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252 pages, Paperback
First published March 1, 2001
I served as an army operating room nurse in Vietnam from May of 1969 to June of 1970. I joined the army for the money and the travel, and because I was naïve and had no idea what I would be getting myself into. It was one of the biggest learning experiences of my life.
. . .
The government doesn’t have hard figures for how many women it sent to Vietnam, but trust me: We were vastly outnumbered by men, and it defined us and governed our existence. We could have been ugly as toads; we could have dragged our knuckles in the dust and picked our noses in public. It wouldn’t have mattered. We were pulled by demand into a vast sea of men. Embraced, seduced, conquered, sometimes impregnated, and now and then wed.
“I’m sure there wasn’t any one of us [nurses] realized what we were getting into. But even those of us who have doubts, well, we’re not so – I don’t know – vocal maybe? Or unhappy? I mean, we are serving our country.” She patted the Lieutenant’s arm again. “Look, all I’m saying is, we’re not the experts. What do we know about the motives behind all this? So – the way I see it – most of us just kind of stay in the middle; we don’t go out and march for either side. We just do what we have to, to keep ourselves busy until it’s time to leave.”
“Don’t Mean Nothing” was an all-purpose underdog rallying cry – a sarcastic admixture of “cool,” comedy, irony, agony, bitterness, frustration, resignation and despair. Work all day on a soldier who dies? Work on a soldier all day who gets sent back into battle? Get Dear-Johned? Get bit by a rat? Fall off a shipping dock and snap your spine? If you couldn’t control it, if it was FUBAR (fucked up beyond all recognition), you could at least declare that it “don’t mean nothing.” This hip, feigned indifference was the humor of the impotent, a small bunker in the real war – the war against insanity.