. The first Corpsman through the door immediately issued a Code Blue. Within seconds, Curly's bed was surrounded by nurses and then doctors trying to stabilize him. I knew it was big trouble when they ordered a tracheotomy kit.
One of the nurses ordered a Corpsman to get a bath towel and stand between my bed and Curly's bed. At first I was angry because it wasn't like I had never been around trauma before. I understood why she did it when blood started flying all over the room. I laid there and listened to them work on him, trying everything they could think of and then trying everything again. The frenzied effort to save him went on for maybe 30 minutes. Then they became quiet simultaneously. I heard the doctor say, "Time of death ... sixteen-hundred twenty-seven hours."
I never forgot the promise I made to him, but as the years went by I figured I wouldn't have the opportunity to accomplish it. I never thought that the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack would eventually present the chance to do as Curly had asked. In August of 2006, U.S. Army Specialist Qixing Lee sacrificed his life while serving America. When the story appeared in the Minneapolis newspaper, it mentioned the fact that Lee's father, Chedrua Yanlecheuyin, was a Hmong Freedom Fighter who had emigrated to the United States with his family after the United States abandoned Vietnam.
The family invited the Minnesota Patriot Guard to participate in Qixing's burial service. I posted a note of condolence on the Patriot Guard Riders national website, hoping the family would read it some day. In the note, I mentioned the fact that Hmong Freedom Fighters and the Royal Laotian Army had saved the lives of countless Americans during the Vietnam War. In addition to honoring the service and sacrifice of Qixing Lee, I also wanted to thank his father for his efforts. That started a chain of events that resulted in being able to meet Chedrua Yanlecheuyin as his son was laid to rest and to thank him in person.
I suppose I'll never find out exactly how my brother and sister Patriot Guard Riders managed to arrange my meeting with the Lee family at Fort Snelling National Cemetery on September 11, 2006 ... five years to the day after the event that eventually resulted in Qixing's death. PGR members picked me up at my house, escorted me to the staging area, drove me to the cemetery, positioned me near the committal shelter, and then steered family members towards me ... one by one ... until I was escorted to meet Chedrua.
Qixing's brother, wearing his Marine Corps dress uniform, was the first to approach. I saluted him and he returned the salute. Then Qixing's sister followed. She had just returned from her U.S. Army duty station in Korea. After speaking briefly with them, I was led to their parents. I offered my condolences to Qixing's mother and then turned to his father. We spoke briefly and I thanked him on behalf of Curly. I can't remember what either of us said, but it must have made sense because we were suddenly hugging each other like long-lost war buddies who hadn't seen each other in decades.
That day led to being invited to speak at a Hmong festival that's held every year in Saint Paul, attracting thousands of Hmong and Laotians who now call the United States home. The second generation is now fighting, and dying, for their new country. I had the chance to thank them again. I was treated with the utmost respect and kindness by all who were there. The following summer, the U.S. Navy Junior ROTC program at Arlington Senior High School, which included mostly Hmong-Americans, served as the anchor group for EchoTaps 2007 at Fort Snelling National Cemetery, an event my group coordinated on behalf of the National Cemetery Administration and Bugles Across America.
Two days after Curly died, and mainly because of his death, my doctor asked me if I was willing to try an experimental antibiotic that had never been tested on humans. Nothing else was working, so I agreed. If the medicine killed me, it would be a much better way to leave this world than what I was going through at the time. The drug had to be given intra-muscular, so I was injected in both arms and both buttocks every six hours around the clock for seven days. Obviously it worked. It was eventually approved for humans and is still used today.
The evening of the same day I agreed to try the new drug, President Richard Nixon announced to the nation that the United States had invaded Cambodia, thereby ending the veil of secrecy that had surrounded American operations in Laos and Cambodia for years. Several days after that, what was left of the fabric of America was torn apart by the shooting at Kent State University and the ensuing anti-war riots across the country.
Curly was 19 years old when he died. I turned 19 shortly thereafter. We were both old men by then. That brief slice of my life has controlled every day since. That was the period of my life when I learned what honor means. That's when I learned what service and sacrifice means. That's when I learned what is really important in life ... and death. Despite all of the horror, despite all of the loss, I would probably do it again ... because I know that I would likely meet another guy like Curly. Rest in peace, my Brother. Semper Fi.
by Jeff Seeber
Forty years ago today ... April 28, 1970 ... I watched a United States Marine die less than five feet away from me. I did absolutely nothing to help him. I couldn't. I had never known such a helpless feeling before that moment and I have never known one since. I just laid in my rack and watched him die, unable to do anything when he needed it the most.
Curly and I had arrived in the critical care respiratory ward at Great Lakes Naval Hospital within a few days of each other some two months earlier. We were placed in the same room because we had contracted a somewhat rare and deadly strain of pneumonia. We had both been in comas and then in and out of consciousness too many times to count. My weight had dropped to under 100 pounds and I'm fairly certain his had too, judging from how easy it was to lift him from his rack after he was gone. The main complication our doctors and nurses faced was the fact that we were both allergic to penicillin.
Curly was a Marine Corps combat infantryman who participated in the secret invasion of Laos in 1969. He was seriously wounded during a Viet Cong ambush and became separated from his unit deep in the jungle. During one of the many long nights in the hospital when we were awake at the same time and could speak loud enough for each of us to hear the other, he told me he laid there covered by dense foliage with his head turned so that he could catch an occasional drop of water falling from the leaves just above him.
He couldn't feel his legs or one arm because of multiple shrapnel wounds. He kept his one useful hand on a .45 he had taken from his platoon's Navy Corpsman who was killed when the attack started. He told me he made sure the weapon was pointed at his forehead. He assumed he only had a few rounds of ammunition left and he had no intention of allowing himself to be captured by the VC. Every sound he heard, or thought he heard, was magnified so loudly that he expected his eardrums to burst at any moment. He laid there through the night, dozing off for only minutes at a time as he slowly bled to death, not sure if he was dead or still alive.
Sometime the next morning, he thought he heard footsteps. He wasn't sure until he heard them again, and then again. They were getting closer. He rechecked to make sure the safety on his weapon was off. He placed the end of the barrel against his head and prepared to take himself out. As the sounds got closer, he heard two voices talking very softly to each other. The language didn't sound like anything he had heard before. Seconds later, the large leaf above him began to move to the side and a voice repeatedly said, "Hmong! Hmong!"
Curly had been discovered by Hmong Freedom Fighters. The two men were soon joined by a dozen others. They quickly crafted a litter out of tree limbs and leaves, picked Curly up, and started through the jungle. That was the last thing he remembered for more than a week, the time it took for the Hmong who rescued him to hand him over to a unit of the Royal Laotian Army. The RLA soldiers transported him back to the Vietnam border and turned him over to a U.S. Army unit a few days later. He was airlifted to the Philippines, then to Pearl Harbor, and finally to the Great Lakes Naval Hospital in Illinois.
A couple of days before he died, Curly and I had both regained consciousness and neither of us were happy about it. We started talking about anything and everything so we didn't have to constantly think about the rib-shattering coughing, the stinking sweat, the painful shivering and, most of all, the 104-degree body temperature that was literally consuming us. After telling me the story of how he wound up in the bed next to me, he asked me if I would do him a favor.
He told me he knew he would never leave that room alive and he was fairly certain I wouldn't either. But, if I did, he asked me if I would thank a Hmong Freedom Fighter for saving his life if I ever had the chance. Guys in that situation always agree to anything, no matter what it might be. After I told him I would, he said, "Dammit, I mean it, Doc! I'm not kidding. I'm never going to be able to do it. You might. Will you do it?" I waited about a minute before assuring him I would do my best if I survived. It took 36 years and 5 months for me to fulfill my promise, but I finally did it.
I was dozing off when I heard Curly cough and make a noise I hadn't heard him make before. I knew something was wrong, but I wasn't sure I was actually awake so I waited to see if I heard it again. Suddenly he started to gasp for air. I instinctively tried to go to him but I couldn't even sit up. Realizing I couldn't help him, I tried to holler for a Corpsman. I had barely enough lung capacity to talk quietly, so the only thing that came out of my mouth was a pitiful whine that no one else could hear. I have never known such frustration.
Forgetting that we were both attached to monitors, I was surprised to hear a platoon of shoes squeaking down the hall towards our room. The first Corpsman through the door immediately issued a Code Blue. Within seconds, Curly's bed was surrounded by nurses and then doctors trying to stabilize him. I knew it was big trouble when they ordered a tracheotomy kit.
One of the nurses ordered a Corpsman to get a bath towel and stand between my bed and Curly's bed. At first I was angry because it wasn't like I had never been around trauma before. I understood why she did it when blood started flying all over the room. I laid there and listened to them work on him, trying everything they could think of and then trying everything again. The frenzied effort to save him went on for maybe 30 minutes. Then they became quiet simultaneously. I heard the doctor say, "Time of death ... sixteen-hundred twenty-seven hours."
I never forgot the promise I made to him, but as the years went by I figured I wouldn't have the opportunity to accomplish it. I never thought that the September 11, 2001 terrorist attack would eventually present the chance to do as Curly had asked. In August of 2006, U.S. Army Specialist Qixing Lee sacrificed his life while serving America. When the story appeared in the Minneapolis newspaper, it mentioned the fact that Lee's father, Chedrua Yanlecheuyin, was a Hmong Freedom Fighter who had emigrated to the United States with his family after the United States abandoned Vietnam.
The family invited the Minnesota Patriot Guard to participate in Qixing's burial service. I posted a note of condolence on the Patriot Guard Riders national website, hoping the family would read it some day. In the note, I mentioned the fact that Hmong Freedom Fighters and the Royal Laotian Army had saved the lives of countless Americans during the Vietnam War. In addition to honoring the service and sacrifice of Qixing Lee, I also wanted to thank his father for his efforts. That started a chain of events that resulted in being able to meet Chedrua Yanlecheuyin as his son was laid to rest and to thank him in person.
I suppose I'll never find out exactly how my brother and sister Patriot Guard Riders managed to arrange my meeting with the Lee family at Fort Snelling National Cemetery on September 11, 2006 ... five years to the day after the event that eventually resulted in Qixing's death. PGR members picked me up at my house, escorted me to the staging area, drove me to the cemetery, positioned me near the committal shelter, and then steered family members towards me ... one by one ... until I was escorted to meet Chedrua.
Qixing's brother, wearing his Marine Corps dress uniform, was the first to approach. I saluted him and he returned the salute. Then Qixing's sister followed. She had just returned from her U.S. Army duty station in Korea. After speaking briefly with them, I was led to their parents. I offered my condolences to Qixing's mother and then turned to his father. We spoke briefly and I thanked him on behalf of Curly. I can't remember what either of us said, but it must have made sense because we were suddenly hugging each other like long-lost war buddies who hadn't seen each other in decades.
That day led to being invited to speak at a Hmong festival that's held every year in Saint Paul, attracting thousands of Hmong and Laotians who now call the United States home. The second generation is now fighting, and dying, for their new country. I had the chance to thank them again. I was treated with the utmost respect and kindness by all who were there. The following summer, the U.S. Navy Junior ROTC program at Arlington Senior High School, which included mostly Hmong-Americans, served as the anchor group for EchoTaps 2007 at Fort Snelling National Cemetery, an event my group coordinated on behalf of the National Cemetery Administration and Bugles Across America.
Two days after Curly died, and mainly because of his death, my doctor asked me if I was willing to try an experimental antibiotic that had never been tested on humans. Nothing else was working, so I agreed. If the medicine killed me, it would be a much better way to leave this world than what I was going through at the time. The drug had to be given intra-muscular, so I was injected in both arms and both buttocks every six hours around the clock for seven days. Obviously it worked. It was eventually approved for humans and is still used today.
The evening of the same day I agreed to try the new drug, President Richard Nixon announced to the nation that the United States had invaded Cambodia, thereby ending the veil of secrecy that had surrounded American operations in Laos and Cambodia for years. Several days after that, what was left of the fabric of America was torn apart by the shooting at Kent State University and the ensuing anti-war riots across the country.
Curly was 19 years old when he died. I turned 19 shortly thereafter. We were both old men by then. That brief slice of my life has controlled every day since. That was the period of my life when I learned what honor means. That's when I learned what service and sacrifice means. That's when I learned what is really important in life ... and death. Despite all of the horror, despite all of the loss, I would probably do it again ... because I know that I would likely meet another guy like Curly. Rest in peace, my Brother. Semper Fi.