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The Vietnam combat medic had arguably, one of the most dangerous, difficult
and demanding jobs on the battlefield. When I stated arguably, it’s
understood that the argument would probably come from point-men, machine
gunners, RTO’s, artillery FO’s, and so on. One simple fact to consider for
the sake of the argument, it should be understood, no one in a firefight
screams for an RTO when they’re wounded. Of the 58,239 names listed on the
Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall, 2,096 are army combat medics and navy
corpsman. So it would be safe to assume that the rate of attrition for
combat medics, due to being wounded or killed in action, was fairly high.
Additionally, their reported life expectancy on the battlefield ranged from
a few minutes after contact, to a few months, with exceptional luck. Being a
combat medic certainly was not a career choice for the weak kneed or faint
of heart. One small perk that came with the job was half your cool Vietnam
nick name was already chosen for you. If you were a combat medic, you were
automatically going to be “Doc” somebody, either “Doc Smith”, or “Doc Jones”
or “Doc fill-in-the-blanks.”
During the best of times, the duties and routines of a combat medic assigned
to an infantry rifle platoon are, for the most part, fairly easy, at times
boring, and often times, gross and disgusting. The best of times would be
those periods spent at Charlie Company’s rear area, or on the fire support
base, or any time when we’re not engaged in combat. Typically, the combat
medic ensures each platoon member receives their malaria tablets, or a
couple of Darvon for a headache or pain. He sees that his fellow soldiers
cuts, bumps and bruises are attended to, and that proper personal hygiene is
maintained. Upon request, he examines, diagnoses and treats injured hands,
rotting feet, infested scalp and other unpleasant body parts and regions.
The combat medic also has the responsibility for screening those who attempt
to “sham” a medical condition in order to escape an unpleasant detail, or an
assignment to field duty. A combat medic’s daily routine is to interact with
all the platoon members, on a one-on-one basis. The continuous medic to
patient interaction helps to foster a close bond between combat medic and
members of the platoon.
During the worst of times, the combat medic is expected to perform minor
medical miracles on the battlefield, and in the heat of battle. The worst of
times would be those times when the platoon and company encounter an enemy
force, and become heavily engaged in a firefight that produces casualties.
If the combat medic can’t produce a medical miracle, then he must, to the
best of his ability, apply all the skills acquired in the 12 weeks of
training at Fort Sam Houston, as well as what ever else he’s acquired on the
job. I’m sure a vast number of those wounded soldiers felt as though they
had been granted a minor miracle through the hands of a combat medic. For
those who weren’t granted a miracle, the combat medic was expected to assume
the role of Chaplin, and provide comforting words, gentle hands to grasp,
and the last eyes on earth to look in to. The repeated task of being a close
witness to a buddy’s death must have taken a huge emotional toll on combat
medics. I’m sure this was another drawback to the job that most combat
medics never anticipated, and if they did, I’m sure they had no idea of how
it would affect them in the long term. The corps of Vietnam combat medics
used their training, courage and poise to attend to the 303,704 wounded
American servicemen. The actions of a combat medic often made a life or
death difference on the battlefield. I’m sure there are many Vietnam vets
walking around today who owe their lives to the skill and courage of a
combat medic.
The skill level of a combat medic was critical to increasing the likelihood
of survival of a severely wounded soldier. Equally important as skill was
the combat medics ability to muster courage, while suppressing fear. Courage
is an intangible attribute which cannot be identified or measured with a
proficiency test or set standards of performance. Generally, the location on
the ground where a wounded soldier falls is within an NVA soldier’s “field
of fire.” The “field of fire” is the area an enemy soldier can visually
observe, and effectively address with small arms fire. Thus making that
location on the ground the most dangerous location on the battlefield during
a firefight. When a wounded soldier cannot be transported to the combat
medics’ location, then the combat medic must go to the wounded soldiers’
location and treat his wounds. In doing so, the combat medic also becomes
exposed to the enemies’’ “field of fire,“ and greatly increases his chances
of becoming a casualty as well. Many combat medics in Vietnam repeatedly
acted courageously, by moving under fire from a position of relative safety,
to the most dangerous location on the battlefield. Many of those courageous
Vietnam combat medics laid down their lives so that many others may live.
The combat medic assigned to Charlie Company’s 2nd platoon was a bright and
genial young E4 named Michael Arthur Fontaine, from New Orleans, Louisiana.
Michael was only 17 years old when he joined the army, and had just barely
turned 18 when he received his orders for Vietnam. When I first met Michael,
we discussed how young he was, and why he joined the army at such a young
age. Michael made his joining the army sound like he was on some sort of
mission to prove himself to someone back home. I was never quite sure who he
felt he needed to prove himself to, and what exactly he had to accomplish in
order to do that.
Michael was about 5’-7” tall, with a slender athletic build, and looked like
he could be a long distance runner. He was quite personable, with a
disarming conversation and a relaxed temperament. Michael was our comedian,
a guy who could break the tension with a clever comment, a sort of natural
born “street performer.” Michael could contort his flexible face into
various exaggerated expressions. He generally had a broad faced grin, which
made him look like what we imagine Tom Sawyer to look like, the all-American
boy. There were times when he would smile, and arch one eyebrow, which
turned his smile to wicked and sinister, in a playful sort of way. His
wicked Salvador Dali brow only added to his “here comes trouble” look. It
didn’t take long for Michael’s easy going personality to make it more
comfortable, and more natural, to drop the Michael and just call him Mike.
Mike rarely wore a helmet, and his thick light-brown hair was usually tucked
under his cowboy style boonie hat. You would never detect that Mike was from
Louisiana by talking to him. After listening to Mike’s speech pattern, I
would have guessed he was from one of the boroughs of New York. He had no
southern accent, and he had no Cajun accent, just the sort of Brooklyn or
Bronx accent you might hear on the streets of New York. Mike was pretty laid
back and cool, a confident sort of cool, a cool well beyond his age and
experience. He was a good story teller, and enjoyed having an audience. He
didn’t brag or try to BS you, he just told fascinating stories. Many of
Mike’s tales were strange and twisted, and seemed to fit the psychedelic
times we were living in. I believe Mike’s quirky story telling style was
what led to his nick name, “Doc Trip.” I don’t know who started calling him
that, but it stuck, as most Vietnam nick names do. To all the members of the
2nd Platoon, Mike would forever be “Doc Trip“, or just “Trip“, as he was
sometimes called. I’m sure his peers and superiors back at 15th Medivac had
no clue about his nick name.
“Trip” was just a delightful young man to be around, and an exemplary
citizen of the world. He was also an exceptional medic, during both the best
and worst of times. Mike worked continuously to address the medical needs of
the 2nd Platoon, and he worked just as hard on making himself a more
competent and capable combat medic. He never balked at the drudgery of
day-to-day work details, nor did he try to “sham” to avoid his
responsibilities out in the field. In the worst of times “Doc Trip” was
truly in his element, in control of the situation and focused on the job at
hand. All the guys knew that, and knew that in their worst of times, if they
screamed MEDIC, they could count on “Doc Trip” being there to help.
Regardless of how intense the enemy fire, “Doc Trip” knew where he needed to
be, and moved to be where he was needed. He never needed to be prodded or
directed on the battlefield, it was instinctive with him. “Doc Trip” was the
total package, skilled, dedicated and courageous.
On January 9, 1969, Charlie and Delta Company, 2nd Battalion, 7th Cavalry,
were performing a reconnaissance in force along a well used “jungle
highway.” As the lead element of the two rifle companies stopped to
interrogate a suspected “Chu Hoi,” the trailing elements were ambushed by a
large NVA force. The combat action continued through the night, and into the
early morning of the next day, when contact with the enemy force was broken.
The two rifle companies sustained several casualties, while inflicting a
significantly greater number of casualties on the enemy force. On the
morning of January 10, 1969, the two rile companies moved to a large, open,
grassy area, and prepared for a helicopter extraction later that day. With
only the narrowest of warning, the two US rifle companies were again engaged
by a large and well armed NVA force. The NVA unit had the two US rifle
companies surrounded, and appeared to possess greater numbers and superior
fire power. The two US companies were immediately pinned down by intense,
and accurate fire from small arms, heavy machine guns, rocket propelled
grenades (RPG) and mortars. The two US rifle companies began to take
numerous casualties immediately after the initial burst of enemy fire. It
appeared that anyone who moved, or was in an exposed position was either
killed or wounded. Over the din of gun fire and explosions, we began to hear
wounded soldiers calling in agony for a medic.
“Doc Trip” was pinned down in between me and my RTO. The three of us were
lying prone on our stomachs in knee-high grass. My .38 and .45 caliber
pistols, and my M-79 were a few feet away, but they may as well have been a
mile away. It was just too dangerous to try and get to them. My RTOs’ rifle
was lying next to my weapons, again where we could not safely reach them.
“Doc Trip” was the only one of the three of us who had a weapon. He had his
.45 caliber pistol, with only eight rounds of ammunition. As we lay there,
the three of us tried to lay as flat as possible, and present the smallest
target for the NVA gunners to aim their sights on. Off to our ten o’clock
direction, and about eight yards away, we heard and felt the impact of an
RPG explosion near us. The RPG round had made a direct hit on the M16s’ hand
guard of one of the three riflemen manning the fighting position.
Fragmentation from the RPG round had critically wounded one of the three
riflemen, the associated blast severely burned the face and eyes of the
second rifleman and the third rifleman had received critical wounds from
small arms fire.
The critically wounded rifleman, who had his weapon struck by the RPG, and
who took the brunt of the explosion, began to shout MEDIC, and pleaded for
“Doc Trip” to help him. “Doc Trip” glanced at me and said, in almost a
whisper, “I’ve got to go get Bernie.” I looked in “Doc Trip’s” eyes and
said, in a voice as though I was giving him a direct order, “no way, you’re
going to get yourself killed.” He looked at me and said, “I’ve got to,” then
handed me his .45 caliber pistol, jumped up and he was off in the direction
of the wounded riflemen. No one, not even the wounded, would have thought
less of “Doc Trip” if he had just stayed where he was. Every man in that
open field knew how dangerous it was to be even slightly exposed. Enemy fire
was intense, and continuous, and it seemed to go on endlessly. Charlie and
Delta Company fought valiantly, and with the help and supporting fire from
2/19 artillery, Blue Max cobras and USAF F-4 Phantoms, were able to gain the
upper hand of the battle, and repulse the enemy’s relentless assault. At the
concluding stages of the combat action, I found out that “Doc Trip” had
perished in the battle. However, he did not succumb before aiding many of
his wounded comrades, and shielding those who could not defend themselves
with his own body. When “Doc Trip” moved to help the riflemen in the nearby
fighting position, he did not have his “medic’s bag” with him. He used his
own belt, and an M16 rifle sling, as tourniquets on the wounded rifleman’s
wrists. Michael Arthur “Doc Trip” Fontaine was posthumously awarded the US
Army’s Distinguished Service Cross (DSC) for valor. The Distinguished
Service Cross is the second highest military decoration of the United States
Army, and is awarded to a person who, while serving in any capacity with the
Army, distinguished himself or herself by extraordinary heroism while
engaged in an action against an enemy of the United States; while engaged in
military operations involving conflict with an opposing or foreign force.
The act or acts of heroism must have been so notable and have involved risk
of life so extraordinary as to set the individual apart from his or her
comrades. Michael Arthur “Doc Trip” Fontaine’s name is on panel 35W, line
68, along with the more than 58, 000 Vietnam veterans ascribed on the
Vietnam Veteran’s Memorial Wall. “Doc Trip” was a hero, and he was also just
a regular kid, and so were so many other combat medics who served, and lived
and died in Vietnam. Mike gave his life so others may live.
My name is John Guillory, and I was 2nd platoon leader, Charlie Company,
2/7, 1st Cavalry Division, Vietnam, 1968-69. “Doc Trip” served his tour in
Vietnam with my platoon. I’m submitting this article so others will know of
the courage and sacrifice of Michael Arthur “Doc Trip” Fontaine. This
article is also for many of the other outstanding combat medics who served
in Vietnam, most who risked their lives, and those who gave their lives, so
that others may live.