I just finished reading your very moving tribute to Hospital Corpsman Bill Sperb, who was my best friend.  I would like to add a couple of thoughts from back then, and hope that his brother and parents find some measure of comfort in them.

I met Bill while we were in Hospital Corps School together in San Diego in Early 1967.  His likable personality drew me to him instantly and we became best friends.  We hung out on base, out on liberty in San Diego, and in between classes.  At one point, I got impetigo--which may actually just have been a serious case of 19 year-old acne--on my back.  I went to sick call and was given a good supply of phisohex antibacterial soap and told to scrub with it.  The problem was that scrubbing my back was not possible. I mentioned it to Bill, and he said, "Come on, let's head to the showers."  For the next five days, Bill used a good old Navy scrub brush and phisohex on my back and my impetigo was history. He was that kind of guy. He didn't care if it looked stupid, him scrubbing my back, he just did it.

We went to our first duty station together at the US Naval Hospital, Quantico, Virginia.  From the moment we arrived, all Bill could talk about was getting himself sent to Viet Nam so he could be with his brother.  It was the topic of conversation every time we got together, and he finally got his wish.  We agreed we would get in touch when I got sent to Viet Nam, which was a certainty in those days.

Sure enough, when I arrived, I called him on one of those field phones and we chatted.  He loved what he was doing. He hated the war, but he loved flying into the thick of things and pulling his Marines out of harm's way.  Any time I flew a medevac into Da Nang, I called him and we caught up on old times. It was a routine, one which I never thought would come to such a tragic ending.  I'll never forget that last call I made.  I asked to speak to him, and instead, was put on the phone with his Chief, who told me that Bill had been killed just the week before.  I raced over to the NSA Hospital in Da Nang and went straight to the pharmacy officer, who had been stationed with us at Quantico and knew Bill very well.  I asked him if it was true.  He said that he had to go over and see Bill's body to believe it himself.  Bill led a charmed life, because he was important.  He was important to the hundreds of lives he saved, to the thousands more whose lives he touched, and especially, to those of us who called him "friend."

Bill would have made a good doctor. He cared more about his patients than he did his own welfare.  He always had a smile on his face, he was always ready to jump into a helicopter to save yet another life. When Bill was around, you knew you were going to be taken care of.

In 1997, I took my Boy Scout Troop to Washington, DC, and as part of the visit, took them to The Wall.  I broke them up into small groups, and gave each group three names of my friends or relatives who had died in Viet Nam.  I asked them to look up the names, do a "rubbing," and bring it back to me.  Bill's name, I reserved for the group I stayed with.  As I watched my own son do the rubbing, I thought back to Bill and that scrub brush. He went at my impetigo with the same fervor he went after everything in life -- nothing held back.  I now tell my grandchildren about Bill.  My wife knows his name and my son still asks for stories about him.  No one else who knew him or knew about him will ever forget him, and that is the greatest legacy one can ask for.  So I say to him, his brother, and all those who remember him, Bill lived the Marine motto:  "Semper Fidelis" -- always faithful.  

He was, above all, my friend.

Tom Thompkins, PhD