The earliest records of military medicine come down to us from the Egyptian 17th Dynasty, some three thousand, five hundred years ago. Archaeologists have translated a papyrus scroll of that time that lists the treatments for various wounds that their soldiers suffered and what to do about them. Later, the Greeks invested in battlefield medicine to such a degree that Homer considered the medic as the most valuable of the soldiers. Galen, a famous Roman doctor in the first century, learned his trade treating soldiers. For all that history though, none of the ancients ever had combat medics as we know them today. They treated the wounded after they had been dragged back to the rear of the fighters or they treated them a day or two after the fight was over. Baron Dominique Larrey, chief surgeon of Napoleon's Imperial Guard, pioneered the use of quick ambulance recovery and fast surgery while the soldier was still in shock with results that led to higher survival rates in Napoleon's armies.

     Homer was right, medics are the most valuable men in a fighting platoon. They come in all shapes, sizes and have different personalities. They are white, black, Native American, Asian and everything in between. I have no idea how the various tests that new soldiers take are evaluated, I do remember the various advanced training assignments at the end of Basic Training and how either pleased or anxious we were with our individual assignments. I can't recall anyone that was in my class that was going off to Medic training. The only ones that I ever met or got to know we're the ones that were assigned to the platoons that I served in. The one that I served with for the second half of my tour made the most impression on me. Talking with the other guys at the reunions leads me to believe that every man thinks that his medic was the best, the most courages, the most fearless. I'm ok with that, but deep down inside, I know that Larry Lick had them all beat. I was in awe of the way he completely ignored everything except the guy he was treating. Somehow his example of absolute coolness under fire helped the rest of us do our job. My first conversation with Doc was a panicky description of my urine turning a brownish color one morning before we started the fight on the first day at Ap Cho. He never batted an eye, filled out a prescription blank and told me to take he morning chopper back to Cu Chi and get it checked out. I didn't get back till later that night and that's when I first started learning about courage under fire.

     Over the next four months we fought almost every day and Doc was always rushing forward to treat the wounded. He would ride next to Lt. Nishimura; ears listening to the radio, eyes always watching the fight. He'd be running to a wounded guy before the Lieutenant could turn and tell him about it. Now Doc wasn't that saving angel when it wasn't needed. He could act just as foolish as the rest of us when we weren't taking casualties. Once when we were fighting in an alley just outside of Saigon, he had a bit of fun with me. A hot piece of shrapnel hit me in my butt. I'd never been wounded, and since I couldn't see the damage, I limped over to Doc and told him that I thought I'd been hit. He had me drop my pants, turn around, and bend over. After a thorough "examination", he allowed that he could put a band aid on it. It was enough to send me back into that alley with both a red ass and a redder face. Less than a week later, Doc proved just how quick he could correctly diagnose and triage on the fly. A new guy named Bill and I had been wounded by the back blast from an RPG that hit my track. We had been fighting between the vehicles and Bill was hit by several pieces in his legs and I had one in my neck. Doc saw in an instant that the RPG tore up Paul Gritten in the TC hatch and flew past Bill and I, tending to the far more serious wounds that Paul sustained. Bill kept falling down and I was wandering around in a daze, but Grit was the guy that needed Doc the most so that was his priority.

     The day Ollie Sauls died I was running back from the flank with Doc after he checked out a man with heat exhaustion. Doc suddenly left his feet and dove on top of a guy who turned out to be Ollie. I couldn't quite understand what was happening, Alabama, the dismounts RTO, was on his back firing toward the area where we're drawing fire. Doc and a man named Gene Yonke were using their bodies to shield Sauls while Doc started to treat a chest and throat wound. I thought it was hopeless, the fountaining stream of blood from the wound in his throat kept get getting smaller and I had to turn away. Not Doc though, he stayed on top of Ollie still trying to seal off the chest wound, shielding Ollie with his own body while trying to save him. Yonke, our Troop commo guy, was trying to help Doc with Ollie but the wounds were fatal. Even after they both knew Ollie had passed, they were still protecting his body. I don't know where that kind of courage comes from, but I'm a little glad that I never had it. It's easy to shoot back when you're being shot at, I can't understand how anyone can deliberately ignore incoming fire to the point that you use your own body to try to first save and then protect another man no matter if the soldier is still alive or already gone. That's real courage. It's a medics stock in trade.

     John G. Jerdon
     Earleville, Maryland.

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