Susan knows each patient's first name and how most were wounded. She never asks how they got their wounds, but if they remember and want to tell her, she listens. She notices that two of the ward's beds are still empty.

Stopping at each bed, she checks the soldier's "Neuro Vital Sign Sheet," and then cheerfully tells them good morning. All her patients head or back injuries. Two, just out of surgery, are still in a semi-comatose state. One 19-year-old soldier is suffering from "expressive aphasia" - “he can comprehend words spoken to him, but he cannot express himself.” Susan always spends a few extra minutes with him. When she asks him questions, he answers 'yes' with a weak smile and his face remains passive for 'no'. He says 'thank you' by reaching up and patting her arm gently.

As she sips her coffee, Susan makes out her daily work-list - things to do for each patient: get John and Jim out of bed and into the morning sun; walk Frank around; one soldier has his days and nights mixed up - keep him awake today. (A 22-year-old in the bed next to him tells her "I tried to keep him awake but he uses bad language to me. He won't to you though."); bandages to change; beds to make; patients to x-ray; soak Jim's infected foot; and most need to shave or be shaved. This list guides Susan through the day and well into the evening. This list is all she will know for the next 10 hours.

For most, she is the first person they see when regaining consciousness after surgery. Even if the job did not require it, Susan would stay busy. When idle, she knows how easy it is to remember the few - the very few - who did not make it back home to their loved ones. The mortality rate for wounded in the Vietnam war getting hospital treatment is “less than one percent - the lowest in the history of warfare.” These statistics mean more to Susan than just numbers.

She has seen men enter the 24th's emergency room with wounds so terrible that one could not believe they would recover. But three to five days later, they are sitting on their beds jokingly telling her how "they love her."

At 5 P.M., Hank Stevens , of Los Angeles, enters the ward bubbling over with news to tell Susan about her former patients in Japan. Patrick's brother was wounded and Patrick's commanding officer had given him seven days' emergency temporary duty to accompany his brother to the hospital in Japan.

Mail call brings many letters for the ward patients. Susan enjoys reading letters to those who ask her to. Their families are just wonderful and always write such happy letters.

Susan recalls that she had a lifelong ambition to become a nurse. Her parents once told her that responsibility must be earned. Today in Vietnam she has a wealth of responsibility, and she enjoys the way she is earning it, as many other women do.

Just before going off shift, Susan says goodbye to six soldiers being air-evacuated to Japan early in the morning. She leans over and gently kisses the "expressive aphasia" soldier's cheek. He smiles, struggles to speak, then grasps her hand. In this way, he is saying "Goodbye Susan - and thanks."