May 19, 2020
“A Pretty Important Person?”
I knew the feeling and it was not good. It was how I had felt a few months earlier; the feeling I had suffered all day and just before the six medics threw me on the metal table and stripped me down naked. My fever had spiked to 105 and was still rising. I had the chills. I was miserable.
Four medics had to hold me down while one filled 5-gallon buckets with ice and the other poured the ice all over my body—head-to-toe--emphasizing my hotspots: between my legs, my armpits, my neck. When I’d start to get some relief as the ice began to melt, I’d be doused with another bucket of fresh ice. I tried but I couldn’t out-muscle those medics.
It was primitive, but it worked. After five or six buckets of ice over 20 minutes or so, my temperature dropped to under 100 and I was carried to a helicopter at our base outside Phan Thiet, South Vietnam and flown to a hospital in Cam Ranh Bay. I had malaria.
The only treatment (at the time) was a week or so of quinine—after which I rested a few more days and went back on duty as a Platoon Leader with the 75th Infantry Rangers.
Now, a few months later, that feeling of misery was coming on again. I could tell that my temperature was rising. I was getting the chills. I was relapsing. I knew the feeling and it was coming on fast. And it was happening on my second-to-last day of my year-long tour in Vietnam.
In one more day, I would be flying back to the United States of America! And, in the next few hours, my mother would be waking up at our home in Tucson, Arizona. She’d be flying to L.A. to meet me and to pick up my brand-new car at a local dealership. We’d then drive back to Tucson together. She was excited; I was excited. But now I needed to get my hands on some quinine.
I walked over to the clinic and struck up a conversation with a medic. When I thought it the right time, I asked, rather casually, if he had any quinine pills laying around. He asked me why and my answer was entirely unconvincing. I had had malaria a few months ago, I told him, and I wanted to have some quinine “just in case” of a future relapse since I was leaving on a jet plane the next day.
“No, no, no. I feel fine,” I stammered. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
The medic left and returned with a Lieutenant Colonel—a physician—someone who far out-ranked me. He looked at me. Then he looked at the medic. “Admit him,” he said. I protested. “Why, sir? I’m leaving for the states tomorrow! I can get treated back in the U.S.!”
“Son. We don’t send sick soldiers home,” he said.
An hour later a Red Cross volunteer stood at the foot of my hospital bed. Yes, I would like the Red Cross to contact my parents but, I explained, my parents would fear the worst so I underscored the importance of the messaging: “Please, please, please, the message has to be that I’m all right; that I’ve just had a relapse of malaria and they won’t release me for a few days.” I was very explicit: “They have to know that I haven’t been wounded or killed!
“Of course,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
About two hours later, the door to my hospital room swung open. A brigadier general marched in, flanked by two full colonels, a couple of majors, the physician who admitted me, and some other hangers-on. The general stopped at the foot of my bed and asked: “Are you Lieutenant Grimes?” “Yes sir,” I responded. “Lieutenant Richard Peyton Grimes?” he continued. “Yes sir,” I said.
The general then spun around, pushed his way past his entourage, and they all left the room. The last one out looked over his shoulder. “You must be a pretty important person,” he said. I wondered if I was in trouble for lying to the medic.
When I was released and boarded a plane four days later, I slept all the way to Tokyo, glanced at Mount Fuji through me window and slept all the way to the states. My mother met me in L.A., we picked up my new car and, because I was still not fully recovered, she drove me back to Tucson. When we got home, I heard the rest of the story.
On the day I was admitted to the hospital and after I spoke to the Red Cross volunteer, the phone rang at our house in Tucson. It was about 5am and my mother was already up and about and ready to catch the plane to L.A. She answered the phone, listened, and then screamed. My dad took the phone. It was the American Red Cross. They wanted them to know that their son was in the hospital. No, they didn’t know why or what was wrong. No. They had no more information. Goodbye.
They called the local Red Cross. No help. They called the national Red Cross. No help. Then they remembered their good friend Bill Elder. He and his wife were best friends with my parents when we lived in Washington, D.C. years before. I was only 10-12 at the time but I remember the Elders because he was 6’7” and she was 6’1”. He had been in the Secret Service and now worked in the White House.
They called Bill and the rest played out better than expected. It seems that a call came to the U.S. Military Command in Saigon “from the White House” and there was a scramble to find out where they could find this Lt. Grimes guy. Was he wounded? Was he dead? What was wrong with him, and why wasn’t he on his way home.
They eventually found me at the hospital. The one-star general in charge apparently had been told to put his eyes on Lt. Grimes personally and report back to the commander in Saigon. A call from Saigon went back to the White House and the White House called my mother to let her know that I was fine and would be coming home soon.
That happened on May 19, 1970. 50 years ago, today.
“A Pretty Important Person?”
I knew the feeling and it was not good. It was how I had felt a few months earlier; the feeling I had suffered all day and just before the six medics threw me on the metal table and stripped me down naked. My fever had spiked to 105 and was still rising. I had the chills. I was miserable.
Four medics had to hold me down while one filled 5-gallon buckets with ice and the other poured the ice all over my body—head-to-toe--emphasizing my hotspots: between my legs, my armpits, my neck. When I’d start to get some relief as the ice began to melt, I’d be doused with another bucket of fresh ice. I tried but I couldn’t out-muscle those medics.
It was primitive, but it worked. After five or six buckets of ice over 20 minutes or so, my temperature dropped to under 100 and I was carried to a helicopter at our base outside Phan Thiet, South Vietnam and flown to a hospital in Cam Ranh Bay. I had malaria.
The only treatment (at the time) was a week or so of quinine—after which I rested a few more days and went back on duty as a Platoon Leader with the 75th Infantry Rangers.
Now, a few months later, that feeling of misery was coming on again. I could tell that my temperature was rising. I was getting the chills. I was relapsing. I knew the feeling and it was coming on fast. And it was happening on my second-to-last day of my year-long tour in Vietnam.
In one more day, I would be flying back to the United States of America! And, in the next few hours, my mother would be waking up at our home in Tucson, Arizona. She’d be flying to L.A. to meet me and to pick up my brand-new car at a local dealership. We’d then drive back to Tucson together. She was excited; I was excited. But now I needed to get my hands on some quinine.
I walked over to the clinic and struck up a conversation with a medic. When I thought it the right time, I asked, rather casually, if he had any quinine pills laying around. He asked me why and my answer was entirely unconvincing. I had had malaria a few months ago, I told him, and I wanted to have some quinine “just in case” of a future relapse since I was leaving on a jet plane the next day.
“No, no, no. I feel fine,” I stammered. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.
The medic left and returned with a Lieutenant Colonel—a physician—someone who far out-ranked me. He looked at me. Then he looked at the medic. “Admit him,” he said. I protested. “Why, sir? I’m leaving for the states tomorrow! I can get treated back in the U.S.!”
“Son. We don’t send sick soldiers home,” he said.
An hour later a Red Cross volunteer stood at the foot of my hospital bed. Yes, I would like the Red Cross to contact my parents but, I explained, my parents would fear the worst so I underscored the importance of the messaging: “Please, please, please, the message has to be that I’m all right; that I’ve just had a relapse of malaria and they won’t release me for a few days.” I was very explicit: “They have to know that I haven’t been wounded or killed!
“Of course,” she said. “Don’t worry about it.”
About two hours later, the door to my hospital room swung open. A brigadier general marched in, flanked by two full colonels, a couple of majors, the physician who admitted me, and some other hangers-on. The general stopped at the foot of my bed and asked: “Are you Lieutenant Grimes?” “Yes sir,” I responded. “Lieutenant Richard Peyton Grimes?” he continued. “Yes sir,” I said.
The general then spun around, pushed his way past his entourage, and they all left the room. The last one out looked over his shoulder. “You must be a pretty important person,” he said. I wondered if I was in trouble for lying to the medic.
When I was released and boarded a plane four days later, I slept all the way to Tokyo, glanced at Mount Fuji through me window and slept all the way to the states. My mother met me in L.A., we picked up my new car and, because I was still not fully recovered, she drove me back to Tucson. When we got home, I heard the rest of the story.
On the day I was admitted to the hospital and after I spoke to the Red Cross volunteer, the phone rang at our house in Tucson. It was about 5am and my mother was already up and about and ready to catch the plane to L.A. She answered the phone, listened, and then screamed. My dad took the phone. It was the American Red Cross. They wanted them to know that their son was in the hospital. No, they didn’t know why or what was wrong. No. They had no more information. Goodbye.
They called the local Red Cross. No help. They called the national Red Cross. No help. Then they remembered their good friend Bill Elder. He and his wife were best friends with my parents when we lived in Washington, D.C. years before. I was only 10-12 at the time but I remember the Elders because he was 6’7” and she was 6’1”. He had been in the Secret Service and now worked in the White House.
They called Bill and the rest played out better than expected. It seems that a call came to the U.S. Military Command in Saigon “from the White House” and there was a scramble to find out where they could find this Lt. Grimes guy. Was he wounded? Was he dead? What was wrong with him, and why wasn’t he on his way home.
They eventually found me at the hospital. The one-star general in charge apparently had been told to put his eyes on Lt. Grimes personally and report back to the commander in Saigon. A call from Saigon went back to the White House and the White House called my mother to let her know that I was fine and would be coming home soon.
That happened on May 19, 1970. 50 years ago, today.