They Call Me Doc

Beaufort Naval Hospital

We were only kids. We were 18, 19, 20 years old. We were dodging bullets in the jungles to try

Sharon McDowell

to save that marine who went down. We were working the ambulances, headed to a multi-car crash caused by a drunk driver. We tried to help those hurt and dying while watching the drunk walk away unharmed. We worked on those from that same crash in the emergency rooms, stopping the bleeding, suturing the wounds, giving oxygen and life saving fluids. All the while, reassuring the loved ones. We were awakened after only a couple hours sleep to man the operating room where the latest stabbing victim had been brought. We worked airplane and helicopter crashes. We may have delivered your child or watched over your premature baby or sick child all night keeping a constant vigil while we also held your hand and prayed with you. We tended to your needs as you lay in that hospital room gasping for breath or in pain. We gave you the medication you so badly needed to ease your pain or fight your illness. We ran the pharmacy where you got your medicine and the laboratory working with specimens so your illness could be properly diagnosed and treated. Were we to make a mistake, we may aggravate the problem or, God forbid, someone could die.

Wally Jarratt

And yes, we were kids. This responsibility had been given to us at such a young age. A good friend and I discussed this a few weeks ago. He said it right. Most of us were still teenagers, still learning to walk in an adult world. We didn't have a degree from a medical college. We had a certificate from the United States Navy Hospital Corps School that should have stated somewhere on it that one day soon, after graduation, we would be expected to walk on water. At least, that's how most of us felt and we wondered if we could live up to the high expectations and continue the traditions of those who were here before us. We also wore a rating patch on our shoulder letting the world know we were United States Navy Corpsmen. we wore that patch proudly. I guess the proudest thing we had was the nickname given by our marines, sailors, and occasionally, a dependent we were treating. The name "DOC." The name wasn't given lightly and it didn't matter if you were male or female, you had to earn it, and once earned, you carried it with honor and pride.

We were only kids, but we learned, we lived, we laughed, we loved, and occasionally, we cried. We

Donna J "DJ" Dedert-Clark

rejoiced when the wounded or ill were able to walk out of that hospital or off that field. We cried when they were carried away. When one of us rejoiced, we all rejoiced. When one of us hurt, we all hurt. We were family. We saw things and did things that deeply affected each of us. We leaned on each other. We couldn't take this home. It may or may not have been true, but to us we felt as if no one could understand unless they had been there. We always had each other. We knew. We understood. Some things we can never forget, some good, some bad. Each of us was changed by what we did and what we witnessed. Each of us handled it differently. Some people remained with the Navy for a career. Some left the Navy and continued in the medical field. Some of us went in an entirely different direction but no one left without carrying what we had experienced with us, both on a personal, and professional level.

Me in much younger days

It seems from reading this everyday was gloom, doom and stress. Far from it. When the time came to work, we worked and we worked hard. Each one knew his and her job and did it exceptionally well but, when it was time to play we played as hard as we worked. There were always the practical jokes, whether on each other, or some poor unsuspecting schmo who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. We played golf, tennis, football, baseball and soccer. Each was always played with that same fighting spirit and striving to win that saw us through our work. Many times it was just head over to the good old "Anchor Inn" and relax, laugh, talk, and again, occasionally, cry on each other's shoulder. We had each other. If it seems I'm boasting, yeah, I am. Remember, we were kids.

Although I was able to post only a few of the photos here, there are many, many more good men and women I had the honor of serving with during 8 years and two tours at the US Naval Hospital Beaufort ('72-'73), ('76-'79), and during my time with the 10th Marines, 2nd Marine Division, Camp Lejeune, NC ('73-'76). Each of them left a lasting impression.

Next year a group of us from the Beaufort Naval Hospital are planning to reunite after way too many years. As the time draws near so does the apprehension as it has been so long ago. I have a feeling we will reconnect as if only a couple of days have passed. Love you all and miss those times together.