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 

Newspapers.com link: https://www.newspapers.com/image/353890648/?terms=vandenacre&match=1

Libby, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Our fascination with Silver Persians started in Enumclaw. The clinic had a client who raised Silver Persians and shipped kittens all over the country. She even had some international clients.

She lived in a large house. The people lived in the upper stories, and the cats, I don’t know how many, lived in the basement. When a litter of kittens was ready to ship to their new owners, the lady would bring them into the clinic to be bathed, fluffed, vaccinated, and whatever was needed.

These kittens were essentially feral. They had almost no human contact in their large basement living space. We always had to give them a small dose of ketamine so they could be handled.

“How many cats does Audrey have?” I asked Ann as she was bathing the last kitten.

“I’m afraid to ask,” Ann said. “We send out nearly a dozen litters a year. I have no idea what her basement must look like.”

“I’m not sure I would put up with this kind of work,” I said.

“It pays the bills,” Ann said. “You wait. When you have your clinic, you will have your share of cat ladies. They are everywhere.”

“How much does Audrey get for these kittens?” I asked. 

“She sells them for seven hundred dollars plus expenses,” Ann said.

“That is unbelievable,” I said. “That’s a month’s wages or a lot of people.”

“I think most of the people she sells these kittens to don’t have to worry about the money,” Ann said.

“I wonder what they think about paying that kind of money for a feral kitten?” I asked

“They probably can’t find kittens of this quality anywhere else,” Ann said. “And kittens this age tame down quickly.”

When Audrey came in to pick up her kittens, she had another cat in a carrier.

“I got this cat back,” Audrey said. “I sold it to a lady in London, and after its six months of quarantine, she could not get it tamed down. If you want to neuter it, you can have it. It is too old to sell, and I don’t have a situation to tame him down.”

I was quick to take her up on the offer. That evening, I neutered the young cat and declawed him at the same time. I taped his hind feet and took him home.

At the house, he was okay when he was in a box, but put him in an open room or try to handle him, and he would go wild. After a couple of days, we returned him to the clinic. Ann kept him in a cage for several months, and he tamed down and became an excellent clinic cat.

After moving to Sweet Home, we were excited when our babysitter, Jean Light, offered us a Silver Persian cat. Her mother had been given this cat by a friend who could not keep it. We were happy to accept Libby.

As a young cat, she fit into our household perfectly. It wasn’t long before the thought of having Persian kittens became a topic of discussion. Another friend, another Ann, offered us the use of a Persian tomcat that was being cared for by the local humane society.

We borrowed the tomcat when Libby came into heat, and our learning experience began. Libby was all claws when the tomcat showed her any interest.

“What are we going to do?” Sandy asked.

“Give her a few days, and nature will take its course,” I said.

The rest of the day and that evening, we were treated to any number of catfights in the living room. The other cats in the house were upset, also. This tomcat was not the most sociable individual.

That night, sometime after midnight, I woke with what I first thought was a headache. This tomcat had peed between the headboard of the bed and the wall. The odor was overwhelming. Sandy woke up shortly after I was awake.

In many cases, this would be no problem. One would just have to move the bed and clean up the urine. In our case, the process was a little complicated. We slept on a waterbed. It was a major operation to move the bed, even a couple of feet.

“What are we going to do now?” Sandy asked. 

“I think we are going to sleep on the hide-a-bed for tonight,” I said. “I can get up early and drain the waterbed mattress. Then we can clean up the mess and refill the mattress. I think we will position the bed a little further from the wall this time.”

The next day we cleaned up the mess and returned the tomcat to the humane society.

We learned that Libby found the wondering tomcats much more to her liking. A couple of months later, Libby gave us a litter of long-haired kittens who would grow into beautiful cats. Libby’s kittens became popular, and we allowed her to have several litters.

In her last litter, we kept a couple of her kittens. They were large fluffy cats named Chester and Howard.

After that last litter, I spayed Libby. 

After her spay, she became much less lovable. She hated to be groomed, to the point of being nothing but claws and teeth when someone would try to brush her.

Her hair would mat, and once or twice a year, she would make a trip to the clinic. I would sedate her and clip her hair coat, and she would go home mostly bald. Her hair coat would come off in one piece, like a sheep’s fleece.

As time went on, Libby became more and more antisocial. She began to live away from the house, only coming by for her meals a couple of times a day. She would spend the rest of the time in the neighbor’s small barn.

She started to have urinary tract infections, and medicating her was a monumental struggle. We would have to keep her in the clinic for weeks at a time. She would almost run to her barn when we would bring her home, and it was not long before her urinary tract infections progressed to kidney failure.

Libby did not survive long once she had kidney failure. I felt she was happy as a mother, and she lost her social self when that was taken away. Her legacy was in the beautiful kittens that survived many years beyond her.

Photo by Bianca Vogt on Pexels.

Dinner is in the Oven, From the Archives

D. E. Larsen, DVM

One of the most enjoyable things about veterinary medicine is the people you get to know and the trusting relationships that develop with those clients.

One young man was telling me about the first few weeks of his marriage. He was a logger, a choker setter to be exact. Anyone who knows anything about logging knows that these young choker setters work for a living. They burn a lot of calories during their day’s work, and they need a good meal to replace those calories in the evening.

Anyway, this young man was in love with this gal. They got married and took a few days off work for a short honeymoon on the coast. A few days was probably more than he could afford, but that is what happened.

A few days later, he brings his cat for shots. After the exam, he asks, “Doc, do you have a few minutes to talk,”

I have never understood how veterinarians become counselors. Still, people often seek our advice of problems far removed from veterinary medicine.

“Sure, I have some time, just don’t ask for marriage advice,” I reply.

And then he starts in on a long story.

“We got home to our new apartment on Sunday afternoon last week,” he said. “We had it pretty well ready to live in, but we needed to go to the grocery store. I needed lunch stuff for the morning, and we needed food for breakfast and dinner.”

“I was a little concerned when Susie filled the shopping cart with items from the freezer case,” he said. “Mostly justTV dinner type stuff. But, you know, Doc, I had a lot else on my mind, and I just figured she was going to make things easy for a few days.”

“I got up early on Monday morning, I made my lunch. Look in the refrigerator, there were no eggs or bacon. I just figured I would stop at Molley’s for a breakfast sandwich,” he explained.

“I got home in the middle of the afternoon. showered and shaved,” the young man continued. “I greeted Susie when she came through the door.”

“I am as hungry as a bear,” I said.

“She acts a little alarmed,” he said, ” but with that little twinkle in her eye, she says, “Okay, I will get dinner going right away””

“Doc, I sat on the couch and turned on the TV as she was busy in the kitchen,” he said. “In what seemed like no time at all, she is back from the kitchen and curls up beside me.”

“The timer is set,” she said. “My grandmother said it would be easy.”

“That seemed like a strange comment,” he said, “but I was engrossed in other thoughts.”

“It wasn’t very long, and the smoke detector goes off,” he said.
“Those new things were more of an annoyance than anything. We ignored it for the moment. Then there was real smoke billowing out of the kitchen.”

“I jumped up and ran to the kitchen,” he said. “Susie called the fire department.”

“They said they were only a couple blocks away and would be there in a moment,” he continued.

“When I got to the kitchen, there was one hell of a fire in the oven,” he said. “I looked for a fire extinguisher. Hell, I didn’t know what to do.”

“All of a sudden couple of firemen burst through the door,” he said. “They opened the oven and doused the flames.”

“What the hell were you cooking?” the fireman asked.
“Sue was peeking around the corner,” he said. “She says to the fireman, ‘Just a couple of TV dinners.'”

“Doc, the fireman looks in the oven and then he looks back at Sue,” the young man explained, “with as straight of a face as he could muster, he says to Sue, “You are supposed to take them out of the box before you put them in the oven!”, I thought I would die.”

“I tell you, Doc,” the young man said, “she can’t boil water.”

“Well, you obviously didn’t marry her to have a cook,” I replied. “That old wive’s tale, about the way to a man’s heart, is through his stomach, that was made up to use in polite company. I guess you already know that you are going to be doing the cooking.”

Photo by Kristin Vogt on Pexels.