Road to Recovery
Wounded August 15, 1969
by Charlie Deppen
Wounded August 15, 1969
by Charlie Deppen
Charlie Deppen in Hospital at Japan
Reflecting on significant events from the past—wedding day, birth of a child, an accident, a significant sports team win or loss—we can recall everything in great detail, as if viewing a video recording. That wasn't how I recall the events surrounding August 15, 1969, and the following time. I remember those events as a disconnected series of snapshots or video shorts.
Our platoon was part of a sweep through a ville. My squad came up to a small dry ditch or ravine with an open field on the other side. The squad approached a bridge or path over the ditch to my left, then spread out. I moved to the far right of the squad.
I moved into the dry bed and up the other side on the field edge. Standing and ready to move across the field, a shock wave stunned and deafened me.
Coming to my senses, I was numb and still standing on the edge of the field. I believe an explosion occurred.
I assessed my physical state by looking at my body. First, I understood I was alive and standing in the aftermath of an explosion. I checked my left and right arms and hands—no blood or wounds. Checking for blood, I wiped a hand across my face. No blood.
Next, I looked at my left leg. Everything OK. Then I scanned my right leg, and I saw a piece of gray metal the size of a few nickels stacked together sticking out of my right kneecap. This surprised me. I felt no pain—shock, maybe—but I knew that piece of shrapnel didn't belong in my knee.
I sat behind the ditch and called for a medic.
I can't remember who came to my aid or how long I stood there. They placed me in an APC. The door was open. I think I was sitting or lying on the back right section. At least one other wounded soldier next to me, maybe more. Being in shock, I didn't recognize him. What I remembered—or focused on—he appeared covered by debris from bamboo or bushes. My whole awareness of his condition became focused on a single piece of dirt and debris on his hand. His finger appeared broken at the joint and bent at a right angle. Strange I only remember that specific injury. He could have had many more serious wounds.
I had no sense of time passing.
The next snapshot: I'm being helped on the dust-off for evacuation. I assumed I was the last wounded loaded because of my insignificant injury. No blood. No ill effects, except that pesky piece of shrapnel and a concussion. As my turn came, I felt relief leaving the battlefield. The helicopter took off and I sat up, thought it cool to look at the countryside passing below as we flew away.
I don't remember landing or being taken into the operating theater, but I remember lying by myself inside and near the wall of what appeared a large tent. I watched doctors working on someone on the other side. It became my turn and I recall being annoyed they wanted to cut my right boot off before working on me.
What a waste of a good boot.
They finished doing what they needed to do, and I made a mistake I regretted for over forty years. One person attending me offered me the piece of shrapnel that had been in my knee.
I declined the offer. What a schmuck.
The next day—I guess—I found myself in a recovery ward with a large bandage wrapped around my right knee. A doctor told me the shrapnel hit a bull's-eye on my right kneecap, fracturing it. The aids periodically squirted fluid into the wound to rinse it out.
After five days, they told me I'd developed a Staph infection. I would need to be evacuated from Nam to Japan for surgery and follow-up treatment.
It appeared my war was over for good.
I remember being visited by platoon members while in the medical ward—I guess in Duc Pho, but I could be wrong about the location. I don't remember who the visitors were. The Brigade commander visited, making rounds of the wards and handing out Zippos with the 11th Brigade emblem on one side and a map of Vietnam on the other. I provided photos of the lighter to the 1st Platoon website.
They transferred me to Cam Ranh Bay preparatory to my Golden Dust-off to Japan. I flew from Nam to Kishine, Japan on August 22, 1969—my 23rd birthday. Best birthday present I ever got. Checking me into the orthopedic wing at Kishine (known as Kishine Barracks), a corpsman asked me my Date of Birth.
I said, "Today."
He thought I was being a wise-ass. Which I guess I was, in a way.
I settled into what I called an orthopedic wing of the hospital. Of the wounded, I had the least serious wound. I must confess to severe survivor's guilt based on those assessments since I served with the First Platoon for only two and a half months. I'm not aware of a member of my platoon who left the unit for any reason in better health than I did. I got a "million-dollar wound."
This feeling of embarrassment at my good fortune increased due to the injuries of the other soldiers around me in Kishine. One young man in a bed near mine had lost both hands. A ward one floor below ours was for burn victims. Their prognosis and recoveries were grim. My experiences confirmed this being near them later as we underwent physical therapy. These reminders of the real costs to life and limb of war was one of my worst experiences from combat and its aftermath.
While in Japan, I received the first of several operations. The doctor determined the patella—kneecap—needed to be removed, and the tendons and sinews around the area re-routed and attached. The surgeon used a larger gauge for the drainage lines into and out of my knee for delivery of antibiotics and draining of any fluid buildup. I think he experimented on me, but I'm not sure. It may have contributed to my less than stellar recovery of motion during post-op.
After a month in Japan, the doctors transferred me to Fort Gordon, Georgia to continue recovery. My parents drove up from Tampa, Florida to meet the medical evacuation plane at Fort Gordon. There I received corrective surgery to increase my range of motion in my right knee. I had more physical therapy, including hydrotherapy in a swimming pool, which I found very helpful.
After a few months of recuperation at Fort Gordon, I got a short leave to go home to Tampa for Christmas. I got orders to report for duty to an armored company of the 1st Armored Division at Fort Hood, Texas on January 2nd.
While there, I was standing at attention at an awards presentation on a parade ground. After a short time, I fainted. They sent me to the hospital at Fort Hood for evaluation, and my doctor got pissed off that they'd returned me to active duty with my poor state of recovery and underlying condition. He ordered a last round of surgeries and PT, then returned me to duty with a profile: No running, jumping, stooping, bending, prolonged standing, or marching. I couldn't be given guard duty, KP, or any other special duty. The only duty I had after that was overnight CQ—Charge of Quarters.
The Army transferred me into Supply and changed my MOS from 11B to 76Y. I became the company Supply Sergeant. That was my position until my Expiration of Term of Service and discharge in early December 1970.
Our platoon was part of a sweep through a ville. My squad came up to a small dry ditch or ravine with an open field on the other side. The squad approached a bridge or path over the ditch to my left, then spread out. I moved to the far right of the squad.
I moved into the dry bed and up the other side on the field edge. Standing and ready to move across the field, a shock wave stunned and deafened me.
Coming to my senses, I was numb and still standing on the edge of the field. I believe an explosion occurred.
I assessed my physical state by looking at my body. First, I understood I was alive and standing in the aftermath of an explosion. I checked my left and right arms and hands—no blood or wounds. Checking for blood, I wiped a hand across my face. No blood.
Next, I looked at my left leg. Everything OK. Then I scanned my right leg, and I saw a piece of gray metal the size of a few nickels stacked together sticking out of my right kneecap. This surprised me. I felt no pain—shock, maybe—but I knew that piece of shrapnel didn't belong in my knee.
I sat behind the ditch and called for a medic.
I can't remember who came to my aid or how long I stood there. They placed me in an APC. The door was open. I think I was sitting or lying on the back right section. At least one other wounded soldier next to me, maybe more. Being in shock, I didn't recognize him. What I remembered—or focused on—he appeared covered by debris from bamboo or bushes. My whole awareness of his condition became focused on a single piece of dirt and debris on his hand. His finger appeared broken at the joint and bent at a right angle. Strange I only remember that specific injury. He could have had many more serious wounds.
I had no sense of time passing.
The next snapshot: I'm being helped on the dust-off for evacuation. I assumed I was the last wounded loaded because of my insignificant injury. No blood. No ill effects, except that pesky piece of shrapnel and a concussion. As my turn came, I felt relief leaving the battlefield. The helicopter took off and I sat up, thought it cool to look at the countryside passing below as we flew away.
I don't remember landing or being taken into the operating theater, but I remember lying by myself inside and near the wall of what appeared a large tent. I watched doctors working on someone on the other side. It became my turn and I recall being annoyed they wanted to cut my right boot off before working on me.
What a waste of a good boot.
They finished doing what they needed to do, and I made a mistake I regretted for over forty years. One person attending me offered me the piece of shrapnel that had been in my knee.
I declined the offer. What a schmuck.
The next day—I guess—I found myself in a recovery ward with a large bandage wrapped around my right knee. A doctor told me the shrapnel hit a bull's-eye on my right kneecap, fracturing it. The aids periodically squirted fluid into the wound to rinse it out.
After five days, they told me I'd developed a Staph infection. I would need to be evacuated from Nam to Japan for surgery and follow-up treatment.
It appeared my war was over for good.
I remember being visited by platoon members while in the medical ward—I guess in Duc Pho, but I could be wrong about the location. I don't remember who the visitors were. The Brigade commander visited, making rounds of the wards and handing out Zippos with the 11th Brigade emblem on one side and a map of Vietnam on the other. I provided photos of the lighter to the 1st Platoon website.
They transferred me to Cam Ranh Bay preparatory to my Golden Dust-off to Japan. I flew from Nam to Kishine, Japan on August 22, 1969—my 23rd birthday. Best birthday present I ever got. Checking me into the orthopedic wing at Kishine (known as Kishine Barracks), a corpsman asked me my Date of Birth.
I said, "Today."
He thought I was being a wise-ass. Which I guess I was, in a way.
I settled into what I called an orthopedic wing of the hospital. Of the wounded, I had the least serious wound. I must confess to severe survivor's guilt based on those assessments since I served with the First Platoon for only two and a half months. I'm not aware of a member of my platoon who left the unit for any reason in better health than I did. I got a "million-dollar wound."
This feeling of embarrassment at my good fortune increased due to the injuries of the other soldiers around me in Kishine. One young man in a bed near mine had lost both hands. A ward one floor below ours was for burn victims. Their prognosis and recoveries were grim. My experiences confirmed this being near them later as we underwent physical therapy. These reminders of the real costs to life and limb of war was one of my worst experiences from combat and its aftermath.
While in Japan, I received the first of several operations. The doctor determined the patella—kneecap—needed to be removed, and the tendons and sinews around the area re-routed and attached. The surgeon used a larger gauge for the drainage lines into and out of my knee for delivery of antibiotics and draining of any fluid buildup. I think he experimented on me, but I'm not sure. It may have contributed to my less than stellar recovery of motion during post-op.
After a month in Japan, the doctors transferred me to Fort Gordon, Georgia to continue recovery. My parents drove up from Tampa, Florida to meet the medical evacuation plane at Fort Gordon. There I received corrective surgery to increase my range of motion in my right knee. I had more physical therapy, including hydrotherapy in a swimming pool, which I found very helpful.
After a few months of recuperation at Fort Gordon, I got a short leave to go home to Tampa for Christmas. I got orders to report for duty to an armored company of the 1st Armored Division at Fort Hood, Texas on January 2nd.
While there, I was standing at attention at an awards presentation on a parade ground. After a short time, I fainted. They sent me to the hospital at Fort Hood for evaluation, and my doctor got pissed off that they'd returned me to active duty with my poor state of recovery and underlying condition. He ordered a last round of surgeries and PT, then returned me to duty with a profile: No running, jumping, stooping, bending, prolonged standing, or marching. I couldn't be given guard duty, KP, or any other special duty. The only duty I had after that was overnight CQ—Charge of Quarters.
The Army transferred me into Supply and changed my MOS from 11B to 76Y. I became the company Supply Sergeant. That was my position until my Expiration of Term of Service and discharge in early December 1970.