Overcoming Adversity

I extracted the following story from one I wrote years ago. I was listening to Jeff Chandler’s Cowboy Roundup show on WTUF radio (Internet), and he played a song that brought back bittersweet memories. It always amazes me as we get older how seemingly insignificant things can bring up such emotional responses.

Overcoming Adversity©

By

Joseph P Dougan

Revised Nov 6, 2022

I have never published this story on my SubStack.com account, though I have told it often verbally and on Facebook. This experience has touched me to the core, and it always brings tears to my eyes when I recite it. But, after fifty years, the man behind the story is finally recreating his life for himself and his family. As we age, our legacy is written; we want to ensure that the person giving the eulogy gets the story right. I think this part of his story should be included with his permission.

When trauma and tragedy strike at the same time, the details are often lost in the shock or drugs. One needs the help of others who were there, but as observers, to finish the story or help put things in order. We all have our CRS blackout periods, during which we do not remember anything. Friends or people who were there can help put things in perspective.

On November 27, 1968, the day before Thanksgiving in Vietnam, my life as well as the lives of many others were changed forever. Our unit, the 187th Assault Helicopter Company, was decimated. Six unit members were killed, and many more were wounded. There was an almost complete loss of flyable helicopters over a sixteen-hour period.

There are multiple personal stories across the Internet about our Thanksgiving mission. “Trial by Fire” by Tom Pienta, Trezona’s co-pilot being the most significant. It can be found at

https://187thahc.net/?p=946

This story details what happened to Bob much later. He received third-degree burns over more than 50% of his body. Our company commander, Major Jim Gaffney, and concerned leadership took the one remaining flyable helicopter the next day (Thanksgiving Day) to Saigon to check on Bob and his crew. Initially, we were told that Bob was in shock and, due to the severity and extensiveness of the burns, would probably not survive. He had been intubated as his throat was closing from the enormous swelling. Normally, Bob was skinny as a rail. In the hospital, he looked like a ripe black watermelon at harvest. Fortunately, Bob beat the overwhelming odds against him.

While he was recovering from multiple skin graft surgeries, he was temporarily transferred from Brooks Army Burn Center in San Antonio, TX, to Ft Wolters in Mineral Wells, TX, to allow time for more skin to grow back. It would be needed to execute further painful skin harvesting for more plastic surgery grafting. I was assigned to Ft Wolters as a flight commander for a helicopter training unit.

I was Bob’s platoon leader from the time he came to the 187th until a few weeks before his tragedy. He was the most promising pilot among a group of highly skilled pilots in my platoon, recognized as a pilot’s pilot. His roommate, Ron Timberlake (RIP), is also one of the very best, and I went through flight school together. Ron and I were close friends, and he kept me apprised of Bob’s progress from Peter-P (co-pilot) to aircraft commander. We were both convinced that Bob would eventually be the heir apparent to the Standards Instructor Pilot (SIP) for the unit.

The SIP, responsible for the continued training of our unit pilots, is more than a prestigious position. Properly assigned, it does not go to the pilot with the most hours, the pilot with the highest senior rank, or the oldest pilot. It goes to the most proficient with the skills and patience to teach.

For example, most of my peers have acknowledged me as a highly skilled pilot. I’ve been an instructor pilot and flight commander responsible for evaluating other pilots. When I get in my helicopter, the first thing I do is strap-”IN”. Every pilot has their favorite aircraft. Mine is the CH-47 Chinook. I feel like I was born in it and can make it talk. Therein lies the difference between Bob and me. When Bob gets in a helicopter, he straps his helicopter-”ON”.

Flying becomes an extension of himself; the helicopter and he are one and the same. In the language that Bob understands, it is much like the quarter horse and the cowboy. The horse really doesn’t move around by pulling the reins like I would guide the flight controls. The horse responds more to the knee pressures and weight changes from the skilled rider. Bob brings out the best with his natural skills; it challenged other pilots to walk away saying, “Damn, I wish I could fly like that.” He is the perfect representative of an SIP.

Mineral Wells was a small town with about 10,000 citizens at the time of this story. There were almost as many military permanent party and transitory military students. There was not enough military housing for everyone, so most lived in the community. Aside from the post-commissary, there was only one major grocery store, an independent one named Buddies. The store had two entrances. One was in the center of the store, to the north, and the other doors were accessed from the east end. Between the two entrances, they store the shopping carts.

One day, I entered the main door and grabbed my cart from the back of the stack. Concurrently, a tall, thin man entered from the east and was taking his cart from the front of the cart row. His gate moving to the carts was strained and favored.

This man was frighteningly grotesque. He was a sight that anyone would want to stare at, but one knows how impolite that is. They turned away as I did. But what I saw was carved into my brain: there was no nose, only a flap of skin over the dime-sized holes where the nose was supposed to be. There were no lips. The upper lip, almost nonexistent, was curled back, exposing the gums and upper teeth. It was a sad sight at best.

I looked down, avoiding eye contact, and hurriedly turned my cart down the produce aisle. I wanted to stare more. Speechless, I had nothing to offer as I raced past this Halloween figure. I was about fifteen feet beyond this Steven King image when I heard a weak, almost feeble but compelling call, “Pat!”

My knees almost collapsed from fear of what I was about to see as I turned 180 degrees. I recognized that unmistakable voice but unidentifiable body. “BOB?”

Weak-kneed, it almost felt like my heart stopped and then started surging. We both hugged, and we both cried in the middle of that produce aisle. It must have been a real sight for the oncoming customers. It made no difference to us; time stood still.

As I mentioned earlier, I have never put this story in print, although I have told it many times. I cry when I tell it, and now I cry when I type it. I relayed that story to Bob many years ago. He did not remember. Though I will never forget his explanation of why so much was lost.

Bob told me that he had gone through sixty-three surgeries to try and make him whole again. During the grafting surgery recoveries, he was on many narcotic pain medicines. He technically died during his last surgery and was revived.

Bob said that was it … “I resigned myself to the fact that I would always be ugly.” And he got on with his life. Always one to strive for perfection, he is recognized as one of the best saddle makers in the nation. His trophy hand-tooled leather seats are on some of the finest horses in the world. He told me that his custom saddles were in such demand that his backlog of orders was almost three years out.

Bob sent me this picture from a feature article in a local newspaper.

I spent two years flying in Vietnam, accumulating almost 2,000 hours of combat time. I have never had a close encounter with death or tragedy. My emergencies always ended without complications; some were borderline miraculous. I have always wondered why. Some call that doubt survivor’s guilt.

I have no satisfactory answer. God is in control. I think I have a knack for writing and feel compelled to tell the stories of those that I do know who have persevered despite their setbacks. Their accomplishments in life need to be highlighted. For all of their misunderstood peccadilloes in life, they should never (nor we) forget where these “Bobs” have been and how far they have come – and how lucky we are to have known and befriended such people.

Six of the 187th AHC did not return that day, plus twenty-seven from the Manchu’s; those men did not get the opportunity to go on with their lives, create families, build businesses, or become pillars in their communities. Fortunately, there are positive examples from Vietnam survivors like Bob Trezona who have put the tragedy and setbacks of war behind them. They are living examples for others to follow of overcoming diversity .

………………………..

PS: Bob died unexpectedly in 2019 from undiagnosed cancer.