Three months into my tour help arrived in the person of a second flight surgeon. Colonel Hugh Randall, the Command Surgeon, had given me the choice of two candidates. I knew them both but one fit my stereotype of a war-time flight surgeon better than the other. Kellan Walker was adventuresome with boyish good looks and all the outward charm of a southern gentleman. We had jumped with an Air Force sky-diving club during flight school. While pilots often expressed amazement that anyone who would want to leave a perfectly good airplane, I thought they could relate to this risk taker.

By the time Kellan arrived in late December, we were working out of a temporary dispensary on the flight line. His introduction to the staff went well, but I was about to regret my choice. When we sat down in my office for an informal orientation, Kellan leaned back, put his feet on my desk and with a slow Tennessee drawl said “Jawhn,” (he always stretched the name out) “either he goes or I go.” When I asked what he meant, he replied,“Your Non Commissioned Officer In Charge is colored. I’ve never worked with a black man in a position of authority and don’t think I ever can. Either he goes or I go.” In retrospect I should have put him on a plane back to Saigon that afternoon.

Racial bias was not the only issue. Like many southerners in the 1960’s, Kellan was still fighting the Civil War. This soon became apparent by his overt contempt for Yankees which included anyone born north of the border states of Kentucky, Maryland, Missouri and West Virginia. Fortunately, for our working relationship, I hailed from Washington which was still a territory in 1865 and fielded no soldiers to fight against the Confederacy. 

When a senior ranking flight surgeon, a Yankee from Pennsylvania, arrived later that spring, things quickly deteriorated to the point that Kellan only communicated with “the Northerner” on notes carried from his office by the corpsmen.

Eventually, Kellan was the one to go. After six months in Nha Trang the Command Surgeon had heard enough and transferred Kellan to the Mekong Delta. Typical of Kellan’s luck, his new base came under mortar attack the day he arrived. It wasn’t the first time he was shot at or shelled. Action and conflict followed wherever he went. He was drawn to trouble like iron filings to a magnet. 

Among Kellan’s faults was a moral compass that pointed to the portside of true north. This, combined with a total disregard for military protocol, led to no end of troubles. Still, with his compelling personality and chutzpah, he was likable and I considered him a friend. No recount of my year in Viet Nam would be complete if he were left out.