"I was up forward with the mortars when the ambush hit us," recalls the chunky Florida Negro. "There were Viet Cong everywhere—in the grass, in the trees and bushes, and in holes. The guy in front of me was killed. The guy behind the guy behind me was killed. There were all kinds of wounds—head, chest, abdomen, legs and arms. The captain and the sergeant major, they were killed. We formed a perimeter—really just a circle of people trying to protect themselves. "That's where I treated the wounded. I was just doing my job."
The Army understandably thinks that Staff Sergeant James Reid, 45, a World War II truck driver who was assigned to the Medical Corps, did more than just his job. His recommendation for a Silver Star notes that he kept on tending the wounded even after machine-gun fire chopped down a tree he was using for cover on that terrible night in the la Drang Valley. Of the 21 men whom Reid treated, only one died. Says Captain William Shucart of St. Louis, surgeon for the 1st Cavalry's 7th Regiment, 2nd Battalion: "I was pinned down elsewhere, and Reid treated the wounded strictly on his own. He gave blood and antibiotics and patched wounds—all that I or any other doctor could have done, and he did them darned near as well. He's an amazing, wonderful guy."
Jungle to Z.I. Behind the heroism of Medical Corpsman Reid and his buddies stretches an elaborate, efficient and increasingly swift chain of medical services—all the way from Dr. Shucart and his fellow surgeons in the jungle to "Z.I." (zone of the interior, meaning the U.S.). And the statistics of survival testify to the operation's success. In World War I, the fatality rate was 5.5% of the wounded; in World War II, 3.3%; in Korea, 2.7%. In Viet Nam, estimates Commander Almon C. Wilson, head of the 3rd Medical Battalion at Danang, it is below 2% .
Many factors have contributed to the reduction. But helicopter lifts are by far the biggest. After the high-grade first aid at the front line, there is always the helicopter that takes the wounded, whether American or South Vietnamese, on their next quick trip. Slow and bumpy ambulance rides have been virtual ly eliminated by the ungainly choppers that brave everything from bullets to a sheet of monsoon rain, day or night. "Man, that chopper's roar don't bother me a bit," said a young marine last week as he watched a noisy Huey land to pick up a wounded buddy. "Sounds more like angels singing." Whereas only 10% of the wounded were carried by copters in Korea, the ratio is up to 90% in Viet Nam, says Colonel Spurgeon Neel Jr., chief medic of the U.S. Military Assistance Command.