VFW Magazine — August 2017
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Medics In Vietnam
Jerome Greer Chandler


Beloved by their fellow grunts, corpsmen and medics are the first responders for Marines and soldiers wounded on the battlefield. Here are the first-hand accounts of three decorated “Docs” who provided life-saving aid in Vietnam.

The scene could have come from the movies. May 21, 1969: 19-year-old Navy Hospital Corpsman Michael Kuklenski was three weeks deep into his Vietnam tour — on patrol with Alpha Co., 1st Bn., 7th Marines, 1st Marine Div., when he heard a land mine go off. Almost simultaneously, he saw something tumble over his head. It was a boot, and in it part of a lower leg.

“Corpsman up,” came the yell. Three men were down, one of them dead. They lay across an open field. Kuklenski started out across it to render aid. Already there was the company’s senior corpsman, Jim Goss.

One of the surviving Marines, a former athlete, had lost both legs below the knees. Goss and Kuklenski tied off what was left to stop the bleeding, then administered morphine.

Suddenly the critically-wounded Marine broke into song. It was his birthday. “He’s singing ‘Happy Birthday,” remembers Kuklenski, a VFW Department of Texas member and retired businessman in suburban Dallas. “I’m trying to save his life … and keep some composure.”

A week later the conscientious objector corpsman’s composure would be put to the ultimate test.

May 29, 1969: Alpha Company set an ambush for North Vietnamese Army regulars, 30 of whom had been using a trail on a regular basis. Unbeknownst to the Marines, the NVA saw this and countered with an ambush of their own. Instead of the usual 30 NVA, more than three times that many showed up.

“They pretty much wiped out our unit,” Kuklenski said. Seventy percent of those in his unit were killed or wounded. Kuklenski was one of them. Three separate times he was hit, incurring wounds to both arms and both legs.

Unable to walk, the powerful fireplug of a man (he was a former star guard on the Dallas Jesuit High School football team) pulled himself along with his elbows treating the wounded as he went, remembering all along the mantra of corpsmen and medics alike: ‘clear the airway, stop the bleeding, prevent or treat for shock.’

His deeds earned him the Silver Star.

According to U.S. Navy Bureau of Medicine and Surgery Historian Andre Sobocinski, more than 10,000 Navy hospital corpsmen served with Marines during Vietnam. Of those, 645 were killed in action and more than 3,300 wounded.

Sanders Marble, Ph.D., is senior historian, History Branch, of the U.S. Army’s Medical Department (AMEDD) Center of History and Heritage at Fort Sam Houston in San Antonio, Texas. He said, “There are no clear statistics on how many [Army] medics deployed to Vietnam.”

There are, however, crystal clear stats as to how many medical personnel in Vietnam were awarded the nation’s highest commendation for bravery. According to the Medal of Honor Society, 259 medals were conferred for actions during the Vietnam War. Twenty of them went to medics, corpsmen and the like — one out of every 13 conferred.


Like Kuklenski, courage was part and parcel of Jess Johnson’s kit.

Now 66, Johnson was 18 when he deployed as a medic with A Co., 1st Bn., 501st Inf. Regt., 101st Airborne Div. Courage was instilled in him by his father, a soldier with the 78th Lightning Division who lost a leg during the Battle of the Bulge in WWII. One day, Johnson’s father took him aside and said, “You have to be in combat to be a man.” As a result, the son volunteered to go to Vietnam.

“Because of my naivete,” Johnson said, “I didn’t believe that I could ever get hurt.”

Time would put the Bronze Star and two-time Purple Heart recipient’s belief to the test — illustrating the importance of courage, composure and faith.

Johnson’s experience in combat taught him that a wounded patient’s perception can tip the person into shock, a state of affairs that can lead to death. He believes a medic must give his or her patients hope. Johnson’s technique was to make a wounded soldier laugh by saying something like, “I can’t believe that you’re going home and I have to stay here.”

“If I could make my patient laugh a little bit and give him hope that he’s going to see his wife and brand new baby,” he said, “That would usually increase survivability by 50 percent. You never, ever want to say, ‘My God man, I don’t know if I can save you.’”

There’s a strange relationship between battlefield patient and combat medic or hospital corpsman, one of intimate detachment. Life and limb, you hold another human being’s fate in your hands.

“I never talked to them again after I medevac’d them,” Johnson said. “I didn’t know if they lived or died. I did the best I could.”

It’s this kind of composure that helped Johnson survive 11 months in Vietnam, many of them around the murderous A Shau Valley.

Sept. 11, 1971: Four members of 2nd Platoon were hit early in the day in an NVA ambush. Johnson and the M60 gunner set off to find them and render aid. At the time, he didn’t realize he would exhaust his day’s medical supplies treating them.

Later that day, the platoon leader dispatched Johnson and another man down a sloping hill to a grassy area. The day was typical for the A Shau: no wind, dead calm and hot as hell. And yet patches of the grass were moving.

“I look up and there’s this air vent, in the middle of no place,” Johnson said. He’d stumbled across an NVA command bunker.

Johnson called his platoon leader. The lieutenant said a fire mission was about to be called in from the USS New Jersey. Thirty minutes later, its massive rounds began to fall. As he ran back up the hill for shelter, Johnson stepped into a fire ant mound. He bent over, yanking to free his foot.

“As I’m bending over, I hear a whoosh!,” he remembered.

It was a large, lethal piece of one of the New Jersey’s rounds. Had he been standing he’d have been decapitated.

It was not the last piece of providence Johnson encountered that day.

As the sun set over the valley, 2nd Platoon set out on yet another patrol. It was then he heard the voice, loud and clear and unmistakable: “Don’t take any unnecessary chances.”

“I looked around,” he said. “There was nobody there.”

Then he remembered the voice saying, “Get ready.” Moments later there’s a massive explosion. Johnson grabbed his depleted medical kit and ran toward the site.

One final time, the voice commanded, “Follow the steps.” He followed in the footsteps of his buddies to cut the chances of triggering another landmine.

Eight men lay wounded. Johnson triaged them, sorting them into three categories: those who could wait; those who needed immediate care; and those who were likely to die. One man had lost both legs above the knee, another had a broken nose and a third groped to find his eyes, one dangling from each socket. Johnson retrieved them, washed them with canteen water and re-inserted both.

“Doc” Johnson believes the voice was that of his guardian angel, shepherding him through the carnage in one piece so he could help others.


Ask medics or corpsmen their motivation for pursuing combat medicine and they’re likely to answer, “I wanted to help.” That’s what prompted Kuklenski, Johnson and this author. It also sparked 68-year-old Steve Vineyard to become a combat medical corpsman. The Clifton, Texas, resident and rancher went through Navy boot camp before attending 16 weeks of Hospital Corps School. Another three weeks in Field Medical School learning how to operate with the Marines came next.

Comparatively, the Army spent only eight weeks molding Vietnam medics — half the time the Navy devoted.

When he landed in Vietnam, Vineyard volunteered for the Marine 1st Reconnaissance Battalion. He saw his share of combat, earning a Purple Heart. “Doc” Vineyard performed minor surgery regularly.

“We’d come off patrol and take care of the guys’ problems so they didn’t have to go to the battalion aid station,” he recalled.

Medics and corpsmen didn’t spend all their time crawling about under fire. Mundane day-to-day matters consumed most of their time: ensuring men took their dreaded Dapsone anti-malaria pills, making sure they drank copious amounts of water and took enough salt pills, clearing out boils that erupted when web gear etched red, salty wounds into sweaty flesh.

It was these daily tasks, as much perhaps as combat, that earned one the title “Doc.”

In the field, medics’ and corpsmens’ medical kits contained — among other items — bandages, abdominal dressings, flexible plastic coverings for treating sucking chest wounds, Ivs clamps and morphine.

Oh, and a shrouded flashlight doesn’t hurt either as this author discovered July 12, 1970. Treating a man from the light of a fistful of burning matches doesn’t work very well. Lesson learned: check your medical kit once, and then check it again. Your buddies are dependent on you.

Such is the stuff that binds men’s wounds. In Vietnam there was — far more often than not — total faith in one another. The total commitment so many of these men made demanded nothing less.

Jess Johnson, Steve Vineyard and Michael Kuklenski gather in May at the Texas Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Dallas. All three men were wounded while serving as either a corpsman or a medic in Vietnam, a war in which one of every 13 Medals of Honor awarded went to a corpsman or medic.

1.Army medic Jess Johnson of A Co., 1st Bn., 501st Inf., 101st Abn. Div., cradles an M60 machine gun in 1971 in Vietnam’s A Shau Valley. A recipient of the Bronze Star and two Purple Hearts, Johnson says providing a wounded soldier hope that he or she will survive can be as important as tending the injury.

2.Navy corpsman Steve Vineyard displays the Purple Heart and Navy Commendation Medal he earned on July 30, 1969, while serving with the Marine 1st Reconnaissance Battalion in Quang Nam province. To train for his job in the war zone, Vineyard attended 16 weeks of Hospital Corps School, twice the time Army medics were provided.

3.Army medic and article author Jerry Chandler of D Co., 2nd Bn., 501st Inf., 101st Abn. Div., prepares to move to his next base camp in late June or early July 1970 while at Camp Evans near Phu Bai. Chandler was later wounded on Hill 805 near Fire Base Ripcord, an incident in which some 70 percent of his unit was either wounded or killed.

4.Navy Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class Michael Kuklenski receives a Silver Star in April 1970 at the Albany, Ga., Naval Air Station, for his actions during a May 29, 1969, firefight in Quang Nam province while serving with Alpha Co., 1st Bn., 7th Marines. Kuklenski, who was wounded three times in the engagement, “fearlessly crawled across the fire-swept terrain to reach wounded Marines and administer first aid.” He “continued to provide medical care to the other casualties” before accepting treatment for himself, according to his Silver Star citation.

On the Cover

'A Real Good Kid'

On Jan. 30, 1966, 20-year-old Army medic Thomas Cole was in a muddy trench in Vietnam’s Central Highlands. Though wounded himself, Cole continued providing first aid to the wounded and dying around him.

Also present at the battle was AP photographer Henri Huet and war correspondent Bob Poos.

Huet snapped a series of photos of Cole, one of which would appear on the Feb. 11, 1966, cover of Life magazine. Numerous newspapers across the United States also published it.

The iconic photo appears on the cover of this issue of VFW magazine. It shows Cole, who served with A Co., 2nd Bn., 7th Cav Regt., 1st Cav Div., tending to Staff Sgt. Harrison Pell at An Thai.

In a battle account of that day, Poos wrote: “Cole kept going, answering the call of a wounded man here, a dying man there. Cole spent an hour in mouth-to-mouth resuscitation trying to revive one terribly wounded soldier. The man died.”

Six months later, and just two weeks shy of his return to the U.S., Cole was in the thick of battle in Nha Trang. As he ran to help a fallen soldier, he was hit by gunfire. His left arm was shattered and another bullet struck his left thigh. Nevertheless, he survived and returned home to Richmond, Va.

Poos, who died in 2008, told the Richmond Times-Dispatch in 2000 that while he had lost track of Cole, he would never forget him.

“He was saving a lot of lives,” Poos said. “[He was] a sharp kid. A real good kid.”

Before going to Vietnam, Cole had expressed an interest in medicine. More specifically, he wanted to be a physical therapist.

Over the years, some vets who were once treated by Cole have sought him out unsuccessfully.

Do you know Thomas Cole? If so, we’d love to hear from you. Email jdyhouse@vfw.org.

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