From time to time in 1970 combat medics with 1/7 First Cav might have occasion to speak with 
battalion surgeon Theodore Plucinski III. They may have held him in high regard. My own impressions of the man were somewhat mixed.
Late one rainy night on LZ Compton, as Delta Company secured the perimeter, a man in my squad was bitten by a rat. Wet and cold we splashed through the mud to the doctor’s hooch, where he lay sleeping. I woke him. Impressively, from a cold sleep Plucinski darted the man with a needle for tetanus; the next day had him medevaced for shots against rabies.
One day in dry season a platoon from another company went out on QRF, each man taking only a quart of water. Under the grueling sun soon half came down with heat stroke. Choppered to LZ Francis, the dazed men staggered into the aid station. The delirious were carried on stretchers. With two other medics I stripped the casualties, plunged their fatigues into an icy cooler, slapped the freezing wet clothes upon them, Plucinski and 91C Dave Brookshire methodically, going one man to the next, inserting Ringer’s lactate IVs. As the delirious men thrashed and cried out Plucinski remained in full control. The crisis ended nearly as soon as it began. The restored grunts thanked us and were gone.
A few months later, on LZ Francis, I was dozing in my GI hammock when Ernie Novak ran past.
“Incoming!” he shouted. “Incoming!”
Instantly I ran to a small culvert hooch, waiting out the attack with squad leader Lloyd “Butch” Edge; the rounds soaring right over us. When it was over I bandaged tall, lanky Jean Locklear, who’d been hit with shrap in the arm and head. I walked him to the aid station, only to find Captain Plucinski drunk. In a slurred voice he asked me, “How do you use a morphine syrette?”
I was shocked, yet I showed him how to remove the clear plastic hood, grasp the thin metal plunger, push it to break the seal, pull it out, jab the casualty in the arm or leg, then squeeze. “Oh,” he said. Moments later I heard moaning, and looked up to see Jeff Motyka, Delta’s second platoon RTO, carried down the aid stations dirt steps. In shock, badly wounded, blood spangling his torn fatigues, in his fading voice Jeff called my name, then fainted.
I cared for the men in my platoon, each day treating their cuts and scratches, their belly aches and muscle pains, colds, sore throats, fevers and fungal infections. Bullet and shrapnel wounds. Perhaps too much, I cared for them. From the moment Plucinski needed my help that day something inside me snapped. With a medic named Moon I schemed to frag him.
And we did, putting the pin-pulled, elastic band wrapped frag in a Coke can filled with diesel oil. In a few hours the fuel would eat the elastic, releasing the spoon, the safety handle that is, and a killing cloud of flame and steel would do its dirty work. But the can was too small—the spoon had nowhere to fly. Idiots! We should have used a bowl. Oh well. I would love to have seen Plucinski’s face when he found our gift beneath his bunk. Did he get the message? Apparently not. One day on LZ Ranch, before it was overrun, I watched him clumsily fall out of his GI hammock. I assume he was soused.
For years I wondered whatever became of Captain Plucinski. Until recently my online searches were futile. I was more than surprised by what I discovered.
Dr. Theodore Plucinski III made a career of the Army. Posted to Ft. Detrick and Ft. Sam, he participated in collaborative medical research, rose to the rank of Lt. Colonel, and died at the young age of 55 in 1996. His younger brother had been a platoon leader with the 4th Infantry Division in 1968. Two weeks after arriving in Vietnam, First Lieutenant Jack Plucinski was killed by a sniper in Pleiku. When I read those words my heart sank. I’ll never know if Jack’s death explains the doctors drinking, but the years I’ve spent hating the man have melted away.
_______________
Top photo / 1942 Coca Cola advertisement. A caption beneath it says:
Ice-cold Coca-Cola gets a hearty welcome. It’s the answer to thirst that adds refreshment. Coca-Cola has that extra something to do the job of complete refreshment. It has a taste that’s uniquely satisfying–a quality that’s unmistakable. That’s why the only thing like Coca-Cola is Coca-Cola itself. Thirst asks nothing more.”
During World War II, then Coca-Cola President Robert W. Woodruff believed every man in uniform should be able to buy a Coke for five cents, no matter where he was in the world. Source: USO.
See Jeff Motyka’s story In the Years After
Theodore E. Plucinski / Find a Grave
Theodore Plucinski, three excerpts from research papers
Theodore Plucinski / The Illio – 1962 year book photo
University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign
Army casualty report / Lt. Jack Plucinski
Find a Grave / Lt. Jack Plucinski
Things No Better With Coke
From time to time in 1970 combat medics with 1/7 First Cav might have occasion to speak with
battalion surgeon Theodore Plucinski III. They may have held him in high regard. My own impressions of the man were somewhat mixed.
Late one rainy night on LZ Compton, as Delta Company secured the perimeter, a man in my squad was bitten by a rat. Wet and cold we splashed through the mud to the doctor’s hooch, where he lay sleeping. I woke him. Impressively, from a cold sleep Plucinski darted the man with a needle for tetanus; the next day had him medevaced for shots against rabies.
One day in dry season a platoon from another company went out on QRF, each man taking only a quart of water. Under the grueling sun soon half came down with heat stroke. Choppered to LZ Francis, the dazed men staggered into the aid station. The delirious were carried on stretchers. With two other medics I stripped the casualties, plunged their fatigues into an icy cooler, slapped the freezing wet clothes upon them, Plucinski and 91C Dave Brookshire methodically, going one man to the next, inserting Ringer’s lactate IVs. As the delirious men thrashed and cried out Plucinski remained in full control. The crisis ended nearly as soon as it began. The restored grunts thanked us and were gone.
“Incoming!” he shouted. “Incoming!”
Instantly I ran to a small culvert hooch, waiting out the attack with squad leader Lloyd “Butch” Edge; the rounds soaring right over us. When it was over I bandaged tall, lanky Jean Locklear, who’d been hit with shrap in the arm and head. I walked him to the aid station, only to find Captain Plucinski drunk. In a slurred voice he asked me, “How do you use a morphine syrette?”
I was shocked, yet I showed him how to remove the clear plastic hood, grasp the thin metal plunger, push it to break the seal, pull it out, jab the casualty in the arm or leg, then squeeze. “Oh,” he said. Moments later I heard moaning, and looked up to see Jeff Motyka, Delta’s second platoon RTO, carried down the aid stations dirt steps. In shock, badly wounded, blood spangling his torn fatigues, in his fading voice Jeff called my name, then fainted.
I cared for the men in my platoon, each day treating their cuts and scratches,
their belly aches and muscle pains, colds, sore throats, fevers and fungal infections. Bullet and shrapnel wounds. Perhaps too much, I cared for them. From the moment Plucinski needed my help that day something inside me snapped. With a medic named Moon I schemed to frag him.
And we did, putting the pin-pulled, elastic band wrapped frag in a Coke can filled with diesel oil. In a few hours the fuel would eat the elastic, releasing the spoon, the safety handle that is, and a killing cloud of flame and steel would do its dirty work. But the can was too small—the spoon had nowhere to fly. Idiots! We should have used a bowl. Oh well. I would love to have seen Plucinski’s face when he found our gift beneath his bunk. Did he get the message? Apparently not. One day on LZ Ranch, before it was overrun, I watched him clumsily fall out of his GI hammock. I assume he was soused.
For years I wondered whatever became of Captain Plucinski. Until recently my online searches were futile. I was more than surprised by what I discovered.
Dr. Theodore Plucinski III made a career of the Army. Posted to Ft. Detrick and
Ft. Sam, he participated in collaborative medical research, rose to the rank of Lt. Colonel, and died at the young age of 55 in 1996. His younger brother had been a platoon leader with the 4th Infantry Division in 1968. Two weeks after arriving in Vietnam, First Lieutenant Jack Plucinski was killed by a sniper in Pleiku. When I read those words my heart sank. I’ll never know if Jack’s death explains the doctors drinking, but the years I’ve spent hating the man have melted away.
_______________
Top photo / 1942 Coca Cola advertisement. A caption beneath it says:
Ice-cold Coca-Cola gets a hearty welcome. It’s the answer to thirst that adds refreshment. Coca-Cola has that extra something to do the job of complete refreshment. It has a taste that’s uniquely satisfying–a quality that’s unmistakable. That’s why the only thing like Coca-Cola is Coca-Cola itself. Thirst asks nothing more.”
During World War II, then Coca-Cola President Robert W. Woodruff believed every man in uniform should be able to buy a Coke for five cents, no matter where he was in the world. Source: USO.
See Jeff Motyka’s story In the Years After
Theodore E. Plucinski / Find a Grave
Theodore Plucinski, three excerpts from research papers
Theodore Plucinski / The Illio – 1962 year book photo
University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign
Army casualty report / Lt. Jack Plucinski
Find a Grave / Lt. Jack Plucinski