Corpsman up! — Hospitalman Larry Skonetski in Vietnam (Part 4)
It’s clear that Larry’s post-Navy life has been less than stable. He drinks heavily , and always has, and became what can only be described as a serial husband, falling in love more than once with women he met in bars, marrying them, and subsequently divorcing them or being divorced. But he was a successful truck driver who totalled up some 3,000,000 miles over most of the U.S., driving for the final few years of that career with his buddy Max, a Shih Tzu. Together, Larry and Max visited 38 of the 48 contiguous United States. They now live together with Larry’s significant other, Helen, in Shawano, Wisconsin.
Combat-related PTSD
There is little doubt that Larry’s post-war drinking and relationship difficulties are deeply rooted in Vietnam. Both, indeed, are common symptoms of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder — PTSD. His job as a truck driver is also typical of PTSD, many of whose victims have difficulty settling down in one place and staying with one job.
Studies have shown that as many as 30 per cent of Vietnam combat veterans have developed or will develop PTSD symptoms at some time during their life.
Although PTSD can result from a single traumatic event lasting only seconds, it is almost a common result of long-term exposure to violent trauma, exactly the sort of continuing and relentless trauma that Larry and many other combat veterans experienced in Vietnam. The United States Department of Veterans Affairs has published a useful document about PTSD, titled Understanding PTSD.
Larry himself believes that he probably suffers from PTSD, but he won’t be bothering to ask for a diagnosis or compensation or treatment, because, sadly, he literally does not have the time.
In late February and early March, 2008, while he was still driving trucks, Larry wasn’t feeling well and went to his doctor for a check-up. Lab tests came back, and the former lab assistant sat down with his doctor to hear the worst kind of news: he has small-cell carcinoma, a highly malignant cancer normally associated with the lungs and common among smokers, which Larry was in Vietnam and still is. But there is another factor to consider — Agent Orange.
Agent Orange
Agent Orange was one of a wide class of chemical defoliants used copiously in Vietnam. If a veteran served in Vietnam between 1962 and 1975 and becomes disabled with one of the conditions designated as Agent Orange-related, the VA classifies his or her disability as service-related. I am not aware that I was ever exposed to Agent Orange, but Larry told me that he remembers that on hot days he and other Marines would stand in the path of aerial tankers spraying defoliants to enjoy the cool “rain” of the chemicals, which they (and many scientists!) assumed to be harmless to human beings.
As with PTSD, it’s probably pointless now for Larry to apply for compensation as a result of his lung cancer, much less PTSD. By September, 2008, the cancer had spread throughout one lung, and tumors had developed on one kidney and in his brain. His doctor told him on November 6, 2008 that he would likely not live to see Christmas. Larry’s father probably died from the same type of cancer, which does not mean, of course, that his own cancer wasn’t caused by Agent Orange.
On the surface, Larry seems no more troubled by his illness than he seemed to be concerned on Hill 50 in Vietnam, when bullets were flying and grenades were exploding and none of us was sure we would survive the morning. He tried chemotherapy for his cancer, hated the nausea and general malaise that it caused, and chose not to continue with it. He continues to smoke; his doctor told him there was no point in giving up a life-long habit, despite the fact that it probably contributed to his illness.
His doctor has assured him that he’ll get all the pain medication he needs, when that’s necessary.
Other reunions
As a result of my reunion with Larry, I was able to put him in touch with Eugene Cleaver, who was 3rd Platoon’s leader at the time of the communist ambush on Hill 50. Eugene was the first Lima Company Marine to be wounded: a sniper’s bullet almost tore his right arm off at the shoulder; both Larry and I worked on him, and may well have saved his life. Eugene’s wound was grievous, and he himself remembers nothing of the battle, but his arm was saved and he went on to become a successful physiotherapist.
Late in November, 2008, with Larry’s cancer well advanced, he was able to enjoy a six-day reunion with his son, in Wisconsin. Then, in early December, a son from another marriage, also named Larry, found this web page and realized that it was about the biological father he had known only briefly as a very young child. As this is written, he is planning to contact his father.
Larry and his first wife have never had any sort of reunion, or even contact. Neither of them, however, are bitter about their failed marriage, and they harbor no grudges. Both acknowledge that they were too young and made some bad decisions.
An almost unbelievable coincidence
An almost unbelievable coincidence came to light in one of our telephone conversations when Larry was telling me about his first wife. I remembered him telling me, back on Hill 50, that she was from Silver City, my home town, but I didn’t remember her name. I asked him, and then repeated the name for the benefit of my wife, Susan, who also grew up in Silver City and who was half-listening to my end of the conversation. Susan stepped over to a bookcase, got out her 1963 high school annual, turned to a page of portraits of her senior-year classmates, and found a photo of Larry’s wife. Susan remembers her as a shy, quiet girl.
I have cherished the time I have spent communicating with Larry, and feel blessed that I found him before it was too late. It doesn’t seem possible that almost 43 years have passed since Larry got me through my trial by fire. His voice is just as I remember it — soft and Midwestern and quietly humorous. The humor is in his e-mails, too. After we talked on the phone for the first time, back in September, Larry wrote and said that it was good to hear me talk “without gritting my teeth,” a reference of course to the long minutes awaiting evacuation while I was indeed gritting my teeth against the pain that results from nearly having your leg shot off.
Semper Fi, Larry. Semper fi…
Larry also wrote, “I was glad to see you get off the hill cause I wasn’t looking forward to humping you all the way back to Marble Mountain. I would have, you know.” Yeah, Larry, I know you would have. I know you would have died for me, if necessary. That’s what Marines do. Their motto isn’t Semper Fidelis for nothing. It means “Always faithful.” Thank you, Larry. Thank you. Semper Fi.