Recon Doc:

JACKSON

     John Jackson slapped a camouflaged hand against the bottom of his rifle magazine and charged a round into the chamber. A flick of his thumb taking off the safety was all that remained to ready the weapon. He waited silently with the rest of his Marine Force Reconnaissance team as the chopper descended into the LZ. A soft cover sat atop his fiery red hair, earning him the nickname, “Red Dog.” Like others of his position within the company, though, most people just called him “Doc.”

     The helicopter dropped the eight man team deep behind enemy lines. They had been tasked with monitoring North Vietnamese and Viet Cong movement on the surrounding trail network. The team exited the aircraft into the elephant grass and flawlessly formed their column. Perfected over months in the bush, hand and arm signals from the patrol leader guided the team through the jungle in complete silence.

     For two days they monitored enemy movement undetected. At one point, the team ambushed two black-clad VC on a trail, then melted back into the jungle. On the third day, while moving through the thick undergrowth, the patrol walked directly into unavoidable contact. Two Marines at the head of the patrol came upon a well concealed enemy encampment. Before they had a chance to withdraw, they were detected. Fifteen NVA soldiers opened fire mere feet away, killing the point man, and seriously wounding the second, Sgt Hawrylak. 

     Doc and the remainder of the team dropped prone and unleashed a steady volume of return fire. 

    “Corpsman!”

     Jackson heard the cry from his front. As the rest of the team continued shooting, he made his way ahead to Hawrylak’s exposed position. Jackson dragged him back to the rest of the team, hugging the deck as rounds cracked through the air over his head. 

     Jackson found wounds across Hawrylak’s torso and legs. He dug into his medical kit for battle dressings to stop the bleeding. The team leader called over his radio for a medevac and an artillery strike. The artillery arrived first, temporarily stunning Jackson as it exploded danger close keeping the enemy at bay. A medevac chopper finally arrived over the team and dropped a hoist through the canopy. No medical support came with the helicopter. Jackson elected to stay with Hawrylak, ensuring he survived the flight back to base.  As the rest of the team fought back, Jackson lifted Hawrylak onto the hoist and secured him to one seat. He wrapped his arms and legs around Hawrylak and the hoist, and prepared for the ride up. 

     The cable retracted slowly through the trees, hauling them 60 feet towards the chopper. Below him, the team fired in the direction of the enemy, and the sound of AK-47s came in steady reply. Suddenly, bullets smacked branches and leaves surrounding him as the enemy sought to knock him from the hoist. Jackson clung to Hawrylak with one hand and pulled his .45 caliber pistol with the other. He emptied a magazine at the enemy below before they finally reached the bottom of the chopper. Jackson kept his wounded comrade alive long enough to get him to a field hospital. The remainder of the team recovered their slain point man, and was extracted the following day.

      Doc Jackson developed his craft through two tours in Vietnam, serving with both Force Recon companies in country. Like all Hospital Corpsmen serving this elite community, bush experience converted him into a Marine with a medical specialty.

     “It’s like a John Wayne movie,” recalled Jackson today, “But you don’t even think about it. Any corpsman will tell you, they call ‘corpsman up’ and you go do your thing.”

     Corpsmen like Jackson serving Force Reconnaissance Companies integrated so thoroughly into the units, they became completely indistinguishable. Outsiders often overlooked their service. For the Marines with whom these corpsmen served, they will forever revere and respect their Docs.

ALL VOLUNTEER

    Navy Corpsmen who found themselves with Force Recon did not wind up there by mistake. It was highly selective and all volunteer. Boot camp and basic corpsman school both took place at Naval Station Great Lakes, IL. Following this basic training, many new corpsmen received assignment to the Marines. 

     “Let me tell you how I ended up with the Marines,” mused Jackson. “This Chief says to me, ‘Jackson, I changed your orders to FMF.’ Being a Navy guy I asked him, ‘What ship is that?’ Well, it wasn’t a ship! The Fleet Marine Force. And that was that.”

     More often, new corpsmen were assigned to one of the many stateside naval hospitals. Either way, no corpsmen received assignment to a special forces unit like Force Recon.

     Once a corpsman volunteered and was accepted into Recon, they began the same regimen of training as their Marine counterparts. Field Medical Service School functioned as “basic training” for new corpsman serving with Marines. From there many attended infantry training, jungle warfare school, jump training, and even scuba qualification. 

     Another newly minted corpsman, Doc Bob Schoelkopf, grew frustrated with his initial assignment to Philadelphia Naval Hospital. He watched more and more wounded Marines come back from Vietnam. He felt helpless to do anything for them. He wanted to be in a position alongside the Marines, using his skills to help them avoid getting hurt in the first place. Schoelkopf heard about Second Recon Battalion out of Camp Lejeune looking for corpsmen to join the ranks. Everyone told him, “Never volunteer for anything!” Schoelkopf did the exact opposite, and joined the Marines. Schoelkopf underwent every kind of specialized training the Marines could cook up over the next 17 months. When his orders to Vietnam arrived in the fall of 1967, he was as prepared as he could possibly have been.

INTO THE BUSH

     New corpsmen arriving in country joined a team and found themselves behind enemy lines in short order. Docs were in short supply in Force Recon, and their skills were needed on patrol. Patrol leaders maintained the same expectations of corpsman as any other Marine in the bush. Docs used all the same weapons, carried all the same gear, and ran every position from point man to tail end Charle. Their medical specialty served the patrol only after their tactical proficiency. 

     Outside of “normal” Recon patrols, corpsmen participated in every type of mission for which Force Recon was specially suited. Scuba qualified corpsmen joined Marines under the water, searching for ordnance, bodies, explosives rigged to bridges, and submerged tunnel entrances. More often corpsmen received jump qualification. In the entire history of the Marine Corps, only three combat jumps have been conducted. All of these took place in Vietnam. Even with this small number, and the limited amount of Marines who participated, Navy corpsmen still joined in the missions. 

     Both Force Recon companies in Vietnam maintained more teams in the bush than corpsmen to accompany them. Docs often ended up going out more than many of their Marine counterparts to cover teams without a corpsman assigned. 

     “It just kind of happened,” recalled Doc Bruce Norton. “What are you going to say, no?” Norton participated in over 30 patrols with both First and Third Force. Because of his experience, in both companies Norton eventually functioned as a patrol leader. Taking charge of a team in the bush was a rare assignment for a Navy corpsman. In the end, however, rank and tenure or branch of service mattered little. Experience trumped all.

     For corpsman grown accustomed to life in the bush, their attitude towards other Navy corpsmen adapted similarly to their fellow Marines’ attitudes towards the regular infantry. Recon thought the grunts were truly brave and crazy for going toe-to-toe with the bad guys in force, without the element of surprise, using every weapon available. On the other hand, grunts thought Recon Marines were the crazy ones, patrolling behind enemy lines in such small numbers looking for trouble.

     Similarly, regular hospital corpsmen questioned the sanity of a Doc who would volunteer to go get killed in the jungle on patrol. Recon Docs viewed these other corpsmen in country with equal fascination.

     “Occasionally I’d hitch a ride on a medevac chopper down to the hospital in Da Nang,” remembered Doc Norton. “Three corpsmen I knew were assigned there in triage. I thought they were out of their minds. You see a helicopter land with five or six casualties, or a number of dead, or guys with limbs blown off, and they were seeing this every day. My God, how do you do it? They thought I was insane going out on these long range recon missions, where I felt very comfortable and safe with my team, never having to deal with things like they did on a daily basis. I was just in awe of them.”

SCHOELKOPF

    Corpsmen expected and prepared to patch up their teammates, but did not necessarily expect to fix themselves. Bob Schoelkopf found himself in this position on one routine patrol insert. Doc and his team prepared to exit the CH-46 as it descended towards the LZ, with Schoelkopf staged to exit the bird last. As the tail ramp touched the ground, the team sprinted off the back. From the front, the pilot of the chopper saw muzzle flashes directly ahead. Enemy soldiers emerged from cover moving in his direction. Doc Schoelkopf was moving through the helicopter when the bird bucked beneath him, as if trying to throw him out. The pilot yanked the chopper’s nose into the air, away from the enemy fire, sending Schoelkopf tumbling down the tail ramp. With M16 in his left hand, Schoelkopf grasped for a hold with his right. As he rolled over the end of the ramp, he managed to grab a floor anchor point. He hung there for a split second before gravity pulled his 60 pound pack down on top of him. The shock of the extra weight ripped his shoulder out of socket and he lost his grip, plummeting 20 feet to the ground. 

     Schoelkopf found himself miraculously uninjured from the fall. His gear absorbed the brunt of the impact. With adrenaline dulling his pain, he realized his shoulder was out of socket after he found difficulty moving his arm. Still under fire and exposed in the LZ, Schoelkopf had to act fast. He took a knee and put the muzzle of his M16 in the ground. Using the rifle like a crutch, he placed the butt of the stock in his armpit and leaned into it. He increased the pressure and rotated his arm up and back until the joint popped into place. With no time for further examination, Schoelkopf picked up his gear and sprinted out of the LZ to join the rest of his team. He continued the patrol for four more days until they were extracted. By the time he made it back to the field hospital, he was told nothing more could be done than what he had already done to himself. Any further healing would happen on its own.

     Many dangers other than the enemy presented themselves in the jungle. Suffocating heat and humidity brought on varying degrees of heat related illness. Feet and legs macerated in the wet environment, degenerating into a condition so common the Marines called it “jungle rot.” Contaminated water led to dysentery and intestinal parasites. Wildlife owned the country more than the NVA. Teams encountered large snakes and centipedes as long as their arms.  Swarms of mosquitos ate away at any exposed skin. Marines developed the morning habit of waking up and removing leeches from their faces. Some teams even ran into tigers in the bush. The corpsmen prepared to counter everything.

MERRITHEW

    Despite all other dangers, enemy contact remained the primary concern. This was the reason Force Recon existed in the jungle. They went searching for the enemy, in their territory. When teams made contact and the worst occurred, many times a Navy corpsman was all that could make the difference between life and death for a wounded Marine.

     Retired Major Larry Bender understood this reality with absolute clarity. Bender arrived with First Force as a 31 year old mustang officer. The team he led, callsign Veal Stew, was comprised of 18 and 19 year old Marines. The team’s Doc, HM2 Anzac Merrithew, came closest to Bender in age at 23. This gulf in years earned him the affectionate title of “the old man.”

     In May 1968, The team moved along the Truoi River valley in search of a large group of enemy they spotted on their last patrol. A foot path leading away from the water pointed them in the direction of the NVA encampment. 

     They formed a defensive position near the trail, when suddenly a NVA soldier came into view 20 meters away. He stopped in the trail and reached for the rifle slung over his shoulder. Seeing he had been made, the closest Marine fired a round into the soldier’s face sprawling him out on the trail. 

     The shot alerted other NVA to the team’s presence. Enemy soldiers closed in on the source of the noise firing their weapons. Lieutenant Bender crouched on a knee in his position. Without warning, two NVA broke through the brush less than ten feet away. Bender fired a burst into the soldier on the right, dropping him instantly. As he pivoted to take out the one on the left, he felt an enormous kick to the groin, knocking him flat on his back. 

     Time stood still as Bender lay bewildered on the jungle floor. What happened? Where was his rifle? Why did he feel warm? He felt around unsuccessfully for his M16 until the warmth in his legs warranted more attention. He reached down towards his crotch. His pants felt saturated. Returning to his face, two blood covered hands came into view. The sight preceded any feeling of pain, sending him further into shock. 

     Meanwhile, Doc Merrithew heard the gunfire and sprang around the tree separating him from Bender. A single fluid motion snapped the corpsman’s rifle into action and the second NVA soldier fell dead. The immediate threat silenced, Merrithew inspected the wounded Lt. Bright red blood rhythmically spurting from Bender’s leg left little need for investigation. Two bullets tore through his thigh, severing the saphenous vein and femoral artery. Doc had to stop the bleeding immediately. Bender would die in this jungle if they did not get him out.

     More NVA came shooting through the trees and the entire patrol engaged in the firefight. Merrithew turned to find the team radioman, Corporal Dorris. 

     “Dorris! Hey Dorris!”

     He struggled to make himself heard over the exploding rifle fire. 

     “The old man’s been hit! If we don’t get him out of here fast he’s not gonna make it!”

     Returning to his patient, Merrithew found the entrance wounds three inches apart, high on the inside of Bender’s right thigh. He needed to get to the severed artery. The Doc unsheathed his Kabar and sliced a straight line in the leg from one hole to the other. He put the knife down and retrieved a clamp from his medical kit. With the clamp in his finger tips, he stuck his hand through the opening, up into Bender’s pelvis. He felt the gushing artery and clamped it off. Bender had lost a significant amount of blood and could not afford to lose any more. The clamp had to work. To ensure it remained, Merrithew kept his hand inside the old man’s body squeezing the clamp tight.

     As the Doc performed his lifesaving work, adrenaline and shock gave way to waves of pain sweeping through Bender’s body.

     “Doc, give me some morphine, you got to give me some morphine!”

     Merrithew offered words of encouragement, but left the syrettes in his kit. Experience taught him that morphine at this stage would not only dull the pain, but kill the patient. The old man had lost too much blood.

     Cpl Dorris raised the combat operations center on his radio.

     “Night Scholar, Night Scholar, this is Veal Stew. We are in contact. Doc says the old man is hit and if we don’t get him out he ain’t gonna make it!”

     The team needed to move to an area where a medevac chopper could get Bender off the ground. Two of the Marines grabbed under his arms and dragged his upper half. At six feet four inches tall, and weighing 220 pounds without his gear, the entire team would be required to carry him. Merrithew crawled alongside Bender’s lower half. He kept his head down and focus on his hand still clamping the severed artery inside the pelvis.

     At the same time the firefight erupted, a CH-46 with escorting gunships hovered just a few miles away. The loaded bird descended into an LZ inserting another Force Recon team. The pilot heard the distress call over his frequency. His insert mission completed, the pilot immediately took off in the team’s direction. Within minutes the chopper arrived overhead for the medevac. The trailing gunships strafed the jungle surrounding the team on the ground. 

     Dorris fired a pencil flare through a small opening in the triple canopy to signal their position. The chopper hovered 80 feet overhead and lowered a jungle penetrator through the trees. The hoist device was designed to accommodate one man. This time they would make it work for two. Merrithew mounted the hoist, straddling the seat, with his legs around the cable leading up to the chopper. The rest of the team heaved Bender into his lap, chest to chest with the cable between them, and wrapped Bender’s legs around the Doc’s waist. Merrithew maintained a steady grasp on the artery clamp as they mounted the hoist and began the long ascent to the helicopter.

     They willed the hoist higher as an eternity passed. Bender retained enough lucidity to recognize the rest of his team still shooting it out on the ground, and enemy muzzle flashes surrounding them. They finally reached the bottom of the bird. The crew assisted Bender and Merrithew into the back. Doc reasserted his grip on the artery, as the old man’s body slumped to the floor. In another moment of alarming clarity, Bender recognized the distinct sound of bullets punching through aluminum skin. The sound coupled with streams of light trickling through new holes in the side of the chopper.

     “Those sons of bitches are still trying to get me!”

     The pilot lifted off and flew directly to the closest Marine base at Phu Bai. A team of Marines and doctors hauled Bender off the aircraft to the field hospital, with Merrithew still at his side. The doctors laid the old man on the table and began their work to keep him alive and save his leg. Surrounded by highly skilled medical professionals, Doc Merrithew finally let go of the clamp and pulled his hand out of Bender’s leg. 

     A year later, following a miraculous and full recovery, Lt Bender sat in a medical board reviewing the incident. The board members described events the Marine could not have known at the time. A dose of morphine would certainly have killed him. Merrithew’s understanding this spoke to his experience and skill. He took 19 units of blood on the table in triage when he arrived to the hospital. A doctor saved his leg by reattaching the femoral artery, using a procedure he had only read about in a medical journal. The board also stressed one point that Bender already believed. Merrithew saved his life.

EPILOGUE: TRUE IDENTITY

     Recon Docs experienced a complete transformation from Navy Corpsman to Force Recon Marine by the end of their combat tours. When the time came to depart Vietnam, various paths awaited. Their combat experience and highly specialized training made them prime candidates for the Navy’s burgeoning special forces community. Following his tour with First Force, Doc Schoelkopf received an offer to become part of the newly formed Navy SEALs. He politely declined. He had seen enough combat. Other corpsmen accepted these offers and returned to Vietnam. 

     Most Docs returned to the “normal” Navy. Many of those who took this path experienced unexpected difficulty. They arrived home to a nation apathetic, even openly hostile, towards them because of their service. In addition, they found themselves surrounded by a garrison Navy that could not possibly understand the things they survived with the Marines. The brotherhood forged on patrol in the jungle evaporated into an environment where standards and camaraderie were meaningless. Their environment changed, but their mindset could not. They walked, talked, and fought like Marines.

     Five decades after his time with Marines in Vietnam, Bob Schoelkopf drove his truck through his hometown in New Jersey. A First Force Reconnaissance Company seal emblazoned the rear glass of the cab. He parked the truck at the hardware store and got out. 

     “You served with Force Recon?”

     Schoelkopf looked across the bed of his truck at the stranger posing the question, a man roughly his age wearing a USMC hat. 

     “Yes, I did.”

     “Yeah I know you guys. I was crew chief on a 46. You guys were the ones always knocking out my windows with your barrels on hot inserts so you could shoot the bad guys too!”

     Schoelkopf smirked, affirming truth in the accusation. 

     “Yep, that was us. Semper Fi.”

     Through the intervening years, Recon Docs have continually related more to the Marines than their own branch of service. Even so, they uphold a single defining distinction of their true identity. Bruce Norton authored multiple best-selling books on his time with the Marines in Vietnam. Following his enlistment in the Navy, Norton accepted a commission as a Marine infantry officer and retired as a Major. He has taught at university level, and worked as a historian for the Marine Corps. For all the possible titles earned throughout his life, to this day Norton still goes by “Doc.”

     “When you came into the company, you were just one of the corpsmen,” he remembered, “but once you started functioning as a member of a team, you became the Doc, and it stuck.”

     Corpsmen earning this simple title carry it with pride. It reflects not just their job in the Navy, but the admiration and love of the Marines with whom they served.

     “You have to understand how beautiful these men were,” offered Larry Bender. “They were as much Marine as any Marine that ever walked.”

Originally published in Leatherneck Magazine, April 2019.