Road to Recovery
Wounded July 14, 1969
by Dusty Rhoades
Wounded July 14, 1969
by Dusty Rhoades
Tim "Dusty" Rhoades
At the Chu Lai Hospital, a huge corpsman cut off my clothes. That pissed me off—I didn't want to be naked in front of the female nurses. Before I knew it, I was naked from the waist down. The corpsman pulled a tube from a plastic container.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm going to put this in your penis."
"Like hell you are."
Within a few minutes and after a struggle, I had a tube in my dick. He pulled out another container with another tube.
"What are you going to do with that?"
"I'm going to put it up your nose."
"Like hell you are."
After another short struggle, I had a tube in my nose.
Now I was naked with one tube coming out of my nose and another out of my dick. Female nurses stood right in front of me. I was embarrassed.
They wheeled me to a cold black x-ray table. The last thing I heard was, "Don't get sick," as I puked and passed out.
I woke up several days later, still at Chu Lai. An IV drip ran into my arm. I lived off fluids for days—I don't know how many. I drifted in and out of sleep, caught between pain and medication in a never-ending cycle. When awake, I'd watch the tube running from my nose to a machine, green liquid draining into a sealed container.
I had multiple wounds on the left side of my back and right wrist. During surgery, the doctor had sliced me from sternum to below the beltline. They bandaged most of my wounds but didn't stitch them so they could drain. It hurt like hell every time they changed the bandages.
Time passed in a haze—dressing changes, medication, painkillers, other medical needs. One evening as I lay awake, confined to my bed, a nurse asked if I wanted to call my parents. I said yes. She would dial through the Military Auxiliary Radio System—MARS. Another nurse wheeled me to the desk and handed me a telephone handset. They told me to say "over" after each sentence. The person on the other end would do the same. This determined who talked and who listened.
Emotions overwhelmed me as they dialed. My mother answered. I told her I was fine. I'm not sure she believed me.
My father picked up.
"What is going on and where are you? Over."
"I'm on R & R. Over." I didn't want to worry them.
"Isn't it too early to be on R & R?" He'd been in WWII. He knew how the Army operated.
I told him everything was okay, not to worry—I just wanted to say hello.
That was the end of our call.
I was in Chu Lai for five days before transferring to Cam Ranh Bay. The nurses were wonderful. You never wanted to look bad in their eyes because there was always someone else with worse wounds than yours.
At Cam Ranh Bay Hospital, the doctors performed quick triage and moved me to a bed. The only thing I remember was watching the weather girl on television in her short skirt, thinking, "What the hell?" Somewhere between Chu Lai and Cam Ranh Bay, one of the Stout brothers stopped by to ask what happened and see how I was doing. I remember little of the visit.
The doctor told me, "You have a million-dollar wound and you're going home."
I didn't understand what he meant. I don't remember much about the trip from Cam Ranh Bay to Japan. After two days in Japan, the nurse removed my catheter. I had to pee. I stood there peeing as if I would never stop—three guys peed and left while I was still standing there. I know it's hard to understand, but I thought it amazing. I could pee on my own again, with a full stream.
After I went back to bed, I learned the doctors had selected many of the wounded to return to the States. I was one of them.
I remember landing in Alaska, the base General greeting us. The plane doors swung open and he offered everyone a steak dinner. Most soldiers on the plane were hooked to IVs and catheters. They couldn't eat a steak dinner, much less go to the mess hall.
Someone from the back yelled, "Close the damn door—we're freezing."
I felt sorry for the General. He hadn't known the plane held wounded soldiers who couldn't leave or eat a meal.
The next stop was Scott Air Force Base in Illinois. I was one of the first unloaded from the plane onto a military bus converted for stretchers. A beautiful woman helped us, trying to make us comfortable. The soldier next to me and I described sexual acts we'd perform with her if given the opportunity. Unfortunately, several other nurses overheard us. After that, they wanted nothing to do with us—except for the oldest nurse, who had probably served in WWII. The same nurse who had taken me to the station for my phone call home.
I arrived at the Army Hospital at Fort Riley, Kansas. One week in an open ward with many wounded soldiers. During that time, I received a box containing my belongings—my airborne boots and dog tags.
During recovery, I remembered Ramos and Reynolds. I wondered what had happened and why. The pain of losing my friends started on the Hill and never ended.
In August, I asked a candy striper to write two letters to Chuck and the platoon. I told them I was in the States and doing fine. I asked how First Squad and the platoon were doing. I missed everyone.
The nurses told me to prepare for a move to Fort Irwin Hospital.
At Fort Irwin, they placed me on the third floor in a special bed. The guy to my right was a combat infantry veteran—one year in Vietnam without a scratch. Not long after returning home, a car accident put him in the hospital with both arms and legs in traction.
A nurse came in and bent over my bed to check my wounds and explain my injuries. The soldier next to me pushed her on the ass. She fell on me screaming, then I screamed. She went to his bed and pulled on his traction sandbags in retaliation, to teach him a lesson. He would never do that again after the pain he experienced.
I became discouraged when I didn't receive letters from the platoon responding to the two I'd written. I felt everybody blamed me for what happened that night. This haunted me for years—in my sleep, during my waking hours. It never stopped.
I was on a ward with twenty to forty other people who had lost everything—sight, legs, arms. Girlfriends, fiancées, wives visited their loved ones on Friday nights. After the visits, we all knew—except for the poor guy being visited—that they were never coming back. I frequently witnessed guys reading Dear John letters or being served divorce papers by attorneys.
The wives couldn't handle what they saw.
The pain of my wounded comrades went deeper than you can imagine.
The pain from not receiving a response from my platoon had the same impact on me.
"What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm going to put this in your penis."
"Like hell you are."
Within a few minutes and after a struggle, I had a tube in my dick. He pulled out another container with another tube.
"What are you going to do with that?"
"I'm going to put it up your nose."
"Like hell you are."
After another short struggle, I had a tube in my nose.
Now I was naked with one tube coming out of my nose and another out of my dick. Female nurses stood right in front of me. I was embarrassed.
They wheeled me to a cold black x-ray table. The last thing I heard was, "Don't get sick," as I puked and passed out.
I woke up several days later, still at Chu Lai. An IV drip ran into my arm. I lived off fluids for days—I don't know how many. I drifted in and out of sleep, caught between pain and medication in a never-ending cycle. When awake, I'd watch the tube running from my nose to a machine, green liquid draining into a sealed container.
I had multiple wounds on the left side of my back and right wrist. During surgery, the doctor had sliced me from sternum to below the beltline. They bandaged most of my wounds but didn't stitch them so they could drain. It hurt like hell every time they changed the bandages.
Time passed in a haze—dressing changes, medication, painkillers, other medical needs. One evening as I lay awake, confined to my bed, a nurse asked if I wanted to call my parents. I said yes. She would dial through the Military Auxiliary Radio System—MARS. Another nurse wheeled me to the desk and handed me a telephone handset. They told me to say "over" after each sentence. The person on the other end would do the same. This determined who talked and who listened.
Emotions overwhelmed me as they dialed. My mother answered. I told her I was fine. I'm not sure she believed me.
My father picked up.
"What is going on and where are you? Over."
"I'm on R & R. Over." I didn't want to worry them.
"Isn't it too early to be on R & R?" He'd been in WWII. He knew how the Army operated.
I told him everything was okay, not to worry—I just wanted to say hello.
That was the end of our call.
I was in Chu Lai for five days before transferring to Cam Ranh Bay. The nurses were wonderful. You never wanted to look bad in their eyes because there was always someone else with worse wounds than yours.
At Cam Ranh Bay Hospital, the doctors performed quick triage and moved me to a bed. The only thing I remember was watching the weather girl on television in her short skirt, thinking, "What the hell?" Somewhere between Chu Lai and Cam Ranh Bay, one of the Stout brothers stopped by to ask what happened and see how I was doing. I remember little of the visit.
The doctor told me, "You have a million-dollar wound and you're going home."
I didn't understand what he meant. I don't remember much about the trip from Cam Ranh Bay to Japan. After two days in Japan, the nurse removed my catheter. I had to pee. I stood there peeing as if I would never stop—three guys peed and left while I was still standing there. I know it's hard to understand, but I thought it amazing. I could pee on my own again, with a full stream.
After I went back to bed, I learned the doctors had selected many of the wounded to return to the States. I was one of them.
I remember landing in Alaska, the base General greeting us. The plane doors swung open and he offered everyone a steak dinner. Most soldiers on the plane were hooked to IVs and catheters. They couldn't eat a steak dinner, much less go to the mess hall.
Someone from the back yelled, "Close the damn door—we're freezing."
I felt sorry for the General. He hadn't known the plane held wounded soldiers who couldn't leave or eat a meal.
The next stop was Scott Air Force Base in Illinois. I was one of the first unloaded from the plane onto a military bus converted for stretchers. A beautiful woman helped us, trying to make us comfortable. The soldier next to me and I described sexual acts we'd perform with her if given the opportunity. Unfortunately, several other nurses overheard us. After that, they wanted nothing to do with us—except for the oldest nurse, who had probably served in WWII. The same nurse who had taken me to the station for my phone call home.
I arrived at the Army Hospital at Fort Riley, Kansas. One week in an open ward with many wounded soldiers. During that time, I received a box containing my belongings—my airborne boots and dog tags.
During recovery, I remembered Ramos and Reynolds. I wondered what had happened and why. The pain of losing my friends started on the Hill and never ended.
In August, I asked a candy striper to write two letters to Chuck and the platoon. I told them I was in the States and doing fine. I asked how First Squad and the platoon were doing. I missed everyone.
The nurses told me to prepare for a move to Fort Irwin Hospital.
At Fort Irwin, they placed me on the third floor in a special bed. The guy to my right was a combat infantry veteran—one year in Vietnam without a scratch. Not long after returning home, a car accident put him in the hospital with both arms and legs in traction.
A nurse came in and bent over my bed to check my wounds and explain my injuries. The soldier next to me pushed her on the ass. She fell on me screaming, then I screamed. She went to his bed and pulled on his traction sandbags in retaliation, to teach him a lesson. He would never do that again after the pain he experienced.
I became discouraged when I didn't receive letters from the platoon responding to the two I'd written. I felt everybody blamed me for what happened that night. This haunted me for years—in my sleep, during my waking hours. It never stopped.
I was on a ward with twenty to forty other people who had lost everything—sight, legs, arms. Girlfriends, fiancées, wives visited their loved ones on Friday nights. After the visits, we all knew—except for the poor guy being visited—that they were never coming back. I frequently witnessed guys reading Dear John letters or being served divorce papers by attorneys.
The wives couldn't handle what they saw.
The pain of my wounded comrades went deeper than you can imagine.
The pain from not receiving a response from my platoon had the same impact on me.