It was wartime when our little family drove to the base on the California coast. The general tenor of the times was serious, and the responsibilities of the doctors—fresh out of residency or not—were important. It was evident everywhere; the base was on a war footing.
My orders directed me to appear in uniform at the office of the senior master chief of the base’s office at 0800 on whatever day it was—I forget. I had not had time to think about things like uniforms. Vera and I were three days early and so were three other new docs. We met up and headed for the base exchange to stock up. I was disappointed to learn than my new colleagues were no better informed than me. By the time we had made our selections, there were a total of six of us new doctors. Since none of us had money, we picked over the used uniform piles to outfit ourselves.
The result was: I found a good fitting beige uniform with nonmatching pants and coat, brown shoes, and a neat hat with gold braid on its brim. I checked myself out in a full-length mirror and decided I looked pretty nifty. Another new doc found a similar uniform but with more chevrons on the sleeves and pairs of argyle socks to compliment the outfit. Two docs found the same thing in blue, and the final two had to settle for white. One had to choose black shoes because none of the brown or white pairs fit.
We arrived at the senior master chief’s office on time and presented ourselves. He took one look and simply groaned, lacking the vocabulary to comment on our choices. When he calmed down, he explained with gritted teeth, the difference between the uniforms of officers and enlisted, the concept of the uniform of the day—white, beige, or blue as ordered by the commandant’s office—the fact that none of us had a rank for which a cap with “scrambled eggs” on the brim was indicated. No argyle or other off-color socks ever; ties are to match uniform colors; clean, white or beige shirts; blue or beige ties matching uniforms; brown shoes with beige uniforms, white shoes with white, and black shoes with navy blue. Belts were to be navy issue, and the color was to match the uniform of the day. By the time we absorbed all this important information and recognized how absurd we looked, all of us—including the senior master chief—had to sit on the floor until our laughing fits settled down. He took us back to the exchange and got us decked out in new uniforms—two of each—with the right shoes, socks, shirts, ties, chest ribbons, and rank insignias.
When we sheepishly went through the line to pay for all of our attire, we had another group laughing fest, and Marlene–the attractive African-American lady who waited on us–was infected by our unseemly fit of mirth. As we were leaving, she caught me and asked if I would fit her into my clinic schedule because she was worried about a lump in her breast.
A note to help the readers understand the context of the times: As I said, we were at war. All of us, like most of the other young men around us were draftees, and many were not the least bit happy about it. All five of the doctors were overtly hostile to the fact and voiced the general anger about the war and about having to serve. I was the odd man out because my wife and I actually liked being in the money. For one thing, it would be the first time in our married life when we had any money. For another, I looked forward to being an officer and to having responsibility to be the doctor in fact for a large population navy base. No stealing cases necessary.
Certainly, no stealing cases was necessary. These were strange times. There were riots in the streets. In keeping with the tenor of the times, five out of the six of us individually mounted a quiet strike. Four of them decided to go as slow as they could possibly get away with and do as little as could be done without being brought up on charges. The new anesthesiologist was the worst of the lot. He claimed that the equipment and support staff were not up to the standards he was used to having trained at Harvard’s Mass General Hospital. He let that fact drop on as many occasions as he could possibly include it. He flatly refused to do anesthesia, and it was beneath the dignity of so grand a personage as an anesthesiologist to see the low-class masses in clinic.
That was one of two things that changed my career. The other was that the surgeon who had been appointed chief of surgery as a starting position and who started as a lieutenant commander came three days late. He was from the Philippines and had a rather lackadaisical “mañana” attitude. The brass were indulgent to a point. To begin with, they presumed the protestor doctors would come around. Then, came a more testing issue. The Filipino Lt.CDR requested a three-week vacation leave to visit his family in the islands. To everyone’s total surprise, he left and never came back; he was at first labeled AOL [absent over leave] and finally as a deserter. At the end of my first week in the navy, I was designated chief of surgery, in large part because I was the only one who would actually see patients, work patients up for surgery, and perform surgery. I was advanced in rank to Lt.CDR on my seventh day of service.
Trouble was brewing. Of course, the work and attitude situation could not go on as it was going. Since the anesthesiologist would not give or manage anesthesia, and the nurse anesthetist was not allowed to do many of the things necessary, and since I was determined to do surgery, it fell to me to assume the anesthesiologist’s role as well as my own. I boned up on how to pass gas, and thereafter started the IVs, gave the sedation, placed the endotracheal tubes, and initiated the inhalant anesthetics. Then, I turned the responsibility over to the nurse anesthetist. When a spinal anesthetic was necessary or preferable, I did that as well. For OB, I did not feel confident enough to do epidurals; so, I either did spinals, or paracervical blocks, or partial general anesthetics. I did everything from soup to nuts while the other specialists grumbled at my effrontery but still boycotted the OR. I did appendectomies, gastric bypasses, surgical trauma, gall bladders, hysterectomies, deliveries, thoracotomies, and open bowel procedures. I learned how to do colonoscopies, and even simple TURPs. I drew the line at neurosurgery.
The nurses loved me for being willing to work, and they were more than willing to help, including holding the pages of the “how-to-do-it” books open for me during operations. I loved doing the surgery and having such a free reign, but it did chap me that the rest of the lazy bums were getting away with their boycott. That came to a head on a day when the hospital captain’s daughter went into labor. He insisted on being with her, and I had no reason to try and exclude him. It did not take long for him to realize that I was not an obstetrician, and he was steaming by the time the successful delivery of her baby was accomplished.
He demanded to know why I was doing the delivery when there were two perfectly capable obstetricians on the staff. I felt no need to cover for them; they deserved what they were going to get; so, I told him the whole story. Since I had just presented him with a pretty little grandchild, he was favorably disposed to accept my side of the story.
“Come to my office this afternoon, Commander. This is not going to continue.”
The base commandant and the hospital commander were waiting for me.
I had just had a haircut and had put on a fresh uniform; so, I looked spiffy when I arrived.
“Are you aware of the hair styles sported by the other five surgeons and the new internist, Commander?”
“I am, and they paid no attention to me or to the base senior master sergeant about haircuts or anything else.”
The commandant said, “I have some orders for you. Execute them today. Order each of the lieutenants separately to cut their hair, change into fully regulation uniforms—with shined shoes—and to agree to begin clinic work and to build a surgical schedule in two days’ time. Give the orders three times in a row—as per JAG regulations. Report back to me and to Captain Henry about what takes place, and we will proceed from there. As of now, I am ordering the clinics to close. I know you have a full OR schedule. Keep that up, okay?’
“Aye, aye, Sir,” I said and saluted.
I did as I was told and met with stony disdain and snotty shrugs indicative of refusal—three times in succession.
I reported as ordered, and the commandant—a rear admiral—told me to sit and wait while he called the CNO [Chief of Naval Operations, and member of the JCOS], Admiral Zumwalt. Like everyone else in the navy, I knew that Zumwalt was a flaming liberal and quiet sympathizer with the anti-war sentiment. It was going to be interesting to hear what he had to say.
Commandant Adm. Parker was connected with the Office of the Joint Chiefs. He spoke his piece then listened. Then, he handed the phone to me.
“Admiral Zumwalt wants to talk to you directly.”
The conversation was one-sided and simple to summarize: Ignore the offenses; it is a sign of the times. If they won’t work, send cases out to civilian hospitals. We can’t afford the scandal of what could be interpreted as a growing mutiny. That would be worse than the actual offense against the regs.
The scoff-laws won, and I lost. However, I certainly gained friends in high places.
For all that has been written and televised about the war in Vietnam and the men and women involved in it, I suspect that this vignette might come as a surprise to you. It happened; what do you think about it? Do you think I should have been more assertive? You can read about this and other Viet Nam related stories in my books, The Last Phoenix, and Saga of a Neurosurgeon.