Road to Recovery
Wounded August 15, 1969
by Tommy Thompson
Wounded August 15, 1969
by Tommy Thompson
Tommy Thompson
Sometimes it's yesterday. Most times it's yesteryear.
Flashback to that day. We were on patrol, working with Track-Asses—APCs. Having cleared a village, we moved across a clearing. Our point man held up a hand. Halt. I was on his right flank.
By the time he raised his hand, a loud explosion.
All hell broke loose.
A slow hell.
With the force of an Oklahoma tornado, the blast jerked me upward, skyward. It happened so fast, yet it unfolded in slow motion. The ground rose to meet me with a violent strike. A Joe Frazier gut punch.
I staggered to my feet. My right hand reached for the source of the piercing pain. My fingers found the wound and my eyes found the blood.
I fell. In slow motion.
The last thing I remembered was the crack of bullets and exploding RPG rounds.
A blur. A fade to black.
As my senses came back—only partially—I found myself on a stretcher, being hustled along. The soldiers carrying it slid it into the APC with other wounded platoon members. The APC moved to a landing zone for the dust-off.
Inside, someone said, "You are going home."
Four words. They still ring in my ears a half-century later.
Sometimes it's yesterday.
We were still taking fire as the dust-off landed. Once in the air, still struggling to understand, I wanted to grab the door gunner's foot, wanting him to shove it against my side for compression. I couldn't reach. I pointed to my side and his boot. He didn't know what I asked. And he was doing his job.
At the Chu Lai hospital, medics put our stretchers on sawhorses. Panic or pain—I had a hard time breathing. Extremely hard. The reality and fear enveloped my brain, my senses, my being. The reality and fear of my wounds hit me. The realization I might not see home again.
After medics cut off my fatigues, they pushed me through the doors. My feet hit the doors first. The pain was excruciating. Damn, that hurt. Then I saw it—my right foot had a through-and-through wound. My brain let the rest of my body know, in no uncertain terms.
Before long, my attention shifted from my feet to my head. I grabbed for something being lifted from my nose and mouth. The oxygen cup. I was in the ICU. Please, I need that oxygen—soothing, cool. It felt so good, so comforting. I fought unseen forces to get it back.
At one point, thankfully, I slept. Not a restful sleep. A fitful sleep. In one nightmare, I was back with my squad under attack. The nightmare was real, I guess. I crawled out of bed and tumbled to the floor. Nurse and orderlies helped me back in bed.
Our Brigade Commander came by to check on the wounded. He said two 250-pound bombs, booby-trapped to hit our tracks, had exploded. He gave me an 11th Brigade cigarette lighter. I don't know what became of it. Two years ago, I learned it was Colonel Jack Treadwell. His family lived in the same town as my dad's family in Snyder, Oklahoma. There was a monument to him in a park that bears his name in Snyder.
I had no memory of being moved to Cam Ranh Bay from Chu Lai. It was a blur then. Time still hasn't brought it into full focus.
But I recall the C-141 trip from Cam Ranh to Tachikawa Air Force Base in Japan. We were on stretchers, attached to a metal framework stacked four or five high on both sides along the center in the guts of our air taxi ride. Once unloaded and carried inside to the air base hospital, we remained for two days. I remember a beautiful blonde nurse who showed compassion for the wounded under her care. Her compassion was the last I would see, or feel, for years to come.
Wish I could remember her name.
After three days, I took a bumpy ride in an M*A*S*H-like bus, still on a stretcher, through the streets of Yokohama to Kishine. Funny, I don't remember seeing any sights along the way. Must have been on the bottom.
There are bad memories and good memories of my stay at the 106th.
Bad first.
I had two infections develop during the first week. One at the bottom of the incision running the length of my chest to my belly button. The second on the top right part of my right foot. The infection on my foot happened first. Stitches on the inside of my foot below the ankle had to be removed. They cleaned my open wounds each day. Think hellfire and brimstone.
The infection above my belly button was like half of a small rubber ball of pus. It had to be opened. I swear they didn't deaden the wound as they opened it. I tried to punch the doctor—or whatever he was—but the nurse saw my reaction and grabbed my right arm. My red-hair temper came to light. The timing wasn't good.
Now I had three open wounds. They stitched the wounds again once they contained the infection.
Then there was the laxative incident. I got into a wheelchair and could wheel to the mess hall, bathroom, etc. Without getting graphic, let's say the laxative worked. It worked too well. Too fast. I didn't make it to the bathroom. As one might imagine, I wasn't popular with the nurse or the orderlies.
But enough of the bad. Let's remember the good.
Coming back from a particular physical-therapy session, I saw the bottom half of my bed stacked with mail and a big package. It was September—the first mail I'd received since late July. I had many letters to read. No better feeling for a Grunt than mail from home. After reading and rereading every letter, I asked if I could call home. It had to be a collect call. Interacting with Japanese telephone operators wasn't too terrible.
My wife, Connie, answered. It was incredible. The best feeling in the world. She didn't know I would be calling. Besides that, it was 3 o'clock in the morning in Bristow, Oklahoma. Don't remember too much of our talk. But I know there were tears and many "I love you's."
I lost weight during this ordeal. I had little weight to lose. One of the weirdest things they brought us was beer. We received beer three times a day. During one of those times, I had Stag beer. I didn't like it. Still don't drink it today. Even if they still make it. (I hope they don't.)
The guy in the bed next to me had a Presbyterian minister visiting him. The minister kept looking at the beer on my food tray. I asked him if he wanted the beer since I didn't want it. He took the beer and drank it.
Blew me away.
The cinema and PX were across the hospital compound, so using a wheelchair was a chore. The first movie was Support Your Local Sheriff, the comedy-action film starring Oklahoma's own James Garner. It felt good to laugh out loud. To this day, it's still in my top ten movie list.
The flight back stateside.
The buses took us back to Tachikawa, still on stretchers, and again carried onto a C-141. There was a small city of us wounded, stacked and lining the middle of the transport. Wounded sat on both sides in those strap-type seats. We left Japan around noon on a Tuesday and arrived at Travis Air Base in Oakland at 5 a.m. Tuesday.
They carried us to a building and set us on a concrete floor. They brought a tray of food loaded with steak and eggs, pancakes, and much more. Couldn't eat a bite. We could call home too. What a blessing to be on U.S. soil and tell your wife you're safe.
After a brief stay in Brooke Army Hospital, San Antonio, they transferred me to Oklahoma at Fort Sill.
Back at last.
Connie and one of my best friends, Barry West, and his wife drove to Lawton to see me.
Gee, good to be back home again.
Sometimes it seemed like yesterday.
Flashback to that day. We were on patrol, working with Track-Asses—APCs. Having cleared a village, we moved across a clearing. Our point man held up a hand. Halt. I was on his right flank.
By the time he raised his hand, a loud explosion.
All hell broke loose.
A slow hell.
With the force of an Oklahoma tornado, the blast jerked me upward, skyward. It happened so fast, yet it unfolded in slow motion. The ground rose to meet me with a violent strike. A Joe Frazier gut punch.
I staggered to my feet. My right hand reached for the source of the piercing pain. My fingers found the wound and my eyes found the blood.
I fell. In slow motion.
The last thing I remembered was the crack of bullets and exploding RPG rounds.
A blur. A fade to black.
As my senses came back—only partially—I found myself on a stretcher, being hustled along. The soldiers carrying it slid it into the APC with other wounded platoon members. The APC moved to a landing zone for the dust-off.
Inside, someone said, "You are going home."
Four words. They still ring in my ears a half-century later.
Sometimes it's yesterday.
We were still taking fire as the dust-off landed. Once in the air, still struggling to understand, I wanted to grab the door gunner's foot, wanting him to shove it against my side for compression. I couldn't reach. I pointed to my side and his boot. He didn't know what I asked. And he was doing his job.
At the Chu Lai hospital, medics put our stretchers on sawhorses. Panic or pain—I had a hard time breathing. Extremely hard. The reality and fear enveloped my brain, my senses, my being. The reality and fear of my wounds hit me. The realization I might not see home again.
After medics cut off my fatigues, they pushed me through the doors. My feet hit the doors first. The pain was excruciating. Damn, that hurt. Then I saw it—my right foot had a through-and-through wound. My brain let the rest of my body know, in no uncertain terms.
Before long, my attention shifted from my feet to my head. I grabbed for something being lifted from my nose and mouth. The oxygen cup. I was in the ICU. Please, I need that oxygen—soothing, cool. It felt so good, so comforting. I fought unseen forces to get it back.
At one point, thankfully, I slept. Not a restful sleep. A fitful sleep. In one nightmare, I was back with my squad under attack. The nightmare was real, I guess. I crawled out of bed and tumbled to the floor. Nurse and orderlies helped me back in bed.
Our Brigade Commander came by to check on the wounded. He said two 250-pound bombs, booby-trapped to hit our tracks, had exploded. He gave me an 11th Brigade cigarette lighter. I don't know what became of it. Two years ago, I learned it was Colonel Jack Treadwell. His family lived in the same town as my dad's family in Snyder, Oklahoma. There was a monument to him in a park that bears his name in Snyder.
I had no memory of being moved to Cam Ranh Bay from Chu Lai. It was a blur then. Time still hasn't brought it into full focus.
But I recall the C-141 trip from Cam Ranh to Tachikawa Air Force Base in Japan. We were on stretchers, attached to a metal framework stacked four or five high on both sides along the center in the guts of our air taxi ride. Once unloaded and carried inside to the air base hospital, we remained for two days. I remember a beautiful blonde nurse who showed compassion for the wounded under her care. Her compassion was the last I would see, or feel, for years to come.
Wish I could remember her name.
After three days, I took a bumpy ride in an M*A*S*H-like bus, still on a stretcher, through the streets of Yokohama to Kishine. Funny, I don't remember seeing any sights along the way. Must have been on the bottom.
There are bad memories and good memories of my stay at the 106th.
Bad first.
I had two infections develop during the first week. One at the bottom of the incision running the length of my chest to my belly button. The second on the top right part of my right foot. The infection on my foot happened first. Stitches on the inside of my foot below the ankle had to be removed. They cleaned my open wounds each day. Think hellfire and brimstone.
The infection above my belly button was like half of a small rubber ball of pus. It had to be opened. I swear they didn't deaden the wound as they opened it. I tried to punch the doctor—or whatever he was—but the nurse saw my reaction and grabbed my right arm. My red-hair temper came to light. The timing wasn't good.
Now I had three open wounds. They stitched the wounds again once they contained the infection.
Then there was the laxative incident. I got into a wheelchair and could wheel to the mess hall, bathroom, etc. Without getting graphic, let's say the laxative worked. It worked too well. Too fast. I didn't make it to the bathroom. As one might imagine, I wasn't popular with the nurse or the orderlies.
But enough of the bad. Let's remember the good.
Coming back from a particular physical-therapy session, I saw the bottom half of my bed stacked with mail and a big package. It was September—the first mail I'd received since late July. I had many letters to read. No better feeling for a Grunt than mail from home. After reading and rereading every letter, I asked if I could call home. It had to be a collect call. Interacting with Japanese telephone operators wasn't too terrible.
My wife, Connie, answered. It was incredible. The best feeling in the world. She didn't know I would be calling. Besides that, it was 3 o'clock in the morning in Bristow, Oklahoma. Don't remember too much of our talk. But I know there were tears and many "I love you's."
I lost weight during this ordeal. I had little weight to lose. One of the weirdest things they brought us was beer. We received beer three times a day. During one of those times, I had Stag beer. I didn't like it. Still don't drink it today. Even if they still make it. (I hope they don't.)
The guy in the bed next to me had a Presbyterian minister visiting him. The minister kept looking at the beer on my food tray. I asked him if he wanted the beer since I didn't want it. He took the beer and drank it.
Blew me away.
The cinema and PX were across the hospital compound, so using a wheelchair was a chore. The first movie was Support Your Local Sheriff, the comedy-action film starring Oklahoma's own James Garner. It felt good to laugh out loud. To this day, it's still in my top ten movie list.
The flight back stateside.
The buses took us back to Tachikawa, still on stretchers, and again carried onto a C-141. There was a small city of us wounded, stacked and lining the middle of the transport. Wounded sat on both sides in those strap-type seats. We left Japan around noon on a Tuesday and arrived at Travis Air Base in Oakland at 5 a.m. Tuesday.
They carried us to a building and set us on a concrete floor. They brought a tray of food loaded with steak and eggs, pancakes, and much more. Couldn't eat a bite. We could call home too. What a blessing to be on U.S. soil and tell your wife you're safe.
After a brief stay in Brooke Army Hospital, San Antonio, they transferred me to Oklahoma at Fort Sill.
Back at last.
Connie and one of my best friends, Barry West, and his wife drove to Lawton to see me.
Gee, good to be back home again.
Sometimes it seemed like yesterday.