Christmases in the Army

D. E. Larsen, DVM

“Company D, Private Drake speaking, can I help you,” Bill answered the phone on a snowy Christmas Eve in 1965. Bill and I were pulling CQ duty for Company D, a duty company for troops waiting for school at Fort Devens.

We were a couple of lucky ones; we were permanent CQs. We were given private squad rooms in the old World War Two barracks that were housing an overload of troops in the big build-up of Vietnam forces. We worked in 24 hours shifts, with 48 hours off.

“Yes, I know a couple of guys who would be interested,” Bill said.

“What are you getting us into now,” I asked? I was not expecting an answer, but Bill was always quick to volunteer my services.

“We can meet you at Battalion Headquarters by 8:15. We don’t get relieved until 8:00, but we should be able to make that schedule.”

Bill hung up the phone and looked at me with a big smile on his face.

“We have a Christmas dinner to go to tomorrow,” Bill said. “We have to be in Class A uniform and meet the Battalion CQ at Headquarters by 8:15.”

“Where are we going,” I asked?

“Does it matter? It is going to be better than eating Christmas dinner at Con 4 and sleeping for most of the day.”

At 6:00 in the morning, Bill and I took turns going to the barracks, showering and changing into our Class A uniform. When we were relieved by the next CQ crew, we walked through the snow the half a dozen blocks to Battalion Headquarters.

I imagined that we looked somewhat like Mutt and Jeff. Bill was 6′ 4″ and had a heavy black shadow on his face even though he had shaved a couple of hours before. And I was trying to match his stride, and I had to stretch to measure 5′ 8″.

The Battalion CQ was a Specialist 4, who had been in the Army for several years. He was waiting at the doorstep and fell in with us.

“We meet them at the main gate in 15 minutes,” Stan said.

Bill and I were mismatched on height, but we were both in good shape and trim. Stan was taller than me and quite well rounded.

“The main gate is over a mile,” Bill said as he lengthens his stride. I was used to matching his long stride, Stan sort of looked like a young kid who had to take four steps and then run four steps to keep pace.

By the time we reached the main gate, the snow was probably close to 4 inches deep. Mr. Terhune was waiting across the street in his VW van. He was with a couple of preteen boys. Getting into the warm van was a welcome relief.

We drove to their house in Groton, some 4 miles distant. The Terhune’s had 4 kids. The oldest was their daughter, who was a freshman in high school, and 3 younger boys. We had dinner, which Bill jumped right into the kitchen to help prepare. Then we spent the afternoon talking and drinking more than a little wine. 

Having just pulled 24 hours of duty, a full day of eating, and topped off with ample wine, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow that night. But it was Christmas to remember, and the Terhune’s remained friends and a place to escape to for the entire year we were at Devens.

Christmas in Korea was a different event but just as memorable. I arrived in Korea in the middle of September 1966, and I was well adjusted to the country by Christmas. Stationed South of Seoul, at Camp Humphreys, I spent a lot of my free time at the orphanage that we supported in An Song.

A group of us spent Christmas Eve at the orphanage. Following dinner, the group of elementary kids continued my lessons in Korean. The little girls were very serious about this instruction. They would frown when the boys were hysterical over my pronunciation of even the simplest words.

We did a Santa for the kids with toys purchased by the guys at the 177th. The kids all went to midnight mass, and so it late when they got to bed. 

On Christmas morning, we loaded everyone up and took them to Camp Humphreys for Christmas dinner with the entire company. Before dinner, all the staff and the older kids had the opportunity to take showers in the barracks. That was probably the best present we could give them. Then dinner in mess hall and entertainment in the club. All the kids were well worn out when we loaded them onto the trucks for the trip home.

The next morning the young kids were hanging all over me. It was apparent the kids didn’t want us to go. The staff was still in a state of euphoria from their day at the company compound. But we loaded up in the trucks for the drive back to the company. I opened the window and shouted goodbye, in Korean, to the kids.

“Annyeong,” I said. The boys almost rolled on the ground, but the girls laughed and waved.

 The drive back to base seemed longer than usual as we rolled down a dusty dirt road lined with dry rice paddies. My mind did drift back home with only a twinge of homesickness.

My experience in Germany was different still. I arrived in Germany in the middle of December 1967. Even though I had friends from Fort Devens, I really had no time to settle into an off duty routine before Christmas. My first Christmas in Germany was spent on the base at Rothwesten. Christmas dinner at the mess hall was well done and accompanied by some German carolers. The evening I spent at the NCO club, again filled with entertainment. It was less than ideal, but it was a pretty good day.

Christmas in 1968 found me in Schöningen, a small village on the East German border. I was stationed at Wobeck, a significant border listening post with about 70 of us stationed there. Christmas here was super. The town went all out on their decorations and festivities. There was a Christmas spirit everywhere. 

We had a major Christmas party at the ‘Swing Club’ in the Banhof Hotel. The club was not supposed to make a profit, so it had to give away a lot of booze to make sure the books came out even for the year.  Needless to say, there were a few drunk GIs.

A couple of us were invited to Christmas dinner at Howey and Holley’s house. Wives were a recent addition at Schöningen. Before this time, only men without dependants were stationed there. Holley was the best cook that I had seen since my mother. Howey was very drunk at the end of the party, and we had to help Holley get him into the car.

They lived in Wolsdorf, a little village a few miles out of Schöningen. They had an upstairs apartment in a new house, still finishing its construction. It was built on a hillside, and there were three stories with a high porch to the entry on the middle level. The steps and porch were new and not completely finished. There was no railing on the steps or porch.

When we arrived at 1:00 for dinner, Holley was slow to answer the door. She looked like she had was running on empty.

“Are you okay,” I asked? “You look like you have been cooking all night.

“I feel like it. We had quite a time last night,” Holley said. “And my night was just starting when we left.”

“You know, we can find a place to eat in town,” I said. “You don’t have to wear yourself out to feed us.”

“I should have had you guys help me get Howey home last night,” Holley said. “Let me tell you the story.”

“When we got to the house, it was not too hard for me to get him out of the car. And I sort of kept him against the wall as we struggled up the steps to the porch. We made it up here with no problem. I stood Howey up on the porch, turned around, and unlocked the front door. When I turned back around, he was gone. There he was, ten feet below, spread eagle in the snow and mud.”

“Is he okay,” Schniedewind asked? “That is a long way to fall.”

“He was too drunk to get hurt. But that was just the start of it. I had to get him up out of the snow and mud, back up the stairs, and then up the stairs to the apartment.”

“It looks like you made it,” I said. 

“Yes, I made, but there was a trail of snow and mud all the way. There was mud on the wall coming up the stairs. You know how the Germans are. They would kick us out of here for such a mess. So there I am, in the middle of the night, mopping the porch and washing the wall. It seemed like I no more than finished, and it was time to get the turkey into the oven. It was certainly a Christmas Eve that I won’t forget in a long time.”

About this time, Howey makes his entrance from the bedroom. He was fresh out of the shower but still feeling the effects of the party. We greeted him. Holley didn’t have much to say to him.

The dinner was excellent, as was expected from a cook like Holley. But the tension between the couple put a little chill in the air. Schniedewind and I made a pretty quick exit following dinner.

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas

D. E. Larsen, DVM

My first experience with a sick pig occurred during my senior year in vet school. At Colorado State University, we would only see an occasional pig. If you were not in a midwestern school, your swine medicine instruction came mostly from the book. During one of my weeks on night duty, I accompanied the intern on a farm call to look at this sick sow.

It was the night before Christmas in central Colorado, 10:00 PM and very cold, meaning about -20° F. The wind was blowing hard, and the blowing snow was obscuring the highway’s surface as we headed east out of Fort Collins.

“I hope she’s in a warm barn,” I said as I snuggled down into my parka.

“Don’t bet on it. We wouldn’t even be on this call if it wasn’t for Dr. Voss. He is apparently friends with this family. We have never seen them before.” Young Dr. Sanders explained. Dr. Voss was one of the horse doctors at the teaching hospital and carried a lot of weight, especially with the young interns.

We pulled onto the small farm and were met by two young boys. Their parents were not at home. The boys had found the sow in trouble and called Dr. Voss. The cold was almost unbearable, with the wind blowing like it was.

“Where is she at?” We asked, hoping to be lead to the barn.

“In the back of the pigpen.” The older boy replied, pointing to the low sprawling shed on the north side of the barn.

This pig pen was a fenced area with about a four-foot roof covering it. The entryway was in the middle of the shed, on the roof. 

Hanging his head through the hatch, the young boy pointed to the far corner.

“She’s laying over there,” he said, pointing with a weak flashlight.  

We went back to the truck and loaded our pockets with everything we thought we might need. Hoping we would not have to spend any more time exposed to this weather than necessary.  

Dr. Sanders handed me the flashlight after I jumped into the pigpen. Then he scrambled in after me. The wind still stung our faces as it blew through the wide slats in the fence. We duck walked back toward the corner the boys had pointed out to us. At least all the manure was frozen solid. “This would be just as interesting in the summer,” I thought.

We found the sow right where the boys said she would be. We could see the older boy hanging his head through the hatch, watching our progress. The sow was flat out. She had some mastitis and, obviously, an advanced pregnancy. The chance of helping her in this situation was nil. The possibility of getting her out of here tonight was did not exist.

“What do you think?” Dr. Snyder asked me as we examined the sow on our knees. He was trying to maintain a teaching situation, but we were both freezing.  

“I think we should give her a big dose of penicillin. Tell them to bring her into the hospital in the morning.” I replied in a typical cold student fashion.

“I agree.” Dr. Sanders said. “Let’s do it and get the hell out of here before we freeze.”

We both knew this sow needed more care than a couple of shots, but there was no way we could do anything for her in this situation. This treatment would at least give her a chance of living through the night.

“I wonder how they found her?” I asked as we headed back to the hatch. This would prove to be a question often on my mind in the years to come as I would treat animals in the middle of the night in all sorts of situations and environments.

“You guys did a good job to find her and call Dr. Voss.” Dr. Sanders praised the boys. “If she’s alive in the morning, you have your dad bring her into the hospital.” He instructed.

We jumped into the truck, it was cold, but we were instantly out of the wind.

“Get that heater going,” I said as Dr. Sanders started the truck.

It would take the whole night to warm up. We probably were close to hypothermia that night. I never heard if the sow lived through the night. I doubt very much that she did.

Photo by Ibiza Ibiza Ibiza on Unsplash

Grandpa’s Hog Snare

D. E. Larsen, DVM

   The first large boar I castrated was quite an event for me. I had been told of a good anesthesia technique that sounded pretty simple. “Inject 5 grams of Surital (Thiamylal) into one testicle. When the boar falls over, open the scrotum and clamp the cord of the injected testicle. Every time the boar shows some movement, remove the clamp on the cord until he is asleep again. Then when everything else is done, remove the injected testicle and let him wake up.” 

   Sounds simple, but try sticking an eighteen gauge needle into the testicle of a 700-pound boar who is not happy about meeting you in the first place and who is in a pen that may or may not hold him. 

First, I had to mix the Surital in a manageable concentration. Five grams are usually combined with 100 ml of sterile water. I needed to mix it so it would all fit in a 60 ml syringe. It proved a little challenging to get all the powder to dissolve in a smaller amount of water. I put 45 ml of water into the vial first and mixed it at that concentration. Then I drew it into the syringe and added enough water to bring the volume to 60 ml. Attaching an 18 gauge, 1 ½ inch needle to the syringe, I was ready for the injection.

   With all my equipment laid out by the pile of fresh straw where the boar was hopefully going to fall, I headed to the pen, syringe in hand. This pen was too large, and the boar could quickly turn around. Every time I positioned myself behind him, he would twirl around and charge me, ramming the panels with his snout. He was becoming more agitated by the minute.

   Old man Morris watched the spectacle for a few minutes. I think he was trying to not laugh. 

  “I think we need to get a hold of him,” Mr. Morris said.

  “And just how do you think that is going to happen?” I asked.

  “We should be able to get a snare on his snout,” he replied. “He wants to face you head-on, none of that sneaking up on his nuts.”

   “I will grab my snare, If I can find it,” Mr. Morris said. He disappeared into the old barn. 

This boar was a new project for Mr. Morris. He picked him at a bargain price at the sale barn and planned to make sausage out of him. They say if you put boar meat in a frying pan, it will run you out of the house. It smells as bad as the old boar. But if you castrate these guys and give them 6 months of rest and relaxation, they make pretty good sausage. I would think you would get tired of the stuff after 400 pounds. 

   Mr. Morris was a quiet man, his wife had died several years ago, and he lived alone now. I would guess the barn was older him. He had to be in his eighties, short, gray-haired, and walking with a little stooped over posture. His knees bothered him as he walked across the uneven ground in the barnyard.

   He came back with a hog snare that looked much older than him. “This was my grandfather’s hog snare,” he said as he held it up for my inspection. The smile on his face told of the memories going through his mind right now.

   This snare had a rusty cable loop that was attached to a wood handle. There was an old rope on the other end of the wooden handle. If you got the cable loop around the snout, you could anchor the whole thing to a post to maintain control of the captive. This was definitely homemade but looked like it might work.

   “If we catch his snout with this snare and tie it to the corner post, he will stand here and squeal as he pulls back on the snare. That should give you enough time to do your thing behind him,” Mr. Morris explained. “I don’t know if it will hold him for the entire thing.”

   “If it holds him at all,” I said. “All I need is a moment to get this injection into one of his testicles.”

   “How does that work?” Mr. Morris asked, clearly confused.

   “This injection will put him to sleep, and the rest of the procedure will be a piece of cake,” I explained.

   I retrieved a jug of mineral oil from the truck and lubed the old snare the best I could. I was afraid to ask how old it was and when it was last used. I kept telling myself, “I only needed a minute.”

   It took several tries to get the snare on his snout. When I finally managed to catch him, I leaned back and pulled on the handle as hard as possible. The whole time, hoping this old snare held together.  

   To say the boar squealed would be a tremendous understatement. The squeal was a harsh roar, a bellowing screech. It was the loudest thing I had heard from a pig. The boar was pulling back with such a force I didn’t know who would be tied to the post, him or me. It actually worked out almost perfectly. He pulled back till his rear end hit the far corner of the small pen. I pulled hard and took two wraps around the post with the rope, and handed the end of the old rope to Mr. Morris. Mr. Morris had a big smile on his face, knowing that his grandfather would be proud. 

The boar was pulling back, and his testicles were sticking through the slats of the pen. The injection was a snap. I popped the needle into his left testicle, and there was no noticeable response, no change in the intensity of his screech. 

   Once the injection was complete, I motioned to Mr. Morris he could let go of the rope. The boar immediately quieted, shaking his head to remove the snare. He returned to his usual grunts and grumbles.

   “As soon as he starts to wobble, we need to open this pen and try to direct him over to that pile of straw,” I said.

Things moved pretty fast, another minute, and he was wobbling. We swung open the pen, and he stumbled out, made it to the edge of the straw, and fell to his right side. I watched him briefly, making sure he wasn’t going to jump up again. There was nystagmus in his eyes, so I started with a quick prep of his scrotum and then sprayed it with Betadine.

   I washed quickly and dried my hands on a surgery towel. After putting on a pair of sterile surgery gloves, I grabbed the scalpel and incised over the left testicle and through the tunic. I pulled the testicle free and clamped the cord with a large Oschner forceps. Then I relaxed a little, did a better prep on the scrotum’s right side, and flushed the area again with Betadine. I incised the scrotum over the right testicle and through the tunic. I pulled the right testicle out and applied a clamp on the cord, just for insurance. I applied the emasculator to the cord, saying to myself, “nut to nut,” to make sure the emasculator’s crushing side was in the proper position. One good squeeze and the testicle fell free.

   “You don’t want these, do you?” I asked Mr. Morris.

   “There ain’t nothing about this guy that is going to be worth eating for another 6 months,” he replied.

After making sure the crush on the cord was adequate, I applied some antibiotic powder to the cord and released the clamp. Then I powdered the inside of the wound. I went up to the boar’s head and checked to make sure there were no injuries from the snare, then turned to the last testicle. The boar was flecking his ears now, so I released the clamp for a moment. He quieted quickly. I clamped the cord and removed the testicle with the emasculator, again, saying to myself, “nut to nut.” I powdered the cord and the scrotal incision and sprayed the entire rear end for flies. Not wanting to catch him again, I gave him an injection of long-acting penicillin.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Mr. Morris asked.

   “He will be fine. He will be back on his feet before I get my stuff put away,” I replied. “I am going to take these testicles and throw them away at the clinic. If your dog got ahold of the one I injected, it might kill him.”

   I was doing the final wash on my hands and arms when the old boar rolled up on his sternum. He stood up just as I closed the rear door on the vet box.

   “Couldn’t have done it without your grandfather’s snare,” I said to Mr. Morris.

   He just smiled and nodded his head as he put a couple of wraps of the rope around the handle.

Photo by Clint Patterson on Unsplash