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 et in My Tho embodied none of the gaiety and laughter of past
centuries.
The legendary good spirit of the hearth, Ong Tao, reported
to the Heavenly Jade on what he had observed in the home. He reported a mother
clutching her lifeless child, while an early February wind blew the dank
ashes of 20 per cent of the city across her flower bedecked porch.
During Tet, tradition holds that families should not
borrow fire from friends, but they should be near their own fire during this
most solemn season.
In smoldering My Tho, the hospital seemed the only refuge.
Over 900 wounded villagers crowded into the 125 available beds, spilling
over into the aisles and corridors. Two bewildered Vietnamese doctors began
to do what they could, which seemed inadequate in the overwhelming situation.
Women lay in the corridors nursing their children, as blood — dried
and caked — clung to the walls and dust billowed through shattered second
story windows. Aimlessly they came, the dazed and the maimed. Some walked,
some were helped, some were dragged.
Five days of holiday fighting in My Tho, the Dinh
Tuong Province capital, had taken their toll. More than 115 Viet Cong terrorists
had been killed, but not before the civilian population had felt the
purge.
Countless Vietnamese were left homeless, amid untold
damage to this once prosperous seaport town. The attack had been launched
several hours after the start of a VC-declared cease-fire for the Lunar New
Year.
After the village elder called for American medical aid,
an assessment survey team from the 9th Infantry Division was sent in. They
found meager medical supplies and an inadequate staff, ill-equipped to handle
mass casualties.
Lieutenant colonel Travis Blackwell, Alexandria, Va.,
Division surgeon, immediately flew into the city by helicopter. He was met
there by a medical team from company D, 9th Medical Battalion under the direction
of Captain James Smolko, York, Pa.
"It was a nightmare. The villagers had no one to
take care of them. There were gunshot wounds, shrapnel, massive
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bleeding. I began breaking them down into three groups. The first
group needed immediate operations to save their lives. The second group were
seriously wounded and those convalescing," Blackwell explained.
Blackwell immediately set up a 24-hour operating schedule in
the hospital and 35 life-saving operations were performed the first day.
"There were so many casualties that needed immediate operations and there
were only four operating suites. I was forced to perform 10 operations outside
the hospital in the open air," said Blackwell.
With a staff and surgical equipment, Blackwell diligently
began performing amputations and other major surgical operation in the street
in front of the hospital while savage fighting flared throughout the
city.
"I would like to commend the American nurses working
in the hospital. They worked round the clock without stopping from one operation
to the next, all night long. At one point the battle was being waged
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of the hospital and these women continued their work undaunted. They
were magnificent," Blackwell said.
At 2 a.m., Feb 5, these nurses administered over 500 injections
of penicillin in an effort to curb the widespread infections.
With the hospital secure, treatment of patients continued
until some semblance of hygiene had been restored. Four hundred pounds of
medical equipment were being flown in as fast as possible.
House to house fighting raged as American infantrymen
moved down the streets pushing the terrorists out of the city.
Some villagers stood alongside the road in the center
of town, their eyes vacant. Children, continuing to gather what was left
in the ruins, forgot to wave.
One young boy come up to this reporter, face streaked
from tears, and shook my hand. "Thank you, American GI. Same, same." He quickly
disappeared into the rubble.
This was Tet in My Tho, the brightest festival of the
year—communist style.
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Army nurses worked
round-the-clock
Tyler
civilian victims of VC terror campaign |
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