A day in the life
 of Susan Snodderly

At six in the morning her alarm clock rings loudly.  She reaches over, turns it off and snuggles deeper into the bed.  The unusually chilly morning air makes her shiver as she draws the light poncho liner cover up to her chin.

In a few minutes she reluctantly gets up, puts on her jungle fatigues, laces up her jungle boots, and walks to the hospital mess hall.

First Lieutenant Susan Snodderly, age 23, a native of Greensboro, N.C., a petite blue-eyed blonde U.S. Army nurse, starts a new day.  She has been in Vietnam two months.

For breakfast, Susan has three boiled eggs, bacon, toast, and recombined milk at the 24th Evacuation Hospital.  She would like to linger over her coffee but remembers that one nurse on her ward is away on leave.

From the mess hall she goes to the hospital.  The night-shift nurse briefs Susan and the other day-shift workers on the patients' status in the Neuro-Surgery ward: "Allen needs continuous saline compresses on his left eye; Street had a quiet night; Johnson must be force-fed today."

Susan knows each patient's first name and how most were wounded. She never asks how they got their wounds, but if they remember and want to tell her, she listens.  She notes that two of the ward's 17 beds are still empty.

Devoted Army nurse in Vietnam plays role of mother, friend and confidante to worried, wounded servicemen.

by CAPT. CHARLES MOORE

Caring for the wounded sometimes means little more than helping a patient sip his drink and speaking a few kind words.

Stopping at each bed, she checks the soldier's "Neuro Vital Sign Sheet," and then cheerfully tells them good morning.  All her patients - 'her patients,' she calls them - have head or back injuries.  Two, just out of surgery, are still in a semi-comatose state.  One 19-year-old soldier is suffering from "expressive aphasia" - he can comprehend words spoken to him, but he cannot express himself.  Susan always spends a few extra minutes with him.

When she asks him questions, he answers 'yes' with a weak smile and his face remains passive for 'no'.  He says 'thank you' by reaching up and patting her arm gently.

Susan goes from patient to patient, feeding some and assisting others.  Breakfast time in the Neuro-Surgery ward is a busy time.  She good-naturedly scolds one 9th inf. Div. artilleryman for not eating his eggs.  She cautions another about smoking too much, then lights his cigarette.

A brief lull between breakfast and the ward doctor's arrival gives Susan a chance for a quick cup of coffee and a cigarette.  Today she is the only female nurse on the ward.  Sex has no bearing on a nurse's duties but Susan feels the male nurses tend to spare her all the heavy work.

As she sips her coffee, Susan makes out her daily work-list - things to do for each patient: get John and Jim out of bed and into the morning sun; walk Frank around; one soldier has his days and nights mixed up  - keep him awake today.  (A 22-year-old Specialist Four in the bed next to him tells her  "I tried to keep him awake but he uses bad language to me.  He won't to you though."); bandages to change; beds to make; patients to x-ray; soak Jim's infected foot; and most need to shave or be shaved.  This list guides Susan through the day and well into the evening.

Doctors have warned Susan about becoming too close to her patients.  But she finds this impossible.  Without conceit, she knows her rapport with the patients their shock.  For most, she is the first person they see when regaining consciousness after surgery.  Even if the job did not require it, Susan would stay busy.

When idle, she knows how easy it is to remember the few - the very few - who did not make it back home to their loved ones.

The mortality rate for wounded in the Vietnam war getting hospital treatment is less than one percent - the lowest in the history of warfare.  These statistics mean more to Susan than just numbers.

She has seen men enter the 24th's emergency room with wounds so terrible that one could not believe they would recover.  But three to five days later, they are sitting on their beds jokingly telling her how "they love her."

After lunch, Susan detours through another ward to say "hello" to a two-month old Vietnamese baby.  The nurses are jointly caring for the infant until she is old enough for a local orphanage.  Tenderly cuddling the baby, she recalls an article in a Stateside magazine alleging that the United States is "indiscriminately killing civilian women and children."

A part of Susan's busy day goes into mixing injections prior to the ward doctor's arrival.

This distortion infuriates her.  Only last week her ward cared for an eight-year old Vietnamese girl - named 'Gloria' by the nurses - who was injured by a Viet Cong grenade.  And she knows Gloria is just one of thousands of VC victims receiving U. S. medical care.

Susan then goes by to see PFC James Allen, Co. B, 3d Bn., 47th Inf.

He was point man on a 9th Div. operation in the Mekong Delta.  An enemy rocket exploded rocket exploded  to his front and jagged pieces of metal tore into his head, left eye, chest and legs.  Minutes later a "dust-off" medical helicopter rushed him to the 24th Evacuation Hospital emergency room where doctors skillfully removed the fragments and bone splinters.  Today he is recovering well and is one of Susan's most ardent admirers.

He asks Susan if she would write a letter from him to his wife in Chincoteaque (sic), Va.  "Address it to Faye - my wife, and Pepper - my daughter," he dictates.  "Tell her where I am and when I'm going to the hospital in Japan.  That I'll be there maybe one day or three weeks - don't know for sure."

"Tell her I got hit in the head," he grins, "and then she'll know I'm O.K.  And tell her I hope to be home soon, so go out and pick up plenty of beer."

He pauses, his voice softens and he adds, "And please don't worry, I'm doing fine.  Be sure to tell Pepper I love her."

At 5 P.M., PFC Patrick Lawrence , of San Diego, enters the ward bubbling over with news to tell Susan about her former patients in Japan.  Patrick's brother was wounded and Patrick's commanding officer of the 1st Eng. Bn., 1st Inf. Div., had given him seven days' emergency temporary duty to accompany his brother to the hospital in Japan.

Susan listens eagerly as he tells how Wayne, Gary and Jim are all doing so well that all they do is play cards.  the doctor has Robert lifting weights and Jim 'hit it off real good with a pretty Red Cross girl.'  And Larry made it home O.K.

Mail call brings many letters for the Neuro-Surgery ward patients.  Susan enjoys reading letters to those who ask her to.  Their families are just wonderful and always write such happy letters.

Susan recalls that she had a lifelong ambition to become a nurse.  Her parents once told her that responsibility must be earned.  Today in Vietnam she has a wealth of responsibility, and she enjoys the way she is earning it.

Just before going off shift, Susan says goodbye to six soldiers being air-evacuated to Japan early in the morning.  She leans over and gently kisses the "expressive aphasia" soldier's cheek.  He smiles, struggles to speak, then grasps her hand.  In this way, he is saying "Goodbye Susan - and thanks."