24th Evacuation Hospital, Long Binh Post, Republic of Vietnam.

It was likely hot and humid, that May day in South Vietnam. The trauma team and staff at the 24th Evacuation Hospital, I imagine, were sticky and exhausted from their continual life- if not limb- saving interventions. Theirs must have been a near-constant adrenaline rush of preparing and repairing, reacting and responding. Helicopter rotors and radio chatter served as alarm clocks and sources of dread, hearalding the incoming. They’d spring into action again and again: surgeries, amputations, opening up, closing up, monitoring post-op, and, sometimes even readying the young soldiers for transport back home.

Limited. That word comes to mind. Limited medical and nursing staff. Limited supplies. Limited time. Limited hope even. Did the helicopters drop off the wounded within seconds in order to race off to collect more? Were gurneys sometimes lined up ten or more deep with the injured waiting for surgery? Did the staff become numb to the moans and cries of the waiting? After all, one can go only so fast transfusing blood into a body running out of its own, or repairing a colon perforated by shrapnel, or piecing back together (one would hope) or removing altogether lung tissue riddled with bullets. The others in the gurneys, possibly equally wounded, had to wait. Or die trying.

That day, a radio call, of course. Were any of these calls in Vietnam ever run-of-the-mill? Routine? This one certainly wasn’t.

A young soldier, Specialist Dalton, was on the way. The medical team was notified the soldier had a live grenade round embedded in his left upper chest and he was alive, too. Although he certainly would have been taken to surgery immediately, there was no way the boy could enter the evac hospital where the grenade might very well blow him, the hospital, the medical staff, and the other patients, to bits. They couldn’t bring him in.

(Within that helicopter, I imagine FEAR as a living, breathing monster. The other name for the pilot transporting that soldier that day was HERO.)

I can imagine the conversation at the evac hospital upon receiving the news. Initially, I’m sure, there was a generous rapid-fire use of the very best curse words. Then options would have been discussed. Specialist Dalton had to stay outside and far enough away that if he exploded no one else would.

It is as clear as day to me: Major George T. Flynn, MD, a great big man, 30 years of age, exuding absolute authority as naturally as the Army and the trees in Vietnam exuded the color green, would have calmly said, “I’ll go.”

There would have been no argument. Settled.

Another surgeon volunteered to act as George’s anesthesiologist.

I am certain any nurses who volunteered to accompany the physicians were given a firm and succinct, “No.”

Preparations outside were rapidly made to carry the patient directly from the helicopter to a sandbagged culvert, far enough away from the evac hospital to protect all its occupants. George and the other physician donned flak jackets and helmets. The sweat, already saturating their scrubs, would have begun to stream off them at this point. They carried the supplies they anticipated needing out to the culvert. I imagine cleaning solution - iodine probably, a tank of oxygen, an ambu bag, IV supplies, sedation, pain meds, scalpels, clamps, forceps, enough suture to tie off the bleeders and to close him up at least initially after the round was removed.

Any lighting they could muster would be wholly insufficient.

The reports say the soldier was awake.

George, a big man as I’ve mentioned, would have knelt down with difficulty in the culvert next to the soldier, his already bulky frame made even more so by the protective gear he wore. His innate command of any situation would have (I know this with everything in me) been far superior to even the most potent anxiolytic (anti-anxiety medication). George’s demeanor and confidence kneeling at the side of that soldier, sweat and discomfort notwithstanding, would have quickly reassured the young man.

I can imagine George saying to him (with plenty of invective directed at what amounted to a ticking time bomb in the soldier’s chest): “You got a little pucker factor goin’? So do I. Let’s get this piece of *&%# out of you. I’m hungry. You interrupted my lunch. It’s turkey loaf today. I love turkey loaf.” Or somesuch. The soldier, in spite of the pain and terror, would have tried to laugh as George as intended but would have had to merely smile instead given the volatility of the situation.

An IV would have been started, medication and oxygen given. There were no xrays available to give them an idea of how significantly any surrounding organs (i.e. the heart, lung, major arteries) were involved. George and his partner would have simply judged the likelihood of collateral organ damage by the location of the entrance wound, knowledge of the size of the grenade and it’s likely impingement on other anatomy, and the soldier’s vital signs, level of alertness, and breathing patterns. This evaluation would have happened in seconds initially and would have continued regularly throughout the surgery as possible.

Then and there, acting rapidly yet cautiously, George successfully removed the live round from that boy’s chest. The army bomb squad equivalent came and defused the live round, and George was later awarded the Soldier's Medal for Heroism and Valor outside of combat.

The Award was accompanied by the following commendation from the U. S. Army Chief of Staff, M.G. Roseborough:

Department of the Army

Headquarters, United States Army Vietnam

21 June 1972 (George’s 32nd Birthday)

AWARD OF THE SOLDIER’S MEDAL

Flynn, George T. Major Medical Service Corps

Reason: For heroism not involving actual conflict with an armed enemy in the Republic of Vietnam. Major George T. Flynn distinguished himself on 21 May 1971 while serving at the 24th Evacuation Hospital, Long Binh Post, Republic of Vietnam. Major Flynn performed surgery on Specialist T. Dalton to remove a live M-79 grenade round which was embedded in Specialist Dalton’s left shoulder. With disregard for his own safety and with no other protection than a flak jacket and steel helmet, Major Flynn stayed with the patient in order to reassure the patient and to help him calm while preparations were being made to perform the surgery outside the hospital. Major Flynn performed surgery under extremely adverse conditions which included excessive heat, very poor lighting, and the wearing of uncomfortable and unfamiliar clothing. In spite of all these conditions, Major Flynn performed the necessary surgery and successfully removed the live M-79 round. Major Flynn’s actions saved the life of one person and protected numerous others from bodily harm. Major Flynn’s heroic actions were in keeping with the highest traditions of the military service and reflects great credit upon himself, his unit, and the United States Army.

For George, the countless occasions for commendation in his lifetime held very little sway. He served. He helped. Full stop. His partner, the acting anesthesiologist that day, was not recognized at all, so George gave him the medal and kept the certificate.

He was proud of that Soldier's Medal, but for George, the medal represented something of far greater value than recognition from the higher-ups.

"That boy got to go home," he said.

To all who serve and served, to all who help and have helped, thank you. We give you our gratitude knowing full well it can never be enough.

We honor you and your memory today, Memorial Day 2023.

And everyday.

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