The Germans blew out all the dams, so the flooding made it impossible to get to a hospital for the delivery. It was an 80 miles drive south to the nearest bridge. Then 80 miles north again to get to a hospital that was just on the other side of the river. The river was flooded and swift, so it didn't make sense to risk more lives in a rowboat, which is all that was available for the crossing.

Artie, our French interpreter, was checking the equipment, of which there was little for proper obstetrics. Not often in war did armies come equipped to deliver babies. It was not their prime objective. However, little equipped as we were, we were bound by our Hippocratic oath to avoid hypocrisy and protect life at all stages. I'm sure there were many similar codes to live by, and if not properly programmed, it's to be hoped there's a natural law of the heart to speak to us and guide us so life even in war is protected so that some can carry on with living. 

The heart, that whispers to us of the importance of a child, can be drowned out with the combination of radio and Hitler's PR. Thus the heart becomes relative to the need for him to remain in power. Hitler also props himself up with the theory of evolution, as he is the self-proclaimed pentacle. Religion is no longer relevant in the light of his science of relativity of power and subjugation. This relativity is frightening in combination with evolution, or is it devolution as evidenced by Hitler's perversions. In our case, it will mean new relatives in quantity compared to his barren landscape.

Dr. Riley meditated on the past, now a good half century earlier. During the war, World War II, he was a surgeon in constant care of the wounded, with occasional reprieve to deliver a baby or count and account for the dead. Can one count what is no longer, but that is what he did and sometimes twice as ordered to be sure.

Having survived the war and eleven children, he wasn't sure what was more perilous. Now there was cancer to contend with. He had smoked until he was seventy. Now he was eighty-two.

He never confided in anyone that he had stopped smoking, but Eunice noticed of course. She noticed everything, to the point that the family thought she bordered on the omniscient. Bordering on the omniscient, she knew enough not to say anything for awhile at least as to not exert undue pressure which could trigger a reversal in the behavior.

After about two weeks of silence on the subject, Eunice nonchalantly brought up the subject during their nightly cribbage game. "Russell, I haven't noticed you smoking all day."

"That would be correct, if I haven't been smoking all day."

That was enough for a couple of weeks. Eventually, it came out.

"I don't need to smoke. The children are grown up," he said by way of explanation without explaining. After all, who could explain the complexities of a person and their intricate relations with time, matter, and the universe?  Did we really think we could control our destinies?

Hitler would have got rid of me, he thought, and there would be no weakling children to contend with. Maybe that is why he never had children. They are by nature weaker, and by the code of his philosophy, he would have to eliminate them. The beauty of the complexities would have been lost on him. He believed in an orderly evolution that he could understand and control by hacking off unwanted segments of society. Sterilization, abortion, euthanasia, war. These were the tools he collected to enforce his state controlled right to life. Did he win in the end? 

We fought wars for the unalienable rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, but the state was encroaching again. The state wanted to decide the right to life by popular opinion. It didn't matter what was in The Constitution or what was right as long as the politicians were re-elected, and the special interest groups paid them for favors. Of course no one said they were favors. They could get around that too. It was in the national interest to finance a health spa for chickens on Mars and to make lots of money off of the suffering of women.

My tools were simple and traditional tools to aid life, not help by hindering or blurring of the edges like the more astute politicians or junk bonds of the art world. As our virtual president said, he wasn't a liar because of the meaning of what "is" is relative to him and therefore he can't be held accountable for his actions, but maybe his parents could be. Perhaps "is" is double talk, and treason is treason selling out to special interest groups, foreign or domestic. Why don't the special interests just pay the voters directly to vote for their interests and we could eliminate these clowns.

Back to the war. We found the tenement building. It was huge with interminable steps, no elevator. The wife was on the seventh floor. On the fifth floor was a party, where the father was located. Obviously, he was drunk.

"What did he say, Artie?"

"I'm not sure, but I think he said, do you want a drink?" Artie wobbled a little to demonstrate.

"Tell him no thanks." The husband returned to the party, which was for the best. I might have been tempted to hit him. He never even said anything comforting to his suffering wife, who had been in labor for six hours.

The other peculiar thing was that there was a stolid looking woman in black, who stood across the room and never said a thing. At her feet, were three black bags. She just kept watching like a hawk through the whole procedure.

"Artie, ask her if we can help her with anything."

Artie said something in French, and she replied.

"Well, what did she say?"

"She said she didn't need any help."

"I wonder if she is working for the Germans?"

"Do you want me to ask her?"

"No, don't do that. Here, let's set up these candles over here and boil some water to sterilize the instruments. We will need to boil the towels and gloves as well. We can use the towels to squeeze out the water from the gloves." It wouldn't do to have water seep out from inside the gloves when we put them on. This could cause the gloves and patient to become contaminated.

Luckily, I was perhaps the only field surgeon who knew obstetrics well. Not many had studied it in school. In my case, I was an expert, not only having studied, but practiced. Every other weekend in Richmond, I was on duty at the Salvation Army's Home for Unwed Mothers, where I delivered one or two babies each weekend I was there. With any luck, all would go well.

My assistant in Metzervisse was Jewish. Most of our help was Jewish in the 52^nd Armored Infantry Battalion Aid Station, not that we were prejudiced. We developed a test to screen out our medical assistants. It wasn't elaborate, but it showed if a person had a basic education and could think in a practical manner about the sick and wounded. Jewish people fit the bill in most cases. I just thought this was interesting because it was such a large percentage out of a small percentage compared to the whole army.  It turned out I worked with a lot of very bright people, which was useful when the electricity went out.

My Jewish associate was eager and willing. I showed Phil what to do, and if he wasn't sure, he asked questions. Before long Phil had spanked the first arrival, and it was pronounced after a cursory examination a healthy boy.

"Okay! I said. "Good work!"

"But doctor, what is this. Can it be another super human?"

"Another blessing! I heard many tiny beating hearts in there." 

"It must be your magic touch."

"I just hope the father sobers up soon enough to claim them."

Before long, there were four healthy boys, all clean kicking and screaming. The mother was talking incessantly in French, which I could not understand. Artie said she was thanking us.

When it appeared that there were no more children to be born, the stolid woman in black suddenly rushed over. I didn't know what to expect, so I braced myself for a blow. Now that my usefulness was done, she could eliminate me.  She flung her arms around me and embraced me; talking wildly I didn't know what.

"Artie! What is going on?"

"She's saying she can't believe three stupid Americans could do so well! She's a mid-wife, but French law won't allow her to help if there are multiple births or complications of any kind."

"Tell her it's a silly law. Let's get out of here before the father comes back. I may be tempted to do something untoward."

I was the Battalion Surgeon at Combat Command Headquarters for the 9th Armored Division in the Bulge.  We were to become known as the Phantom 9 by the Germans, because we kept popping up here and there like incorrigible prairie dogs when the Germans thought we were overrun.  

The Colonel in charge would listen to my recommendations concerning the health of the men, and he would shrug his shoulders and do nothing, so I had myself transferred to the 52nd Armored Infantry Battalion, where I became Assistant Battalion Surgeon under Lt. Col. Watts.  He cared for the health and well being of his men, so I felt I could accomplish what I was meant to do there.  It was a step down, but not for long.  

Unfortunately, the Battalion Surgeon, who took my place at Combat Command, was soon lost in battle.  I didn't feel good about that.  He was a nice fellow and very intelligent, but I never saw him again.  I don't know if he was taken prisoner or killed.  Combat Command was overrun in the Battle of the Bulge.  

It started at night with flares that lit up the sky, so the Germans could zero in on their targets, and they zeroed in on Combat Command and the officers.  We could hear the battle in the distance. We could hear the half-tracks and tanks clanking and blasting. I asked for instructions from Combat Command.  We were told to wait an hour and if we didn't hear from them we should go to Longvilly and contact the Colonel in charge of the Combat Command Headquarters there. An hour passed and we did not hear anything.  Everyone was captured or killed.

In Longvilly, I sent a sergeant to contact the Colonel.  At the hotel in which the Colonel was staying, the sergeant was challenged. The guard said the Colonel was asleep and he wasn't to be disturbed until 7:30 in the morning. No matter what the sergeant said, the guard wouldn't disturb the Colonel. Maybe the Colonel's nerves were shot and he had to recover, but I don't know. Every hour through the night, I sent a sergeant with the same results. It wasn't until 7:30 in the morning that we were told to move our Aid Station to Bastogne. 

The road was shelled by mortar fire, so I had the men desert their vehicles and climb to the top of a hill where we could watch in safety and figure out what to do. It was a good thing we did, because as soon as we got to the top of the hill, a mortar shell hit my jeep. What disturbed me the most at the time was not that I or my men could have been killed, but my collection of the "New England Journal of Medicine" was destroyed.  This was truly barbaric, the destruction of civilization at its worst.  

During the course of the war, I was to lose 4 jeeps in all.  The last one was near the end of the war.  I was in a hotel, and when I came out in the morning, I noticed a shell had hit the jeep squarely, and there wasn't much left.  By then I had become accustomed to losing jeeps in this manner.  To this day I expect to find rubble wherever I park a car.

When I saw my first jeep wantonly destroyed with the precious cargo of "New England Journals of Medicine", I declared, "This means war!"  Phil said a brief prayer in Hebrew. He was thankful his ambulance was not hit.  I asked him whose side was God on anyway, a good Christian or Jew?  "Of course you see the evidence yourself," he quipped.

At this point, Combat Command sent their infantry of young recruits over the hill we were on. Very soon we heard the retort of cannon and tanks, and the young recruits retreated quickly and disorderly past us. The officers couldn't control them. They weren't sufficiently trained.

We retreated with them. I told my men to break up into small groups and stay 10 to 15 feet apart. The Germans were looking for groups of people to shoot.

I couldn't convince Phil to leave the ambulance. He was determined to drive it into Bastogne, so we parted at that point.  I could see Phil driving around an obstacle course of craters where mortar shells had hit and continued to hit.

As we crawled, ran, and ducked through the underbrush, a second lieutenant, kept muttering to himself, "If I only had a compass! If I only had a compass!" I started mimicking him, "If only I had a compass!"  We went on like this for four or five hours in the fog. We would hear the Germans, and we would hide. 

Someone shot at us with a machine gun from the other end of a field, but luckily no one was hurt. Not knowing for sure what direction we were going in, we continued to wish and pray hard for a compass.  

I was praying hard for a compass, when I reached in by breast pocket for a cigarette.  I felt something cold and hard and round.  Slowly it dawned upon me, this was the Boy Scout Compass I had put in my pocket when we left to go overseas.  I had no use for it, so I forgot I had it.  This was going to be embarrassing as the ranking officer these men were counting on for direction..

I said, "Oh, um! Lieutenant, I don't know why I didn't think of this before, but I have a compass."  The lieutenant looked at me as if I was some strange alien speaking in a queer language.  I continued to alleviate his disbelief.  "I always carry it with me, but for some reason, I didn't think of it until now.  We don't get a change of clothes very often, so I am not in a habit of checking my pockets. I'm going to give it to you since you have been trained in the infantry and you could make better use of it. I just ask that you return it when we make Bastogne.  It's my Boy Scout compass and I would hate to lose it."

"Gee! Thanks, Doc!  I'll be real careful with it.  Thanks for trusting me with it."  He looked at it like he couldn't be sure it was real and he talked like he was trying to calm someone he wasn't too sure was right in the head.  Then he walked away muttering and scratching his head.

With the aid of the compass, we could keep well away from the road, which was bombarded.  I didn't give much chance for Phil.  The road was littered with destroyed vehicles.

It was night when we arrive in Bastogne. I talked with Watts, who was our 52nd Armored Infantry Lt. Col.. He said we should contact Col. Roberts of the 10^th Armored Infantry and ask to be attached to him. His headquarters was located in the basement of the Hotel Le Brun.

I was glad to have met Lt. Col. Watts. He used or came up with all kinds of tactics that saved us at Bastogne. One tactic was nicknamed SNAFU. Tanks, half-tracks and other combat vehicles would be located in the center of town. When someone spotted the Germans advancing on the town in a certain direction, the combat vehicles would take off in that direction. This was a successful tactic, and kept the Germans at bay even though we were surrounded and low on equipment.

The German tanks that were thought to be practically invulnerable had a weakness that was exploited by a GI, and put into practice by Lt. Col. Watts. The Germans left the hatches of their tanks unlocked in case the tank caught on fire and they had to escape. Because of this, a GI would hide until a tank passed or otherwise sneak up on a tank. He could then jump up on the tank and drop a grenade in the hatch.  Sometimes this didn't work out in the favor of the GI, who could be hiding in a fox hole.  The Germans would stop the tank over the fox hole and smother the GI with the tank exhaust.

Col. Roberts was another great man, who got things done, and cared for his men. When I explained that we no longer had a unit, he said without losing a beat that we would set up an Aid Station across the street in a tenement basement.

"I don't have any supplies."

"You will within an hour."

Within an hour we had the supplies and Phil showed up with the ambulance. The Germans had miraculously let it go through.  Most Germans wouldn't touch an ambulance unless it was the SS.

The Germans were not always so magnanimous.  If they found you had a weapon in an Aid Station, they would shoot everyone in the Station, in case anyone else had a weapon.  That's why I always had everyone disarm before they came into the Aid Station.  

It wasn't very often that I carried a gun, but there was one occasion on which a GI came to our station and said his unit was taken by the Germans.  He was in hysterics, so we put him to bed.  I thought Col. Roberts should know about the Germans overrunning the unit in case he didn't already.  I thought the GI might have blown his stack, but the story could still be true.  

I took a rifle just in case and walked the 4 or five blocks to headquarters.  I was stopped every block by a guard, who would challenge me with the word, "Mickey", and I was supposed to respond with the password, "Mouse".  Eventually, I saw Col. Roberts, who said he had no word on any unit being overrun, and he had just checked all units on the phone.  However, to be sure, he called all units again.  All units were secure.  

Eventually, I made it back to the Aide Station, and I handed my rifle to one of my assistants.  I asked him to unload it and put it with the other guns outside the Aide Station.  The assistant looked at me like I was that alien speaking some queer language again.  He said the gun was empty.  I said, "Oh!" and laughed because I could have been killed, which seemed funny at the time.  The assistant took several steps back and I laughed the harder.

The GI, who reported the German attack, was assigned a different post, and he eventually deserted to Paris, where a lot of deserters ended up.  In previous wars, they would have been captured and shot, but it never happened to my knowledge in World War II.  

Soon we had our aid station in place, and we were administering to the wounded, which were in good quantity.

One night, we heard hobnailed boots on the floor above us. We immediately knew it was a German. Sgt. Saunders wanted to investigate. I said no, because I didn't want him to get hurt, but he kept insisting. Finally, I said okay, but he had to take a gun and some help. They took a grease gun, and pretty soon we heard the sound of a German burp gun and the grease gun exchanging fire. No one was hurt, but the spy got away. They searched each floor of the empty tenement until they found a transmitter and receiver.  Later, they found the spy two blocks away. He had on a uniform, so he didn't have to be shot as a spy.

It was good that we caught him, because he could have been giving coordinates for targets. He might have mistakenly given the coordinates of the aid station two blocks away, that was hit directly and burst into flame. A fire brigade was formed, but it was useless.

Bastogne was completely surrounded, when Gen. McAuliffe was asked to surrender. He gave his now famous reply, "Nuts to you!" The Germans didn't know how to translate this, so there was enough delay for the cloud cover to clear, and supplies were flown in. If we hadn't received supplies, we wouldn't have lasted long. We were down to 2 clips per soldier. My brother-in-law to be, Ken Gorman, was one of the pilots that flew in relief. He was eventually shot down over Luxembourg, and taken prisoner for the rest of the war. It was providential that he was helping a family member even before he knew it.

We won a great victory for our loved ones, for their safety and freedom. In the future, I wonder what people will fight for. Will they fight for government run day-care facilities and the right to abort family member's young and old or students with mediocre grades, a citizen who is a little less than most useful?

Life Goes On

We three medical officers can't orient be.
Tried to hitch a ride for free.
It was loaded; it exploded.
We two medical officers can't orient be.

We were on leave in Paris.  It was almost the end of the war.  We visited museums.  I learned a little about art from my two intellectual friends, Larry and Moe.  I had curly hair.  You can call me Curly.

After a few days of Paris, our appetite was whetted.  We wanted to drink in all of Europe.  All we had to do was hitch rides on C47 transport planes and we could go anywhere.  We could hitch a ride to one town and then another until we got to our destination.  We thought Bavaria would be a good place to visit.

Early in the morning we were at an air strip in Paris, not far from the Eiffel Tower.  The first two planes had mechanical problems and had to turn back as soon as we took off.  Then we got on a third plane.  By this time we were a little leery of the C47's.  I asked the pilot, "Does this thing fly?"  "Well, I hope you weren't expecting a luxury cruise!"

I remember the long wooden bench we sat on.  We threw our duffle bags under the bench.  Not long after takeoff,  I remember looking over my shoulder to look out of the porthole.  I saw a beautiful view of the Eiffel Tower decorated in flames.  It took me a moment to realize beauty wasn't everything.  Where were the flames coming from?  It turned out one of our wings was on fire.  I was seeing the Eiffel Tower in a manner that few would ever experience.  

Just then the pilot must have seen the fire too, because the plane dove straight down at such a rate that we thought we were going to crash, but the much experienced pilot pulled up at the last moment and landed the plane on a dime so to speak.  The crew ran back to us and unceremoniously threw us off the plane like excess baggage.  They didn't even lower the the steps.  They literally tossed us out, and threw our duffle bags after us.  They were afraid the plane would blow up.  It never did.  A truck with fire equipment raced out and extinguished the flames.

After our aborted trip to distant Bavaria, Paris looked more interesting.  There was no need to go any further.

I had hoped to never ride in a plane again, much less a C47, but there was no other way.  I was to be married in Cirencester, England, and at that time, I was stationed in Czechoslovakia, where the 52nd finally stopped their advance.  

The planes I flew to England in didn't break down, but there were only short connecting flights from town to town.  I must have connected 10 or more times, having actually flown over Cirencester itself once to connect with a plane that took me closer to Cirencester from another direction.  

I was so exhausted, that I didn't wake up for the wedding.  My best man, Phil, was sent to fetch me.  Eleven children have this unknown hero to thank for waking me.  He unceremoniously broke down the door and dragged me out still sleeping.  They managed to get me presentable in the jeep.  I thought I was still dreaming when I saw Eunice waiting for me.  

In the confusion, I lost one of the rings.  It was to be a dual ring wedding.  Mom got her ring, but I didn't get mine, so I might not be married, but Eunice is.  

The wedding was at St. Peter's in Cirencester, June 30th, 1945.  At least, that is what we thought.  My brother-in-law checked on this on a visit to England.  He wrote back that he couldn't find a record, and he was disappointed that we had been leading him to believe we were married for all these years, and he even went to the trouble of coming to our 50th wedding anniversary.  Could we please return the present?

After the war, I didn't want anything to do with C47's or planes period.  It was arranged that I could go home with tens of thousands of troops in an army transport ship.  There was level after level below deck packed with soldiers.  

Just outside of New York City, we ran into a gale that lasted for weeks, preventing us from entering New York harbor.  The ship rocked from side to side so much we thought she would tip over.  When the ship crested on a wave, the propeller would be completely clear of water and the whole ship would shudder violently.  It felt as if the ship would break up.  

It was so bad that soldiers with machine guns were posted at all the exits to the deck with orders to shoot anyone regardless of rank if they tried to exit.  They were afraid of too many people on deck or on one side of the ship.  There were tens of thousands of GI's below.  If they all came up on deck at once, it could tip the balance just enough to capsize.  

Almost everyone on board was seasick.  A few of the doctors decided if we kept busy, we wouldn't get sick, so we toured the ship from top to bottom examining and caring for the men.  On one occasion, on a lower level, I happened to see an arm sticking out of a bottom bunk.  The arm was actually deep green.  It was the first time I had ever seen that.  When I asked the officer in charge about the man, he said he was seasick.  I asked for how long, and he replied that it had been four days.  I don't know why he was never sent to sickbay, but the man was dehydrated and in a coma.  After we got some fluids in him, he was alright after a few days.  I told him I wanted to congratulate him on being the first man of color that was green.  Too bad that distinction was lost.  It might have started a whole new way of thinking about color.

Eventually, the seas calmed and we made it into port.  I never rode a plane again, but I should have added ships to the list of taboo transports to be fair.

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