Women in Wartime: A Nurse Remembers
By Diane Carlson Evans
My plane touched down in Vietnam on August 2, 1968. The blast of heat and the smell of jet fuel hit me first, then the sight of GIs with MI6s and bandoliers of ammunition slung across their strapping chests. The pilot ordered the two nurses out of the plane first.
After three days at the 90th Replacement Battalion at Long Binh, I choppered to the 36th Evacuation Hospital in Vung Tau, a seaside resort town about an hour’s drive from Saigon where U.S. soldiers often spent their in-country R & Rs. As the door gunner locked his eyes on the ground I saw red crosses painted on Quonset hut-styled buildings.
My first day in the 60-bed unit was 105 degrees with no air-conditioning. Not even on the burn ward. Only the OR, ICU and Recovery Room had this luxury. Huge floor fans chased around the fetid air. For me it didn’t matter but it did for wounded GIs whose suffering was greatly compounded by the heat. They deserved better.
I was used to seeing trauma in Minnesota. But there it was explicable; farm mishaps, auto accidents, drownings, and homicides.
In Vietnam, I was overwhelmed by the hundreds of our young soldiers, Vietnamese and Montagnard civilians who had been blown apart by heinous weapons of war. I hadn’t realized how much loving the soldiers would make me hate the war. I wanted to know what they were dying for.
Eddie Lee Evenson is the only patient whose name I remember from my year in Vietnam. Other nurses have told me that they, too, have that one name that symbolizes all the rest.
Eddie was mine. He was from Thief River Falls, Minnesota. Angular and strong with a ready smile he endeared himself to the corpsman and nurses. He came into the 36th with relatively minor injuries; after loaded with antibiotics and a delayed primary closure of his wounds, he had his sutures removed and was sent back to his infantry unit. In the meantime, helping us out relieved his high energy and boredom.
No job was too small for Eddie. He cheerfully emptied bedpans, took blood to the lab, and helped ambulate patients using crutches. Eddie was sweet and respectful, and felt like another brother to me. When he went back to the field, he made me promise to write to him. We exchanged a few letters.
I was transferred to the 71st Evacuation Hospital in Pleiku. It was there that the manila envelope arrived. Eddie was dead. Eddie was dead. Eddie was dead. No. Eddie was too good to die. But the letter I sent him had not been opened. The commanding officer sending me this news said the letter was found on his body.
Mail call was a precious time. He hadn’t opened his mail yet. Like the rest of us I knew he’d wait for the right time to open a letter and savor the words inside. I vowed to myself that I’d never get another message like this; I would never get as close to another soldier as I had to Eddie.
. . .
Forward to my first visit to The Wall: the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, November 11, 1982, and to a flashback that day.
It is an autumn morning in Washington, D.C. A cool, dry breeze sweeps the Mall as I join a crowd that grows by the second and pushes me along the path. Though people surround me, I feel alone. If there is sound, I am not hearing it. If there is a feeling to this place, I am not experiencing it. Not yet. I am numb.
Ahead waits The Wall of black granite – carved with the names of more than 58,000 souls. Though I know that it is The Wall that has brought me, summoned me, to this place, I still deny its power and meaning.
Beneath my feet, grass sprouts in the spaces between the gray stones. A woman walks in front of me, head down, wary of the uneven ground. Suddenly one of her spiked heels slips off the stones and into the soft grass. The heel is trapped, and she stumbles. At her side, a bearded man in old army-issue boots, who himself is walking with a cane, moves awkwardly to steady her. I watch the woman’s feet, and her shoe. I notice his cane and his boots. But I cannot look up. A kind of gravity pulls me along the path, down a slope, toward the black stone.
I stop when the granite plates loom before me, but still I cannot look up. Instead I gaze at the sandals, tennis shoes, penny loafers, flats, and boots. Some stop. Others turn a bit, and I know that some of the people around me are embracing. I focus on the combat boots. I feel dizzy. Do I know the man in those boots? How about the one to my left? To my right? Are any of them my patients who still live in my mind?
I feel the black granite near me and wish I could remember more names. Back then I only knew him by his last name or his first, or didn’t know it at all. There were hundreds. I have two in mind. Would I find them? My heart races and I my stomach churns. I’m miserable in crowds. There must be thousands of people here, yet I feel alone. I left my husband and kids at home; I went to Vietnam alone, and I’ll do this alone.
I wonder now about my own boots, my black leather combat boots. They must still be in the attic on the farm. Mother might have thrown them away. Dad definitely wouldn’t have.
What had my parent’s experienced back on the farm in Minnesota when I was in Vietnam? I know the rhythm of their comings and goings, but I don’t know what they felt. I had gone away, and come home, and we never really talked about it. The same was true of my husband and children. They had never seen my uniform or boots, my medals, my photographs. They had never seen me cry.
My boots, if they still existed, would be worn out, a relic of the past. They would probably be caked with red dirt from the Pleiku highlands. They would be stained with my last patient’s blood splattered on them. I would not think about that, but I wanted to look at them, hold them, and confirm that I actually wore them. I had become so detached from that time that I often wondered, “Was I really there?” The boots could prove it. I realized that I was obsessed with boots. There were hundreds of them around me. Why weren’t these guys wearing regular shoes? Vietnam was 12 years ago.
I brought one thing with me to D.C.; my boonie hat, with patches from the 44th Medical Brigade, 71st Evacuation Hospital. Finally I push it back on my forehead a little as I finally look up at The Wall, and find the names I came for — Eddie Lee Evenson, Panel 28 W, Line 17 and Sharon Lane, Panel 23W, Line 112.
As I touch Eddie’s name, a man wearing a tattered, faded field jacket gently places his hand on my shoulder, and turns to look directly at me.
“Were you a nurse in Vietnam?”
“Yes,” I admit.
“I’ve waited 14 years to say this to a nurse,” he continues. His voice wavers, and tears pool in his eyes. “Thank you. I can never thank you enough. I love you. Thank you for being there.” These simple words were the most powerful, profound words that I will ever remember. They were precious words, to him and to me. This wounded soldier had lived; he survived and he was grateful.
But there was one who didn’t live and I would never find his name to touch. I close my eyes; I’m with him now, standing at his bedside. I move the blankets to find his hand; I draw it close to me. I hold it gently, I don’t let go. I feel his youth. I notice the contrast; a young black man holding my hand; I press gently asking him to do the same if he hears me. He does. I move to his face, concealed by dressings, and speak softly to him. The night is bleak. I tell him I’ll be there through the night – that I won’t leave. I ask for God. At the end, I leave him, never knowing his face – only the shroud and his touch, which belongs to me. I am haunted by a black man I’ve never seen; sheathed in white. Sheathed in white, covering the blast delicately swirled around his face, chest, arms, legs, all tinged with red I hold his hand while his blood turns cold. He gave me his hand and soul to hold that night. I don’t remember his name.
I feel something break inside of me. For the first time since Vietnam, I cry. I cry for Eddie, for Sharon, for the soldier embracing me, for the young black man who gave me his hand and his soul to treasure and because I cannot hold back a lifetime of tears any longer.
I had been terrified of crying, afraid that once I started I wouldn’t stop. Behind the tears was anger at the injustice, the futility, and the betrayals of war. I finally had touched Eddie’s name as he had touched my life the day he was wounded, and Sharon’s. She was killed in Chu Lai on June 8, 1969, while I went about my duties in Pleiku. Women do go off to war, and they may die there too.
The Vietnam veteran who embraced me that day near The Wall of names may never know that his act of love and kindness pressed me to begin embracing my own past. I knew that my life would never be the same again. I must have lived for a reason. There was something left, something yet that I had to do with my life. In a spiritual and mysterious moment, Eddie and Sharon gave me permission to live, to feel and show emotion and see again the faces of war. There would be a price for that. My battle with the Vietnam War was just beginning.
Diane Carlson Evans is the founder and president of the Vietnam Women’s Memorial Foundation. She served in the Army Nurse Corps, 1968-69, in the Vung Tau and Pleiku provinces.
thank you Diane for your service … As a grunt with the 4th infantry divison out of Anke we were in the same area … God bless you , my fellow comrade … Sgt Bill Johnson , vietnam 1970.
Bless you Diane. I had the pleasure of meeting you in 2000 at The Wall through Nikki Mendicino and I’ve spoken to you a couple of times via email over the years. Be well lady, you earned it.
I had the honor of meeting Mrs Diane on Veterans Day 2012. I learned so much from her that day. I had the opportunity to hug her and tell her thank you on behalf of my family for being there. We know that it was a nurse like her that was there for my Uncle SP4 Billy Wayne Duke on March 28,1969, they were the ones that held his hand as he took his last breath. I told her as we cried that it was for that reason that I to became a nurse. I wanted to follow her and her sisters legacy and be there for someone else as she was for those we love. It has became my passion to teach other nurses about her fight and the wonderful things that nurses have done through the years for our Country. Most do not realize that Nurse have all ways been at war. From Florance Nightingale, to Clara Burton and Kate Cumming, in the civil war, to the Angels of Bataan, World War 2, to Diane and her sisters, and finally now the women of today that are standing on these women’s shoulders, marching into battle. Mrs Diane told me that day, “There is a God. Please know that there is a God. I lost him for a while. I just could not believe that God was there in that hell. But I had a request for a interview for the Episcopal Magazine, I told her that she did not want to interview me. She asked me why and I told her. Because there is NO God, God was not there. She then asked me if I had not thought about the fact that God was there, he was there through me. He used me to comfort and show those men that God was there with them.”
This touched me beyond words. I hugged her again and said thank you. I had to agree with her that she and her sisters where Angels sent from God. We must all remember the sacrifice of these women and say thank you and welcome home to them as well as the men. Because if it wasn’t for them there would be so many more men on the Wall. God Bless you Diane Carlson Evens, RN you are my hero, and I hope to meet you again.
Anitra L. Duke, LPN
Diane I want to thank you for your service. I lost my best friend Bob Cupp on June 6, 1968 KIA. As the years have slipped away I have been able to watch how the Wall has healed and reconnected so many. I walked with the Vets when The Wall was dedicated in ’82 and began my pilgrimage which has been uninterrupted for 30 years. I appreciate all you’ve done and The Women’s Memorial is a special spot for me as well. I always look for Alan Hoe as he served in the same unit as Bob. I was able to connected him with Bob’s Mother who helped Jan get the Wall built. The world gets smaller and more meaningful as our stories are shared, and hopefully make a time when war will not be condoned by we the people. All we need is love. I’ll share mine with you.
Diane you are a hero to many a soldier. I was with the 510 HEV, ENG, Repair Co. back in 67-68. I visited the wall once with my oldest son. I cried that day for my army friend on the wall an sad to say I’ll never visit again for they died in vain for a no good cause. My youngest sister joan (jo-an) pray was killed in Nam in April 75 in the C5 plane crash, She worked for Army Intel she was civilian an a former E-8 WAC. Got out after 12 years. Me I came home with no problems an to this day I always wonder way we were there. for I have forgotten it all.
Thank you for your service, I spent a week at the 71st with malaria before being sent to the hospital at Cam Rung Bay.
Amazing read and so realistic to my own feelings. From Mar 70 – Feb 71 I served at the 91st Evac in Chu Lai, RVN. Thank you for you service!
Patrick , are you sure that you were with the 91st in Chu Lai in Mar. 1970? When was it changed from the 212th Med Evac? When I was at Chu Lai in 1968 It was the 312th Med Evac until around July 1969 when it was changed to the 212th Med Evac. The rocket that killed Sharon Lane at 0530 on Sunday, June 8th,1969 it was the 312th Evac. I was in the 523rd Sig.Bn. and saw the rocket that killed her. I would drive our officers to the hospital to play volleyball with the doctors and nurses.That is one day and time I will never forget, just like it was yesterday . I left country on Sept. 11,1969.
Thank you, Steve. Our hearts are indeed connected by memories and shared experiences. Allen Hoe serves as a board member on the Vietnam Women’s Memorial Foundation. It’s an honor to know and work with him. After serving as a Medic in Vietnam – saving other’s sons, he tragically lost his own son to the war in Iraq. When we return from war he hope and pray we will never see another one. We don’t heal alone. The Vietnam Women’s Memorial and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial presence in our lives proves it is the healing power of love and connection that sustains us.
Pleiku 510HER CO. 62 Maint. Bn.
This is a stunning piece of writing. Thank you.
Diane, Thank you for your service. I was a combat medic with the 3rd/506th 101st Airborne from Jan1970 to late April 70 when I was wounded and as I was recovering Vivax malaria decided to strike. When I was cleared for duty I was reassigned to the 71st Evac. where I worked ER and as a security guard. At age 64 I will be attending my first reunion this June with my combat unit and a part of me is scared to open those memories but I seem to have trouble finding info on the 71st. As a medic working around the nursing staff I was and still am in awe of your humanity in such an inhumane situation. Welcome home!!!!
Thanks, Diane for your service. The nurses who served in Vietnam didn’t get the respect they deserved after the war either. You were all heroes to the men who served there. We know what you did there! God bless you and all the nurses who served in that place, you will not be forgotten.
Diane, you know that I am a champion of civilian women lost in Vietnam; through your story & meeting you at the Wall observances I have developed a great appreciation for all contributions of the nurses who served in Vietnam. As stated above, if it were not for you and the rest of the nurses who served in Vietnam, there would have been a need for a Wall probably twice as large as the one we have. Your faces were many times the last ones the service members saw and your hands the last human loving touch that they felt. Thanks to you and all other nurses who served; I know each time one was lost, your hearts were broken. Thank you for all your efforts in making the Vietnam Women’s Memorial a reality so that there is a place for all to go to remember our women lost in Vietnam and to honor all who served there.
Sharon Lane died about two weeks after I flew into Long Binh. I too was from Ohio, and that made it hit even closer. I was stationed at the 6th CC at Cam Ranh Bay, but even there we weren’t safe The sappers mortared and satchel charged us and our patients who were already sick or injured on August 8, 1969, killing three. While our patients usually weren’t severely ill or injured, they had the threat of going back to the field hanging over them. I think we helped as much by listening as we did passing quinine or changing bandages. Hardly a day goes by that I don’t think about that year- the best and the worst of my life. I, like Diane, had an experience at The Wall. Mine was on the day the Women’s Memorial was dedicated. There was a lady who came up and asked me if I had been a nurse in ‘Nam. When I told her yes, she gave me a big hug and said,”I know you’re not the same nurse, but I’d want to thank you for saving my husband for me!” That was why we were there. I had hoped to be the only combat veteran in the family, but two of my boys have been to Iraq and Afghanistan. When will we ever learn?
I remember when that attack happened very well. I was heading back to Nam after a week of R&R in Bangkok when an Air Force guy sat down beside me and asked, “Did you hear about Cam Ranh Bay getting hit last night ?” When I said “no” he told me what happened. We were scheduled to land there and take other transportation to our respective units. Well we landed and Shortly I found out that a member of the flight crew on the plane I was taking to Chulai was sick and couldn’t fly so the entire crew was grounded as well as the airplane. meanwhile I was waiting for some kind of transportation . About 0500 the next morning I was awakened by an announcement in the terminal that there was going to be an MPC conversion that day. Finally I got a lift on a Chinook to Chulai by way of Pleiku . The next day we got a few rockets . They missed my unit luckily for me. Then on 11 September 1969 I returned to Cam Rahn heading home. That is when Ho Chi Minh died. Thank your sons for me for serving. I always welcome the soldiers back when I see them. Dianne , I also want to thank you for your service to the wounded. I was lucky and didn’t have to meet any of you due to your profession. I did see your comrades at Chulai while they played volleyball with our Signal Officers. I would drive them to the volleyball court at the 312th Med Evac. I know in reason I saw Sharon a couple of times. I have been to the hospital in Canton and took pictures of the Statue and Memorial of Sharon. It gave me somewhat of a closure of her death. I didn’t know her personally , but seeing the rocket before it killed her and couldn’t warn anyone bothered me for a long time. I hope the V.A. recognizes your sacrifices and compensates you properly ,After all you didn’t have to go to that “hell hole” but you did and I thank you. Again , “Welcome Home” and God bless you and your sons, James.
Thank you for commenting on my letter. It means a lot, and you’re welcome!
Looking for Lt John Wright (1970) 71st Trans BN or his wife Cpt. Wright (1970) with 71st Medical Evacuation Long Binh, believed they were from Charleston SC?
Such a profound amazing story! Thank you so very much for sharing! I always felt so misinformed about that war… & years later, after 1969, I felt so guilty because I had no clue what was really happening re: the conflict. I met a marine who deserted & told me about killing gooks. I also remember my parents who grew up in the WW2 era condemning deserters. In hindsight, I wish that I could have been more supportive of him, but I had no clue. My friends from that generation said “Who Knew What was really going on then anyway”. So horribly sorry for what these heroes went through!! Shame on America & those who did not support them. They died supporting what was believed to be “Their Duty To America”.. AMEN! I will always look at their names at the “WALL” & will be always emotional. Such heroes who gave their lives & also for the others who survived physically? But mentally not so!! Never forget them!! They are the TRUE HEROES of that controversial conflict… God Bless Them Always!!!!
You are awesome, god bless you and welcome home. Thanks for taking care of the troops over there. The Vietnam vets were my heroes when I was a kid and you are still my heroes.
Botendaddy
4/1 Cav Iraq,
35th ID, Bosnia