Monday, October 8, 1956, From the Archives

The sun was just breaking through the clouds as we turned off the highway onto the long gravel road to Margery’s house. It had been a long drive to Smith River, and it would be good to get out and stretch my legs.

Mom warned me about the long drive and said I would be the only kid here since it was a school day. Still, I begged to come along to the family gathering to celebrate Auntie Dee’s birthday. I was used to entertaining myself, so being the only kid didn’t worry me.

“Robert wanted me to make sure I got all the information about Mid’s new TV,” Aunt Lila said as Mom steered around the last corner. “He is determined to put an antenna on top of our hill and string the wire all the way to the house.”

“That sounds expensive,” Mom said. “How does he know it will work?”

“He had a guy come out, and he could pick up a station from Eugene at the top of our hill,” Aunt Lila said. “And yes, it is going to be expensive. but David probably knows, after our trip this summer, TV is pretty nice.”

“I don’t know. It just costs a lot of money,” I said from the back seat, remembering the TV sets in some of the motel rooms on the east coast that you had to put dimes or quarters in the box on the side of it to turn on the thing.

“Yes, that is right,” Aunt Lila said. “Ours won’t have a money box on it, but it still will cost a lot of money.”

We pulled into the driveway. There was a large two-story, white farmhouse on the left and a large barn on the right, located about fifty yards from the house. Sparse pasture land behind the barn faded into a series of low sand dunes. I could hear the waves when I opened the car door. The ocean was not far.

The house was packed, and all the women were in the kitchen when we came through the door. 

Auntie Dee hugged me.

“David, what are you doing here today?” she asked. “You should be in school.”

“When he heard we were celebrating your birthday, he begged to come,” Mom said. “I couldn’t refuse.”

With that said, the chatter in the kitchen started, and I headed to the living room, where all the men were in front of the TV set.

“You better watch this, David,” Uncle Rodney said. “The guy pitching is named Larsen, and he might be a cousin of yours.”

“I don’t have any Larsen cousins,” I said. 

“You never know,” Uncle Rodney said. “Your dad doesn’t know that side of his family. Besides, this is the World Series.”

I didn’t know anything about baseball. I had heard about the World Series, but it didn’t mean anything to me. I found a seat and watched for a few minutes.

“You are going to get into trouble for missing school,” Uncle Duke said.

“Mom will write a note and say that I was ill,” I said.

“What does ill mean?” Uncle Rodney asked. “You don’t look very sick to me.”

“That’s what she writes when I stay home to go fishing,” I said. “I don’t need to go to school all the time. I learn faster than the other kids.”

“You skip school to go fishing?” Mid asked.

“I learn a lot when I am fishing,” I said.

“I bet you do,” Mid said. “You keep it up. I like to see a kid who likes to fish.”

I found a seat and watched the game for a couple of minutes. It was really boring. I headed to the barn.

I loved old barns. Every one of them was different but alike in so many ways. Margery, Auntie Dee’s daughter, and Mid had lived here a long time. This barn still had stalls for the workhorses, and they probably hadn’t used horses in the fields since the war.

The harnesses were still hung by the stalls, and unlike Grandpa’s harnesses, these were still soft and well-oiled. They smelled like good leather. 

I looked through the barn and ran a few chickens out of the mangers. I gathered as many eggs as I could hold in the front of my tee shirt and headed to the kitchen.

“Oh, thank you, David,” Margery said when I came through the door with a shirt full of fresh eggs. “I didn’t have time to gather any eggs this morning. You are such a great help.”

Margery unloaded the eggs, and I returned to the barn. After another trip through the barn, I headed out over the sand dune toward the ocean. By the time I got to the top of the hill, I could see the ocean.

“This would be a great place to watch for Russian submarines,” I said as I found a tuff of grass to sit on for a time. After ten or fifteen minutes, I decided that no submarines were nearby, so I returned to the house.

“What have you been up to?” Uncle Rodney asked as I was looking for a place to sit.

“I gathered some eggs from the mangers and looked through the barn,” I said. “Then I walked out to the ocean and watched for Russian submarines for a time.”

“Russian submarines, did you see any?” Uncle Duke asked.

“No, but this would be a good place for them to land,” I said. “There is nobody around to see them for a long way in each direction.”

“You better give up watching for those submarines and watch the end of this ball game,” Mid said. “Your cousin is about ready to pitch a perfect game.”

We all sat and watched the game come to an end. A guy named Yogi ran out and jumped up on the pitcher at the end of the game.

Don Larsen had just pitched a perfect game in game five of the 1956 World Series. The New York Yankees had beat the Brooklyn Dodgers in that game, and they would go on to win the World Series that year. And this was the first sporting event that I ever watched on TV.

Willow, From the Archives

 D. E. Larsen, DVM

 I could see Willow sitting in the reception area. As always, she was aloft to all that was happening around her. Willow was a natural hunting dog, a Drahthear, a German wirehaired pointer. She was getting older now and had mellowed with age. She was very self-confident, like all the larger dogs who had a mission in life.

Today she was holding up her right front foot, which must be why she was here. I stepped out to the reception door and motioned Howard to come on back. I took him to the treatment room, bypassing the backlog and the reception desk. Willow followed on three legs.

“Thanks, Doc,” Howard said. “I thought we would be hung up there for an hour, and Willow here has a pretty sore foot.”

“I could see her hold it up,” I said. “What has she done to it?”

“I don’t rightly know, Doc,” Howard said. “She has been gone for a couple of days and just came home this afternoon carrying that foot.”

“A couple of days sounds like a long time, Howard,” I said. “Were you looking for her?”

“No, that is not unusual for her,” Howard said. “I someone is going to take her hunting, she just goes herself.”

I lifted Willow onto the treatment table and laid her down on her left side. I grabbed her sore foot, and Willow just sort of looked away. She was either trusting me or maybe just resigned to her fate.

Looking at the foot, there was a significant wound on the top and bottom of her two central toes. I could see some bone exposed. I leaned down and took a whiff. 

“Wow! This is a rotten wound,” I said. “It looks like Willow was caught in a foothold trap.”

“I was wondering about that,” Howard said. “But how would she have gotten loose?”

“Anyone setting traps is supposed to check them every 24 hours,” I said. “It is likely she was released by the trapper.”

“What do you think is going to happen to her foot?” Howard asked.

“I think she will lose at one of these two toes,” I said. “It is going to take a few days before we will know for sure. I think we will clean this wound and put it in a wrap for a few days. We will have Willow on some antibiotics, but we are going to allow nature to decide what stays and what goes.”

“You mean you are going to let these toes rot off?” Howard asked with a bit of concern in his voice.

“No, not rot off, but we are going to give enough time for nature to show us what would rot off if we did nothing,” I said. “If I take this foot to surgery today, I will be making decisions about what tissue stays and what tissue goes based on several factors. If we wait a couple of days, it will be obvious what tissue is alive and what is dead. Then, when I go to surgery, I can easily save as much tissue as possible. Either way, Willow will lose one or two toes, but when everything is healed, it won’t slow her down much.”

“Okay, that makes me feel better,” Howard said. “What do we do now?”

“Let’s leave her for a few hours,” I said. “I will sedate her, get this wound cleaned up, and trim some obviously dead tissue. Then we will send her home with a wrap on that foot and with antibiotics. We will schedule her for surgery on Friday. At that time, I will do the final removal of all dead tissue and probably a toe or toe. We will keep this foot wrapped for a couple of weeks.”

We put Willow in a kennel and took care of the backup in the reception area. As soon as I could squeeze in a few minutes, we sedated Willow and started cleaning the wound. 

The main thing about cleaning an animal’s wounds is getting all the hair away from the injury. On this foot, that was a challenge. The new clippers do a pretty good job, but I  found that using a straight-edge razor was necessary.

When I removed the hair and some of the rotten tissue, it was obvious that the timeline I discussed with Howard was not going to be necessary. There was no way I could save either one of the two central toes.

“Ruth, would you have Sandy call Howard and tell him that I am going to remove these two toes today,” I said. “Tell him the toes are beyond saving, and removing them now will speed up the healing process and be more comfortable for Willow.”

While Ruth was gone for a few minutes, I finished removing a few bits of dead tissue from the wound.

“Sandy can’t get Howard on the phone,” Ruth said. “What are you going to do now?”

“I will go ahead and take the toes,” I said. “Howard will understand. We will still put a wrap on this foot and bring Willow back on Friday and see if we can do a delayed closure. Willow will be better off this way.”

I removed the two central toes, digits III and IV, by disarticulating their joints with the metacarpal bones. There was no bleeding. I packed the wound with nitrofurantoin ointment and placed a well-padded wrap on the foot. I gave a large dose of cephalosporin by intramuscular injection. Then we moved Willow to a kennel for recovery.

Willow was bouncing around the kennel when Howard returned later in the afternoon.

“She looks a lot better,” Howard said as we let Willow out of the kennel.

“Yes, this wound cleaned up pretty well,” I said. “I did go ahead and remove those two middle toes. There was no saving them, and this foot will be more comfortable for Willow without them. We will still need to bring her back on Friday. I will do a final wound cleaning and remove any dead tissue. I think there will be ample skin surviving, so I can do a complete closure on this wound.” 

***

Willow came through the clinic door on Friday morning with a smile on her face. There were a few dogs, not many, who seemed to be able to equate a clinic visit with their feeling better. Willow was one of those few. She was walking on the wrapped foot, almost normally.

We sedated Willow and removed the wrap from her foot. The wound looked great. I had to trim very little tissue, and I removed the skin edge to make a fresh edge to suture. 

The wound closed up better than I expected. I did go ahead and applied a light wrap to the foot. I figured Howard would be unable to keep Willow in the house through the healing process.

“You need to bring Willow in on Wednesday next week, and we will change the wrap,” I said when Howard came to pick her up. “And one thing I forgot to mention, I have to report this wound to the Dean of the Vet School at Oregon State. It’s a new state law. I doubt they do anything with the information, but just so you know if they give you a call someday.”

“Are you just trying to run up the bill, Doc, or does she really need the wrap?” Howard asked.

“Howard, you should know by now that I don’t charge for surgical follow-ups,” I said. “If you could keep her in the house for the entire healing process, we could probably get by without a wrap. This wound closed up pretty well. But, the wrap is just insurance. This wound will heal much nicer if the sutures hold, and the wrap helps that happen.”

“I was just pulling your leg a little, Doc,” Howard said as he and Willow headed out the door.

I watched as Willow followed behind Howard. She was walking on the wrapped foot. I could see a slight limp, but I’m not sure that Howard’s neighbor would be able to notice the limp.

***

Willow’s foot healed, and she walked normally on that foot. It probably did slow her down a bit when she was hunting and working hard, but she let anyone know.

The one thing that changed with her was summed up by Howard on a visit a year or two later.

“The one thing I have noticed, Doc,” Howard said. “Willow stays pretty close to home these days. She has given up on those hunting trips by herself.”

If only people could learn from experience like a good hunting dog.

Image by EM80 from Pixabay

Howard Daniel Vandenacre, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

There was still a slight chill in the August morning air as we waited in front of the Coos Bay post office, a little unsure of what was to happen next. 

Then the doors swung open, and Mrs. Baxter emerged with her entourage of four middle-aged men, all dressed in ill-fitting suits.

Mrs. Baxter, whose hair was dyed a slightly reddish color with grey roots showing, was the chairwoman of the local draft board. She had a stack of manila folders in her hands.

She came to an abrupt stop directly in front of me. She extended her hands and pushed the stack of folders into my belly. I took the folders.

“You’re are in charge of this crew,” Mrs. Baxter said as she wrinkled her pointy nose. “These folders contain everybody’s information, meal tickets and bus tickets home. Don’t lose these folders, or you will not be very popular. When you arrive, you check into the YMCA, across the street from the bus station. After breakfast tomorrow, you report to the testing station, just down the street from the YMCA.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Who elected me to be in charge?” I was surprised that she knew who I was. We were not wearing name tags and were not otherwise identified.

“Young man, you are the oldest one here, and that makes the leader,” Mrs. Baxter said. “And you know what that means, you pass this physical, and I will see you again, very soon.”

With that, we loaded onto the waiting Greyhound bus. Mrs. Baxter stepped aboard the bus and handed the driver a packet with our tickets for the ride to Portland.

For me, the last half of nineteen-sixty-five was sort of a hectic blur. In mid-May, I received my “Greetings” from Uncle Sam. I had dropped out of school for the Spring quarter to work full-time. This would ensure I would have adequate funds for a year at Oregon State in the Fall. The greetings sort of disrupted those plans.

On the appointed day, I reported to the Post Office in Coos Bay for a bus ride to Portland for the first of a couple of physicals and a lot of testing. At twenty years and four months of age, I was the oldest in this group of some thirty young men. We were on the leading edge of the Military’s build-up for Vietnam.

Of course, I passed the physical with flying colors. After considering my options, I elected to enlist to have some semblance of control over my fate in the Army. I traded a couple of extra years for that control and enlisted in the Army Security Agency.

In the middle of September, I took another bus ride to Portland, another physical exam, and more testing. Then they herded us into a room and administered the oath. We were now in the Army. 

I boarded my first commercial plane for a short flight to San Francisco. I had a window seat, and we landed on the runway that extends out into the bay.

“There is nothing but water under us,” I said to the guy sitting next to me. 

The water got closer and closer. I was ready to jump before the runway suddenly appeared.

By the time we were checked in at the airport, it was dark. We had a middle-of-the-night bus ride to Fort Ord, located on Monterey Bay. 

At this time, Fort Ord was still battling a Meningitis epidemic. Forty of us were assigned to the fifth platoon of Company A, Second Battalion. We were restricted to our platoon area. We had limited contact with the other four platoons in the Company. For eight weeks of Basic Training, the forty of us lived and trained together. We learned a lot, about the Army, about ourselves, and about each other. 

The Company consisted of two hundred men. We were divided into five Platoons of forty men each. Each platoon had four squads of ten men each. When we marched, the fifth platoon was at the rear of the Company. The squads were aligned by height. I lacked the genetics for growing tall, I was the shortest in my squad, so I marched at the very end of the Company.

During this period of a rapid build-up of manpower, the Army was desperate for bodies. Almost anybody would do and then mix in our group of forty guys illustrated just how desperate they were. 

Of the forty guys in the platoon, at least a half dozen suffered from dyslexia. They had reading problems and so tested poorly when it came to aptitude testing. Most of them were more intelligent than their papers told.

The guy that I felt the most empathy for was in the third squad. Howard Daniel Vandenacre was a big, strong farm boy from Montana. Close to six feet tall, he was well-muscled from hard work on the farm. His close-cropped hair from his Army haircut went well with the peach fuzz on his face. Despite his baby face appearance, he was one of the more muscular guys in the platoon.

Howard was one of those with dyslexia. He was normal in his conversations and a lot of functions, especially in physical training. But give him a task that required hand-to-eye coordination, and it would take forever for him to learn it.

And his voice was distinctive. To say it was high-pitched would be an understatement. It was almost a squeak. 

It was this squeaky voice that first had the Drill Instructors (DIs) on his case. “Sound off like you have a pair!” they would shout into his face. 

Howard’s reply would be a slightly louder squeak, “Yes, Sergeant!” 

The first inspection was meant to be a learning experience. That is what it was for most of the platoon. Everyone seemed to have something wrong, how the bed was made, how the footlocker was arranged, or how the uniform was hung in the standing locker. 

For Howard, it was a disaster. He had nothing correct. His foot lock was a mess. The DI threw it across the bay, almost hitting the guys standing across the aisle, scattering the contents everywhere.

After that inspection, several of us helped Howard daily. We helped make his bed in the mornings, clean his rifle and roll his socks in the evenings.

“I can make my bunk, and I can clean my rifle,” Howard said the second morning after the inspection. “But I need a lot of help with my footlocker. I just can’t roll my socks.”

Rolling his socks the Army way was a significant challenge for Howard. I think it took him a full six weeks before he could roll his socks without help. 

His voice was just part of him. We were no help there. But all the abuse from the DI did not alter his cheerful nature. 

Howard slept through every training film we attended. He would be sound asleep, but his head never wavered. The DIs were all over anybody whose head bobbed. 

“How do you manage to keep your head straight up when you sleep in these films?” I asked Howard.

  “That is easy,” Howard said. “I sat in front of Dad in church. Dad would bat me on the head if he thought I was sleeping.”

Howard had the work ethic that came from his upbringing. If there was work to be done, he was there. Often with a few other farm boys and me in the platoon. In combat training that required strength or athletic ability, he would excel. He was always there to lend someone a hand. He would carry the pack of some of the small guys when they needed a break or help them through a trench filled with water or over an obstacle. Always with a smile, and I never once heard him complain. 

About the sixth week of basic, we were given training with gas warfare and the use of the gas mask. Howard had trouble getting his mask on most of the time and probably suffered a little more than most of us. 

The final exam, so to speak, was an obstacle course of sorts. The platoon left a starting line, climbed through a large trench, and crawled under about thirty yards of barbed wire. 

Somewhere in the middle of the barbed wire, they would hit the group with tear gas. Then we were to turn onto our backs, put on the gas mask, and continue through the wire on our backs. There was no way that Howard would be able to get his mask on under that wire.

After we were out of the wire, the assembly area was a large tree at the top of the hill.  We would be out of the gas at that location.

I stood beside Howard at the starting line. 

“I figure that if we go fast, we can be through that wire before most of these guys are out of the trench,” I said. “You stay up with me, and we won’t have to worry about the gas stuff. We should be up at the tree when they use it.” 

The horn blew, and we were off like a shot. I hit the bottom of the trench and made the top of the far bank with one bounce. I glanced back as I started to crawl under the wire. No sign of Howard. I started my crawl under the wire, going as fast as I could. When I stood up at the far end and looked back, Howard was just getting out from under the wire. We ran up to the big tree together and were joined with Archer, another guy who had it figured out.

“You weren’t behind me at the start of the wire. How did you catch up?” I asked Howard. 

“I got held up a little at the start. I dropped the magazine out of my rifle,” Howard replied. “I figured I was in trouble being behind everybody, so I just jumped the trench.” 

I just shook my head. That had to have been quite a jump. I wished I had seen it. About then, I noticed the DI coming our way. He came up and sat down beside Howard. 

“I have been doing this training for almost 2 years now,” he said. “I have never seen anybody even attempt to jump that trench. That was one hell of a leap, Private. Good job.” 

Howard beamed and broke out in a broad smile. That was the only time I witnessed the DI giving Howard any positive feedback. We laid back and watched the rest of the platoon struggle getting through the wire with tear gas streaming over them. 

As we prepared for the graduation ceremony at the end of Basic Training, I felt a sense of pride when I checked on Howard. His uniform was neat, and his brass was all on correctly. He had progressed a lot in these 8 weeks, probably more than the rest of us. 

“I have never graduated from anything before,” Howard said. “I am sort of nervous. I wish my mother could be here.” 

Graduation was short, then everyone was given their orders for the next training assignment. The last I saw of Howard, he was standing on the company street as I boarded a bus to the airport. 

Time passes, and old Army buddies fade into that distant corner of your thoughts that are seldom visited. It was many years later when I started to wonder what had become of Howard. The search did not take long. 

Today, if you are looking for Howard, you will find him on Panel 18E – Line 27. 

For those who are not familiar with the address, it is on the Vietnam Memorial Wall. 

Howard Daniel Vandeacre 

DOB Nov 18, 1946 Conrad, Montana

 PFC E3 9th Infantry Division

 Tour began Dec 1, 1966, Casualty was on Apr 14, 1967

In Long An, South Vietnam 

Multiple Fragmentation Wounds 

Panel 18E – Line 27 

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