Most Americans
who weren't there know little of the civic action
works thousands of soldiers, sailors, marines, and
airmen volunteered for in Vietnam. In my own unit,
the 3rd Security Police Squadron, Biên Hòa, 1969-1970,
there were many who wanted to do civic action work
off base but were unable to due to the frequent
attacks and a CO who wanted the troops on full alert
most of the time.
Nevertheless, several
of our men managed to join others from Army and
Air Force units in the Biên Hòa-Long Binh "rocket
alley" area, helping the Vietnamese build schools,
irrigation projects, and medical facilities in surrounding
towns and villages. A project they were particularly
proud of was the construction of a dormitory for
the Ke Sat orphanage in the refugee town of Ho Nai
north of the base.
The men in our unit
also often served as guards on medical visits our
doctors and nurses made to hamlets and villages.
I'd like to say my own visit with a medical team
to the leper colony we called Ben San was out of
some kind of noble impulse to help on my part, but
I'm afraid it was just a response to a wager MD
Col. Martinez from our dispensary made with me.
He bet me I wouldn't have the guts to go with him
to deliver supplies to an isolated leper colony
where we would mingle "up close and personal" with
the lepers. Father Bissett's leper colony, was supplied
by the Biên Hòa and Long Bihn medicos (I was station
with 3rd SPS 69-70 and had a second tour as Chief
of Admin there).
Ugly movie images
of rotting sufferers (remember Ben Hur?) loomed
in my dreams the night before we took off in a 101st
Airborne Huey with supplies for the colony. That
morning, as I sat on my flak jacket, I had less
anxiety about taking ground fire than about being
accidentally touched by one of those decaying lepers
down there, an infecting touch that might condemn
me to life in the colony. But I was determined to
win the bet. And then there was my sheer, morbid
curiosity.
The colony LZ
was a small patch of red dirt cut out of the heavy
surrounding forest. There, vulnerable (especially
at night) to an enemy not known for his kindness
to priests and nuns, Father Bisset and Vietnamese
Sisters worked day in and day out to heal and protect
those who were lucky enough to have "escaped" to
the colony.
A surprisingly young-looking Father came forward
with a welcoming bottle of wine, but around him
skipped a skinny teenager with deformed limbs. When
the boy offered me the Christmas "present" writhing
furiously in a large bean can, Dr. Martinez grinned
broadly. 'Well, you've got to take it to be polite."
I took the snake
on its string leash, being careful not to touch
the boy. The Father laughed. "It's not poisonous.
Just carry it around for a while. We'll dispose
of it later when the boy is gone. Although you may
want to eat it. The boy is a very good snake hunter."
We proceeded with
a tour of the colony, which I soon saw was an island
of peace in the midst of conflict. No wonder Father
Bisset had trouble keeping the place from being
overrun even by healthy refugees trying to escape
the war.
There were neat rows
of huts for the families of the lepers, a dispensary,
workshops and gardens. In one a woman with a sunken
nose sifted colors into ceramic tile molds. In another
a man with tools strapped the stubs of his hands
worked as the colony tinsmith. Other workers made
truck-tire sandals -- Hô Chi Minh sandals when the
VC got hold of them.
More than once the
VC had invaded this vulnerable colony, grabbing
medical supplies and equipment. (Around this time
at another leprosarium, Ban Mê Thuột East Air Field and Camp Coryell, they kidnapped
nurses who were never heard from again.) I had seen
many acts of courage by our men and women serving
in Vietnam, but I had never seen any greater examples
of courage than were presented by the doctor and
sisters who served here "in harm's way" for so many
years. Veterans everywhere know that if war often
destroys our faith in the human spirit, the example
of such individuals as these can also restore that
faith.
In the dispensary
we found an old man dying while a Sister tried to
wave the persistent tropical flies away from his
eyelids and lips. The Father told me Dr. Martinez
had on an earlier trip agreed to be the old man's
"godfather" and that he believed the patient held
off death until he could once again see his benefactor.
He and the American doctor talked quietly for several
minutes. Before we left that day, the old man died.
It didn't take long
before my fear of the lepers began to fade. The
children at times seemed like kids everywhere. For
many the disease was well under control thanks to
sulfa drugs and other treatments.
Those in the more
advanced stages, some of whom had been cut off from
treatment by regional battles, seemed to have less
hopeful prospects. As we lifted off, the children
gathered to sing a Christmas carol to us. Their
voices were ragged, not beautiful. Although there
was a hint of hope there, there was also one of
desperation.
I have to admit that
when we got back to base, I felt compelled to wash
up thoroughly - several times.
If my own motives
for going were questionable at best, the experience
had served to remind me that there will always be
those like that chopper pilot, like Dr. Martinez,
like the father and sisters of the colony, who will
take great risks to serve others.
America and the rest
of the world needs to hear their stories as well
as the stories of thousands of others who served,
when they could, with great decency and caring through
the many civic actions programs during this nation's
longest war.
Paul Kaser
