Tranquillity, Solace & Mercy

Navy otolaryngologist Lajos Balla

2012-02-29T15:23:00.001-08:00

Lajos Balla

http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?n=lajos-balla&pid=156096778

LAJOS "LOUIS" BALLA

On Wednesday, February 22, 2012 Ash Wednesday LOUIS. B. BALLA, M.D. of Washington, D.C. died after a long and courageous battle with Pulmonary Fibrosis. He was born in a small town in Hungary on October 17, 1928 and escaped on foot from his communist-occupied country in 1949 at the young age of 20. He travelled almost 1,000 miles to his planned destination, Brussels, Belgium where he successfully concluded his medical studies. While studying there he met his future wife of 55 years Josephine. After receiving his medical degree he immigrated to the U.S. in 1954 and did his residency training at Bellevue Hospital in New York City. He and Josephine were married on January, 25, 1957 in New York City. In 1958 he was drafted in the Navy and was a practicing Otolaryngologist at the Naval Aviation Base in Pensacola, FL. He retired two years later as Lt. Cmdr. and returned to Bellevue to complete his residency training. In 1961 he settled in Washington, DC and was a successful practicing Otolaryngologist and Plastic Surgeon for almost fifty years. He was also an Associate Clinical Professor Emeritus of Otolaryngology at Georgetown University School of Medicine. In addition to his work in his private practice he was proud of his active membership in two Catholic organizations; The John Carroll Society and the Hungarian Knights of Malta. As a member of both these groups he was able to combine his love of medicine with charitable works. Beloved husband of Josephine Balla and loving father of Brigitte Engleman, Louis Balla and Stephane Balla. He is also survived by his son-in-law, Tom and daughters-in-law, Rosemarie and Pam; and six grandchildren, Philippe, Louis, Lauren, Pierre, Christopher and Claudia. A Mass of Christian Burial will be held on Saturday, March 3 at 12 noon at Little Flower Parish at 5607 Massachusetts Avenue, Bethesda, MD 20816. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that donations be made to the Hungarian Knights of Malta, P.O. Box 241, Mt. Vernon, VA 22121.

Archives: Bulshefski Collection

2012-02-29T07:07:00.000-08:00

Bulshefski Collection
Personal papers
1943-1973
1 box, unarranged, unrestricted

Records, especially diplomas and certificates of ADM Veronica
Belshefski, USN Nurse Corps. Includes artifacts including Lyndon
Johnson's signing pen for Nurse Corp legislation. 1 oversize piece in
mapcase. Other objects donated to NNCA and WIMSA.

Archives: Pray Journal

2012-02-24T06:03:00.000-08:00

Pray Journal
2012.0002
1861-1862
Personal papers
No finding aid, unrestricted, scanned, transcribed.

Surgeon Ezra Pray's Journal aboard US Bark Fernandina, 1861-1862. Donor
provided historical background about Dr. Pray, and a transcription of
the journal, as well as a CD with these documents and the scans of the
journal's pages.

The Naval Historical Foundation's background notes, ""With his
appointment effective 21 October 1861, Pray was designated an "acting
assistant surgeon" and ordered to report to the U.S. Bark Fernandina in
New York City, where he arrived a week before that ship was commissioned
on 16 November 1861. This wooden sailing vessel had started commercial
life as the Florida, built in New Jersey in 1858, with an overall length
115 feet, beam 29 feet, draft 10 feet, and displacement of 297 tons.
Purchased by the Navy on 29 July 1861 for $14,000 and renamed Fernandina
(a town in Florida), she was refitted for naval service, sailed with a
complement of 86 men, and was armed with six 32-pounder muzzle loading
cannon. She was commanded by Acting Volunteer Lieutenant George W.
Browne, who was coming to this assignment with limited previous naval
experience in the young Civil War.

Pray's 154-page journal begins with his application for appointment in
September and his service in Fernandina from November through 18 April
1862; however, he actually began to write his account in late January
through early February 1862, using the ship's official logbook to remind
himself of the key events of his first few months on board. Thus the
journal begins retrospectively until going "live" in February.

Sailing from New York City on 27 November 1861 for duty with the North
Atlantic Blockading Squadron, Pray and his ship arrived on station off
Wilmington, NC on 14 December (after stopping off in Hampton Roads,
Virginia briefly to receive orders from the squadron commodore). Pray
described the experience of going to sea for the first time from his
landlubber's perspective, including observations about the sea, the
ship, and his sea-sickness.

The first few months revealed the monotony of blockade duty, punctuated
with occasional threats not so much from rebel forces but more from the
rough winter weather at sea and the ever-present danger of running
aground on the lee-shore and shoals of the "Graveyard of the Atlantic"
coast. While Pray was a conscientious doctor who looked after his
shipmates with compassion and professionalism, he was clearly hoping for
the excitement of combat and the opportunity to share in prize money for
capturing blockade runners. Christmas day, 1861, brought Fernandina's
first success in this area, as she took blockade runner William H.
Northrop as a prize with a cargo of drugs and coffee.

Within the first few weeks of his five month service in the bark, Pray
began to clash with his commanding officer, Lieutenant Browne. As he
became more familiar with Navy life, Pray came to the conclusion that
Browne was a martinet, incompetent to command, and incapable of keeping
his crew safe and motivated to accomplish their wartime mission."

When Browne shot a sailor in April 1862, the ship was recalled for a
court of inquiry which disrated Browne in May.

"Having filled up all available pages, Pray concluded his journal by
announcing his intention of sending it home for the benefit of friends
and family. Reassigned in June 1862 to the US steamer Cambridge, Dr.
Pray continued his medical service in that and several other Union
warships until his honorable discharge on 1 March 1866.

Pray married Martha J. Hanson of Somersworth, NH on 16 Aug 1865 and
they had two sons. Pray, having returned at some point to farming,
received a pension for his military service, as did his widow some years
later. Fracturing his femur in a fall on ice, Pray died 4 Apr 1918, age
86, at Rochester, NH."

U.S. Navy Ships Named after Navy Medical Personnel

2012-02-22T11:31:00.000-08:00

To date, there have been 43 U.S. Navy ships named after Navy medical personnel--i.e., dentists, hospital corpsmen, nurses, and physicians. Of these ships, 20 are named after hospital corpsmen, 18 after physicians (including three World War II ambulance ships), 4 dentists, and 1 destroyer is named after a Navy nurse, Superintendent Lenah Higbee. For your interest, we have listed these ships below and included a very brief overview of the respective namesake.

Ships named after Navy medical personnel.

USS Benfold (DDG-65)
Commissioned 30 March 1996. Named after Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class Edward C. Benfold, USN, KIA Korea, 5 September 1952. (Medal of Honor recipient)

USS Blackwood (DE-219)
Commissioned in December 1943. Named after CDR James D. Blackwood, MC who was KIA while serving in USS Vincennes during the battle of Savo Island, 9 August 1942.

USS Boone (FFG-28)
Commissioned 15 May 1982. Named after Vice Admiral Joel T. Boone, White House physician and pioneer in Navy medicine. (Medal of Honor recipient)

USS Bronstein (DE-189)
Commissioned 13 September 1943. Named after LTJG Ben R. Bronstein, MC, who was KIA while serving aboard the USS Jacob Jones which was sunk by German submarine U-578 off the New Jersey coast, 28 February 1942. There were less than 30 survivors. In 1952, USS Bronstein was transferred to the Republic of Uruguay and renamed the Artigas (DE-2)

USS Caron (DD-970)
Commissioned 1 October 1977. Named after Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class Wayne M. Caron, USN, KIA Quang Nam, South Vietnam, 28 July 1968. (Medal of Honor recipient)

USS Crowley (DE-303)
Commissioned 25 March 1944. Named after LCDR Thomas Crowley, DC, who was KIA while serving aboard USS Arizona at Pearl Harbor, 7 December 1941.

USS Dewert (FFG-45)
Commissioned 19 November 1983. Named after Hospitalman Richard Dewert, USNR, KIA Woju, Korea, 5 April 1951. (Medal of Honor recipient)

USS Durant (DE-389)
Commissioned 16 November 1943. Named for Pharmacist’s Mate 3rd Class Kenneth Durant.

USS Frament (DE-677/APD-77)
Commissioned 15 August 1943. Name after Pharmacist’s Mate 2nd Class Paul Stanley Frament, USNR, KIA Guadalcanal, 19 November 1942.

USS Grayson (DD-435)
Commissioned 7 August 1940. Named after RADM Cary Travers Grayson physician to President Woodrow Wilson.

USS Gendreau (DE-639)
Commissioned 17 March 1944. Named after CAPT Elphege A. M. Genreau, MC, who was KIA while aboard the LST-343 when it was hit by a Japanese dive-bomber, 21 July 1943.

USS Hammond (DE-1067)
Commissioned 25 July 1970. Named after Hospitalman Francis C. Hammond, USN, KIA Sanee-Dong, Korea, 26 March 1953. (Medal of Honor recipient)

USS Halyburton (FFG-40)
Commissioned 7 January 1984. Named after Pharmacist’s Mate William D. Halyburton, Jr, USNR, KIA Okinawa, 10 May 1945. (Medal of Honor recipient)

USS Heerman (DD-532)
Commissioned 6 July 1943. Named after Surgeon’s Mate Lewis Heermann who was put in command of the ketch Intrepid during the hospitalities with the Barbary States in 1804. Help to authorize the establishment of Navy hospitals.

USS Higbee (DD-806)
Commissioned 13 November 1944. Named after the second Navy nurse superintendent and first woman to receive the Navy Cross while still living.

USS Jobb (DE-707)
Commissioned 4 July 1944. Named after Pharmacist’s Mate 2nd Class Richard P. Jobb who was KIA on Guadalcanal, 26 January 1943.

USS Joy (DE-585)
Commissioned 28 April 1944. Named after Pharmacist’s Mate 2nd Class Daniel Joy, USNR, KIA Guadalcanal, 5 October 1942.

USS Kane (DD-235)
Commissioned 11 June 1920. Named after Elisha Kent Kane, the naval officer, physician and explorer who pioneered the American route to the North Pole.
Recommissioned 25 September 1939.

USNS Kane (AGS-27. Redesignated APD-18)
Commissioned 20 November 1965. Named after Elisha Kent Kane, the naval officer, physician and explorer who pioneered the American route to the North Pole.

USS Lester (DE-1022)
Commissioned 14 June 1957. Named after Hospital Apprentice Fred F. Lester, USN, KIA Okinawa 8 June 1945. (Medal of Honor Recipient)

USS Litchfield (DD-336)
Commissioned 12 May 1920. Named after Pharmacist’s Mate 3rd Class John R. Litchfield, USN, KIA France, 15 September 1918.

USS Liddle (DE-206)
Ship was laid down and named Liddle, but never commissioned in the U.S. Navy. She was launched 31 May 1943 and transferred to the United Kingdom as HMS Bligh (K-467). Ship was to be named after Hospital Apprentice First Class W.A. Liddle, Jr., KIA in Guadalcanal, 19 August 1942.

USS Longshaw (DD-559)
Commissioned 4 December 1943. Named after William Longshaw, Jr., a 25-year-old Assistant Surgeon who was killed in action during the Civil War while administering to the wounded in an attack on Fort Fisher, NC, 15 January 1865.

USS Miles (DE-183)
Commissioned 4 November 1943. Named after LTJG Samuel S. Miles, MC, KIA on Tulagi, Soloman Islands, 7 August 1942.

USS O’Reilly (DE-330)
Commissioned 28 December 1943. Named after Edward J. O’Reilly, DC, who was KIA while serving aboard USS Astoria, off Guadalcanal, 26 August 1942.

USS Osborne (DD-295)
Commissioned 17 May 1920. Named after LTJG Weedon Osborne DC, who was KIA in the Chateau Thierry area, France while attending to the wounded, 8 May 1917. (Medal of Honor recipient)

USS Parker (DE-369)
Commissioned 25 October 1944. Named after Pharmacist’s Mate 2nd Class Thaddeus Parker, USN, KIA New Georgia, 20 July 1943.

USS Pinkney (APH-2)
Commissioned November 1942. Named after Medical Director Ninian Pinkney, who is best known for his service as Fleet Surgeon in the Mississippi River Squadron, during the Civil War (1861-1865). In September 1946, Pinkney was transferred to U.S. Army Transportation Service and renamed Private Elden H. Johnson.

USS Rall (DE-304)
Commissioned 8 April 1944. Named after LTJG Richard R. Rall, MC, who was KIA while serving aboard the USS Pennsylvania at Pearl Harbor, 7 December 1941.

USS Ray (DD-971)
Commissioned 19 November 1977. Named after Hospital Corpsman 2nd Class David R. Ray, USN, KIA An Hoa, Quang Nam Province, South Vietnam, 28 July 1968. (Medal of Honor recipient)

USS Ringness (DE-590. Redesignated APD-100)
Commissioned 25 October 1944. Named after LT Henry R. Ringness, MC, KIA Guadalcanal, 17 October 1942.

USS Rixey (APH-3)
Commissioned February 1943. Named after former Navy Surgeon General, and medical inspector, RADM Presley M. Rixey. In March 1946, Rixey was transferred to U.S. Army Transportation Service and renamed Private William H. Thomas.

USS Tatum (APD-81)
Commissioned on 22 November 1943. Named after LCDR Laurice Aldridge Tatum, DC, USNR who died aboard the USS Wasp (CV-7) after the ship was hit by an enemy torpedo on 29 May 1942.

USS Tucker (DD-875)
Commissioned on 12 March 1945. Named for Pharmacist’s Mate Third Class Henry W. Tucker (1919–1942) who was killed in action during the battle of the Coral Sea on 7 May 1942 and posthumously awarded the Navy Cross.

USS Tryon (APH-1)
Commissioned 30 September 1942. Named after COMMO James R. Tryon, MC, who served as Navy Surgeon General 1893 to 1897. In 17 July 1947, Tryon was transferred to U.S. Army Transportation Service and renamed Charles E. Mower.

USS Valdez (DE-1096)
Commissioned 27 July 1974. Named after Hospital Corpsman 3rd Class Phil I. Valdez, USN, KIA Danang, South Vietnam, 29 January 1967.

USS Walter Wann (DE-412)
Commissioned 2 May 1944. Named after Pharmacist’s Mate 2nd Class Walter C. Wann, USN, KIA, Guadalcanal, 7 August 1942.

USS Jack Williams (FFG-24)
Commissioned 19 September 1981. Named for Pharmacist’s Mate 2nd Class Jack Williams, USNR, KIA Iwo Jima, 3 March 1945. (Medal of Honor Recipient)

USS John Willis (DE-1027)
Commissioned 21 February 1957. Named for Pharmacist’s Mate 1st Class John Harlan Willis, USN, KIA Iwo Jima, 28 February 1945. (Medal of Honor Recipient)

USS Wood (DE-287)
Construction of this vessel was cancelled before completion. Ship was to be named after COMMO William M. Wood, the first Chief of the Medical Corps to hold the title of Surgeon General (1871).

USS Wood (DD-317)
Commissioned 28 January 1920. Named after COMMO William M. Wood, the first Chief of the Medical Corps to hold the title of Surgeon General (1871).

USS Wood (DD-715)
Commissioned 24 November 1945. Named after COMMO William M. Wood, the first Chief of the Medical Corps to hold the title of Surgeon General (1871).

USS Woods (DE-721. Redesignated APD-118)
Commissioned 28 May 1945. Named after Hospital Apprentice 1st Class Don O. Woods, KIA in Gavutu, Solomon Islands, 8 August 1942.

Archives: Pinckney Chemistry Manuscript

2012-02-22T06:39:00.000-08:00

Pinckney Chemistry Manuscript
Personal papers
WO 7 PM 1861
1844
1 volume, no finding aid, unrestricted.

1844 notebook on chemistry by Naval assistant surgeon Ninian Pinckney. Missing initial pages, and rebound at National Archives in 1946. Transferred from Stitt Library.

Film producer looking for Vietnam nuns in Guam in 1975

2012-02-21T07:13:00.000-08:00

Kevin Stirling has written to our office for help with a film, but we
only have one photograph for him. He's asked that we publicize his
project a bit more widely. His film is Cloistered: God's Women of Steel
and he can be reached at info@cgwosthemovie.com

His question is:

"The film [Cloistered: God's Women of Steel] is about a group of Nuns
who live in a monastery and their life's journeys along the way toward
choosing a religious life, notably in a cloistered monastery.

One of the Sisters came the U.S. as part of the mass exodus from Viet
Nam in 1975. She and her family traveled by ship from Viet Nam to the
Philippines, then onto Guam before resettling in the U.S.

I am interested trying to locate any photos and or video clips about the
Guam tent cities that I might be allowed to use [Public Domain] that may
be available for my usage in the film as well as any interview
opportunities

The Sister only remembers traveling on ship No. 16."

Office of Medical History Acquires the Civil War Journal of Acting Assistant Pray

2012-02-21T06:55:00.000-08:00

NHF Executive Director Captain Charles T. Creekman, USN (Ret.), left, presents the journal to Jan Herman, Historian of the Navy Medical Department, on 15 Feb 2012

See story below.
http://www.navyhistory.org/2012/02/civil-war-journal-surgeon-ezra-pray/

Cdr. DANIEL N. WILLIAMS death notice

2012-02-19T12:30:00.001-08:00

Daniel N. Williams

Cdr. DANIEL N. WILLIAMS, USN (Ret.) Commander Daniel Nicholas Williams, of Norfolk, Virginia, died February 15, 2012 in Salisbury, Maryland at the home of his daughter, Kathleen Williams Mommé, surrounded by his loving family. Danny was born on September 10, 1920 in St. Louis, Missouri, son of the late Robert Paul and Mary Healy Williams. He was predeceased by his wife, Pat Williams, and his brother and sister, Vincent Williams and Philomena Ivy. Following graduation from St. John's College High School where he was both an honors student and outstanding athlete, Danny continued his studies over the years at American University, Columbia Law School and George Washington University. In 1942, he began his distinguished United States Naval career which took him around the world on many tours of duty including assignments at the National Naval Medical Center in Bethesda, MD, USS LST 45, USS Pittsburgh, USS Juneau, USS Missouri, USS Brownson and many Naval Hospitals throughout the United States. He served in World War II in both the Asiatic-Pacific Theatre and the American Theatre. Among numerous awards and medals, he received a Navy Commendation from Admiral R.A. Spruance, Com Fifth Fleet; Asiatic-Pacific Campaign; American Campaign; Navy Occupation Service; World War II Victory; Good Conduct; National Defense Service; the Association of Military Surgeons Honorary Medal; three citations for heroic action and four life saving commendations. Danny was one of the pioneers of the National Tissue Transplant Bank at the National Naval Medical Center, Bethesda, Maryland, which was the first of its kind in the world. He specialized in the medical and legal aspects of human tissue transplantation. His role in drafting the first comprehensive law governing transplantation was key to the official Congressional law passed in 1955. Memberships included The Association of Military Surgeons, The Retired Officers Association, The Fleet Reserve Association, Veterans of Foreign Wars, The American Legion, The USS Missouri Association, The Disabled American Veterans and the Knights of Columbus. Following retirement in 1974, Danny spent thousands of hours annually volunteering with DePaul Hospital, Holy Trinity Church, the Veteran's Administration, Meals on Wheels and the Juvenile Court System. In addition to his volunteer efforts, Danny enjoyed reading, travelling, dancing with the Virginia Shag Club, fishing, spending summer vacations with all his children and grandchildren in Nagshead, NC, and making all around him smile by sharing his great Irish jokes and stories. He is survived by his one son, Daniel Nicholas Williams, II (Leesburg, VA); three daughters, Patricia Ann Koehler (Silver Spring, MD), Theresa Marie Ceglowski (Roanoke, VA) and Kathleen Denise Mommé (Salisbury, MD); devoted sons-in-law, Robert Koehler and Andrew Mommé; 17 grandchildren; David Riggin, Alicia Fisher, Robert Koehler, Jr., Jacqueline Shepherd, Lauren Williams, Alexandra Williams, Alyson Williams, Shannon Williams, Kevin Ceglowski, Liz Hutton, Eric Ceglowski, Mary Austin, Caitlin Ceglowski, Daniel Ceglowski, Drew Mommé, Julie Anne Mommé and Michael Patrick Mommé. He will also be dearly missed by nine great grandchildren, numerous loving nieces and nephews, many cousins in County Cork, Ireland, his devoted friend, Sharon Furlough...and many caring DePaul Hospital Volunteers and Staff. A funeral service will be held in the Post Chapel at Arlington National Cemetery with full military honors at 8:45 a.m. on May 31, 2012. Memorial contributions may be made to The United Way of the Lower Eastern Shore, Suite 202, 801 North Salisbury Blvd., Salisbury, Maryland 21801. Arrangements are in the care of Holloway Funeral Home, 501 Snow Hill Rd. Salisbury, Maryland 21804.To send condolences to the family visit:Arrangements are in the care of Holloway Funeral Home, 501 Snow Hill Rd. Salisbury, Maryland 21804.To send condolences to the family visit: www.hollowayfh.com.

Published in The Washington Post on February 19, 2012

Archives: Vance Photograph Album

2012-02-16T05:55:00.001-08:00

Vance Photograph Album
1910-1962
Personal papers
No finding aid, unrestricted

Photograph album of Dr. Deane Harold Vance, MC, USN, with aviation
medicine photographs and clippings from the 1920s, and family
photographs from the 1950s. CDR Vance was born on October 17, 1891,
enlisted on September 10, 1917, and retired on May 1, 1937. He returned
to duty in World War 2. He was a flight surgeon and a medical inspector.
The clippings cover Vance's service as a surgeon on an airplane
ambulance.

Got Grog? The 2012 Winter Edition is now available

2012-02-15T10:28:00.000-08:00

It is with great pleasure that we present to you the latest edition of THE GROG, A Journal of Navy Medical Culture and Heritage. In this issue, we offer you a look back at a very key year for the U.S. Navy Medical Department, 1942. Host to the Battles of Guadalcanal, Coral Sea, and Midway, this challenging and transformative year also marked the beginning of the U.S. Navy Mobile/Fleet Hospital Program and the integration of women into the Navy. We follow this article with "The Shadow Nurse," the stunningly true tale of two Navy nurses who succesfully switched lives and careers. Finally, Chief Nurse J. Beatrice Bowman returns to the present day to show the reader around the only Navy hospital ship that was specifically built from the keel up as a hospital ship. As always we hope you enjoy your humble tour of Navy medicine's past. And feel free to pass this link to anyone who enjoys history.

THE GROG is accessible through the link below. PDF copies are availaible too for all interested parties.

http://issuu.com/thegrogration/docs/the_grog_winter_2012/

Captain STEPHANIE M. SIMON (MSC) funeral service tomorrow

2012-02-13T13:10:00.001-08:00

Captain STEPHANIE M. SIMON

Medical Service Corps, U.S. Navy

Age 54, died Wednesday, January 4, 2012, at her home in San Antonio, Texas. She was born March 23, 1957, in Cincinnati, Ohio to Steven and Jeanne Feher. Mrs. Simon earned her Bachelor of Science in Pharmacy at the University of Cincinnati in June 1984, received her commissioning in the U.S. Navy in June 1990, and a Master of Arts in Health Services Management from Webster University, Saint Louis, Missouri in July, 1993. She received a diploma in National Security and Strategic Studies from the United States Naval War College, College of Naval Command and Staff in June, 2004. CAPT Simon's military awards include: Meritorious Service Medal, Navy Commendation Medal, Meritorious Unit Commendation, National Defense Service Medal, Global War on Terrorism Service Medal, Navy and Marine Corps Overseas Service Ribbon, Navy Rifle Marksmanship Medal with silver E, and Navy Pistol Marksmanship Medal with silver E. Mrs. Simon is survived by her husband, Douglas V. Wade, Jr. and son, Nicholas Wade.

Interment Tuesday, Februsry 14, 2012, 11 a.m. at Arlington National Cemetery. In lieu of flowers, the family has requested donations be made to the Women in Pharmacy Conference Room, http://www.pharmacist.com/AM/Template.cfm?Section=Women_in_Pharmacy&Template=/CM/HTMLDisplay.cfm&ContentID=27426

You are invited to sign the guestbook at

www.porterloring.com. Arrangements with

PORTER LORING MORTUARY

1101 McCullough Ave., San Antonio, TX 78212.

(210) 227-8221

Published in The Washington Post on February 12, 2012

Archives: Naval Medical Society Journal

2012-02-10T10:52:00.001-08:00

Naval Medical Society Journal
Organizational records
1882-1886
VG 100 N 316
1 volume, no finding aid, unrestricted

"A rough, hand written journal containing the records, minutes, notes,
etc, of the Naval Medical Society from April 27, 1882 to December 25,
1886. By several authors. (Medical Officers of the Navy)" - from a label
on the front of the journal. Book was transferred in early 2011 from
NNMC Bethesda with Stitt Library collection. Binding repaired with tape.

Archives: Law Collection (UPDATED)

2012-02-10T10:44:00.000-08:00

Law Case Book
Personal papers
1870-1907
VG 263 Lc 1870
3 volumes, no finding aid, unrestricted.

"Case Book of Assistant Surgeon H.L. Law. U.S. Navy. From Nov. 9th 1870,
to 15th Feby. 1875." Homer Law notes he served on the Congress "having been
attached to her, and on duty, 3 years, 2 mos, 15 days. During this time
I have treated cases of the following named diseases or injuries." and a
list follows. He then reported to the Sabine where he "had a daily
average of patients of much less than one." His case book is broken into
sections: Hygiene and description of the U.S.S. "Congress" (2nd Rate);
General Hygiene, Medical Topography and description of Stations and
places visited (including Key West, Dominica, Haiti, St. Thomas, Havana,
Cuba, Southampton, England, Cherbourg, Nice and Toulon, France, Naples,
Italy, Lisbon, Portugal, Jaffa, Syria); and A few of the cases treated,
since my entry into the Naval Service; with the history, course,
duration and treatment adopted in each case. The case book appears to
have been compiled from pre-existing notes into this notebook. Book was
transferred in early 2011 from NNMC Bethesda with Stitt Library
collection. Spine is broken and binding repaired with tape.

Also includes a volume labeled Medical Department Journal of the U.S.S. Ranger, 1876 – actually Law’s letterpress book containing copies of his correspondence, with an index to correspondents at the beginning. Finally, there is a folder of correspondence on his Naval career from 1880-1907.

Johnson Collection finding aid

2012-02-10T06:29:00.001-08:00

Johnson Collection

U.S. Navy BUMED Office of Medical History

Date of Records: 1898 - 1959

Size: Approx. 3 linear feet (7 boxes)

Biographical Note: TBD

Scope/Series Description: Rear Admiral Lucius W. Johnson (MC) had a strong interest in medical history and was an authority on hospital ships during the 1940s. He also was interested in the law of the sea. The Johnson Collection consists of various documents, photographs and three-dimensional objects relating to U.S. Naval Hospitals, Hospital ships, Naval medicine and disease spanning World Wars 1 and 2.

BOX LIST

Box 1:

1. Typescript, "History of U.S. Naval Hospital, Brooklyn, N.Y."

Four photographs of the hospital including first ambulance.

2. U.S. Navy From 1775 To 1853 book.

3. Bound set of All Hands newsletters from 1944-1946 in leather album entitled "The Stethoscoop & All Hands." News Paper of U.S. Naval Hospital, Brooklyn, N.Y. Presented by Harry Gernler. 15 February 1958. The Fifteenth Anniversary of the Commissioning of the U.S. Naval Hospital, St. Albans, Long Island, New York.

4. Reprints and typescripts on The Hague and Geneva Conventions including

Revision of the Hague Convention of 1907 concerning the adaptation to warfare at sea of the Principles of the Geneva Convention.

5. Object: Civilian Employee Identification Badge, U.S. Naval Hospital,

Brooklyn, NY in wooden box, circa 1918.

Box 2:

1. Three portfolios containing reprints, typescripts and correspondence relating to the history of U.S. Navy hospital ships.

2. Five portfolios containing reprints, typescripts and correspondence relating to the history of U.S. Navy hospital ships.

3. Bound book of reprints on various medical topics written by Lucius Johnson.

4. USS Relief. One reprint, typescript and design plan relating to a fleet hospital ship.

Box 3:

1. World War 1 German attacks on hospital ships. One reprint and typescript regarding the German misuse of British hospital ships. Also contains a pilot chart map of the Atlantic Ocean.

2. Hospital ship photographs. Photographs, one reprint and notes regarding various hospital ships such as USS Red Rover, USS Mercy, USS Relief and USS Solace. Also contains photographs of Japanese, Russian and British hospital ships.

3. Hospital ships reprints and typescripts. Includes information on hospital ships, USS Main, USS Solace and USS Relief.

4. USS Relief photographs and negatives including indoor amenities.

5. Fleet hospital ships - reprints, typescripts and correspondence.

6. USS Relief photographs.

Box 4:

1. Yellow Fever. Reprints and typescripts regarding the discovery,

epidemiology and vaccination of Yellow Fever.

2. Yellow Fever. Reprints and typescripts regarding the discovery,

epidemiology and vaccination of Yellow Fever.

3. Collection of typescripts regarding Yellow Fever on ships of Union

Navy Civil War period.

Box 5:

1. Navy historical papers (1898 – 1903). Contains correspondence and examination reports of John Milton Kerr (HS), U.S.R.S. Franklin; Louis Hildebrandt (HC), U.S.R.S. Vermont; William J. Williams (HC), U.S.S. Detroit.

2. Portrait of Dr. Richmond C. Holcomb (Captain, Medical Corps).

3. Portrait of Dr. Ralph McDowell (Captain, Medical Corps). Includes obituary.

4. Naval Hospital newsletters (1958 – 1959).

5. Photographs of students of first graduating class, Hospital Corps School, Great Lakes and Newport.

Box 6:

1. Reprints, typescripts and correspondence regarding scurvy and other

vitamin deficiency diseases.

2. Leprosy - contains Kalaupapa, a collection of articles on the leprosarium on Molokai, Hawaii, written by Ernie Pyle, 1937 - 1938.

3. Object: Complete standard Navy package of "Human Serum Albumin," earliest version.

Box 7:

1. Small box of photographs of U.S. Naval Mobile Base Hospital, No. 1, Guantanamo Bay, Cuba. November 1940.

2. Small box of photographs of U.S. Naval Base Hospital, No. 6, Base Ebon, Espiritu Santo, New Hebrides Island. 1942 – 1943.

3. a. One map and two blueprints of Lion Naval Hospital at Espirito Santo Island, San Hebrides, 1943.

b. One map of Naval Reservation in San Diego, CA, 1944.

4. Notebook which contains reprints, typescript and handwritten notes on medical care.

Johanna Medlin, 2/2012

A Look Back: VADM George Weynes Calver, MC, USN (1884-1972)

2012-02-09T17:46:00.000-08:00

VADM George W. Calver in his Congressional Office, 1966

BUMED Library and Archives

Navy physicians have served practically everywhere—on Polar explorations, in equatorial jungles, and even outer space. Perhaps no less mundane, and arguably as exiting, is the unique post of Attending Physician to Congress which was created in 1928, and first occupied by the U.S. Navy’s Dr. George Weynes Calver.

As birth and renewal always follows death and decay; Dr. George Weynes Calver’s post was conceived only after a succession of congressional deaths in April of 1928. Most alarming of these was that of Representative Martin Barnaby Madden, IN (R) who suffered a heart attack in his office on 27 April and was left unattended for two hours before finally succumbing to his neglect. News of Representative Madden’s untimely end chimed throughout Capitol Hill highlighting the need for an onsite capital physician who could attend to the health affairs of Senators and Representatives.

Representative Fred Britten, IL, Chairman of the House Naval Affairs, took special interest in recruiting this prospective caregiver. After conferring with Speaker of the House Nickolas Longworth, Britten submitted House Resolution 253 to the 70th Congress. This bill, which stated that the “Secretary of the Navy is hereby requested to assign a medical officer of the Navy to be in attendance at the Hall of the House of Representatives,” was agreed upon unanimously. And on 8 December 1928, LCDR George Calver, MC, USNR, then on assignment at the Naval Dispensary in Washington, DC, was chosen for this position.

The son of a District of Colombia doctor, Dr. Calver was born in the capital city on 24 November 1887. After obtaining his Medical Degree from The George Washington University Medical School, Calver chose a career in the U.S. Navy. Dr. Calver, would spend 45 years out of his 53- year service career and 76 years of his life in Washington, DC. This is not to say that some of his non-Washington duty stations were not without worth. While serving at the U.S. Naval Hospital in Canacao, Philippines, Calver met and married Ms. Jesse Willits, the daughter of Rear Admiral Albert B. Willits. Both of Dr. and Mrs. Calver’s offspring—two daughters—would eventually marry Navy physicians.

When Calver first reported to his new assignment in 1928, he was a man with little hope of serving more than then three years in this capacity. Much to his surprise, at the close of his tenure, in 1931, Congress prohibited Dr. Calver’s departure, marking his post as “permanent.” Although the official reason may not be on public record, one must wonder if Dr. Calver’s effectiveness in the role was somehow bolstered by a charming, yet professional, personality. In a sense, Dr. Calver was the perfect physician for House (of Representatives) calls; being ever-equipped with his medical bag of sage advice. “Give 5 per cent of your time to keeping well,” advised Calver. “You won’t have to give 100 per cent getting over being sick.” And if photographs offer any clues into the nature of a human being’s soul, then Dr. Calver was a kind and caring grand fatherly type—even as a young man he wore a cloak of maturity.

During his long tenure as Attending Physician, which stretched 38 years, Dr. Calver earned a reputation as a cardiologist. And his office located in the Capitol building was said to have contained the largest collection electro-cardiograph reports in the world.

As should be expected, Dr. George Calver’s profession came before his politics. As he often reminded his partisan pals, “There’s not a whit of difference between Democratic and Republican belly aches—they all hurt.”

By the time of his retirement in 1966, it was evident that Dr. Calver had made an impact on the health of his patients: all varieties of Senators and Representatives; congressional officials, and employees; reporters and even tourists. Dr. Calver once estimated that less than 6 members of Congress died compared to the average of 20 per year in 1928. One of his patients—then a freshman Senator from Missouri—adopted Dr. Calver’s prescribed practice of daily walks. Even after becoming President, Harry S. Truman continued this form of exercise.

Upon his retirement in September 1966, Dr. Calver was promoted to the rank of Vice Admiral. His retirement was short-lived, however, as VADM Calver passed away at his home in Washington, DC on 27 February 1972.

Perhaps Admiral Calver’s legacy is best encapsulated in one of his pithy sayings: “Make a man live correctly to be well and he will hate but respect you. But if you cure him of his ills resulting from his own folly he will think you a saint on earth.” Healthy advice for politicians and non-politicians, alike.

Sources

BUMED Library and Archives, Biography and Photograph Collection
Congressional Record – House of Representatives, 12 October 1966
Rouh, DM. “Physician to Congress.” The Washington Evening Star Pictorial Magazine. 14 June 1953

Black History Month at the U.S. Navy Memorial

2012-01-31T11:42:00.000-08:00

The Navy Memorial & U.S. Navy Band to Host African American Diversity Concerts Two Performances in Celebration of Black History Month

WHAT: African American Diversity Concerts – free, live performances by the U.S. Navy Band held at the United States Navy Memorial in honor of Black History Month.

The first performance, on Friday, February 17, will feature the Brass Quartet with guest soloist Musician 1st Class Cory Parker in a concert that tells the story of the integration of African-Americans in the U.S. Navy.

The second performance, on Monday, February 27, will feature the U.S. Navy Band’s premier jazz ensemble, the Commodores, and include a narrative lecture component by MUCS Michael Bayes.

WHEN: Friday, 17 February 2012 @ 12:00pm Monday & 27 February 2012 @ 12:00pm

WHERE: United States Navy Memorial*
Burke Theater
701 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C. 20004

COST: Free and open to the public. No RSVP required, but remember seating is limited

*Metro: National Archives-Navy Memorial-Penn Quarter (Green and Yellow lines)

Physicians Decorated in Okinawa Campaign, World War II

2012-01-25T08:37:00.000-08:00

(I just ran across this little document compiled by the historians here)

Physicians Decorated in Okinawa Campaign

Fox, Ralph M. LT USNR* - USS Purdy
Williamson, Charles E. LT USNR - USS Emmons
Watts, William E. LT, USNR* - USS Haggard
Smith, James, LT USN - USS Evans
Sevensma, Eugene S., LT, USNR - USS Cassin Young
O'Donnell, Bernard V. LTJG, USNR* - USS Hugh W. Hadley
Mitchell, Dana C. LTJG, USNR* - USS Pringle
Markson, John LTJG, USN - USS Shea
Allgood, Jackson L. LT, USNR* - USS Bryant
Dickinson, Ralph H. LTJG, USNR - USS Van Valkenburgh
Nelson, Glenn E. LTJG USNR - USS Bates
Crocker, Harvey J. LT, USNR* - USS O'Brien
_________________________
*Wounded in action

Wounded fighting men in a concrete revetment formerly used by the
Japanese on Okinawa to protect their planes, wait for Naval Air
Transport Service hospital plane to fly them to base hospitals in the
Marianas. WWII Pacific Theater - Miscellaneous. 05/11/1945; U.S. Navy
BUMED Library and Archives 09-7922-10

Echoes of Navy Medicine's Past: The Korean War (1950-1953)

2012-01-23T13:15:00.000-08:00

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past
Part VII: The Korean War
By Jan Herman and Mr. Grog

The Korean War is defined by a novel, a Hollywood film, and a popular TV show that still survives in late-night re-runs. But was the Korean War really like M*A*S*H? And if not, what was it?

It was a war in which helicopters quickly airlifted casualties from the battlefield to medical care, where the first large-scale use of antibiotics during wartime saved many from slow death by infection, and where the new practice of vascular surgery was used experimentally to salvage limbs. It was a conflict in which hospital ships, as up-to-date as any hospitals ashore, began providing definitive care for patients, and an advanced aeromedical evacuation system transported large numbers of seriously ill or injured patients from the battlefield to naval hospitals where their illnesses and wounds could be treated effectively.

When North Korean troops invaded South Korea on 25 June 1950, only five years had elapsed since the end of World War II. Nevertheless, the condition of the U.S. Armed forces had so deteriorated in numbers and training that those troops who were dispatched to Korea to stem the tide, were easily overwhelmed by the Communists.

The military medical services charged with caring for these troops equally were not up to the task. The Navy Medical Department was a shadow of its former self. Whereas the number of naval hospitals had reached 83 during World War II, by 1950 this number had decreased to 26. Bed capacity had plummeted from 138,000 beds to just under 23,000. There was an equivalent decrease in medical personnel from 170,000 at the end of 1945 to 21,000 in early the summer of 1950. There was such a critical shortage of physicians that Congress passed Public Law 779, known as the Doctor Draft Law, in September 1950. This legislation provided for the drafting of physicians who had gone to medical school at government expense during World War II but who graduated after the war was over and whose services were no longer needed. Now they were required and many physicians were recalled to active duty. The physicians who had served as reservists during World War II, many of whom had combat experience, were not high on the priority list and would not see action in the new war.

Few if any of the new doctor draftees had any experience in combat medicine. The most seasoned may have had three years of residency. As a result, those with the least training and background ended up in Korea. More often than not pediatricians, gynecologists, and even dermatologists became surgeons once they reported to their units. With but the briefest exposure to surgery during their internships, many of these doctors found themselves debriding frostbitten tissue, amputating shattered limbs, suturing lacerated kidneys and perforated intestines, and extracting shrapnel and bullets from every part of the human body. Ending up in a field hospital as the first patient was a scenario few troops joked about. Yet despite the inexperience and shortages of medical equipment and supplies during the early months of the war, many of these neophytes quickly learned the skills they needed to save lives and return many Marines and sailors back to their units.

With a rugged, inhospitable terrain and climate that seesawed between very hot and extremely cold, Korea was also a very bad place to fight a war. Late fall and winter of 1950 in North Korea was the coldest in memory. In late November temperatures began plummeting. During the fighting at the Chosin Reservoir, improperly clothed troops had to fight their way out of Chinese encirclement in temperatures as low as 35 degrees below zero. Keeping alive, must less functioning, became anything but routine. For Marines fighting off hordes of Chinese, everything appeared hopeless. Weapons ceased to function. C-rations froze in their cans as did canteen water. Unable to drink, men sucked snow to relieve their thirst, further lowering body temperature and making them more susceptible to hypothermia. With inadequate clothing and the harsh conditions, frostbite downed more men than Chinese bullets. In fact, removing clothing to treat a wound was impossible. LTJG Henry Litvin, attached to the 2nd Battalion, 5th Marines, described just how difficult practicing medicine in such an environment could be.

“If you were treating a wound, you’d cut through the clothing to where the wound was, or you’d put a battle dressing over the clothes and make sure the wound wasn’t leaking blood. It seemed that the intense cold inhibited bleeding. The wounds we saw had already been wrapped by corpsmen in the companies. If the battle dressing was in place, even over their clothing, and there was no leaking blood, we just checked the battle dressing and left the wounds alone.”

As an exotic and underdeveloped nation, Korea presented a host of diseases many American doctors had only read about in medical school. Smallpox was endemic, as was typhus, cholera, malaria, tuberculosis, and Japanese B encephalitis. Poor sanitation and polluted water accounted for the more common maladies such as dysentery and other diarrheal diseases.

Despite these overwhelming challenges, by the second year of the war, Navy physicians, dentists, nurses, Medical Service Corps officers, hospital corpsmen, and dental technicians held their own in Korea practicing their professions in four medical companies, aboard three Navy hospital ships, and in sick bays of aircraft carriers, cruisers, destroyers, and other vessels patrolling offshore. Unlike Army nurses who staffed the Mobile Army Surgical Hospitals (MASHs) in Korea, Navy nurses were assigned only to hospital ships, aeromedical evacuation squadrons, and Naval Hospital Yokosuka in Japan.

The five years that separated Korea from World War II represented a modest leap in the practice of military medicine. New so-called “miracle” antibiotics such as Aureomycin, chloramphenicol, Streptomycin, and Terramycin were now available; penicillin and the sulfas had been used since World War II. Other drugs that advanced the healing art included the anti-malarials, such as chloroquine and primaquine, the sedative, sodium pentobarbital (Nembutal), the anticoagulant, heparin, and serum albumin and whole blood to treat shock.

During World War II, some surgeons experimented with repairing severed blood vessels as a means of restoring damaged limbs that routinely required amputation. In Korea, surgeons advanced this art of vascular repair, which restored circulation, and thereby saved many limbs.
Army mobile surgical hospitals and Navy medical companies deployed near the front enabled rapid surgical intervention. Getting the sick and wounded to MASH units or to hospital ships offshore by helicopter, often within an hour after they were wounded, resulted in mortality rates dropping well below those of World War II. In that war, 4.5 percent of the wounded reaching hospitals did not survive. In Korea, the proportion of patients surviving evacuation during the Inchon landing alone reached the remarkably high rate of 99.5 percent!

During World War II, amphibious landings in the Pacific required a fleet of hospital ships, which were often employed as ambulances to evacuate the wounded back to hospitals at island bases for more definitive treatment. In Korea, well-staffed and fully supplied hospital ships, as modern as the most advanced back in the states, provided definitive treatment. Rather than being evacuated to the naval hospital at Yokosuka, Japan or to stateside hospitals, many Marines, sailors, and UN troops were returned to duty. By 1951, Consolation, Haven, and Repose were either on station as base hospitals pierside in Pusan, anchored offshore, or cruising within range of UN operations ashore. And before long, all had been retrofitted with helicopter landing decks so patients could be flown aboard by helicopter. The marriage of hospital ship and helicopter truly revolutionized wartime health care.

When the Korean War began in June 1950, few could have predicted that it would drag on for three years or that Communist Chinese troops would change the dynamics of the conflict. Certainly, few anticipated the brutal conditions soldiers, sailors, Marines, and airmen would find themselves fighting in? Navy medicine had adapted quickly to crisis during World War II. Likewise in Korea, its practitioners were put to the test and, through innovation and skill, performed heroically.

Walt Whitman in the Civil War article online

2012-01-20T21:10:00.001-08:00

Here's an article by my former colleagues about Whitman and the Army Medical Museum:

Remains of War : Walt Whitman, Civil War Soldiers, and the Legacy of Medical Collections
Lenore Barbian, Paul S. Sledzik, Jeffrey S. Reznick
http://lcoastpress.metapress.com/content/2hp4847807u83752/fulltext.pdf

The Navy Memorial Showcases the War of 1812

2012-01-19T05:03:00.000-08:00

WHAT: As part of the United States Navy Memorial’s Authors on Deck book lecture series,
historian and award-winning author George C. Daughan will present his latest work,
1812: The Navy’s War (Basic Books; October 4, 2011). Guests are invited to learn
about the often-overlooked history of what has been called our Second War of
Independence. Encompassing political, diplomatic, economic and military history,
Daughan brings the battles to life, putting them into context with the larger war, and
showing how America could not have won without its foundling Navy. Following the
presentation, Daughan will be available for a Q&A session and book signing.

WHEN: Thursday, March 1, 2012 @ 12:00pm

WHERE: United States Navy Memorial
Naval Heritage Center
701 Pennsylvania Avenue, NW
Washington, D.C. 20004

COST: Free and open to the public

*******************************
Overview of 1812: The Navy's War
Two hundred years ago, the United States and Great Britain fought each other in a conflict that changed the shape of the world. Daughan offers a comprehensive and vivid account of that conflict, arguing that it is impossible to fully understand the war without an appreciation for how a ragtag team of American commanders, seamen and privateers took on and defeated the most powerful navy in the world. According to Daughan, “The U.S. Navy’s role in bringing about Britain’s newfound respect for the United States was critical.”

About the Author:
George Daughan holds a Ph.D. in American History and Government from Harvard University and is a recipient of the 2008 Samuel Eliot Morison Award for his previous book, If By Sea: The Forging of the American Navy – From the Revolution to the War of 1812. He spent three years in the United States Air Force during the Vietnam War and served as an instructor and director of the MA program in International Affairs at the Air Force Academy. Subsequently, he taught at the University of Colorado, University of New Hampshire, Wesleyan University and Connecticut College. He resides in Portland, Maine.

Society for the History of Navy Medicine Graduate and Medical Professional Student Research Grant Announcement

2012-01-18T07:45:00.001-08:00

The Society for the History of Navy Medicine Graduate and
Medical Professional Student Research Grant

The Society for the History of Navy Medicine announces a new
annual grant of up to $1500 for research in the history of naval or
maritime medicine. The grant is intended to support work being done by a
student enrolled in a program leading to a degree above the
baccalaureate level in history, medical history or the medical
professions.

The grant may be used for travel to a research site;
photocopying, photography or microfilming; borrowing or access fees; and
similar research-related expenses. Society membership is encouraged but
is not required.

Applications, consisting of a 1250 - 1750 word project
description and a project budget, should be submitted electronically, no
later than 15 April, to the Society Executive Director at
historyofnavymedicine@gmail.com <mailto:historyofnavymedicine@gmail.com>
. All submissions, marked with an identifying number only, will be
reviewed by a panel of eminent historians. The winning submission will
be announced by 1 July.

--17 January 2012

CATNIPPED! The True Tale of Thomas Whiskers, USN

2012-01-13T16:39:00.000-08:00

The following is actual correspondence between the skippers of the hospital ship USS Solace and the destroyer USS Bell in 1919/1920 regarding the disappearance of a valued ship mascot named "Thomas Whiskers."

13 December 1919

From: Commanding Officer, USS Solace
To: Commanding Officer, USS Bell
Subject: Ship’s Cat

Several members of the crew of this ship have informed me the commanding officer that the mascot of the Solace, Thomas Whiskers, has been kidnapped or catnipped [sic] by certain members of your crew and is being impounded on board your ship. This mascot is a large, black Tom and when last seen was in dress uniform consisting of a leather collar with brass tag marked USS Solace.

If this cat is on board your ship, please inform me and I will send a member of the crew for it.

RWP

________________________________________

January 1920

From: Commanding Officer, USS Bell
To: Commanding Officer, USS Solace
Subject: Your letter of Dec. 13, 1919

You ship’s cat “Whiskers” is being returned under guard, but an explanation of his presence aboard the ship is no doubt due you.

Prior to our departure from alongside the Solace, the cat in question developed a warm regard for the USS Bell, consequently spending much of his time aboard. On the morning we shifted berth his presence aboard was unknown to us. Later in the day after your ship had sailed, he was found to have taken possession of an unoccupied stateroom. The master-at-arms immediately made him prisoner on the ground that he was a stowaway and incarcerated him in the paint locker. This will account for the fact that he is no longer the black cat you describe, but battleship gray.

We advise against the removal of this collar since its low visibility aids the performance of his duties.

In regard to the dress uniform worn by the prisoner—in his attempts to remove the paint he pulled off the collar and lost it. This ship feels under no obligation in regard to the latter. In adding one ten cent collar to its stores it lost $2 worth of paint.

AWD

*Originally published in The Grog Ration, March-April 2008

Navy Nurses in Television and Film: A Short List

2012-01-13T11:01:00.000-08:00

Hawaii Five-O
Episode: Murder Eyes Only (1975)
While Detective Steve McGarrett (Jack Lord) is on active duty with the naval reserve, he is ordered to help investigate the murder of a naval intelligence officer by letter bomb. This episode features a Navy nurse played by Carolyn Gayler.

Hellcats of the Navy (1957)
CDR Casey Abbott (Ronald Reagan), World War II commander of a submarine, is in an “off again-on again” relationship with Navy nurse LT Helen Blair (Nancy Davis). While on a mission, CDR Abbott is forced to leave a frogman behind to save the rest of his crew. But Abbott's second-in-command is convinced that this sacrifice was due to the fact that the dead man had been amorously pursuing LT Blair.

Hennesey (1959-1962)
CBS television series about LT Charles “Chick” Hennesey (Jackie Cooper), a Navy physician stationed at a naval base in San Diego, CA. Actress Abby Dalton played “Martha Hale,” a Navy nurse.

In Harm’s Way (1965)
Otto Preminger directed this film about two naval officers—CAPT Rockwell Torrey (John Wayne) and CDR Paul Eddington, Jr. (Kirk Douglas)— who try to recuperate from, and retaliate for, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Patricia Neal plays Navy nurse “LT Maggie Haynes.”

JAG
Episode: Each of Us Angels (2003)
A wounded Marine lieutenant named Ron Graham (David James Elliott) and his Navy nurse (Catherine Bell) fall in love on board a hospital ship as World War II rages off the coast of Iwo Jima. Their love affair is shattered when a kamikaze hits the hospital ship, killing the nurse.

Mister Roberts (1955)
In the waning days of World War II, LT Doug Roberts (Henry Fonda) worries that the war is passing him by. He yearns for duty more significant than that of supervising the daily operations of a cargo transport ship in the South Pacific. LT Roberts doesn't realize how much he means to his crew. Cast includes Navy nurse LT Girard (Betsey Palmer).

McHale’s Navy (1962-1966)
Television series featured a Navy nurse named “Molly Turner” (Jane Dulo) who was the love interest of LCDR Quinton McHale (Ernest Borgnine).

Navy NCIS: Naval Criminal Investigative Service
Episode: SWAK (2005)
A letter "sealed with a kiss" contaminates the NCIS office and personnel with a biological weapon. The character of Navy nurse “LT Emma Ingham” is played by Kelsey Oldershaw.

Navy Versus the Night Monsters (1966)
Navy nurse (Mamie Van Doren) fights acid-spewing plant monsters at duty station in the South Pacific.

Nobody’s Perfect (1968)
Film about misadventures of hospital corpsman Doc Willoughby (Doug McClure). Willoughby tries to woo Navy nurse LT Momoyama (Nancy Kwan).

Pearl Harbor (2001)
Michael Bay directed the film about two Navy pilots, and childhood friends, Rafe (Ben Affleck) and Danny (Josh Hartnett) who fall in love with the same woman, a Navy nurse named LT Evelyn Johnson (Kate Beckinsale).

Purple Hearts (1984)
Navy surgeon Don Jardian (Ken Wahl) and nurse Deborah Solomon (Cheryl Ladd) fall in love while serving in the Vietnam War. Their affection for one another provides a striking contrast to the violence of warfare.

South Pacific (2001)
Rodgers’ and Hammerstein musical featuring Navy nurse ENS Nellie Forbush (Mitzi Gaynor)

Tell it to the Marines (1926)
Classic Lon Chaney movie has his character SGT O’Hara in love with Navy nurse Nora Dale (Eleanor Boardman)

Torpedo Alley (1953)
LT Bingham (Mark Stevens) renews an acquaintance with two former Navy colleagues and falls in love with the Navy nurse, LT Susan Peabody (Dorothy Malone), who is dating one of them.

If you have any other titles that have featured Navy Nurse or other Navy medical personnel characters send us an e-mail at: andre.sobocinski@med.navy.mil.

Notes On Navy Nurses in Film

2012-01-13T11:00:00.000-08:00

“The Two Nellies.” CAPT Nellie De Witt, Director of the Navy Nurse Corps, and Mary Martin, the original “ENS Nellie Forbush,” are presented a new type of compact by the Elgin American Company, 1947. BUMED Library and Archives

The “Navy nurse,” as a character, has appeared in many films going back to the silent era. (1) At times the Navy nurse is a nameless figure who garners a few seconds of screen glory, usually walking down a hospital corridor or, worse, standing behind Sidney Greenstreet while holding a thermometer. For this she will be listed in the credits as “Navy nurse,” “nurse,” or, simply, “eclipsed lady.” In some films, the Navy nurse resembles neither a health care provider nor a military officer. In The Navy versus the Night Monsters, actress Mamie Van Doren is a “Navy nurse” stationed at an unnamed island in the Pacific during an invasion of nocturnal plant monsters. Through liberties taken with an “artistic license,” Van Doren’s nurse is without rank, protocol, and proper military attire (imagine a Navy uniform regulation written by Russ Meyer). But I guess the real question is: Do the acid-spewing “Night Monsters” really care? Do viewers take note? Although few and far between, there are films in which the Navy nurse is a central figure complete with name, motivation, personality, and marquee status. In these films—often “inspired” by true events—the Navy nurse actually resembles a military officer. The nurse has rank, follows a chain-of-command, and can be seen rendering medical care. It is worth looking back at the Navy nurse in two of these films—"South Pacific" (1958), and "In Harm’s Way" (1965).

There’s Nothin’ like a…Navy Nurse
Richard Rodgers’ and Oscar Hammerstein II’s South Pacific was originally a Broadway musical starring Mary Martin as Navy nurse “ENS Nellie Forbush” and Ezio Pinza as the mysterious French planter “Emile de Becque.” Based on James Michener’s Tales of the South Pacific, it was adapted for the stage in 1949 and made into a film in 1958. Both stage and film versions were directed by Joshua Logan.(2) The film version which starred Mitzi Gaynor (sister of actress Janet Gaynor) and Italian actor Rossano Brazzi as the leads, holds the distinction of being the only theatrical adaptation of a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical to have all songs intact.
In "South Pacific," ENS Forbush is stationed at an advanced Navy base in Espiritu Santo in 1943. Gaynor’s Forbush is an exuberant figure with heart and great sensitivity. She finds herself in love with Emile de Becque, who may be a Vichy-fascist. The commanding officer of the base, CAPT George Brackett (Russ Brown), knowing of her relationship with de Becque, asks Forbush to spy on him and find out his secret. In reality, de Becque is a man who came to the island to escape his past deeds in France. Brackett then recruits de Becque to join Marine raider LT Cable (John Kerr) on a dangerous reconnaissance mission to an island that could be Bougainville. When reunited, Forbush and de Becque declare their love for each other.

A few aspects of the film should be noted. Forbush interacts with enlisted SEABEES, most notably Luther Billis (Ray Walston). The real Nellie Forbush would be forbidden to “fraternize” with enlisted sailors like Billis, and vice versa. Female nurses were always segregated from the rest of Navy. Even if a sailor wanted to talk to a nurse in her private quarters he would need to be escorted by her chief nurse. The film credits list a total of 38 Navy nurses in the cast, but not one chief nurse. In addition, no commanding officer or executive officer of the base hospital is to be seen. Forbush reports directly to CAPT Brackett. With all the singing, dancing, and “washing men out of hair” to do there is very little time for middlemen! As the old Hollywood adage goes, one way of avoiding the red tape is to hire a good screenwriter.

For the “pride of Little Rock, AR,” the exotic world of Bali Ha’I and betel nuts must have been overwhelming. Like Forbush, many World War II nurses were products of small towns who joined the Navy not only to serve their country in a time of need but also as a means of seeing the world. World War II nurses were more often than not, independent spirits and adventure-seeking women looking to prove themselves and gain experiences from beyond the borders of their small towns. Like Forbush, some of them would have seen the Navy as a vehicle for romance. However, as a Navy nurse, ENS Forbush would have to abide by the official naval regulations of the day. She would not be allowed to marry Emile de Becque or have his child while on active duty.(3)

By regulation, nurses like Forbush were all unmarried women and graduates of accredited nursing schools with two years work experience at civilian hospitals. To be accepted into the Nurse Corps they needed to submit a letter of intent and three recommendations to the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery.

In the second half of South Pacific ENS Forbush makes her first appearance at the hospital. This hospital would have been either Navy Base Hospital 3 or 6; both were commissioned on Espiritu Santo in 1943. In addition to some battle casualties, her patient load would include many sailors and Marines with dengue, dysentery, or malaria. Following the nurse regulations of the day, ENS Forbush would rest the malarial case during their paroxysms of fever and chills.

During the cold stage she would apply blankets, hot water bottles, and offer hot beverages. As the hot stage developed, she would gradually remove the heat, apply tepid sponges, and an ice cap to the patient’s head, at the same time forcing him to drink cold fluids. Aches and pains were alleviated by placing pillows under the small of the back. Such procedures could be deemed anything but entertainment. In the movie, Forbush’s patient load is wholly ambulatory, and it is not clear why they are at the hospital. Aside from the medical care they presumably need, Forbush’s patients seem to want nothing more than to hear the nurse sing.

Light’em if You Got’em
This Otto Preminger-directed film, "In Harm’s Way," gets its title from a quote attributed to John Paul Jones: “I wish no connection with any ship that does not sail fast, for I intend to go in harm’s way.” In Harm’s Way is the story of two naval officers—CAPT Rockwell Torrey (John Wayne) and CDR Paul Eddington, Jr. (Kirk Douglas)—who try to recuperate from, and retaliate for, the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Patricia Neal plays the Navy nurse, and Torrey’s love interest, “LT Maggie Haynes.”

Navy nurse LT Haynes is on temporary assignment in Pearl Harbor. She is a woman who came to nursing and the Navy after her eight-year marriage ended in divorce. If ENS Forbush is the wide-eyed, inexperienced nurse, LT Haynes is her polar opposite—an experienced, world-smart woman who knows human behavior. When fellow nurse ENS Annalee Dorne asks her where the “nerve” came to call CAPT Torrey, Haynes coolly replies, “Annalee dear, past a certain age, men are apt to avoid making sudden moves where women are concerned. The women have to do the sudden moving, or else everybody stands still until it's too late. It gets late fast in these times. I like this man, and I want him to know it now.” And when she hears that ENS Dorne is going to the beach with CDR Eddington she cautions her and states that he is a man with dark secrets. Ultimately, ENS Dorne’s meeting with Eddington will end tragically.

CAPT Torrey first encounters LT Haynes at Naval Hospital Pearl Harbor; she supervises the x-ray of his fractured arm and then escorts him to a Navy physician’s office. They meet again at a party when she is dressed in civvies. When he states that he did not recognize her, Haynes replies, “I make a special effort not to look like a nurse.” Even so, the viewer can recognize her character as a Navy nurse. We see her wearing ward whites at the naval hospital while checking on patients, giving shots, and applying intravenous drips. She talks about nursing school and her decision to join the Navy. Later in the film, when Torrey is serving as a rear admiral, Haynes asks him, “How do admirals feel about nurses?” Torrey nonchalantly replies, “The same way captains do.”

Throughout the film CAPT Torrey and other officers refer to LT Haynes as “Maggie” and “Miss Haynes,” but never by rank. Although, considered part of the Navy establishment since 1920, and having what was deemed “relative rank,” Navy nurses were not considered official staff corps officers until 1947.(4) It would not have been uncommon for their fellow Navy personnel to refer to them by the title of “Miss” or “Nurse.”

Outside the hospital, LT Haynes is never without a cigarette. At a dinner party held at the house of Admiral Nimitz (Henry Fonda), every other Navy officer sitting at the table is smoking a pipe. Behind all this smoke is the unsettling fact that both John Wayne and Franchot Tone (Admiral Husband Kimmel) were fighting lung cancer during the shoot. After filming concluded, Wayne had his left lung removed; Tone died of the disease three years later. And whether or nor cigarette smoking was an indirect cause, actress Patricia Neal suffered from multiple strokes the year "In Harm’s Way" was released. It is even more unnerving to learn that she was pregnant at the time.(5)

The cigarette is arguably the most versatile prop ever to be used in film. All genres of film, from the days of D.W. Griffith to the present, from slapstick comedies to gritty war pictures, have leading characters who smoke. "In Harm’s Way" is “inspired” by the Navy in World II, and though not politically correct to say, cigarette smoking was once an integral part of Navy culture. Enlisted and officers—nurses included—smoked. In the wartime environment, smoking was believed to calm the nerves and enable the sailor to “focus.”(6) As far back as World War I, cigarettes were a part of ration packs. If one doubts the role of tobacco in the war they should look at the photographs of the day. One photograph at the Naval Historical Center, dated 1944, shows an “endless” human chain of sailors carrying boxes of Lucky Strike cigarettes onto the USS Missouri's forward main deck. The caption reads “An average of five cases of cigarettes is [sic] smoked during a tour at sea.” A BUMED photograph, circa 1944, shows two Navy nurses with cigarettes visiting a village in the Admiralties.

Conclusion
Movies are made to entertain, and make money. Some films transcend this mission and become works of art and timeless classics. In all cases, however, movies cannot be relied upon as the fountain of historical truth. "South Pacific" and "In Harm’s Way" certainly have their share of anachronistic and sensational scenes, but both can be considered successful films. They both entertain while delivering an impression of the historical fact. The characters of ENS Forbush and LT Haynes are substantive film figures; when you finish watching these movies you don’t forget they are “Navy nurses.” Even so, you cannot separate them from other depictions of Navy nurses. In war pictures, the Navy nurse is almost always used as the vehicle to the romantic sub-plot. The list of Navy nurse-protagonist love affairs is vast: Forbush and de Becque ("South Pacific"); Haynes and Torrey ("In Harm’s Way"); Abbott and Blair ("Hellcats of the Navy"); Willoughby and Momoyama ("Nobody’s Perfect"); Rafe/Danny and Johnson ("Pearl Harbor"); Jardian and Solomon ("Purple Hearts"); O’Hara and Dale ("Tell it to the Marines"); and Bingham and Peabody ("Torpedo Alley"). Regardless of this typecast, the Navy nurse has left a legacy; Navy nurses will always be a special part of film history as they are the Navy’s.

Notes:
1. Produced in 1926, "Tell it to the Marines" is one of the first films to feature a character of a Navy nurse. This wonderful, but overlooked, silent film is the story of the “tougher than nails” Marine drill sergeant O'Hara (Lon Chaney) and his polar opposite, PVT “Skeets” Burns (William Haines). If Burns's lackadaisical approach to the military were not bad enough, he also makes advances on Navy nurse Nora Dale (Eleanor Boardman), whom SGT O'Hara secretly loves. Nurse Dale is oblivious to SGT O'Hara's feelings and is attracted to the handsome “Skeets.” But an indiscretion turns her against him, and it takes an expedition to China and a battle with a warlord's bandit brigade to sort things out among the nurse and her two Marines.
2. The book and musical hold unique distinction of having both been awarded Pulitzers.
3. In January 1945, Secretary of the Navy James Forrestal repealed the marriage ban for women in the Navy. In 1970, the Navy finally ended the pregnancy ban.
4. The Naval Appropriations Act of 4 July 1920 recognized the Navy Nurse Corps as part of the “Navy Establishment.” In 1947, with the passage of the Army-Nurse Act (Public Law 36) the Navy Nurse Corps was acknowledged as an official staff. corps.
5. Despite this, Neal gave birth to a healthy daughter.
6. In a report to the Surgeon General of the Navy dated 1879, Medical Director Albert Gihon, USN, wrote that tobacco was a “pernicious, indefensible and wholly unnecessary habit.” He went on to state that it “impairs vision, blunts the memory and interferes with mental effort and application, ought, in my opinion as a sanitary officer, at whatever cost of vigilance, to be rigorously interdicted.”

New pictures on Navy Medicine's Flickr page

2012-01-10T06:27:00.001-08:00

We're working with the Public Affairs Office on a Flickr photograph site
which is at http://www.flickr.com/photos/navymedicine - so far there are
25 historical photographs up, some of which were added yesterday. More
to come!

Archives: Swanson Scrapbooks

2012-01-10T06:22:00.000-08:00

Swanson Scrapbooks
Personal papers
1947-1955
4 scrapbooks, no finding aid, unrestricted.

4 scrapbooks transferred with Stitt Library collection, and covering
1947-48, 1949-50 and 1950-1955. They include newspaper clippings,
letters (including from President Truman), reprints and photographs.
Clifford Anders Swanson (1901-1984) was appointed assistant surgeon in
1925. He served in varied assignments at home, abroad, and aboard ship.
While an instructor at the Naval Medical School, he researched night and
color vision and the effects of pressure and oxygen consumption on the
eye. During World War II, Dr. Swanson was senior medical officer on USS
Iowa. As an operating surgeon at the National Naval Medical Center, Dr.
Swanson performed pioneering eye surgery. He accompanied President
Roosevelt to the Tehran Conference and was with the Congressional
Committee that inspected the Pacific War area. He became Surgeon General
in 1946. During his tenure he sponsored legislation that made the Nurse
Corps a permanent staff Corps, and established the Medical Service
Corps.

(photo number 09-9014-1)

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past: World War II, European Theater

2012-01-09T08:47:00.000-08:00

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past
Part VI: World War II, European Theater
By Jan Herman and Mr. Grog

“To keep as many men at as many guns for as many days as possible.” This was the Navy Medical Department’s fighting motto during World War II. If the ultimate purpose of military medicine during this conflict was the same as in previous wars—to conserve the strength and efficiency of the fighting forces—Navy medical personnel worked diligently to accomplish that goal.

The ability and means to support the war effort was certainly not in evidence the day Japanese aircraft attacked Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941 and plunged the United States into World War II. In that year, the Navy had only 18 continental hospitals, 3 overseas hospitals, 2 mobile hospitals, and 2 hospital ships in commission. Approximately 13,500 physicians, dentists, nurses, hospital corps officers, and corpsmen—pharmacist’s mates as they were then called—manned these facilities.

In contrast, by 1945, the ranks had swollen to about 169,000 personnel, a staggering growth of 1,252 percent! They were assigned to 56 hospitals in the continental United States, 12 fleet hospitals, 16 base hospitals, 14 convalescent hospitals, 15 hospital ships, 5 special augmented hospitals, and many dispensaries.

The staggering commitment to winning the war would require all these resources. What transpired between 1941 and 1945 was a cataclysmic event made worse by the nature of the weapons used by the combatants. Although World War I had seen the widespread use of machine guns, submarines, airplanes, and tanks, World War II saw these weapons reach unimagined perfection as killing machines. In every theater of war, small arms, land- and sea-based artillery, torpedoes, and armor-piercing and anti-personnel bombs took a terrible toll in human life. In America’s first major encounter at Pearl Harbor, the victims of the Japanese attack could testify to what modern warfare really meant. Strafing aircraft, exploding ordnance, and burning ships caused penetrating injuries, simple and compound fractures, traumatic amputations, blast injuries, and horrible burns to name just a few.

Even though the story of Navy medicine in World War II is primarily a story of the Pacific war, the Navy not only played a key role in the liberation of North Africa, Italy, and France but also in fighting the U-boat menace in the North Atlantic and escorting convoys to Britain and Russia. Japan may have forced the United States into World War II, but American strategy for winning it focused on defeating Hitler first. Only when Nazism was on the run could the war planners in Washington take full aim at the Japanese.

The Americans who stormed Hitler’s “Fortress Europe” on 6 June 1944 were predominantly troops of the U.S. Army. But D-Day was not solely an Army show. It was Navy ships and personnel that brought the soldiers and their equipment from England, and Navy battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and rocket-firing amphibious assault vessels that pounded German fortifications and cleared the way into the beaches.

Navy personnel were also represented on the Normandy shore. They were not there in large numbers, but their unique skills were essential for the invasion to succeed. These were the men of the 2nd, 6th, and 7th Naval Beach Battalions, units whose mission it was to bridge the gap between sea and land and perform many other functions on the invasion beaches.

These highly trained sailors of the beach battalions had many functions to perform, not the least of which was to treat and evacuate casualties. The care givers—the physicians and hospital corpsmen—had to contend with every wound modern warfare could produce with anti-ship and personnel mines, high velocity small arms, and artillery fire inflicting penetrating wounds of the head, face, neck, and extremities, and fractures, burns and blast injuries.

As the first American troops went ashore at Omaha and Utah Beaches, Navy medicine was represented by these sailors who were dressed as soldiers and indistinguishable from their Army counterparts. Nevertheless, they performed bravely and efficiently, rendering first aid to American personnel, whether they were soldiers or sailors. Physicians provided rudimentary care where possible. Armed with litters, hospital corpsmen administered first aid—a battle dressing, a tourniquet, a morphine injection, a casualty tag—and then moved the wounded down to the water’s edge so they could be evacuated aboard the now empty landing craft heading back out to the transports. When that was not feasible, they sought shelter and set up aid stations above the high tide line.

The Navy was also responsible for returning the casualties from Normandy. Once evacuated from the American sectors of Utah and Omaha Beaches aboard smaller returning landing craft, the wounded were transferred to specially equipped LCTs (landing craft, tank) and LSTs (landing ship, tank) staffed by physicians and hospital corpsmen. Each LST had special brackets to accommodate 147 litters arranged in tiers 3 high on their tank decks. Here they would receive emergency treatment once the tanks and troops went ashore. Two Navy physicians, one Army surgeon, two Army operating room technicians, and 40 Navy hospital corpsmen staffed these versatile ships. They were equipped for providing first aid, stabilization, and an occasional surgery.

Once safely back in England, Navy medical personnel, including nurses, triaged patients, conducted emergency surgery, and stabilized the injured until they could be evacuated to other hospitals in Britain or back to the United States for more definitive treatment.

One of the hospitals designated to care for the casualties of the D-Day invasion was Navy Base Hospital Number 12. The facility occupied the thousand-bed Royal Victoria Hospital at Netley, adjacent to the major Channel port of Southampton and had a staff of Navy medical personnel. U.S. Navy physicians, nurses, and hospital corpsmen operated on patients night and day for the better part of a week. Their dedication and skill guaranteed that 97 percent of the wounded would live—a remarkable statistic.

Seventeen days after the initial landings at Normandy, the casualty evacuation system was working so smoothly that the naval beach battalions returned to England. Although their mission was completed, the cost had been heavy for these brave physicians and hospital corpsmen. Two physicians and 20 corpsmen of the 6th were killed in action. The 7th lost a physician and 10 corpsmen. At Utah Beach, where the invaders met lighter resistance, the 2nd Beach Battalion lost one physician and seven hospital corpsmen. Every bit as much as the soldiers and sailors who wielded the weapons of war, these Navy medical personnel helped insure the success of what Dwight Eisenhower called the “Great Crusade.” The long awaited turning point in the liberation of Europe had finally come.

Although Navy medical personnel were also present during the capture of Cherbourg and landings on the French Mediterranean coast, for the most part Navy medicine’s contributions to the liberation of Europe were over. The real focus of the Navy’s attention was the war against Japan.

Despite deteriorating relations with the Soviet Union and the beginning of the Cold War, dwindling military budgets translated into drastic reductions in resources and manpower for all the services. The Navy Medical Department shrank accordingly. Hospitals were decommissioned, hospital ships went into mothballs, and reserve physicians, dentists, nurses, and hospital corpsmen returned to civilian life. Who could have anticipated what would occur a mere five years later when the Cold War suddenly turned hot in Korea, a country few people could even find on a map.

Echoes of Navy Medicine's Past: World War II, Pacific Theater

2012-01-05T04:40:00.000-08:00

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past
Part V: World War II, Pacific Theater
By Jan Herman and Mr. Grog

December 7, 1941 still represents the U.S. Navy’s greatest disaster. In just over two hours much of the Pacific Fleet had been destroyed or seriously damaged. Even before the last Japanese aircraft had disappeared over the horizon, what the raiders had accomplished by their surprise attack was catastrophic. The pride of the fleet—seven battleships that once projected U.S. might and prestige—either lay on the bottom or were too crippled to be of any immediate use. Bombs, torpedoes, and machine guns had taken a terrible toll, with the Navy alone losing 2,008 men.

The wounded and severely burned survivors of the attack required immediate treatment, and Navy medical personnel were on the scene to provide that care. Navy medicine was represented at Pearl Harbor by a naval hospital, a partially assembled base hospital, and USS Solace (AH-5), the Navy’s newest hospital ship. Heroic efforts to save lives by the men and women who manned these facilities began minutes after the first Japanese bomb fell and never waned until the last casualty was tended to.

Physicians, nurses, and hospital corpsmen on duty at Naval Hospital Pearl Harbor performed emergency surgery, treated burns, and comforted the dying. The same scene played out aboard USS Solace, which lay at anchor just beyond “Battleship Row.” Oil-soaked sailors plucked from the harbor were taken to the hospital ship for treatment.

If the ferocity of the Japanese onslaught that followed Pearl Harbor left American forces reeling, isolated, and with scant hope of reinforcement, as an institution Navy medicine was equally stretched. Possessing only limited resources and with a presence only in Hawaii, the Philippines, Guam, a few small installations, and aboard the few vessels of the Asiatic Fleet, Navy medical personnel were hard pressed to treat patients as the Japanese rolled through the Pacific conquering everything before them. On 8 December 1941, World War II came to the Philippines when Japanese bombers hit Clark and Nichols Fields.

Two days later enemy bombers returned, this time destroying the Cavite Navy Yard and killing and maiming scores of Americans and Filipinos. Personnel at the nearby Cañacao Naval Hospital worked frantically to treat the wounded.

Japanese soldiers who landed on Philippine beaches in late December 1941 overwhelmed the ill-equipped and outnumbered Americans and Filipinos. By the time Japanese forces entered Manila on 1 January after GEN Douglas MacArthur declared it an open city, its battered defenders had already withdrew to the Bataan Peninsula to make their last stand.

As food and medicine ran out, disease took its toll among Bataan’s defenders. The lack of quinine for the treatment of malaria was critical, and without it many men came down with the disease. Nearly everyone suffered debilitating weakness from dysentery. Overwhelmed, Bataan’s 75,000 defenders finally surrendered in April 1942.

But out in Manila Bay, the island fortress of Corregidor still remained defiant despite a lack of food and ammunition. After a month of heavy bombardment and finally landings by Japanese forces, Corregidor surrendered on May 6th. American power in the Far East had been extinguished. Yet despite the new reality, the hundreds of medical professionals captured in the Pacific were still “Doc” or “Nurse” to their fellow POWs. Without hospitals or supplies, they continued to practice their healing art, often under unimaginable circumstances.

Some 10,000 surrendered at Corregidor after thousands of captured Americans and Filipinos had already died on the infamous Bataan Death March. Those who survived Japanese brutality and neglect now faced Japanese prison camps. For the approximately 17,000 Americans and 12,000 Filipino scouts who surrendered in the Philippines, the real ordeal had barely begun. Torture, forced labor, starvation and death became the norm in Japanese POW camps throughout the Far East.

Even though physicians and corpsmen did the best they could to provide health care in these camps, they had virtually no drugs or instruments. Malaria and dengue fever were endemic. Sanitation was non-existent and almost everybody had dysentery. Many came down with deficiency diseases like scurvy, optic neuritis, and beriberi. By the summer of 1942 the Japanese held over 50,000 prisoners, 20,000 of whom were Americans.

Eleven of these were Navy nurses from the Cañacao Naval Hospital. They spent the war in internment camps at Santo Tomás in Manila and then at Los Baños in the Philippine countryside, where they were finally liberated in February 1945. Many of their male colleagues never made it home, either succumbing to disease, starvation, brutal treatment by their captives, or dying by “friendly fire” when the so-called hell ships in which they were being transported to Japan were sunk by American submarines or aircraft.

Despite the fate of these unfortunate POWs, the war against Japan was in full swing by the summer of 1942. Reconquering territory held by the enemy was the priority and it meant fighting island by island, each one a stepping stone to Tokyo. Organizing the Navy Medical Department to care for the thousands of Navy and Marine Corps casualties generated by opposed amphibious landings, make them well, and then return them to duty was the major priority. It was in the Pacific war that Navy medicine faced its greatest challenge dealing with the aftermath of intense, bloody warfare fought far from fixed hospitals. This put enormous pressure on medical personnel closest to the front and forced new approaches to primary care and evacuation.

The most dramatic and demanding duty a Navy hospital corpsman could have was with Marine Corps units in the field. Because the Marine Corps has always relied upon the Navy for medical support, corpsmen accompanied the leathernecks and suffered the brunt of combat themselves. Many of them went unarmed, reserving their carrying strength for medical supplies.

Navy corpsmen were the first critical link in the evacuation chain. From the time a Marine was hit on an invasion beach at Guadalcanal, Tarawa, Saipan, Iwo Jima, and a host of other Pacific islands, the corpsman braved enemy fire to render aid. He applied a battle dressing, administered morphine, and tagged the casualty. If he were lucky, the corpsman might commandeer a litter team to move the casualty out of harm’s way and on to a battalion aid station or a collecting and clearing company for further treatment. This care would mean stabilizing the patient with plasma, serum albumin, and, later in the war, whole blood. In some cases, the casualty was then moved to the beach for evacuation. In others, the casualty was taken to a divisional hospital, where doctors performed further stabilization, including emergency surgery if needed.

Navy hospital ships, employed mainly as ambulances, provided first aid and some surgical care for the casualties’ needs while ferrying them to base hospitals in the Pacific or back to the United States for definitive care. As the war continued, air evacuation helped carry the load. Trained Navy nurses and corpsmen staffed the evacuation aircraft.

Enabling the Navy and Marine Corps to defeat the enemy also meant recognizing that disease more often than enemy action threatened this goal. During the battle for Guadalcanal in the Solomons, malaria caused more casualties than Japanese bullets. Shortly after the landings, the number of patients hospitalized with malaria exceeded all other diseases. Some units suffered over a 100 percent casualty rate with personnel being hospitalized more than once. Only when malaria and other tropical diseases were brought to heel could the Pacific war be won.

Navy medical personnel moved quickly to reduce the impact of malaria and other tropical diseases. Personnel trained in preventive medicine oiled malaria breeding areas and sprayed DDT. Physicians and corpsmen dispensed quinine and atabrine as malaria suppressants.

The Pacific war was massive in scale, fought over vast stretches of ocean. Fleets engaged one another often many miles distant from one another. Carrier-based aircraft were the surrogates that sought out the enemy and delivered the ordnance. U.S. Navy task forces consisting of carriers, battleships, cruisers, destroyers, and destroyer escorts required their own medical support and each of these vessels had among their crews corpsmen, physicians, and, aboard the larger vessels, dentists as well. By October 1945 the fleet numbered over 7,000 vessels from landing craft and auxiliaries to the Essex class carriers and Iowa class battleships. The hundreds of vessels smaller than destroyers had their corpsmen to be sure, but the larger vessels rated physicians, corpsmen, dentists, fully equipped sick bays, battle dressing stations, and usually an operating room. The standard medical complement for a 7,250-ton escort carrier was one medical officer, a flight surgeon for the embarked air group, a dentist, and about 13 corpsmen. A much larger 27,100-ton Essex class carrier like USS Franklin (CV-13) boasted four physicians augmented by a flight surgeon, 3 dentists, and 31 corpsmen. During routine operations, physicians and corpsmen serving aboard vessels in the South Pacific encountered and treated heat and humidity related maladies exacerbated by confinement without air conditioning—heat exhaustion and stroke, fungus infections, heat rash, and breathing disorders.

The encounters between Japanese and American fleets were most often brutal affairs with many casualties generated in both brief and sustained actions. Torpedoes, bombs, and armor-piercing shells produced horrendous wounds. When the Japanese launched their kamikaze terror campaign, medical personnel were often overwhelmed. A single suicide plane plunging through the flight deck of an aircraft carrier and igniting fueled and armed aircraft produced hundreds of burn victims within seconds. As the fighting drew ever closer to the Japanese home islands in early 1945, thousands of sailors were killed and wounded by these human-guided missiles.

Navy medical personnel also served aboard submarines that prowled the Pacific destroying thousands of tons of Japanese shipping. Among its crew, each submarine carried one highly trained corpsman or pharmacist’s mate, as they were then called. (Physicians were not assigned to submarines.) Indeed, one of the most dramatic stories to come out of World War II recounted an emergency appendectomy performed by a 23-year-old corpsman as his submarine, USS Seadragon, cruised submerged in enemy waters. The corpsman, Wheeler B. Lipes, successfully removed the badly infected appendix and saved his patient. This heroic story not only highlighted the skill and resourcefulness of Navy corpsmen, but also buoyed the nation’s spirits early in the war when news from the Pacific was anything but encouraging.

When World War II finally ended with the Japanese surrender aboard USS Missouri (BB-63) on 2 September 1945, the U.S. Navy had become the largest maritime force the world had ever known. And the Medical Department which supported that Navy would itself never again have as many personnel, or staff as many hospitals, dispensaries, and hospital ships as it did on that day.

What followed victory was rapid demobilization as soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines in the Pacific theater headed home. Helping get them there were aircraft carriers, battleships, LSTs, and Navy hospital ships—all of which became troop transports in what was called “Operation Magic Carpet.”

Archives: Evans Collection

2012-01-04T06:41:00.000-08:00

Evans Collection
Personal papers
1931-1952
1 folder, unrestricted, no finding aid

Records of Chief Pharmacist Mate Archie Charles Evans service during
World War II in which he was awarded the Bronze Star Medal "For heroic
service as a Corpsman, attached to the U.S.S. Marblehead, during
operations against enemy Japanese forces in the Java Sea on 4 and 5
February 1942. Seriously wounded in the original blast when his ship
sustained two direct hits during an enemy bombing attack, Evans refused
aid for himself and immediately proceeded to treat the wounded in his
area until they could be evacuated to the battle-dressing station.
Continuing without sleep and suffering intense pain from burns and a
broken arm sustained in the blast, he worked steadily for two days and
two nights, ministering to the wounded and accepting treatment only when
the ship reached port." Records include his ID cards, record jacket,
newspaper clippings, a photograph of the Marblehead and a 1951 letter
from Warner Bros about making a movie.

Commemorating the 150th Anniversary of the Battle of Antietam

2012-01-03T08:04:00.000-08:00

Twentieth Annual Conference
On Civil War Medicine
Commemorating the 150th Anniversary
of the Battle of Antietam
October 5-7, 2012
Hagerstown, MD

Individuals are invited to submit lecture proposals for the NMCWM’s Twentieth Annual Conference on Civil War Medicine to be held October 5-7, 2012. Proposals should be one to five pages in length, typed and double-spaced, and must be accompanied by a bibliography. They also should include the title, speaker’s full name, short biographical sketch including professional and academic affiliations, mailing address, e-mail address, telephone and FAX numbers, and a brief statement as to why the topic is particularly appropriate for this forum. Presentations should be limited to 45 minutes, followed by a five-minute question-and-answer period. All presentations must be in a PowerPoint format.

Deadline for submission is 1 April 2012. Proposals should be sent to the National Museum of Civil War Medicine, Attention Conference Program Committee, P.O. Box 470, Frederick, MD 21705. All proposals will be considered, but submission of a proposal does not guarantee an invitation to speak.

For more information, contact Ms. Karen Thomassen at Museum@civilwarmed.org or call 301-695-1864.

Admiral Zimble's obituary from the Washington Post

2012-01-03T06:44:00.001-08:00

James A. Zimble, Navy surgeon general, dies at 78

By Emily Langer, Washington Post December 30, 2011

http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/obituaries/james-a-zimble-navy-surgeon-general-dies-at-78/2011/12/22/gIQAaEvEPP_story.html

Registration for "The Tuskegee Experience" Conference is Now Open

2012-01-03T05:53:00.000-08:00

This new year marks the 80th anniversary of the start of the infamous syphilis experiments at Tuskegee. Given the revelations in 2011 by the Presidential Bioethics Commission regarding related tragedies undertaken from 1946-48 in Guatemala, the anniversary provides an significant opportunity to reflect upon the role of ethics in research and healthcare. To mark this date, the Navy Medicine Institute, in partnership with the Smithsonian, will be hosting a special ethics education conference on 19 April 2012 at the National Museum of Natural History entitled "The Tuskegee Experience."

Additional information, including conference agenda and registration, can be found at:

http://angleproof.com/conference/smithsonian/index.php?c_id=21

BUMED's historical observatory editorial in today's Post

2012-01-01T09:44:00.001-08:00

A new lease on life for the Old Naval Observatory

By Thomas L. Snyder,

Washington Post, January 1 2011

http://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/a-new-lease-on-life-for-the-old-naval-observatory/2011/12/28/gIQAoK27QP_story.html

This is the building the historian's office and archives are currently based in.

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past: Navy Medicine in the “Great War” and Inter-War Years, 1917-1941

2012-01-01T05:03:00.000-08:00

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past
Part IV: Navy Medicine in the “Great War” and Inter-War Years, 1917-1941
By Jan Herman and Mr. Grog

In April 1917, President Woodrow Wilson called for a declaration of war against Germany, and American isolationism headed for temporary retirement. The United States was now committed to its first European conflict. In order to maintain the health of a rapidly growing wartime Navy and care for its sick and injured, the Navy Medical Department had to recruit and train hundreds of physicians, dentists, and nurses, as well as thousands of hospital corpsmen.

Even though the U.S. Navy never engaged a German fleet during its year and a half participation in World War I, Navy medical personnel served with Marine Corps units on the Western Front; aboard every man-of-war, troop transport, and supply ship; with submarine divisions, aviation groups; and with the United States Railway Battery in France. In 1917, the Navy deployed 38 physicians, 5 dentists, and 348 hospital corpsmen to France; nurses went as well. What they encountered were trench warfare’s frightful realities—trench foot, disease, rats, vermin, the complete absence of the most rudimentary hygiene, and the terrifying results of gas warfare—mustard, phosgene, and chlorine.

Those medical personnel with the Marine Brigade in France also had to deal with other war trauma—shrapnel, blast injury, high velocity projectile wounds, and psychiatric disorders, then collectively known as shell-shock. From that terrible conflict in Europe, medical personnel became skilled in trauma resuscitation, the treatment of wounds and infectious disease, and war’s psychological wounds. disease, and the psychological wounds of war.

Because of the prevalence of communicable diseases, preventive medicine was a major component of a Navy physician’s daily routine. Indeed, illness could be acquired in places other than the battlefield. According to one Navy physician, venereal disease in wartime France increased because control of licensed prostitution had become less rigid. By his account, 50 percent of French prostitutes were infected with syphilis in its primary or secondary stages.

Aviation and submarine medicine were born during World War I. Both fields should not have surprised anyone for the airplane and submarines were, for the first time, used extensively by the combatants. During the 1920s and 1930s, these new technologies would keep many Navy personnel busy learning how to protect the human body in both hypobaric (aviation) and hyperbaric (undersea) environments. To support the American Expeditionary Force in Europe, the Navy established five hospitals. They included Navy Base Hospitals Numbers 1 and 5 at Brest France, Navy Base Hospital No. 2 at Strathpeffer, Scotland, Navy Base Hospital No. 3 at Leith, Scotland, and Navy Base Hospital No. 4 at Queenstown, Ireland.

Notable among these medical facilities were the base hospitals in Brest. That city served as a major port where American troops disembarked and thousands of wounded were sent home. Navy Base Hospital No. 5 had a minimum capacity of 500 beds and throughout the war it averaged 400 patients. During the influenza epidemic that number reached 800. The hospital had all the facilities necessary for providing advanced medical and surgical care and received patients from other naval stations in France, from the Merchant Marine, and from U.S. naval facilities of all classes. The hospital remained in operation until March 1919.

The Navy added to its “fleet” of hospital ships in 1918 with the acquisition of two former steamships, Havana and Saratoga, which became USS Comfort (AH-3) and USS Mercy (AH-4), respectively. Although provisions of the Geneva Convention protected hospital ships, Navy officials feared that the German government would not abide by these agreements. As a result, both vessels remained in American waters until the final month of the war when they were used as troop transports.

Navy medical personnel exhibited great valor during World War I. A total of 60 Medical Corps officers, 12 Dental Corps officers, and 500 hospital corpsmen were assigned to field service with the Marine Corps. By the time the war ended in 1918, two physicians, two dentists, and two hospital corpsmen had earned the Medal of Honor; 684 citations and awards were awarded to the 331 Navy medical personnel who served in France.

Navy Cross recipient Lena H. Sutcliffe Higbee (1874-1941), Superintendent of the Nurse Corps, was one such honoree. She helped pioneer a new training program to augment the number of nurses being deployed to France when trained nurses were in short supply. The “Vassar Training Camp” served as a finishing school for many of these nurses. During Higbee’s tenure, the Navy Nurse Corps grew from 160 in April 1917 to 1,386 by the Armistice in November 1918.
It has been said that the “war to end all wars” closed not with a bang but a “cough.” Even after the Armistice was signed, Navy medical personnel, including Higbee’s nurses, continued to combat the so-called “Spanish Flu” in the pandemic that ultimately killed between 22 and 40 million people worldwide.

A year after the Armistice, Navy medical personnel found themselves involved in another conflict that grew out of the Russian Revolution. When Allied forces intervened in a civil war between “Whites” and “Reds in post-Czarist Russia, the Navy went with them. Navy Medical personnel participated in other post-war foreign interventions, most notably in Haiti. During the U.S. occupation, which lasted from 1915-1934, Navy medical officers and hospital corpsmen served in the public health arm of the newly created Haitian gendarmerie supervising the drainage of low-lying areas, the cleaning of streets in cities and villages, and the control of disease-carrying mosquitoes.

Even though the period between the world wars saw a shrinking military, the United States was the only nation to maintain hospital ships. The aging and obsolete Solace was decommissioned in 1921 and replaced by Relief (AH-1), the first U.S. vessel to be built as a hospital ship from the keel up. She was commissioned on 28 December 1920 with a bed capacity for 500 patients, and served as the largest, most modern, and best equipped hospital ship up to that time. Relief also became the first Navy hospital ship to allow Navy (female) nurses aboard as regular staff.

The inter-war period also saw swift developments in military and civil aviation, which solved many problems concerning human endurance and the adverse effects of accelerative forces, anoxia, fatigue, and psychological stress. To deal with these aviation related issues, the U.S. Naval Medical School instituted a course in aviation medicine.

Japanese aggression in China, the rise of Nazism in Germany, and the threat of a new world conflict initiated a rebuilding program for the U.S. Navy in the 1930s. In a message to Congress, President Franklin Roosevelt recommended a 20 percent increase in our naval strength, and Congress took heed. From June 1939 to June 1941, the number of active duty Navy physicians went from 841 to 1,957; the Dental Corps increased from 255 to 511; the Nurse Corps increased its rolls from 439 to 524; and the Hospital Corps increased in size from 4,467 to 10,547. By the summer of 1941, the Navy had 23 hospitals in commission and two hospital ships. It was not enough. On 6 December 1941, who could have anticipated what lay ahead for a nation and a Navy unprepared for war.

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past: Enter the All Steel Navy (1866-1917)

2011-12-30T08:54:00.000-08:00

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past
Part III: Enter the All Steel Navy (1866-1917)
By Jan Herman and Mr. Grog

If he were still alive in the years immediately following the American Civil War, French magistrate Alexis de Tocqueville may have observed a nation devoted to uniting its “house divided” through free enterprise and Western expansion. The U.S. Navy did not fit into this equation for national healing. After the Civil War, it lapsed into a period of dramatic decline as naval appropriations were cut and the number of ships and men on active duty shrank dramatically. The Navy and Navy Medical Department were, in a true sense, landlocked.

Medical Department resources were deemed “entirely inadequate to the proper support of the naval medical service, however prudently administered.” Because of inadequate remuneration in pay, low entry rank, and scant opportunity for promotion, few young physicians joined the Navy.

In his 1867 annual report to the Secretary of the Navy, Chief of the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, Dr. Phineas Horwitz (1822-1904), complained bitterly about the Medical Department’s immediate prospects. He pointed out that 48 vacancies existed in the Medical Corps which were impossible to fill “properly.” The number of unfilled vacancies since the end of the recent war had grown to such a degree that according to some, the Navy Medical Department would simply disappear. Horwitz urged Congress to pass legislation immediately to increase the opportunities for promotion in respect to both rank and pay.

On 3 March 1871, Congress acted, granting medical and other staff officers of the Navy “relative rank” with grades “equal to but not identical with the grades of the line.”

This Act went further than any previous Congressional action in strengthening and transforming the Navy Medical Department. The Chief of the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery now held the additional title “Surgeon General,” with the relative rank of Commodore.” Surgeon General William Maxwell Wood (1809-1880) stood at the helm of this “revitalized” organization. At the time, Wood was a man entering his 42nd year of a naval career as unusual and varied as could be. He had served aboard USS Poinsett, one of the first steam vessels of the Navy, and designated flagship during the “expedition for the suppression of Indian hostilities on the coast of Florida” (a.k.a. the Seminole War). Wood served shore duty at Sackett’s Harbor, NY, Baltimore, was Fleet Surgeon of the Pacific Fleet, and served under Commodore Sloat in California during the Mexican War. Despite his credentials as the first Navy Surgeon General, he served less than two years.

The health of the Navy’s personnel steadily improved following the war partly due to the new emphasis on preventive medicine and hygiene. This was attributable, at least in part, to the transition from wooden hulls and sail to the all-steel, steam-powered Navy. The storage of coal in below-deck bunkers and the exhaust gases generated by its combustion required adequate ventilation. Moreover, the foul condition of many ships’ bilges had become a regular theme of reports from the Navy Surgeon General to the Secretary of the Navy. Conditions aboard many naval vessels were blamed for yellow fever outbreaks and led to the establishment of the short-lived and seldom used Navy quarantine hospital on Widow’s Island in Maine’s Penobscot Bay (1887).

On 20 March 1878, the Navy Department created a board of naval officers to solve the ship ventilation problem. The board advocated a ventilation plan consisting of a tube network running through every part of the ship and terminating in a large main through which air was drawn by a steam blower. In 1879, Surgeon General Phillip Wales urged the rapid installation of this new ventilation system throughout the fleet

During the 1870s the naval hygiene movement was promoted by Medical Directors Joseph Wilson, Jr., author of Naval Hygiene (1870), and Albert L. Gihon’s Practical Suggestions in Naval Hygiene (1871). As early as 1879, the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery (BUMED) established a laboratory for investigating hygiene-related issues and began collecting items which would comprise the collection of the Navy Museum of Hygiene, established in Washington, DC, in 1882. Until it merged with the Naval Medical School in 1905, the Museum exhibited ship’s ventilation systems and housed displays illustrating disinfection techniques. It also was a leader in promoting environmental and occupational medicine. The institution went beyond its museum role by becoming an education center for the promotion and development of laboratory research, particularly with chemical, bacteriological, and microscopic investigations.

As American interests in the Pacific and the Far East became more prominent in the 1870s, so did the scope of the Navy Medical Department. Between 1867 and 1869, USS Idaho, which had been converted into a hospital ship and kept at anchor in Nagasaki, served as a floating hospital for the American Squadron in the Far East.

To provide more adequate medical facilities for the U.S. Navy’s Pacific activities, the Navy constructed new hospitals at Mare Island, CA (1870) and Yokohama, Japan (1872), which became the first U.S. Navy hospital in Asia.

Throughout the 1880s and 1890s U.S. Navy presence became increasingly evident throughout the world as Navy vessels were being assigned to the North Atlantic, South Atlantic, European, Pacific, and Asiatic stations. In addition to routine cruises, the Navy was frequently called upon to protect American citizens and American interests; to give assistance to victims of shipwrecks, earthquakes, fires, floods, and civil war; and to carry out special explorations in the Arctic, Alaska, Central America, and elsewhere.

As Navy medical officers went ashore at hundreds of ports throughout the world, many of them wrote detailed observations of climate and medical conditions, the people, quality of medical facilities available, endemic diseases, and the methods being employed to combat them. Many of these narratives were published in volumes of the Annual Reports of the Navy Surgeon General (1871-1859).

On 17 June of that year, a century after the “first” loblolly boy reported for duty aboard USS Constellation, an Act of Congress established the Navy Hospital Corps. Navy Surgeons General had long promoted a well-trained professional corps to provide medical care in the field. However, it was only after the outbreak of the war with Spain that Congress finally acted. The first group of hospital corpsmen numbered only 25 pharmacists (apothecaries) with rank, pay, and privileges of warrant officers.

The Hospital Corps came just in time. Following the Spanish-American War, the world’s newest colonial power had “spoils” to administer—Guam, the Philippines, Puerto Rico, Cuba, and Samoa. The United States was now a Pacific naval power with new ships, new stations, and enlarged hospitals. Navy medical officers had to confront tropical diseases few Western physicians had ever seen before—dengue, yaws, leishmaniasis, leprosy, yellow fever, intermittent fever, filariasis, dysentery, elephantoid fever, not to mention venereal afflictions sailors acquired in exotic liberty ports.

The Navy Medical Department dealt with these issues through training. In 1902, the Navy Medical School, then located at the U.S. Naval Laboratory in Brooklyn, NY, relocated to the Naval Museum of Hygiene in Washington, DC. Its mission was straightforward: The new school was “for the instruction and training of newly appointed medical officers in professional branches peculiar to naval requirements.” Here was an institution where newly commissioned physicians could learn the kind of medicine they would not have been exposed to in civilian medical schools—tropical medicine, the treatment of ballistic wounds, burns—in short, the grist of naval medicine. A five-month course had a curriculum covering microscopy, naval hygiene, military law, and a program of physical exercise and military drill akin to what any student might experience in a military school or service academy.

Because tropical disease had accounted for many of the casualties suffered by troops in Cuba during the recent war with Spain, it was a chief focus of attention at the school. Indeed, future Surgeon General of the Navy Edward Rhodes Stitt (1867-1948), today considered the pioneer in tropical medicine, taught at the school and was one of its first commanding officers.

Following the establishment of the Army Nurse Corps in 1902 by Congressional Act, BUMED campaigned for its own nurse corps. This effort paid off on 13 May 1908, when the U.S. Navy Nurse Corps was established. The first nurses in the Navy—a.k.a. the “Sacred Twenty”—reported for orientation and duty later that year at the new U.S. Naval Hospital, Washington, DC. The site also housed the Museum of Hygiene and Navy Medical School. On 8 August 1908, former U.S. Army nurse, Esther Voorhees Hasson (1867- 1942) became the first superintendent of the Navy Nurse Corps.

The Medical Department continued to expand. On 22 August 1912, President William Howard Taft signed a bill authorizing “not more than 30 acting assistant dental surgeons to be part of the Medical Department of the United States Navy.” By the beginning of World War I, the Navy Medical Department had grown in size to four separate corps. The Surgeon General, now with the rank of rear admiral, was at its helm. The Medical Department had 2 hospital ships and 17 naval hospitals to administer.

On 9 April 1914, Mexican soldiers arrested U.S. Navy personnel seeking supplies in Tampico, Mexico. The Mexicans released the soldiers but without the apology President Woodrow Wilson demanded. Wilson ordered RADM Frank F. Fletcher to occupy the Mexican port of Vera Cruz with the naval forces under his command. The U.S. intervention and occupation fomented fierce Mexican resistance and generated casualties on both sides. For their heroic actions treating the wounded under fire, Navy surgeons Middleton Elliott (1872-1952), Cary Langhorne (1873-1948), and Hospital Apprentice 1st Class William Zuiderveld (1888-1978) were awarded the Medal of Honor. Shortly thereafter, there would be ample opportunities for heroism. Just four years after the Mexico intervention, Navy Medical personnel would find themselves braving U-boats in the North Atlantic German soldiers on the Western Front.

Society for the History of Navy Medicine Graduate Student Travel Grant Program

2011-12-22T13:28:00.001-08:00

from http://historyofnavymedicine.wordpress.com/the-foundation-page/society-graduate-student-travel-grant-program/

Society for the History of Navy Medicine Graduate Student Travel Grant Program

In 2010, the Society introduced its Graduate Student Travel Grant Program in order to induce and encourage graduate students of history and the health sciences to explore work in our area of particular interest – the history of navy or maritime medicine. Funded by the tax-deductible dues-donations of Society members (and in 2010 by an especially generous gift from Rear Admiral Fred Sanford, Medical Corps, U S Navy, Retired), Grants of $750 are given to students whose papers are selected for presentation at the Society's Meetings and Papers Sessions. The Society presently rotates the panels between the American Association for the History of Medicine (of which the Society is a Constituent Society), the Association of Military Surgeons of the United States (AMSUS), and either the Society for Military History or the U S Naval Academy biennial History Symposium.

Interested graduate students or students of medicine, nursing or allied health sciences should contact the Society Executive Director, Tom Snyder, at tlsnyder@history-navy-med.org.

VADM James Zimble Remembrance

2011-12-22T08:57:00.000-08:00

ATTENTION DEAR BLOG READERS. We are collecting stories and recollections of the life and career of former Surgeon General Vice Admiral James Zimble. Any stories that you may have of your service with him that you are willing to share would be appreciated. It is our intention to incorporate these memories into our archives and publish them in an upcoming article in our Navy medical history periodical. Please e-mail us at: Andre.Sobocinski@med.navy.mil.

Archives: Album of Medical Commissions

2011-12-20T10:24:00.001-08:00

Album of Medical Commissions
Organizational records
1826-1940s
1 album, unrestricted, no finding aid

Medical commissions especially those of Surgeon General Edward Stitt,
collected at the Stitt Library, NNMC, and transferred when the Library
closed. One commission from Woodrow Wilson appears to be missing.

A Brief Glimpse: Navy Medical Facilities in Naples

2011-12-19T12:28:00.000-08:00

U.S. Navy Infirmary Afragola, Italy (ca. 1952).*

11-0009-01

All Photographs from BUMED Library and Archives

The Navy established its first shore-based medical activity in the Naples area during the latter months of 1951 when the personnel of USS Adirondack moved ashore to establish the Headquarters, Support Activity, Naples. To augment this dispensary, and to provide for an increasing number of military and their dependents, a 50-bed infirmary was set up in Afragola (20 miles outside of Naples). In March 1954, the infirmary was moved to a remodeled building in Naples. All medical services were centralized within this "new" structure, and the dispensary and infirmary were decommissioned.

"Plankowners" at U.S. Navy Infirmary Afragola, Italy (ca. 1952) **

11-0009-02

U.S. Naval Hospital Naples (ca. 1954)

11-0009-05

In July 1965, construction began on a new eight story, reinforced concrete structure on the slopes of a volcanic crater within the city limits of Pozzouli, a suburb of Naples. The new hospital was occupied in October 1966 and in July 1968 was commissioned as Naval Hospital Naples. After severe damage to the hospital as a result of a series of earthquakes in the Pozzuoli-Agnano region the Navy began planning a newer facility that would keep pace with the latest seismic requirements. In April 2003, the new Naval Hospital opened in the Gricignano area of Naples.

U.S. Naval Hospital Naples (1966-2003)
11-0009-07

*1st floor - officers + 12 bed medical ward. 2nd floor - 21 bed Surgical ward + Operating room. 3rd floor - Dependents Ward + Del. Room. SOQ not shown.

**1st row L-R: LT M.M. Lepine, LT A. Vitillo, LT J.E. McCarthy, LT R.D. Clarke. 2nd row: Lt. M Petrusky (MSC), CAPT F.J. Weddell Jr. (MC), CDR P.J. McNamara (MC). 3rd row: LT D.C. Dixon (MC), LT D. Mundie (MC).

Sources
Kane, Joseph. Naples Delivers: The Birth of a Naval Hospital. Navy Medicine Magazine. July-August 2003.
Patton, W. Kenneth. “Naval Hospital Naples.” History of Navy Hospitals (unpublished), ca 1970.
Smith, Robert L. Naval Pharmacist-Italian Style. U.S. Navy Medicine Magazine. Volume 58, August 1971.

Archives: Brounoff Music Room Guest Book

2011-12-16T06:48:00.001-08:00

Brounoff Music Room Guest Book
2011.0005
Personal papers
1 volume, no finding aid, unrestricted
1944-1945

Pharmacist Mate 3rd Class and Dallas Symphony Orchestra violinist Zelman
Brounoff established a music listening room at Naval Hospital Shoemaker
CA during World War II, and kept a log of people who came by to listen
(and to perform) with their comments of appreciation. The book acts as a
commentary on the value of "music therapy". A small number of
photographs of Hospital officers are tipped in. Brounhoff was a violinist with the DSO from 1926 until his retirement as concert master emeritus in 1983.

The War's First Christmas

2011-12-15T05:02:00.000-08:00

LCDR Grace B. Lally
Chief Nurse, USS Solace, 1941
BUMED Library and Archives 09-5043-039

***

The War's First Christmas

(Originally Published in The American Magazine, January 1945)

By LCDR Grace B. Lally, NC, USN

I was a chief nurse aboard USS Solace, Navy’s hospital ship attached to the Pacific Fleet, when the Japanese struck at Pearl Harbor. From that fateful morning until Christmas Eve, neither I nor the twelve nurses who served under me had much sleep or peace of mind. But in spite of weariness, all of us were aware of the Navy tradition that a tree rides the mast on Christmas, and we had managed to collect four scraggy cedars in Honolulu, together with enough tinsel, holly, decorations, toys, and knick-knacks so that every man aboard the Solace would have a gift and a celebration.

Now, on Christmas Eve, the nurses’ quarters were bustling with preparations.

Suddenly, I remembered we needed a Santa Claus.

“Get the yeoman who stands with the Commander at quarters—the plump, jolly-looking boy,” someone suggested.

“He’s perfect, “ I agreed. “Send for him, and the sailmaker.”

In our wardroom, the nurses who were off duty and I worked frantically against time.

“Trees on the mast, the quarterdeck, and in the mess hall,” we instructed the corpsmen.
“And take these trimmings to the wards. Let the up-patients help you decorate.”

“You’re Santa Claus,” we told the rotund yeoman, who grinned delightedly. “Be prepared for anything.”

“Here’s the bunting; make him a suit,” we told the ship’s sailmaker. “Get some rope and make him a beard.”

The sailmaker’s fist hit the table. “A department-store Santa Claus won’t hold no candle to him!” he swore, piloting the yeoman from the room.

Some of our presents were already wrapped; the majority were not. We had 32 pounds of candy to be divided into small, gay packets. We had one gift for each of our 327 patients and one for each member of the ship’s crew.

Fortunately, the paper held out until the last small present had swapped its cheap commercial bindings for the trappings which to every boy there would spell Christmas, and be a symbol of the gifts from which, this year, would not come through.

The nurses segregated the toys for the most critically injured, and learned that there would not be enough of the nicer gifts to go around. Over the last, a tawdry mechanical ballet dancer, they argued hotly, loyally:

“But Swenson’s blind. He’s got to have something he can feel. He could wind her up and feel her dance.”

“Look. I’ve got a machinist’s mate. He’s old and very critical. He’s got kids at home. This is the sort of silly present he’d bring home to them for Christmas. Maybe it’s his last. Maybe it would bring them closer.”

The machinist’s mate got the little dancer. There was compromise and exchange. Some of the girls still weren’t satisfied, so they went to their quarters and dug around in the bureau drawers.

***

The girls were beautiful that evening, I thought. They sort of shone, as if the lights had been turned on inside. There was a mother-thing in all of them that fought fiercely to protect its own from hurt, from neglect. It went beyond nursing, beyond self.

Before December 7 we had made tentative plans for Christmas Eve. A famous choir was to have come out from Honolulu and sung on the deck. But now our decks would be dark, only the black shadow of the tree would ride high on the mast. Maybe the stars would etch its silhouette.

Carols we must have, and luckily I remembered there was a corpsman who played a sweet accordion. Immediately we routed him out.

“Sure, I can play carols,” he said proudly. “I was weaned on ‘em. And I’ll get six of the boys who can sing.”

And so at nightfall, when the wards had been fed and the nurses had changed into their best uniforms, Santa Claus—more beautiful than a department store’s—with a bulging seabag on his back, led our small procession below. We sang Jingle Bells as we went, and out of nowhere the ship’s captain appeared. “I’m with you, Miss Lally,” he said.

The captain had second sight, I knew, when anything of harm or benefit to his ship was concerned. But I did not know that he was aware of our Christmas celebration, nor of how much his presence on such an occasion would mean to the patients.

He fell into step behind Santa Claus, and I followed him, first to the G.U. War, where, after the Japanese attack, we had placed our most serious burn cases. Behind us came the girls and the corpsmen, all singing. I could not sing right then, being too terribly aware of the eyes that looked at me from some of the burn-blackened faces.

War and Christmas seemed suddenly incongruous. Only yesterday these kids were sneaking down the stairs to watch their mothers and dads place the last glimmering icicle on the tree, tuck a walnut deep in the toe of a stocking. Pain now made the young faces seem mature. But even eyes that had been almost lifeless brightened miraculously as the nurses distributed their presents and Santa Claus his bounty.

“Shaving soup! You know, Miss Lally, I’ve worked for months to grow this beard. You wouldn’t be hinting or anything?”

“Hey, look at Wilkins. He got vilet talcum powder. Oh-h-h, Wille-e-e-e!”

***

We continued to walk, singing from ward to ward, and gradually a real procession formed behind us—a line-up of most of the ship’s officers, all the junior officers, and the crew.

Up in the nurses’ quarters we had our own party afterward. We had eggnog, and all of the girls talked at once, comparing notes on the different boys’ reactions to their gifts.

-“That big landlubber, Ogonski said, ‘Geez, the scrub me from top to toe twice a day, and then give me a cake of poifumed soap to remember them by!’”

-“We were right to give the ballet dancer to the machinist’s mate. When I went back to say good night, there he was, fast asleep, a bit of smile on his face, and the toy clutched in his hand—just like a kid.”

-“You know, it’s funny,” Tess Duggan said suddenly. “It’s the biggest Christmas Eve we’ll ever know. I mean the most important. We’ve all the ornaments, and glitter, and fine presents, and family. We’ll all have those things again, too. But it will never again be quite so big tonight.”

**A few minor edits were made to the original article

Office of the Historian - 2004 annual report excerpt from Command History (repost)

2011-12-14T11:18:00.001-08:00

[I just ran across this data sheet from 2004 and it still had useful information describing the office and collections.]

Office of Medical History and Navy Medicine Magazine (M00H)

Background

The Navy Medical Department's Office of the History can trace its roots back to April 1907 with the founding of the Naval Medical Bulletin, a quarterly publication serving the "informative needs of the Medical and Hospital Corps." Early articles varied from professional studies of abdominal wounds to the progress of zoology. The Bulletin was unique in that two of its contributors, and editors, were historians. CAPT Frank L. Pleadwell, MC, USN, and CAPT Louis B. Roddis, MC, USN, wrote abridged biographies of Navy medical, greats and people who had an impact on the Navy Medical Department and histories of medical facilities.

During World War II, the Navy Medical Department re-established the Hospital Corps Quarterly (originally begun in 1918) a publication directed toward the growing Navy Hospital Corps community. The Quarterly's editorial staff included former Navy Cross recipient LT George Strott, HC, and ENS W. Kenneth Patton, HC. When not publishing the Quarterly, Strott and Patton continued the work of Roddis and Pleadwell, both now retired, in producing historical monographs. Most notably was The Medical Department of the United States Navy with the Army and Marine Corps in France in World War (1947).

World War II spurred the expansion of the Navy Medical Department (total military personnel grew from 5,802 in 1941 to a 169,225 by the end of the War). A staff of civilian historians were commissioned as reserve officers to collect, record, and write the history of the Navy Medical Department. Artist Samuel Bookatz (Lieutenant Commander in the Hospital Corps) was recruited and headquartered in Building 4 at the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery to record the history of the Medical Department's activities through his paintings. He also operated a studio in the White House's Lincoln Bedroom where he painted and sketched portraits of naval officers. He concurrently completed portraits of the President and First Lady, which presently hang on the walls outside the Roosevelt Museum at the National Naval Medical Center Bethesda, MD.

The U.S. Navy had always been a favored service of former Assistant Secretary of the Navy Franklin D. Roosevelt. It was President Roosevelt who supported RADM Samuel Elliott Morison's concept of recording the Navy's participation in World War II. This effort resulted in Morison's fifteen-volume history of the Navy in World War II written while the history was still "hot off the griddle."

The Surgeon General during the war, VADM Ross McIntire, who also served as President Roosevelt's physician, may have been inspired by Morison's efforts in having the daily happenings of the Medical Department recorded. As a result, the historians recruited from the academic community produced a series of volumes on the History of the Medical Department, although these were never published.

At the end of the 1940s the Bureau disestablished the Medical Bulletin, Hospital Corps Quarterly, and the historians returned to academe. The historical program's torch was carried into the 1970s by W. Kenneth Patton and Quentin Sanger, whose official capacity was speech writer in the BUMED Office of Information (now known as the Public Affairs Office). Sanger spearheaded the publication of the History of the Medical Department 1945-1955 and, with Patton, wrote an unpublished History of Navy Hospitals. Patton served as the Surgeon General's historical source and was tasked with responding to all Navy medical historical queries.

Although, BUMED's historical program operated originally from the BUMED Publications Office, and later the Office of Information and Public Affairs, its place in the organization continued to evolve into the 1980s. Jan Kenneth Herman, the Editor of U.S. Medicine magazine (and later the bi-monthly Navy Medicine) re-established the historical program which had been neglected since W. Kenneth Patton's retirement. Photographs, articles, artifacts, and books pertaining to Navy Medical Department's heritage, which had been collected at the Bureau for nearly 70 years, was consolidated into a BUMED Library and Archives located in the confines of the old Naval Observatory (now known as BUMED Building 2). Herman instituted an oral history program and sought interviews with Navy medical veterans. Navy Medicine magazine now periodically published articles about Navy medicine's illustrious past. In 1989, the Office of Historian and Navy Medicine Magazine was officially established as a distinct code in the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery.

Now known as BUMED Code M00H, this office serves the needs of the Navy Medical Department, Department of Defense, and interested parties in preserving the history and heritage for future generations.

Survey of items in BUMED Library and Archives

Annual Reports of the Navy Surgeons General (1871-1958)

Navy Medical Corps Bulletin (1907-1949)

Hospital Corps Quarterly (1919-1930; 1943-1949)

Navy Medicine Magazine (1943-Present)

History of the Navy Medical Department in World War I

History of the Navy Medical Department in World War II (Vols 1-4)

Navy Medicine Department in World War II, Unpublished (Vols1-2)

Biographies/Autobiographies of famous Navy Medical figures.

Books written by former Chiefs of the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery and Surgeons General of the Navy Medical Department.

All books relating to Navy Medical Department

Topics of material in BUMED Library and Archives:

History of the Navy Medical Department

History of the Navy Medical Corps

History of the Dental Corps

History of the Medical Service Corps

History of the Navy Nurse Corps

History of the Navy Hospital Corps

History of Navy Hospitals

History of Navy Hospital Ships

History of Navy Medical School/Museum of Hygiene

History of Hospital Corps Schools

Navy Medicine in War:

War of Independence

Quasi-War with France (1797-1801)

War with the Barbary Pirates

War of 1812

Winning the West and Southwest

Civil War

First War in Korea

Spanish-American War

World War I

South American interventions

World War II

Korean War (1950-1953)

The War in Vietnam (1954-1975)

Beirut Bombing

Persian Gulf War

Operation Enduring Freedom

Operation Iraqi Freedom/War in Iraq

POW experience in World War II (including POW journals and pictures)

History of Aviation Medicine (Navy)

History of Submarine Medicine

Medical Aspects of the Wilkes Expedition, 1838-1842

Medical Aspects of the Opium War

Navy Medical Department In Peace

Care and Treatment of Dependents of Navy Medical Personnel

Navy Hygiene and Sanitation

Distinguished Medical Department Personnel.
Lives of the Surgeons General and Chiefs of the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery

Navy Medical Supply System

Transcripts of Oral Histories (conducted with veterans from World War I to the Present)

History of BUMED Campus (In the time of Jacob Fuenck's Hamburgh to present-day Foggy Bottom)

Mission

To oversee, direct and execute the Navy Medical Department's history program and produce the bi-monthly medical journal, Navy Medicine.*

Staff Members

Mr. Jan K. Herman, Historian/Editor

Mrs. Janice M. Hores, Assistant Editor

Mr. André B. Sobocinski, Assistant Historian/Staff Writer

*Navy Medicine Magazine was produced by The Office of Medical History through 2009.

Echoes of Navy Medicine's Past: The Civil War (1861-1865)

2011-12-14T10:53:00.000-08:00

Echoes of Navy Medicine’s Past
Part II: The Civil War (1861-1865)
By Jan Herman and Mr. Grog

“David goes out to meet Goliath and every man who can walk to the beach sits down there, spectators of the first ironclad battle in the world... The day is calm, the smoke hangs thick on the water. The low vessels are hidden by the smoke. They are so sure of their invulnerability they fight at arm’s length. They fight so near the shore, the flash of their guns is seen and the noise is heard of the heavy shot pounding the armor.”

This is how U.S. Navy physician Charles Martin described the legendary fight between the ironclads USS Monitor and CSS Virginia. What made the Civil War at sea different from what came before is indeed that image—the first seemingly unequal duel of the ironclads—the Yankee cheese box on a raft versus the slope-sided, ungainly ex-Merrimack. After all, the once U.S. Navy sloop of war had just hours before set Congress afire, rammed and sank the Cumberland, and run Minnesota aground. The following day she was headed out to finish off the grounded vessel when Monitor, her low-freeboard decks nearly awash, popped into view and saved the day, fighting Virginia to a draw.

What was the medical aftermath of that now legendary combat: On the Union side, three men were injured on Monitor. One was the acting master whose knee came into contact with the turret at the same instant one of Virginia’s heavy shot struck it. Knocked senseless by the impact, he regained consciousness 10 minutes later. Another seaman in the turret was knocked unconscious in a similar manner. Acting Assistant Surgeon Daniel Logue described this sailor’s injury as a concussion of the brain. His circulation remained depressed and it became necessary to administer stimulants. When the patient regained consciousness, Dr. Logue watched for a reaction and then applied cold affusion to the head.

Toward the close of the action, the Confederate ironclad inflicted its last and most significant casualty—Monitor’s skipper John Worden. LT S. Dana Green, Monitor’s executive officer described the event:

“Soon, after noon, a shell from the enemy’s gun, the muzzle not ten yards distant, struck the forward side of the pilot house directly in the sight hole or slit and exploded, cracking the second iron log and partly lifting the top, leaving an opening. Worden was standing immediately behind this spot and received in his face the force of the blow which partly stunned him and filling his eyes with powder, utterly blinded him...

“[Sent for], I found him standing at the foot of the ladder leading to the pilot house. He was a ghastly sight with his eyes closed and the blood apparently rushing from every pore in the upper part of his face. He directed me to take command. I assisted in leading him to a sofa in his cabin. Dr. Logue examined his eyes, succeeded in removing tiny scales of iron and a small quantity of paint, and then made cold applications to his eyes.”

Following the battle, only Worden left the ship for hospitalization in Washington. The other two patients returned to duty the following day. Worden, it turned out, proved to be the only serious casualty of the battle, permanently losing the sight in one eye and incurring a disfiguring scar on his face.

On the Confederate side, Virginia’s crew did not get away unscathed. In her unequal fight with Congress, Cumberland, and Minnesota the previous day, Virginia suffered several killed or wounded. In contrast, her wooden-hulled victims suffered enormous losses. Cumberland alone lost over 100 men. Before the ship went to the bottom, all the wounded who could walk were ordered out of the cockpit; but those of the wounded who had been carried into the sick bay and on the berthdeck were so mangled that it was impossible to save them. So recalled her acting commander. During her engagement with Virginia the following morning, Monitor’s two 11-inch Dahlgren smoothbores did moderate damage, wounding a few aboard the Virginia but killing no one. As it turns out, the Confederates got a lucky break. Although each 11-inch Dahlgren aboard Monitor threw a shot weighing 168 pounds, Worden was under orders from the Navy Department to fire half-weight powder charges of 15 pounds for fear the guns would explode.

If this first great combat between the ironclads ended in a draw, war at sea had changed forever and with it the practice of naval medicine. What made the naval environment different from the Civil War battlefield was the advent of the ironclad ship. John Ericsson’s Monitor employed the new technology, incorporating many technical advances for the time including forced ventilation of living spaces, a protected anchor which could be raised and lowered without it or the crew being exposed to enemy fire, and a protected pilothouse.

Nevertheless, the new technology of iron and steam introduced brand-new hazards—exploding boilers, scalding with live steam, burn injuries, and primary and secondary wounds resulting from large caliber, rifled naval guns. Ironclad vessels also introduced environmental and occupational concerns for sailors aggravated by badly ventilated and hell-hot engine rooms. It is estimated that a typical low ranking coal heaver aboard a poorly ventilated ironclad routinely endured temperatures approaching 130 degrees F. In fact, aboard Monitor in summer, temperatures of 125 degrees were recorded on the berth deck and 150 degrees in the galley. One cannot underestimate the utility of awnings in deflecting the sun from ironclads decks.

Almost everyone has experienced opening the door of an automobile after the vehicle has been baking in the summer sun all afternoon. Those freshly scrubbed teak decks on World War I and World War II era battleships were not designed for aesthetics. They insulated steel decks and made living conditions somewhat bearable in the days before air conditioning. One can only imagine then, the plight of the typical Civil War ironclad sailor stationed on an inland river of the deep south or in the vicinity of the besieged Charleston, SC. Add the oppressive humidity of July or August and now one can begin to understand the life of an ironclad sailor.

There were other hazards to be endured. With only inches of freeboard, many ironclads of both navies were literally only inches from disaster. One has only to contemplate Monitor’s ill-starred voyage to Hampton Roads even before her fight with ex-Merrimack. Only one day out of New York, she encountered a storm which soon had heavy seas cascading over her deck, washing out turret caulking, flooding her berth deck, disabling her blowers, and nearly extinguishing her boiler fires. Her paymaster recalled what the ironclad’s fight for survival meant for her crew.

“Turning to go down from the turret I met one of our engineers coming up the steps, pale, black, wet and staggering along gasping for breath. He asked me for brandy and I turned to go down and get him some and met the sailors dragging up the fireman and other engineers apparently lifeless. I got down as soon as possible and found the whole between decks filled with steam and gas and smoke; the sailors were rushing up stifled with gas. I found when I reached the berth deck that it came from the engine room, the door of which was open. As I went to shut it one of our sailors said he believed that one of the engineers was still in there—no time was to be lost, though by this time almost suffocated myself, I rushed in over heaps of coal and ashes and fortunately found the man lying insensible. One of the sailors who had followed me helped pull him out and close the door.”

This nightmare would be played out again—fatally—at the end of the year when Monitor’s pumps failed to stem the incoming seas and John Ericsson’s ironclad pioneer plunged to the bottom off Cape Hatteras with the loss of several crewmen.

Even the fuel that fired an ironclad’s boilers was a threat. Coal, while not a new fuel used by the Navy, had the potential of becoming a silent killer. Fossil fuels require proper ventilation and this concept was not yet adequately understood by Civil War engineers. Untold casualties, some fatal, occurred when crewmen either loaded wet bituminous coal in below-deck bunkers or bilge water contaminated the fuel. Both the Mississippi Squadron and the South Atlantic Blockading Squadron reported a number of cases of sailors being discovered either dead or unconscious below deck. The more fortunate were revived when exposed to the fresh air. Besides unconsciousness, surgeons described their patients as being cyanotic—blueness of the skin caused by oxygen starvation with foreheads and eyelids markedly swollen. Similar cases reported aboard a coal-fired ship in 1913 recognized the problem as carbon monoxide poisoning. Wet, unventilated coal produces high levels of that dangerous gas.

Indeed, there were significant differences in warfare once ironclads came into their own. Naval guns up to the middle of the nineteenth century had an effective range of only about a mile and a half. These were the smoothbores throwing balls weighing 24 and 32 pounds. The strategy therefore called for close-in fighting terminated by boarding parties and hand-to-hand combat.

There were many differences between wounds sustained in battle on the old wooden ships and those encountered aboard ironclads. Shots striking wooden vessels tended to throw about splinters which, as secondary projectiles, caused many of the wounds. Burns were uncommon. In yardarm engagements and during the hand-to-hand fighting resulting from boarding an enemy’s vessel, many wounds were caused by small arms, cutlasses, bayonets, and pikes.

In ironclad fighting, splinters might be fewer, but burns and fragment wounds became commonplace. The so-called protected environment an ironclad warship provided was illusory. If anything, it offered fatal hazards the crew of a wooden ship rarely experienced. Take the example of the monitor Nahant. Engaged in Samuel Du Pont’s attack on the Charleston forts in April 1863, shellfire from the forts slammed against her pilot house and turret with such velocity that broken bolts ricocheted about her pilot house like bullets, killing one man and injuring two others, including her captain.

Iron shot weighing over 150 pounds were now common, making the 24- and 32-pound size thrown by earlier guns seem quite puny in comparison. What’s more, a newer generation of rifled guns that could pulverize masonry forts could do worse to those enclosed within an iron-sheathed hull. What resulted was the “garbage can” effect. Imagine yourself encased in a typical galvanized steel garbage pail or a 55-gallon steel oil drum, ears unprotected, and then having your antagonists hurling 50-pound cement blocks against your cocoon, one per second. With blood dripping from nose and ears, crewmen were sometimes driven mad under the barrage of both rifled and unrifled artillery impacting against iron armor. And if not driven mad, many sailors had their eardrums ruptured or, at very least, suffered temporary or permanent deafness. Civil War sailors frequently described ringing in the ears or tinnitus. With noise levels aboard Civil War ironclads routinely exceeding 130 decibels, one can only conjecture what kind of hearing damage resulted among these warriors. For comparison, a modern F-18 jet engine produces about 125 decibels of noise. The noise on the flight deck of a modern aircraft carrier during flight operations routinely exceeds that level. And these crews have available hearing protection. One can only imagine the degree of hearing loss suffered by Civil War sailors.

As similar as the practice of medicine may have been for both Army and Navy physicians--certainly in the treatment of battle injuries--the marine environment offered some very unique circumstances. Sailors on blockade duty experienced little battle and much boredom. Off Cape Fear, NC, a sailor in the blockading squadron wrote home to his mother that she should get some notion of blockade duty if she would go to the roof on a hot summer day, talk to a half dozen degenerates, descend to the basement, drink tepid water full of iron rust, climb to the roof again, and repeat the process at intervals until she was fagged out. Then go to bed with everything shut tight.

Needless to say, under these conditions, the psychological health of sailors was often in question. “Give me a discharge and let me go home,” a distraught coal-heaver begged his skipper after months of duty outside of Charleston. “I am a poor, weak, miserable, nervous, half crazy boy. Everything jarred upon my delicate nerves.”

And this routine was accompanied by an unbroken diet of moldy beans, stale biscuits, and sour pork. To ease the monotony or perhaps to anesthetize themselves from reality, mess crews specialized in the manufacture of outlaw whiskey distilled from almost any substance that fermented in the southern heat. Commanding officers and medical officers assigned to the James River Flotilla complained a great deal of the lack of fresh provisions and vegetables. Following a July 1862 inspection, Fleet Surgeon of the North Atlantic Squadron, Dr. James Wood, recommended that vessels be furnished with fresh provisions twice a week. His report on his inspection also contained a recommendation for improving the water supply used in the vessels. He said that the “turbid and objectionable” river water used tended to produce diarrhea. He saw no reason for continuing to use impure river water, since steam vessels could condense more pure water than their crews needed.

Even though sanitary conditions aboard ship were often superior to those ashore, and both navies probably fared better than the armies when it came to the frequency of disease, rheumatism and scurvy kept the doctors busy along with typhoid, dysentery, break bone fever, hemorrhoids, and damage done by knuckles. In the southern climes, insect-borne malaria and yellow fever laid low many a crew. And, regardless of what they had to work with, surgeons aboard the ironclads, and indeed every vessel, had no medicine for the ills of the spirit brought on by the strain of monotony, poor food, and unhealthy living conditions which produced much longer casualty lists than did Confederate shells or mines.

The ironclad navy of the Civil War was neither all wood nor all iron. Nevertheless, it represented the first, halting steps into the modern age. Even though many of the hulls were still wood with but a veneer of iron, such vessels as Monitor and the vessels it spawned would soon become commonplace. The age of sail was over and had been since Monitor and Virginia fought their legendary duel in 1862. It was a new navy in 1865, even though hard-bitten conservatives in Washington had been loathe to trade traditional wooden hulls and canvas for an all-iron fleet. By the late 1870s and certainly by the turn of the twentieth century that fact was a reality. Medical planners and health care providers would now have to face squarely the realities Civil War surgeons had already encountered during their war. The new steel ships now carried rifled, breach-loading artillery. What their muzzle-loading predecessors had inflicted upon human flesh and bone had already been demonstrated. Traumatic amputations, penetrating fragment wounds, and horrific burns had become commonplace during that war. In the post- Civil War environment, these wounds would increase exponentially as would new kinds of injuries merely hinted at during the Civil War—primary and secondary blast injuries, scalded skin and flesh caused by ruptured steam pipes and boilers, toxic smoke inhalation—the products of fire below decks. The problems first encountered during the war of the ironclads would now have to be dealt with aboard ships of the all-steel, all-steam navy.

Whether victims of disease or hostile action, sailors required treatment and much Navy medicine took place in the three existing hospitals at Chelsea, Brooklyn, and Philadelphia. By the fall of 1862, all three were filled to their utmost capacity. As a result, medical facilities at navy yards and naval stations were expanded and both civilian and Army hospitals were also treating naval patients. To remedy the situation, a major hospital expansion campaign began. Unfortunately, many of these improvements weren’t realized until the very end of the war.

Following their recapture by Union forces, the two naval hospitals in the South--Portsmouth and Pensacola were put back into operation. In addition to the naval hospitals that had been established before the war, at least four others came on line between 1862 and 1865. These hospitals at Mound City, IL (1862); Memphis, TN (1863); New Orleans, LA (1863); and Port Royal, SC (1864), were located within the theater of operations of the blockading river squadrons and acted as receiving hospitals, taking patients on a short-term basis.

Ironically, one of the medical stations that could perform long-term care was not stationary at all. In 1862, Union forces captured a Confederate side-wheeler, Red Rover. Under the order of the Naval Fleet Surgeon, the ship was converted into what can be considered the Navy’s first hospital ship (however, there is evidence that Navy ships used during the Tripolitan Wars were used as floating hospitals). According to a Navy General Order of June 1862, “only those patients are to be sent to the hospital boat who it is to be expected to be sick for some time, and whose cases may require more quiet and better attention and accommodation than on board the vessels to which they belong.”

Regardless, Red Rover was something of a naval anomaly. The vessel had a laundry; an elevator that could transport the sick from lower to upper decks; an amputation room; nine water closets; an icebox to store fresh food; and gauze blinds to keep flies, mosquitoes, cinders, and smoke from “annoying” the patients. It was also the first ship to have a staff of female nurses trained in the medical arts.

On Christmas Eve, 1862, Sisters of the Order of the Holy Cross of St. Mary’s of Notre Dame in South Bend, IN, reported aboard the medical vessel to care for sick and wounded seamen. One hundred years later, the Navy helped to honor these women at a ceremony on the campus of Notre Dame as true pioneers of the Navy Nurse Corps.

From 1862 until 1865, the medical staff on-board Red Rover cared for 2,450 casualties, including 300 wounded Confederates. In roughly the same time period, Navy shore facilities handled more than 31,000 patients, with 990 treated in 1864 alone, a record for a four-year conflict. However, the conflict was not without other distinctions. The war took a heavy toll on the Navy Medical Corps, killing 33 surgeons including Assistant Surgeon William Longshaw, Jr., who was acknowledged by Secretary of the Navy Gideon Welles and RADM John Dahlgren for gallant behavior for his action on 15 November 1863 when he, under heavy fire, volunteered to retrieve the monitor Lehigh which had run aground. In January 1865, Dr. Longshaw was killed in an assault on Fort Fisher, NC, while binding the wounds of a dying man. His heroism under fire encapsulates Navy medicine’s real Civil War legacy.

IN MEMORIUM: VADM James A. Zimble, MC, USN, Ret. (1933-2011)

2011-12-14T09:57:00.000-08:00

VADM James Allen Zimble, MC USN, the beloved former Surgeon General of the Navy passed away on 14 December 2011. He was 78.

Admiral Zimble was born on 12 October 1933 in Philadelphia, PA. He received a Bachelor’s degree from Franklin and Marshall College. He earned his Doctor of Medicine degree from the University of Pennsylvania School of Medicine.

James Allen Zimble joined the Navy in 1955, served his internship at Naval Hospital St. Albans, and then chose undersea medicine and submarine duty. After a tour aboard the fleet ballistic submarine USS John Marshall, Dr. Zimble acquired skills as obstetrician-gynecologist serving at several naval hospitals. He became CO of the Naval Regional Medical Center, Orlando in 1978, and Medical Officer of the Marine Corps in 1981. He then served as Fleet Surgeon for Commander in Chief, U.S. Atlantic Fleet.

From 1987 to 1991, VADM Zimble served as the Surgeon General of the U.S. Navy. In this role, Dr. Zimble presided over the disestablishment of the Naval Medical Command and the return of BUMED, and managed the deployment of the hospital ships Mercy and Comfort, the Fleet Hospitals, and Medical Department personnel for the Gulf War.He was responsible for developing and establishing overall Naval health care policies and priorities, contingency and wartime planning, and program development. This was in support of more than 2.8 million Navy and Marine Corps active duty and retired beneficiaries and their families.

Upon his retirement from the Navy in 1991, Admiral Zimble served as president of the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences (USUHS) in Bethesda, MD (1991-2004).

See more photographs of Admiral James Zimble at:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/48481327@N07/sets/72157627932317532/

VADM James Zimble photographs

2011-12-14T09:50:00.000-08:00

VADM James Zimble, MC, USN, (Ret.) passed away this morning. VADM Zimble was our 30th Surgeon General of the Navy from 1987 to 1991. He then served as the 4th President of the Uniformed Services University of the Health Sciences from 1991 to 2004. This is a selection of hundreds of photographs we have of him.

JAMES A. ZIMBLE, VICE ADMIRAL U.S. NAVY, THE SURGEON GENERAL. (National Museum of Health & Medicine, NCP 1974)

Naval Hospital Dedication. Vice Admiral James A. Zimble. San Diego, California. 09-5054-061.

Naval Hospital Dedication. Left to right: Captain Wesolowski, Dr. Mayer; Seated MCPO [Master Chief Petty Officer] Jessup, Rear Admiral Sears, Vice Admiral Zimble, Rear Admiral Montoya, Chaplain Kieffer. San Diego, California. 09-5054-063

Vice Admiral James Zimble and Vice Admiral Donald Hagen (in background) at Exhibit on the Mall. Gulf War - National Victory Celebration. 09-7987-001

Vice Admiral James Zimble (center), Vice Admiral Donald Hagen (right), and Rear Admiral Rober Higgins inside exhibit tent. [Gulf War - National Victory Celebration. 06/1991; U.S. Navy BUMED Library and Archives 09-7987-17

Navy Surgeon General Vice Admiral James A. Zimble, Medical Corps, U.S. Navy, right, chats with a patient during a visit to Fleet Hospital 5. Zimble commended Navy medical personnel at the Navy's first activated fleet hospital for providing the best medical care possible. [Persian Gulf War.] Desert Storm Photos. 12/1990; U.S. Navy Photo by HM2 Jim Moyer; U.S. Navy BUMED Library and Archives 09-7988-101

Dr. James A. Zimble, MD. 1996 Ash Lecturer. National Museum of Health and Medicine, MIS 08-1598-1

Vice Admiral James Zimble. U.S. Navy BUMED Library and Archives 09-9023-10

"Department of Navy Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, Department of Navy Naval Medical Command." Vice Admiral James Zimble. U.S. Navy BUMED Library and Archives 09-9023-20

Navy Nurse Ida Olson obituary

2011-12-13T05:14:00.000-08:00

Navy Nurse Ida Olson's obituary ran in the December 6 2011 Washington
Post.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/obituaries/ida-b-olson-navy-nurse/20
11/12/05/gIQAXh8KaO_story.html

Roosevelt's dedication of the Naval Medical Center in Bethesda

2011-12-12T12:01:00.000-08:00

The archivists at the FDR Library kindly suggested this site to us, and
we found FDR's dedication speech when we needed it:

Franklin D. Roosevelt: "Address at the Dedication of the Naval Medical
Center, Bethesda, Maryland.," August 31, 1942. Online by Gerhard Peters
and John T. Woolley, The American Presidency Project.
http://www.presidency.ucsb.edu/ws/?pid=16299.

BUMED Public Affairs Office social media sites

2011-12-09T13:28:00.000-08:00

Here are links to our Facebook, Flickr, and Issuu sites:

Navy Bureau of Medicine and Surgery Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/US-Navy-Bureau-of-Medicine-and-Surgery/192338823825

Navy Medicine Facebook:
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Navy-Medicine/199826316721940

Flickr: http://www.flickr.com/people/navymedicine/ (now with historic photos from the Office of Medical History)

Issuu: http://issuu.com/navymedicine

Pearl Harbor summary by Navy History and Heritage Command

2011-12-08T05:23:00.000-08:00

Pearl Harbor Navy Medical Activities
http://www.history.navy.mil/faqs/faq66-5.htm

Pearl Harbor Day: Lee B. Soucy

2011-12-07T15:00:00.000-08:00

World War II pharmacist’s mate second class Lee B. Soucy, a medical laboratory technician assigned to the target ship USS Utah (AG-16).

What do you remember about that morning of 7 December 1941?

I had just had breakfast and was looking out a porthole in sick bay when someone said, "What the hell are all those planes doing up there on a Sunday? Someone else said, "It must be those crazy Marines. They'd be the only ones out maneuvering on a Sunday." When I looked up in the sky I saw five or six planes starting their descent. Then when the first bombs dropped on the hangers at Ford Island, I thought, "Those guys are missing us by a mile." Inasmuch as practice bombing was a daily occurrence to us, it was not too unusual for planes to drop bombs, but the time and place were quite out of line. We could not imagine bombing practice in port. It occurred to me and to most of the others that someone had really goofed this time and put live bombs on those planes by mistake.

In any event, even after I saw a huge fireball and cloud of black smoke rise from hangers on Ford Island and heard explosions, it did not occur to me that these were enemy planes. It was too incredible! Simply beyond imagination! "What a SNAFU," I moaned.

As I watched the explosions on Ford Island in amazement and disbelief, I felt the ship lurch. We didn't know it then, but we were being bombed and torpedoed by planes approaching from the opposite (port) side.

What time did this happen?

The bugler and bosun's mate were on the fantail ready to raise the colors at 8 o'clock. In a matter of seconds, the bugler sounded "General Quarters." I grabbed my first aid bag and headed for my battle station amidship.

A number of the ship's tremors are vaguely imprinted in my mind, but I remember one jolt quite vividly. As I was running down the passageway toward my battle station, another torpedo or bomb hit and shook the ship severely. I was knocked off balance and through the log room door. I got up a little dazed and immediately darted down the ladder below the armored deck. I forgot my first aid kit.

What did you do?

By then the ship was already listing. There were a few men down below who looked dumbfounded and wondered out loud, "What's going on?" I felt around my shoulder in great alarm. No first aid kit! Being out of uniform is one thing, but being at a battle station without proper equipment is more than embarrassing.

After a minute or two below the armored deck, we heard another bugle call, then the bosun's whistle followed by the boatswain's chant, "Abandon ship... Abandon ship."

We scampered up the ladder. As I raced toward the open side of the deck, an officer stood by a stack of life preservers and tossed the jackets at us as we ran by. When I reached the open deck, the ship was listing precipitously. I thought about the huge amount of ammunition we had on board and that it would surely blow up soon. I wanted to get away from the ship fast, so I discarded my life jacket. I didn't want a Mae West slowing me down.

Did you dive off the ship?

Yes and no. And that’s an interesting story. Another thing had jolted my memory. I remembered how rough the beach on Ford Island was. The day previous, I had been part of a fire and rescue party dispatched to fight a small fire on Ford Island. The fire was out by the time we got there but I remember distinctly the rugged beach, so I tied double knots in my shoes whereas just about everyone else kicked their's off.

So you did dive off the ship?

Not exactly. I was tensely poised for a running dive off the partially exposed hull when the ship lunged again and threw me off balance. I ended up with by bottom sliding across and down the barnacle encrusted bottom of the ship.

When the ship had jolted, I thought we had been hit by another bomb or torpedo, but later it was determined that the mooring lines snapped which caused the 21,000-ton ship to jerk so violently as she keeled over.

Nevertheless, after I bobbed up to the surface of the water and tried to get my bearings, I spotted a motor launch with a coxswain fishing men out of the water with his boat hook. I started to swim toward the launch. After a few strokes, a hail of bullets hit the water a few feet ahead of me in line with the launch. As the strafer banked, I noted the big red insignias on the wing tips. Until then, I really had not known who attacked us. At some point, I had heard someone shout, "Where did those Germans come from?" I quickly decided that a boat full of men would be a more likely strafing target than a loan swimmer, so I changed course and hightailed it for Ford Island.

What happened when you reached the beach?

I was exhausted. As I tried to catch my breath, another pharmacist's mate, Gordon Sumner, from the Utah, stumbled out of the water. I remember how elated I was to see him. There is no doubt in my mind that bewilderment, if not misery, loves company. I remember I felt guilty that I had not made any effort to recover my first aid kit. Sumner had his wrapped around his shoulders.

While we both tried to get our wind back, a jeep came speeding by and came to a screeching halt. One of the two officers in the vehicle had spotted our Red Cross brassards and hailed us aboard. They took us to a two- or three-story concrete BOQ (bachelor officer's quarters) facing Battleship Row to set up an emergency treatment station for several oil-covered casualties strewn across the concrete floor. Most of them were from the capsized or flaming battleships. It did not take long to exhaust the supplies in Sumner's bag.

What could you do with no supplies?

A line officer came by to inquire how we were getting along. We told him we had run out of everything and were in urgent need of bandages and some kind of solvent or alcohol to cleanse wounds. He ordered someone to strip the beds and make rolls of bandages with the sheets. Then he turned to us and said, "Alcohol? Alcohol?" he repeated. "Will whiskey do?"

Before we could mull it over, he took off and in a few minutes he returned and plunked a case of scotch at our feet. Another person who accompanied him had an armful of bottles of a variety of liquors. I am sure denatured alcohol could not have served our purpose better for washing off the sticky oil, as well as providing some antiseptic effect for a variety of wounds and burns.

Was it a bizarre situation?

Yes, it was. Despite the confusion, pain, and suffering, there was some gusty humor amidst the pathos and chaos. At one point, an exhausted swimmer, covered with a gooey film of black oil, saw me walking around with a washcloth in one hand and a bottle of booze in the other. He hollered, "Hey Doc, could I have a shot of that medicine?" I handed him the bottle of whichever liquor I had at the time. He took a hefty swig. He had no sooner swallowed the "medicine" than he spewed it out along with black mucoidal globs of oil. He lay back a minute after he stopped vomiting, then said, "Doc, I lost that medicine. How about another dose?"

It all sounds like a very incongruous way to practice medicine.

Well, it certainly wasn’t normal but then again, the circumstances were anything but routine. My internal as well as external application of booze was not accepted medical practice, but it sure made me popular with the old salts. Actually, it probably was a good medical procedure if it induced vomiting. Retaining contaminated water and oil in one's stomach was not good for one's health.

Were you still under attack while all this was going on?

Oh, sure. And I remember another incident. A low flying enemy pilot was strafing toward our concrete haven while I was on my knees trying to determine what to do for a prostrate casualty. Although the sailor, or marine, was in bad shape, he raised his head feebly when he saw the plane approach and shouted, "Open the doors and let the sonofabitch in."

Events which occurred in seconds take minutes to recount. During the lull, regular medical personnel from the Ford Island Dispensary arrived with proper supplies and equipment and released Sumner and me so we could rejoin other Utah survivors for reassignment.

When the supplies ran out at our first aid station, I suggested to Sumner that he volunteer to go to the Naval Dispensary for some more. When he returned, he mentioned that he had a close call. A bomb landed in the patio while he was at the dispensary. He didn't mention any injury, so I shrugged it off. After all, under the circumstances, what was one bomb more or less. That afternoon, while we were both walking along a lanai [screened porch] at the dispensary, he pointed to a crater in the patio. "That's where the bomb hit I told you about." "Where were you?", I asked. He pointed to a spot not far away. I said, "Come on, if you had been that close, you'd have been killed." To which he replied, "Oh, it didn't go off. I fled the area in a hurry."

What happened when the Japanese aircraft left the scene?

Sometime after dark, a squadron of scout planes from the carrier Enterprise (200 hundred or so miles out at sea), their fuel nearly depleted, came in for a landing on Ford Island. All hell broke loose and the sky lit up from tracer bullets from numerous antiaircraft guns. As the Enterprise planes approached, some understandably trigger-happy gunners opened fire; then all gunners followed suit and shot down all but one of our planes. At least, that's what I was told. Earlier that evening, many of the Utah survivors had been taken to the USS Argonne (AP-4), a transport. Gunners manning .50 caliber machine guns on the partially submerged USS California directly across from the Argonne hit the ship while shooting at the planes. A stray, armor-piercing bullet penetrated Argonne's thin bulkhead, went through a Utah survivors's arm, and spent itself in another sailor's heart. He died instantly.

The name Price has been stored in my memory bank for a long time as this fatality but, at a recent reunion of Utah survivors, another ex-shipmate, Gilbert Meyer, insisted that Price was not the one killed. I didn't argue too long because I recalled meeting two men at the Pearl Harbor Naval Hospital several weeks after the raid who walked around with their own obituaries in their wallets--clippings from hometown newspapers.

SOURCE

Interview with former World War II pharmacist’s mate second class Lee B. Soucy, a medical laboratory technician assigned to the target ship USS Utah (AG-16). Conducted by Jan K. Herman, Historian of the Navy Medical Department, 11 February 1995.

Pearl Harbor Day: Horace Warden

2011-12-07T13:18:00.000-08:00

Excerpt from interview with RADM Horace D. Warden, MC, USN (Ret.), Experiences during World War II, as White House physician, and involvement with space program and Pueblo crew repatriation. Telephone interview, San Diego, CA, December 14, 21, 23, 28, 1993. Interviewed by Jan K. Herman, Historian, Bureau of Medicine and Surgery.

Were you on the Breese that Sunday morning when the Japanese attacked?

Yes sir. On that Sunday morning we were moored to a buoy near Pearl City. I happened to be aboard the previous night because in those days they used to divide Pearl Harbor into three areas. There was supposed to be a doctor assigned to each area all night for medical coverage. It was my night to be aboard in Pearl City. I was due to go off duty at 8:00 on Sunday morning. I had changed into civilian clothes and was waiting on the deck for a whaleboat to take me to my car so I could go to breakfast at home on the far side of Honolulu. The Japanese hit at five minutes to eight and I never got off the ship.

Did you see them coming?

No. The first thing I remember was the sound of firing and then they called general quarters. We were not a large ship so we were not immediately threatened. After the Japanese delivered their bombs on the large ships they had to come up over us. That's when we got one of them with what I think was a 3-inch gun.

Did you see that happen?

No. I didn't see the plane get hit.

When you went to general quarters, your station was in the sick bay below decks?

Yes. But I didn't have time to get there. I remember one of our food handlers was milling around very upset and crying, a real basket case. We went to where we had the firearms stashed away and we got a rifle and gave it to him. Once he started shooting he was alright. The plane we had shot down landed right near us in the water. The pilot was still alive so they got a whaleboat to go rescue him. Apparently he made a move, put his hand under his vest or something, and so they killed him and then didn't have a live pilot to question. The sailor who shot him was told that he was going to get court martialed. But later that all was quashed and there was no court martial.

We then tried to get underway and out of the harbor. Our ship was ready because we had had the duty the night before, but we were tied to three other ships and they didn't have many people aboard on Sunday morning. So we had to wait until enough crewmembers arrived on these ships to get them out of the harbor.

Did you have any casualties to treat at this point?

None. After about an hour or an hour and a half we were out to sea and started to patrol looking for miniature subs and dropped depth charges. We stayed out about a week and then came back. I can't remember whether we ran out of food or fuel. Anyway, we came back in to Pearl Harbor. Then we could see all the damage that had been done. Going out we couldn't see it because of where we were. While we were out we kept wondering why the big ships hadn't come out.

What did you think of all that damage?

It was just terrible. It was one of those things when you think, what's the world coming to? What's going to happen to us now? Everyone was all set to try to get even if we could, but my family was on the other end of Oahu so the first thing I wanted to do was get ashore and let them know that I was okay and find out that they were okay. That was probably the worst week of the war for me.

What did you do once you got back to Pearl?

We stayed there waiting for further orders. There was nothing really to do. I then got permission to go to the Naval Hospital to help out over there.

Did you still have a lot of casualties to deal with from the attack?

Yes. We still had surgery to do. One of the Japanese planes had crashed in the Naval Hospital yard and I have a piece of it.

Did you still go patrolling with the Breese?

Yes. We would go out for a few days patrolling looking for submarines and then come back to Pearl. I remember that on Christmas day in 1941 we were tied up right at Hospital Point. Meanwhile, my family came out to the Naval Hospital to have Christmas dinner with me. That was a wonderful occasion.

Medical First Responders Remember Pearl Harbor

2011-12-07T12:49:00.000-08:00

A story from the Department of Defense's Military Health System:

http://www.health.mil/News_And_Multimedia/News/detail/11-12-06/Medical_First_Responders_Remember_Pearl_Harbor.aspx

Pearl Harbor Day: Nurse Ruth Erickson

2011-12-07T11:29:00.000-08:00

Excerpt from a telephone interview with CAPT Ruth A. Erickson, NC, USN, (Ret.), World War II nurse and later tenth Director of the Navy Nurse Corps, 24 March, 30 March, 6 April, 12 April 1994. Interviewed by Jan K. Herman, Historian, Bureau of Medicine and Surgery.

In late summer of 1939 we learned that spring fleet maneuvers would be in Hawaii, off the coast of Maui. Further, I would be detached to report to the Naval Hospital, Pearl Harbor, T.H. when maneuvers were completed. The orders were effective on 8 May 1940.

Tropical duty was another segment in my life's adventure! On this same date I reported to the hospital command in which CAPT Reynolds Hayden was the commanding officer. Miss Myrtle Kinsey was the chief of nursing services with a staff of eight nurses. I was also pleased to meet up with Miss Winnie Gibson once again, the operating room supervisor.

We nurses had regular ward assignments and went on duty at 8 a.m. Each had a nice room in the nurses' quarters. We were a bit spoiled; along with iced tea, fresh pineapple was always available.

We were off at noon each day while one nurse covered units until relieved at 3 p.m. In turn, the p.m. nurse was relieved at 10 p.m. The night nurse's hours were 10 p.m. to 8 a.m.
One month I'd have a medical ward and the next month rotated to a surgical ward. Again, I didn't have any operating room duties here. The fleet population was relatively young and healthy. We did have quite an outbreak of "cat [catarrhal] fever" with flu-like symptoms. This was the only pressure period we had until the war started.

What was off-duty like?

Cars were few and far between, but two nurses had them. Many aviators were attached to Ford Island. Thus, there was dating. We had the tennis courts, swimming at the beach, and picnics. The large hotel at Waikiki was the Royal Hawaiian, where we enjoyed an occasional beautiful evening and dancing under starlit skies to lovely Hawaiian melodies.

And then it all ended rather quickly.

Yes, it did. A big dry dock in the area was destined to go right through the area where the nurses' quarters stood. We had vacated the nurses' quarters about 1 week prior to the attack. We lived in temporary quarters directly across the street from the hospital, a one-story building in the shape of an E. The permanent nurses' quarters had been stripped and the shell of the building was to be razed in the next few days.

By now, the nursing staff had been increased to 30 and an appropriate number of doctors and corpsmen had been added. The Pacific fleet had moved their base of operations from San Diego to Pearl Harbor. With this massive expansion, there went our tropical hours! The hospital now operated at full capacity.

Were you and your colleagues beginning to feel that war was coming?

No. We didn't know what to think. I had worked the afternoon duty on Saturday, December 6th from 3 p.m. until 10 p.m. with Sunday to be my day off.

Two or three of us were sitting in the dining room Sunday morning having a late breakfast and talking over coffee. Suddenly we heard planes roaring overhead and we said, "The `fly boys' are really busy at Ford Island this morning." The island was directly across the channel from the hospital. We didn't think too much about it since the reserves were often there for weekend training. We no sooner got those words out when we started to hear noises that were foreign to us.

I leaped out of my chair and dashed to the nearest window in the corridor. Right then there was a plane flying directly over the top of our quarters, a one-story structure. The rising sun under the wing of the plane denoted the enemy. Had I known the pilot, one could almost see his features around his goggles. He was obviously saving his ammunition for the ships. Just down the row, all the ships were sitting there--the California, the Arizona, the Oklahoma, and others.
My heart was racing, the telephone was ringing, the chief nurse, Gertrude Arnest, was saying, "Girls, get into your uniforms at once. This is the real thing!"

I was in my room by that time changing into uniform. It was getting dusky, almost like evening. Smoke was rising from burning ships.

I dashed across the street, through a shrapnel shower, got into the lanai and just stood still for a second as were a couple of doctors. I felt like I were frozen to the ground, but it was only a split second. I ran to the orthopedic dressing room but it was locked. A corpsman ran to the OD's desk for the keys. It seemed like an eternity before he returned and the room was opened. We drew water into every container we could find and set up the instrument boiler. Fortunately, we still had electricity and water. Dr. [CDR Clyde W.] Brunson, the chief of medicine was making sick call when the bombing started. When he was finished, he was to play golf...a phrase never to be uttered again.

The first patient came into our dressing room at 8:25 a.m. with a large opening in his abdomen and bleeding profusely. They started an intravenous and transfusion. I can still see the tremor of Dr. Brunson's hand as he picked up the needle. Everyone was terrified. The patient died within the hour.

Then the burned patients streamed in. The USS Nevada had managed some steam and attempted to get out of the channel. They were unable to make it and went aground on Hospital Point right near the hospital. There was heavy oil on the water and the men dived off the ship and swam through these waters to Hospital Point, not too great a distance, but when one is burned... How they ever managed, I'll never know.

The tropical dress at that time was white t-shirts and shorts. The burns began where the pants ended. Bared arms and faces were plentiful.

Personnel retrieved a supply of new flit guns from stock. We filled these with tannic acid to spray burned bodies. Then we gave these gravely injured patients sedatives for their intense pain.

Orthopedic patients were eased out of their beds with no time for linen changes as an unending stream of burn patients continued until mid afternoon. A doctor, who several days before had renal surgery and was still convalescing, got out of his bed and began to assist the other doctors.

Do you recall the Japanese plane that was shot down and crashed into the tennis court?

Yes, the laboratory was next to the tennis court. The plane sheared off a corner of the laboratory and a number of the laboratory animals, rats and guinea pigs, were destroyed. Dr. Shaver [LTJG John S.], the chief pathologist, was very upset.

About 12 noon the galley personnel came around with sandwiches and cold drinks; we ate on the run. About 2 o'clock the chief nurse was making rounds to check on all the units and arrange relief schedules.

I was relieved around 4 p.m. and went over to the nurses' quarters where everything was intact. I freshened up, had something to eat, and went back on duty at 8 p.m. I was scheduled to report to a surgical unit. By now it was dark and we worked with flashlights. The maintenance people and anyone else who could manage a hammer and nails were putting up black drapes or black paper to seal the crevices against any light that might stream to the outside.

About 10 or 11 o'clock, there were planes overhead. I really hadn't felt frightened until this particular time. My knees were knocking together and the patients were calling, "Nurse, nurse!" The other nurse and I went to them, held their hands a few moments, and then went onto others.

The priest was a very busy man. The noise ended very quickly and the word got around that these were our own planes.

What do you remember when daylight came?

I worked until midnight on that ward and then was directed to go down to the basement level in the main hospital building. Here the dependents--the women and children--the families of the doctors and other staff officers were placed for the night. There were ample blankets and pillows. We lay body by body along the walls of the basement. The children were frightened and the adults tense. It was not a very restful night for anyone.

Everyone was relieved to see daylight. At 6 a.m. I returned to the quarters, showered, had breakfast, and reported to a medical ward. There were more burn cases and I spent a week there.

What could you see when you looked over toward Ford Island?

I really couldn't see too much from the hospital because of the heavy smoke. Perhaps at a higher level one could have had a better view.

On the evening of 17 December, the chief nurse told me I was being ordered to temporary duty and I was to go to the quarters, pack a bag, and be ready to leave at noon. When I asked where I was going, she said she had no idea. The commanding officer ordered her to obtain three nurses and they were to be in uniform. In that era we had no outdoor uniforms. Thus it would be the regular white ward uniforms.

And so in our ward uniforms, capes, blue felt hats, and blue sweaters, Lauretta Eno, Catherine Richardson, and I waited for a car and driver to pick us up at the quarters. When he arrived and inquired of our destination, we still had no idea! The OD's desk had our priority orders to go to one of the piers in Honolulu. We were to go aboard the SS President Coolidge and prepare to receive patients. We calculated supplies for a 10-day period.

We three nurses and a number of corpsmen from the hospital were assigned to the SS Coolidge. Eight volunteer nurses from the Queens Hospital in Honolulu were attached to the Army transport at the next pier, USAT Scott, a smaller ship.

The naval hospital brought our supplies the following day, the 18th, and we worked late into the evening. We received our patients from the hospital on the 19th, the Coolidge with 125 patients and the Scott with 55.

Were these the most critically injured patients?

The command decided that patients who would need more than 3 months treatment should be transferred. Some were very bad and probably should not have been moved. There were many passengers already aboard the ship, missionaries and countless others who had been picked up in the Orient. Two Navy doctors on the passenger list from the Philippines were placed on temporary duty and they were pleased to be of help.

Catherine Richardson worked 8 a.m. to 4 p.m. I had the 4 p.m. to midnight, and Lauretta Eno worked midnight to 8 a.m. Everyone was very apprehensive. The ship traveled without exterior lights but there was ample light inside.

You left at night?

Yes, we left in the late afternoon of the 19th. There were 8 or 10 ships in the convoy. It was quite chilly the next day; I later learned that we had gone fairly far north instead of directly across. The rumors were rampant that a submarine was seen out this porthole in some other direction. I never get seasick and enjoy a bit of heavy seas, but this was different! Ventilation was limited by reason of sealed ports and only added to gastric misery. I was squared about very soon.

The night before we got into port, we lost a patient, an older man, perhaps a chief. He had been badly burned. He was losing intravenous fluids faster than they could be replaced. Our destination became San Francisco with 124 patients and one deceased.

We arrived at 8 a.m. on Christmas Day! Two ferries were waiting there for us with cots aboard and ambulances from the naval hospital at Mare Island and nearby civilian hospitals. The Red Cross was a cheerful sight with donuts and coffee.

Our arrival was kept very quiet. Heretofore, all ship's movements were usually published in the daily paper but since the war had started, this had ceased. I don't recall that other ships in the convoy came in with us except for the Scott. We and the Scott were the only ships to enter the port. The convoy probably slipped away.

The patients were very happy to be home and so were we all. The ambulances went on ahead to Mare Island. By the time we had everyone settled on the two ferries, it was close to noon. We arrived at Mare Island at 4:30 p.m. and helped get that patients into the respective wards.

While at Mare Island, a doctor said to me, "For God's sake, Ruth, what's happened out there? We don't know a thing." He had been on the USS Arizona and was detached only a few months prior to the attack. We stayed in the nurses' quarters that night.

The next morning we picked up our orders in the commanding officer's office. They informed us that we were free until 0800 the following morning, which would be the 27th. That night several of us were invited out and we went to dinner in our white uniforms and capes. We really stood out in a group. Being Christmas, San Francisco was quiet and we were not feeling very Christmasy. We made some telephone calls for ourselves and our shipmates.

When did you leave San Francisco?

We left on the morning of the 28th of December to return to Pearl Harbor. We went aboard the Henderson (AP-1), an old time transport. The ship was really bulging with troops. These were the first troops to go out since war was declared. Too, this ship was talking the first mail back to Hawaii since the war began and included the Christmas mail.

We arrived back at Pearl Harbor on January 10th and we three Navy nurses were picked up and returned to the hospital. It was like coming back to family. A bonding had been created by reason of our common experience beginning on December 7th. Fifty-five years later that bond still exists whenever one meets up with another.

Pearl Harbor photographs loaded to BUMED's Flickr site

2011-12-07T08:36:00.001-08:00

http://www.flickr.com/photos/navymedicine/sets/72157628320849325/

Pearl Harbor Day: Nurse Rosella Asbelle

2011-12-07T07:18:00.000-08:00

Telephone interview with Rosella Asbelle, Navy nurse at Pearl Harbor on 7 December 1941, and later assigned to Naval Hospital Oakland's Occupational Therapy Department with amputee patients during the Korean War. Conducted by Jan K. Herman, Historian, Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, 13 June 2002.

Where are you originally from?

I was born in Oklahoma but we came out to California when I was about 7 years old--a little town called Dinuba near Fresno.

Where did you go to nursing school?

I went to St. Mary's Hospital School of Nursing, San Francisco, CA.

And you were a Navy nurse.

I was very definitely a Navy nurse. I was at Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941.

What do you remember about that?

Everything. I saw Japanese planes coming over. They were so low, they were right on top of the building.

Then you knew Ruth Erickson.

We were all together. Ruth is a very knowledgeable person. I have all the addresses of the 29 Navy nurses who were at Pearl. We try to keep in touch with each other. I think there are about eight of us still living.

I remember vividly the planes flying over the buildings right next to the nurse's quarters. The nurse in the room next to me and I were looking out the window and she gasped, "Ahh, Rosella, it's war." I'll never forget that. The planes were just above the buildings. You could see the heads of the pilots.

Ruth Erickson told me that they were so close that if you had known who they were, you could have recognized them.

That's right. One came over the building so low, maybe at the height of a flagpole. You could see their heads. This grinning Japanese guy probably was thinking, "Boy, we've got you where we want you." I'll never forget that guy with the goggles and the smile on his face.

Did you have duty that morning?

It was 8 o'clock in the morning and I don't remember if I had duty that morning. But it didn't take long before the chief nurse called everybody over to the wards and casualties started coming in. And they continued coming in throughout the day. The heads or toilets were right outside the wards and there was a walkway between the ward and the head. The bodies were laid out like stacks of wood on that passageway connecting the ward and the toilet.

Did you work in the surgical area?

I was in the surgical ward and when they needed surgery they went to the operating room. Later on, I was transferred to the burn ward because there were so many people who were burned from the fires.

I read that you sprayed tannic acid on the burns.

That's right.

You must have seen some pretty horrible things that day.

It was really tragic. These kids were so young and so burned. I remember a radio blaring the song, "I Don't Want to Set the World On Fire," when some kid at the end of the ward yelled out, "Lady, you're too late. It's done been set." At that time, the wards had anywhere from 20 to 30 patients per ward. And I was on the burn ward. These kids were all lined up with tannic acid applications all over.

The saddest thing, though, was having night duty. That's when these severely burned kids would die. And you'd know when that was going to happen. Many a time, I'd sit by the bed of a young man, boy, who was burned, as he died talking about his family. It was generally about 4:30 or 5:30 in the morning when most of them went. You'd hold their hands and talk to them about their families.

That must have been terribly sad for you.

Yes. These kids were so young.

I'm sure that even if you don't remember everything that happened subsequently at Oakland, you'll probably never forget that day as long as you live.

I don't think anyone would.

We've previously posted Nurse Arbelle's entire oral history.

Remembering Pearl Harbor

2011-12-07T01:15:00.000-08:00

Every December 7th my thoughts turn to those who witnessed that "date of infamy," an event that truly changed the course of history. As Medical Department historian, I've had the rare privilege of meeting and recording the memories of some our medical veterans--physicians, nurses, dentists, and hospital corpsmen--who not only survived the Japanese attack, but helped treat the victims. On this Pearl Harbor Day we'd like to share excerpts from some of those oral histories. Check back throughout the day to help us commemorate this World War II event. - Jan Herman

Echoes of Navy Medicine's Past: Loblollies and Mess Decks

2011-12-05T17:00:00.000-08:00

Part I: Loblollies and Messdecks (1775-1860)
By Jan K. Herman and Mr. Grog

Where there’s conflict there is always the need for medical care. The first shots of the American Revolution fired at Lexington and Concord on 19 April 1775 marked both the birth of a nation and the Continental Army. However, it was the British blockade of the American coast and the need to break that blockade that spawned the Continental Navy and Navy Medical Department.

In October 1775, the Continental Congress voted to fund the Continental Navy to augment the existing force of privateers and state vessels. The ships in this tiny fleet—Alfred, Andrew Doria, Cabot, Providence, Columbus, and Hornet—housed sick bays where Continental Navy physicians practiced their healing art. Surgeons and surgeons mates hired by the Continental Congress represented the early Navy Medical Department.

Drs. Joseph Harrison, Thomas Kerr, and Henry Tillinghast were some of these medical pioneers. Assisting them in the daily care of the sick and wounded were personnel called “loblolly boys,” enlisted boys and men named for the thick porridge or “loblolly” they rationed out to the sick. Loblollies also provided containers for amputated limbs, hot tar for cauterizing stumps, and sand for spreading on decks to absorb blood shed during combat and surgical procedures.

The Continental Navy did not long survive the Treaty of Paris in 1783. The United States was without a naval fleet until 1794 when Congress authorized the construction of six new vessels to defend its ever growing commercial interests. These warships, which became the nucleus of the new United States Navy, each had a surgeon, and, for the larger vessels of 36 guns, two additional surgeon’s mates.

The Department of the Navy came about on 30 April 1798 during the “Quasi-War” with France. A significant development during this period was the shore hospitalization of sick and disabled seamen. By an act of 1798, Navy sailors could now be admitted to civilian hospitals designated by directors appointed in ports of entry. These directors paid the incurred expenses from a Marine (later Navy) Hospital Fund maintained by monthly deductions of 20 cents from every merchant and Navy seaman, naval officer, and Marine. Subsequently, Navy hospitals were established in Syracuse, Sicily (1804) and New Orleans, Louisiana (1810) but neither hospital survived very long.

On 26 February 1811, Congress approved “An Act establishing Navy Hospitals.” The Act directed that money collected from naval personnel and the unexpended balance from the Marine Hospital Fund should be paid to the Secretaries of the Navy, Treasury, and Army. These were to act as the so-called “commissioners” of Navy hospitals. The commissioners were authorized to choose suitable sites for permanent hospitals and were then to construct buildings at these locations.

A decade went by before the first site was selected at Washington, DC, in 1821. This was followed by the acquisition of other sites—Chelsea, MA (1823); Brooklyn, NY (1824); Philadelphia, PA (1826); and Norfolk, VA (1827). In 1830, the Naval Hospital at Norfolk became the first of these facilities to admit patients, followed soon thereafter by the Philadelphia Naval Hospital located in the famed Naval Asylum. This multi-tasked institution, designed by noted architect William Strickland, also served as the home of a Navy school that would soon after morph in the U.S. Naval Academy in 1845.

What was health care in the early days of the U.S. Navy? Fortunately, the writings of some early Navy health practitioners provide some answers. While serving aboard USS United States, Surgeon Edward Cutbush, later dubbed the “Nestor of the Navy Medical Department,” reported that venereal diseases and diarrhea were quite common among the crew. He also reported their state of mental health. There were days, he said, in which sailors seemed “very low” and labored “under Nostalgia or a constant desire to return [home].” Surgeon’s Mate Benjamin Harris of USS Philadelphia reported that venereal diseases and influenza were common, and he treated the latter through “copious bleedings and other evacuations.” Harris stated that injuries from accidents during the warship’s Caribbean cruise were frequent in the early part of the voyage because of the crew’s inexperience. Scurvy also posed a problem for Harris and other Navy surgeons until 1812 when citrus fruits were issued to ships regularly at the urging of William P.C. Barton, Navy surgeon and future Chief of the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery.

Following the Revolutionary War, the United States Navy fought against France, the Barbary Pirates, and Britain in the War of 1812. Throughout these conflicts, the duties of the Navy surgeon were quite defined. The surgeon visited sailors under his care at least twice a day, supervised surgeon’s mates, consulted with other surgeons in the squadron about difficult cases, daily informed the captain of his patients’ condition, and was expected to be prepared with his mates and assistants for battle. He kept a day-book, containing the names of his patients, their prescriptions and methods of treatment, when and how they became ill or injured, when they recovered or died, and when they were discharged to duty. From this document, he made two journals: a record of his “physical” practice and a journal of his “chirurgical” practice. At the end of each voyage he sent the two journals to the Navy Department. When ordering patients to hospitals, he was to send with them a record of their cases. The Navy surgeon was only authorized to send sailors to hospitals and sick quarters when they could not be adequately cared for aboard ship. He had charge of the requisition, inspection, storage, accounting, and dispensation of all medical supplies used aboard his ship. Upon receipt of defective or faulty supplies, the surgeon was to notify the captain. He also forwarded accounts of medical supplies received and consumed to the accountant of the Navy at the end of each cruise.

Although the early Navy medical community was small, many giants paved the way to today’s modern organization. Surgeon Edward Cutbush (1772-1843), a former doctor in the Pennsylvania militia, authored Observations on the Means of Preserving the Health of Soldiers and Sailors (1808). In this pioneering text, Dr. Cutbush proposed techniques for cleaning, disinfecting, ventilating, and drying ships. He advocated strict physical examinations of all recruits coming aboard to eliminate disease. Cutbush also urged sailors to wear their hair short, to shave regularly, and to wash themselves and their clothing.

Surgeon William Paul Crillon Barton (1786-1856), the son of the United States Seal’s designer and nephew of a well-known American botanist, proposed that Navy ships be better equipped for the care of the sick and wounded. He also suggested a system for organizing Marine hospitals and adopting better physical standards in recruiting. Barton emphasized that sick days compiled by the Navy were traced to the practice of accepting mentally and physically unfit sailors for duty. Dr. Barton experimented with lime juice and lemonade aboard ships years before the Navy recognized the importance of antiscorbutic treatment for the dreaded vitamin C deficiency. He was also one of the first to propose that female nurses “be included among Navy personnel.”

Surgeon Lewis Heermann (1779-1833), who served under LT Stephen Decatur in the war with the Tripolitan pirates, later established a naval hospital in New Orleans with his own funds. Andrew Jackson’s troops used this hospital after repelling the British invasion of New Orleans in 1815. The well traveled and educated physician’s organization of this short-lived hospital served as a model for future naval hospitals.

Surgeon Thomas Harris (1784-1861) founded in 1822 what is considered to be the first U.S. Navy medical school. Located in Philadelphia, school instructors taught newly commissioned Navy medical officers hygiene, military surgery, and naval customs.

It can be argued that the Navy Medical Department, or more accurately, the doctors who comprised the Navy medical community, were treated unequally compared to their compatriots in the rest of the U.S. Navy. For one, Navy physicians’ salaries were a great source of dissatisfaction. Drs. Barton, Cutbush, and Heermann protested against the paltry remunerations, stating that their pay should be at least equal to their counterparts in the U.S. Army, let alone the physicians in the British Navy.

Rank was another concern. Navy medical men were classified simply as surgeons or surgeon’s mates and did not have relative rank with naval officers. The Act of 24 May 1828 for the “Better Organization of the Medical Department of the Navy” marked the first time the status of personnel in the Navy Medical Department received serious attention. In this act, the title “assistant surgeon” replaced the designation surgeon’s mate. The act stated that all candidates for appointments as surgeon or assistant surgeon must first appear before and be approved by the Board of Naval Surgeons, that no person could be appointed as surgeon until he had served at least two years on board a public vessel of the U.S at sea, followed by an examination and approval for promotion by a Board of Naval Surgeons. After satisfying the requirements of the Examining Board, the assistant surgeon still would not receive an appointment as surgeon until surgeon vacancies occurred. During the waiting period, the successful candidate was known as “passed assistant surgeon,” a status that was not officially classified until 1898.

The same act created the title of “Surgeon of the Fleet” which authorized the president to designate and appoint to every fleet or squadron an “experienced and intelligent surgeon, then in the naval service.” The Fleet Surgeon was to serve in the flagship and be generally responsible for all medical matters within the fleet or squadron in which serving.

In the Act of 3 March 1835, Congress first considered surgeons and assistant surgeons as officers when these positions were finally subject to the same pay scale as Navy line officers. The General Order of August 1846 finally conferred relative rank to physicians serving in the Navy. “Commanding and executive officers, of whatever grade, when on duty, will take precedence over all medical officers. This order confers no authority to exercise military command, and no additional right to quarters.” By this General Order, surgeons of the fleet and surgeons with more than 12 years service were to have equivalent rank of commanders.

In addition to issues of rank and pay, Navy medicine also had organizational problems. On 31 August 1842, Congress passed a Navy appropriations bill that was a blueprint for efficiency. The legislation provided for five bureaus to replace the outdated Board of Navy Commissioners—Yards and Docks; Construction, Equipment, and Repair; Provisions and Clothing; Ordnance and Hydrography; and Medicine and Surgery. The president appointed a chief to head each bureau.

The Bureau of Medicine and Surgery (BUMED) became the central administrative headquarters for the Navy Medical Department, and those names became interchangeable. The General Order of 26 November 1842, which defined the duties of the new bureaus, charged BUMED with:

-All medicines and medical stores of every description, used in the treatment of the sick, the diseased and the wounded;
-All boxes, vials, and other vessels containing the same;
-All clothing, beds, and bedding for the sick;
-All surgical instruments of every kind;
-The management of hospitals, so far as the patients therein are concerned;
-All appliances of every sort, used in surgical and medical practice;
-All contracts, accounts, and returns, relating to these and such other subjects as shall hereafter be assigned to this bureau.

BUMED’s establishment contributed a great deal to the Medical Department’s development and efficiency. The availability and quality of medical supplies and equipment improved. The year 1853 saw the construction of the naval hospital at Annapolis, MD, and the establishment of the Naval laboratory in Brooklyn, NY. The lab, headed by Surgeon Benjamin F. Bache and Passed Assistant Surgeon Edward R. Squibb, experimented with the production of chloroform and ether anesthesia. Squibb’s major contribution was providing the Navy Medical Department with a reliable source of pure pharmaceuticals. In 1857, Dr. Squibb resigned from the Navy and founded the pharmaceutical house that bears his name.

What kind of medicine did Navy surgeons practice in the mid-nineteenth century and how was it different from the practice of their Army colleagues? The instruments of civilian manufacture were similar. A Navy physician’s surgical kit was almost identical to that of an Army physician, and, most likely, carried the same brand name. A surgical scalpel was a surgical scalpel, a tourniquet a tourniquet, the treatment of choice for a shattered limb was amputation. Indeed, many Army and Navy surgeons attended the same medical schools.

The difference was the environment in which the naval surgeon practiced. The maritime venue was decidedly different from the battlefield. Certainly the marine theater had its own unique hazards—handling of anchor gear, hoisting apparatus, dangers incident to storms or heavy weather at sea, falls from mast tops, spills down hatchways and ladders, being struck by a lead line, being caught between boats and gangways on ships and docks, entanglement in parting lines or cables when mooring or unmooring. The term loose cannon had an original and more deadly meaning. Sailors fell overboard and either drowned or died of hypothermia. Fire caused by spilled oil or kerosene lamps below decks was a constant and sometimes fatal hazard. Contagious respiratory diseases ran through close packed living spaces, leaving entire crews incapacitated.

By the eve of the Civil War, Navy medicine already had one foot firmly placed in the new age of steam. The new technology of ironclad ships and rifled guns would soon add a very new dimension to treating the sick and wounded.

The Art of the Tattoo in the Navy (as Seen by a Navy Medical Officer in 1908)

2011-12-02T07:01:00.001-08:00

Dr. Ammen Farenholt (1871-1956)
BUMED Library and Archives

Perhaps outside of the rum ration, nothing is more associated with the tars of the “old” U.S. Navy than the tattoo. In 1908, while serving aboard USS Indianapolis, Navy Surgeon Ammen Farenholt decided to conduct a study on practice of personal adornment in the Navy. His findings first published in the U.S. Navy Medical Bulletin (1908) is a fascinating time capsule offering a glimpse into the habits and interests of our Navy ancestors.

Tattooing in the Navy, as shown by the records of the USS Independence

Probability no class of persons has the opportunity to see such an amount and variety of tattooing as that upon whom duty of physical examination for a military or naval service devolves, and undoubtedly the latter presents the richer field. Why this form of personal adornment should be so popular with those whose profession it is to follow the sea is difficult to explain; but custom and sentiment without doubt keep alive a practice which, in the early days, was the mark of a true deep-water sailor and a necessary requisite to the beau ideal. The custom probably originated among the natives of the south-sea islands where at one time it was almost universally in vogue, whence it was carried by admiring voyagers to home ports an in turn imitated by the envious. The name is considered to have been derived from the Tahitian word “tatu,” of the same meaning.

While tattooing originated as an adornment of uncivilized peoples, it is far less common among them to-day [sic] than it was formerly, partly through the influence of missionaries; partly, also through the influence of public sentiment; and partly through Government interference, as is at present the case in Japan. On the other hand the total extent of this habit had probably never been greater than it is at the present time. Although it may be there is a slight decrease in the percentage of tattooed persons who adopt the sea as a means of livelihood, there is certainly a marked increase among those who travel and even among those live at a large distance from the influences of the sea. There is hardly any large city but has one or more professional tattooers, often ex-man-of-warsmen or Japanese, who advertise freely and who cater to the lure of this fascination.

Lombroso states that few people, with the fortunate exception of sailors, are tattooed who are not of the criminal class, or degenerate. While on shore it is probable that the custom is chiefly confined to the lower orders of society, the same can not be said of the seagoing population. I have recently examined the enlistment records of 3,572 men, being the enlistments on this vessel for a period of eight and one-half years, and have obtained the following data for that portion of our enlisted force:

Percentage of men found tattooed on examination for second and subsequent enlistments…………………..................53.61
Percentage of men found to be tattooed on examination for first enlistment…………………………………23.01

While the former figures give a fair estimate of tattooing among the “old timers,” it is a trifle under the correct estimate for the service as a whole, and I think it would be nearer the truth to say that about 60 per cent of persons who have served over ten years are thus marked. On the other hand it is not fair to assume that 23 per cent of all male civilians are tattooed because that was found to be the percentage among those who presented themselves for first enlistment, as a considerable proportion of applicants are seafaring men and as it is probable that some men conceal previous service. On inquiry, however, I have been surprised to find so many, probably 8 per cent of the recruits, who are tattooed and who deny having been at sea or even having lived in seaport towns. I think the custom is more common in camps and in places where men are collected in large numbers than is ordinarily imagined.

The designs were found to have been placed in the following locations according to numerical preponderance: (1) Forearms; (2) arms; (3) chest; (4) shoulders; (5) hands; (6) wrists; (7) legs; (8) feet; (9) back; (10) face; (11) penis.

The conventional designs in order of frequency were the following: (1) Letters; (2) coats of arms; (3) flags; (4) anchors; (5) eagles and birds; (6) stars; (7) female figures; (8) ships; (9) clasped hands; (10) dagger; (11) crosses; (12) bracelets; (13) hearts.

Letters, mottoes, initials, and allied devices lead the list and constitute about 26 per cent of all ink marks. Coats of arms and national emblems follow with about 25 per cent, then flags, anchors, etc., as is shown by the list above. Female figures are shown in 18 per cent of all tattooing; but if all figures in which women are shown, such as nude women, Gibson heads, sailor and girl, and portraits, are included, the percentage rises to 33, one in every three men tattooed selecting a design, some part of which is a female figure. Less than 1 per cent show indecent subjects; almost invariably such designs have been covered by other work, as also frequently have letters, names, and the once common tombstone scene. The usual types were found, among them, such as: H-O-L-D-F-A-S-T (a letter on the back of each finger); apprentice knot; pig on dorsum of foot, which among the older men was supposed to shield its possessor from death by drowning; crucifix, which in case of death would insure Christian burial in a Christian country, and “Jerusalem cross,” which would answer the same purpose on Moslem shores. Of the latter there were 14, all in reenlisted men. One man was adorned with a sock covering each foot and extending above the ankles; another with a fox-hunting scene, the dogs in full cry over the abdomen, up over the shoulder, down the back, and the fox almost reaching the buttocks. The entire back was covered in one case by a large Masonic column and globe. “Little Egypt” figured in two cases and a copy of a Schlitz beer trade-mark in one. The penis was found to be tattooed in 7 cases, 3 on the glands and 4 on the sides; one of the former represented the American flag. The following designs were found to be more popular on reenlistment than among those who came directly from civil life: Goddess of liberty, ships, eagles, pigs, and apprentice knots.

Farenholt A: Tattooing in the Navy, as shown by records of the USS Independence. U.S. Naval Medical Bulletin, vol 2, number 2, pp 37-39, 1908.

Notes:

“Gibson girls” --- Artistic creations of Charles Dana Gibson in the late 19th century/early 20th century. Gibson’s “Girls” were considered the models of ideal American feminine beauty.

“Little Egypt” --- Stage name of the belly dancer Ashea Wabe who garnered celebrity after appearing at Colombian Exposition of 1893.

Photo of the Day: Camp Tien-sha

2011-12-02T05:21:00.000-08:00

"Camp Tien-sha U.S. Naval Support Activity." [Entrance gate.] Danang, Vietnam.
09-5027-002

"Navy Medicine at War" Series Now Available Online

2011-12-01T12:17:00.000-08:00

The Navy Medicine at War series chronicles the compelling stories recalled by Navy Medical department veterans of World War II—physicians, dentists, nurses and hospital corpsmen who saw the war from their own unique perspectives. An account of Navy medical personnel practicing medicine in submarines operating in enemy waters, aboard vessels under kamikaze attack, aboard hospital ships, on beaches, in the jungle and POW camps scattered throughout Japan and the Philippines. The series was produced by the Bureau of Medicine and Surgery Office of Medical History and Archives in cooperation with the Visual Information Directorate of the Navy Medicine Support Command.

Part I: Trial By Fire: Navy Medicine at Pearl Harbor

http://nmvaa.org/nmi/media/musicvideo.php?vid=a576e3a5b

Part II

http://nmvaa.org/nmi/media/musicvideo.php?vid=e46263c21

Part III

http://nmvaa.org/nmi/media/musicvideo.php?vid=263617e66

Part IV

http://nmvaa.org/nmi/media/musicvideo.php?vid=02ac1894c

Part V

http://nmvaa.org/nmi/media/musicvideo.php?vid=8771a118c

Part VI

http://nmvaa.org/nmi/media/musicvideo.php?vid=ad1316f36

NMHM Presents "Trial by Fire: Navy Medicine in Pearl Harbor"

2011-12-01T11:47:00.000-08:00

Navy Medical Historian Jan Herman is speaking about Pearl Harbor for our colleagues at the National Museum of Health and Medicine on December 13th:

And they've opened a temporary exhibit on the same subject:

Lake Norconian (Naval Hospital Corona) Club Celebrates Pearl Harbor Day

2011-12-01T09:40:00.000-08:00

Archives: Naval Medical Publications Collection - NNMC News (Bethesda, MD)

2011-12-01T09:14:00.000-08:00

Naval Medical Publications Collection - NNMC News (Bethesda, MD)
2011.0004
Organizational records
17 bound volumes, finding aid, unrestricted

Oversize bound volumes of NNMC (i.e. National Naval Medical Center) News
1945 Vol. 1; 1948-51; 1952-53 Vol. 8-9; 1948-53; 1954-55 Vol. 10-11;
1956-57 Vol. 12-13; 1958-59 Vol. 14-15; 1960-61 Vol. 16-17; 1961-64 Vol.
17-20; 1963 Vol. 19; 1964 Vol. 20; 1965 Vol. 21; 1966 Vol. 22; 1967-68
Vol. 23-24; 1969 Vol. 25; 1970-71 Vol. 26-27; 1972 Vol. 28 1945-1972.
The NNMC News was replaced by the Journal newspaper.

Coming soon: "A Hilltop in Foggy Bottom" film

2011-12-01T05:27:00.000-08:00

Our office's latest film, "A Hilltop in Foggy Bottom," is now completed, and will be released in the next several weeks. The film explores the history of the first Naval Observatory, on 23rd and E Sts, NW, which has also housed Navy Medicine since 1895 when the Naval Museum of Hygiene opened. It was in the building from 1895-1905. In 1902, the Navy Medical School also moved into the building.

These promotional pictures feature Mary Clemmer Ames, writer, journalist, and Observatory visitor in 1871 as played by actress Theresa Hyatte. Lincoln, who also visited the Observatory, is played by actor James Getty.

Archives: Naval Medical Publications Collection - The Oak Leaf (Oakland, CA)

2011-11-29T13:24:00.001-08:00

Naval Medical Publications Collection - The Oak Leaf (Oakland, CA)
Organizational records
1944-1984, 1989
5 boxes and loose oversize volumes, no finding aid, unrestricted

Incomplete bound set of USNH Oakland, California's base newspaper,
transferred when the hospital closed. The paper appears to have ended in
1984, and a version called Norwester replaced it, probably in 1985.

Navy History Diversity Brochures

2011-11-29T11:33:00.000-08:00

The Naval History and Heritage Command's Publication Support Branch has recently posted free brochures that showcase the remarkable careers (in photograph and biography) of some of the distinguished officers and sailors who have served in the Navy. PDFs of these booklets can be reached through the link below.

http://www.history.navy.mil/Diversity/index.htm

The U.S. Navy Memorial Remembers Pearl Harbor

2011-11-29T11:19:00.000-08:00

Navy Surgeons at Naval Hospital Pearl Harbor, TH, December 1941

BUMED Library and Archives

In honor of the 70th Pearl Harbor Remembrance Day, the United States Navy Memorial will host a series of events, including a special “Authors on Deck” book lecture, official wreath laying ceremony and panel discussion.

Historian and author Stanley Weintraub will present his latest work, Pearl Harbor Christmas: A World at War, December 1941 – an exploration of the wartime strategies that were developed in Washington while the rest of America attempted to celebrate the holiday season. Each chapter, written in pristine detail, coincides with the last ten days of 1941 and the first day of the New Year. Following the presentation, Weintraub will be available for a Q&A and book signing. Guests are invited for a subsequent wreath laying ceremony with the U.S. Navy Band and Ceremonial Guard on the Memorial’s outdoor plaza.

In addition, the Navy Memorial welcomes local veteran survivors and witnesses of the attack for a panel discussion led by noted historian Paul Stillwell, author of Air Raid: Pearl Harbor! Recollections of a Day of Infamy. Panel members will include former U.S. Navy Memorial President and CEO Rear Admiral Edward K. Walker USN (Ret), who witnessed the battle as the young son of a submarine officer stationed at Pearl Harbor.

WHEN: Wednesday, December 7, 2011

12:00pm – Book Reading

1:00pm – Wreath Laying

2:00pm – Panel Discussion

WHERE: United States Navy Memorial
Naval Heritage Center
701 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, D.C. 20004

COST: Free and open to the public

Navy Medical History Bibliography, Part I

2011-11-29T06:54:00.000-08:00

Blochman, L.G. Doctor Squibb: The Life and Times of a Rugged Idealist. New York: Simon & Shuster, 1958

Braisted, William and William H. Bell. The Life Story of Presley Marion Rixey, 1902-1910: Biography and Autobiography. Strasburg, VA: Shenandoah Publishing House, 1930

Deppisch, Ludwig. The White House Physician: A History from Washington to George W. Bush. Jefferson, North Carolina: McFarland & Company, Inc., 2007

Estes, J. Worth. Naval Surgeon: Life and Death at Sea in the Age of Sail. Canton, MA: Science History Publications, 1998

Fishbein, M. (Editor). Doctors at War. New York: Dutton, 1945.

Foltz, Charles S. Surgeon of the Seas. The Life of Surgeon General Jonathan M. Foltz. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1931

Goldowsky, Seebert J. Yankee Surgeon: the Life and Times of Usher Parsons, 1788-1868. Canton, MA: Science History Publications, 1988

Gray, David P. Many Specialties, One Corps: A Pictorial History of the U.S. Navy Medical Service Corps. Virginia Peach, VA: The Donning Company, 1997

Herman, Jan K. Battle Station Sick Bay: Navy Medicine in World War II. Annapolis: Naval Institute Press. 1997

Herman, Jan. K. Frozen in Memory: U.S. Navy Medicine in the Korean War. Booklocker.com, Inc, 2006

Herman, Jan K. Navy Medicine in Vietnam. Oral Histories from Dien Bien Phu to the Fall of Saigon. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, Inc, 2008

Hill, Jim Dan. The Civil War Sketchbook of Charles Ellery Stedman, Surgeon, United States Navy. New York: Presidio Press, 1976

Holcomb, Richmond C. A Century with Norfolk Naval Hospital, 1830-1930. Portsmouth, VA: Printcraft, 1930

Langley, Harold. A History of Medicine in the Early U.S. Navy. Baltimore: The Johns Hopkins University Press. 1995

Massman, Emory A. Hospital Ships of World War II. An Illustrated Reference to 39 United States Military Vessels. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Company, Inc, 1999

McIntire, Ross T. White House Physician. New York: Putnam, 1946.

Oman, Charles. Doctors Aweigh. New York: Doubleday, Doran. 1943

Parsons, R.P. Mobile Hospital 3: A Naval Hospital in a South Sea Jungle. Indianapolis: Bobbs-Merrill, 1945

Roddis, Louis. A Short History of Nautical Medicine. New York: Hoeber, 1941.

Rogers, F.B. (editor). A Navy Surgeon in California, 1846-47: The Journal of Marius Duvall. San Francisco: John Howell, 1957.

Strott, George. The Medical Department of the U.S. Navy with the Army and Marine Corps in France, World War I. Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1947

Vedder, James. Combat Surgeon: On Iwo with the 27th Marines. New York: Presidio Press, 1998

Archives: U.S. Navy Medical Department Historical Data Series World War II volumes

2011-11-28T09:06:00.001-08:00

U.S. Navy Medical Department Historical Data Series World War II volumes

Organizational records

26 volumes, finding aid, unrestricted

1941-1946

26 bound printouts of microfilm of reports from the field compiled during World War II by BUMED's Administrative History Section. Includes 2 series - ships and shore stations. Ships includes hospital ships, while shore stations includes hospitals, base hospitals, fleet hospitals, mobile hospitals, dispensaries, Marine Corps facilities, aviation units, etc. This set was transferred to BUMED's Office of History in 2011 from the former Stitt Library of the National Naval Medical Center, and had been catalogued by them as VG 123.U594 1946. As these books were not formally published and no copies are listed at the National Library of Medicine or in WorldCat, these will be treated as a manuscript collection at the BUMED Office of Medical History.

Finding Aid for the

U.S. Navy Medical Department

Historical Data Series World War II volumes

US Bureau of Medicine and Surgery (BUMED)

Office of Medical History

Date of Records: 1941-1945; compiled 1946

Size: 26 bound volumes; approximately 4 linear feet

Scope & Content:

Bound printouts of microfilm of reports from the field compiled during World War II by BUMED's Administrative History Section. According to editor Bennett F. Avery's preface to Volume I of The History of the Medical Department of the U. S. Navy in World War II :

Early in World War II, President Roosevelt directed the "preserving for those who come after us an accurate and objective account of our present experience," and on 23 March 1942 a "Committee on Records of World War II" was designated to activate such a program. In the Navy, Surgeon General McIntire ordered the medical departments of all ships and stations to include in their Annual Sanitary Report an account of their experiences in administrative matters as well as in clinical and preventive medicine. These reports covered the period from 7 December 1941 to 31 August 1945.

In 1943 an Administrative History Section was designated in the Administrative Division of the Bureau. This group assembled a Historical Data Series from the Annual Sanitary Reports and, under the general rules prescribed by the Director of Naval History, compiled the "U.S. Navy Medical Department Administrative History 19411945."

The records reproduced in these volumes are presumably a subset of those referred to above.

This set was transferred to BUMED's Office of History in 2011 from the former Stitt Library of the National Naval Medical Center, and had been catalogued by them as VG 123.U594 1946. As these books were not formally published and no copies are listed at the National Library of Medicine or in WorldCat, these will be treated as a manuscript collection at the BUMED Office of Medical History.

Series I: Ships

Volume

1: Battleships

2: Cruisers

3: Aircraft Carriers

4: Destroyers

5: Submarines, Misc.

6: Hospital Ships

7: Auxiliaries (APA)

8: Auxiliaries (ABSD-AOG)

9: Auxiliaries (AP-AW, Excludes APA)

10. Battleships, Cruisers, Aircraft Carriers [formerly classified reports]

11. Destroyers, Submarines, etc. [formerly classified reports]

Series II: Shore Stations

Volume

12: Hospitals (Annapolis, MD – Memphis, TN)

13: Hospitals (Newport, RI – Seattle, WA)

14: Hospitals – Special Hospitals

15: Hospitals – Base Hospitals, Fleet Hospitals, Mobile Hospitals, Dispensaries

16-18: Aviation Units

20: School and Training Units

21-22: Shore Units

23-24: Hospitals [formerly classified reports]

25: Aviation Units [formerly classified reports]

26: Shore Units [formerly classified reports]

Compiled by

Michael Rhode, Archivist

November 28, 2011

Oral History: Vincent A. Kordack, 6th Naval Beach Battalion, hospital corpsman at Omaha Beach, 1944

2011-11-22T12:40:00.001-08:00

Interview with Vincent A. Kordack, 6th Naval Beach Battalion, hospital corpsman present at Omaha Beach, 6 June 1944. Conducted by Jan K. Herman, Historian, Navy Medical Department, 6/13/00.

When did you enlist in the Navy?

I have some of the facts right here in front of me. I enlisted in the Navy on December 1, 1942. I did my boot camp training at Bainbridge, MD, and also went to corps school there. I was there for 6 months and then was transferred to the 6th Naval Beach Battalion as a pharmacist's mate third class.

According to Mike Hall, our company commander, he had me listed with about 30 men and we were supposed to land in France on H plus 210 minutes. That would have put us on the beach somewhere around 9:00. I have no idea what time it was; I didn't have a wrist watch at the time. I have no idea whether or not we were on schedule. Our LCT was a couple of miles off the coast.

When I got into the LCT I was all the way aft so I didn't see anything forward. We maneuvered around in circles for how long I have no idea. It might have been an hour; it might have been 2 hours, but I know we were far from the beach. All of a sudden a boat pulled alongside, asked us whether we were engineers, and then told us to go on in.

We were maybe 50 or 100 yards from the beach when we stopped and unloaded.

How deep was it?

I was the last off the craft and I was up to my waist. They were already loading casualties on. The first casualty I saw was a man with one arm shot off and he was holding it in the air. And then all of a sudden I heard '88s and they were overshooting the LCT. I got on the beach and took off my medical pack and everything I had. The first person I saw was a young man I knew from the marshaling area. He was a pharmacist's mate second class--Rickenback, from New Jersey. I noticed that he had a bullet hole through his helmet. At that time where I was there was no small arms fire so I had no idea whether they had cleaned up the beach and up on the hills or whether something else had happened. The person I started speaking with was a doctor. Later on, I found out it was Mike Hall who was standing beside me and I told him there was nothing that could be done for Rickenback.

He was dead?

Yes. The shot was right through his helmet.

I'd like you to go back just for a moment. The man, Rickenback--was he Dr. Borden's litter mate?

I think he may have been. That might have been Dr. Borden there talking with me instead of Mike Hall. I met Rickenback back in the marshaling area. He was not B company. For some reason, we got very close. We were sitting in a tent talking and so forth and he said, "Vince, I'm not gonna come home. This is it. I'm not gonna make it." I always think of that because he was the first casualty I saw that day.

I then moved along the beach. As I said, at that time there was no small arms fire but they were dropping mortars or '88s. The first thing I did was to find things to use to make a fox hole or something. You could not dig in the ground; it was all gravel. Then I got up and began walking the beach taking care of casualties. Every once in a while the Germans began hitting the beach with '88s. This went on for I don't know how long, maybe an hour and a half or two hours.

Then all of a sudden everything stopped--no firing. At that particular time there was an LCI loaded with GI's who were yelling. It had been hit. A boy took off all his clothes, took a rope, and went out there. He was from B Company, 6th Beach Battalion. He went out there with this rope and we pulled all the men from the boat.

From that point on, the Germans would shell us every once in a while but as far as I could tell there was no more small arms fire. There must have been eight or nine of us standing on the beach helping these guys come in. In that particular area none of us were hit.

During that day we had two officers from my platoon, LTJG Wade, who was Beachmaster, and the Assistant Beachmaster, ENS Allison. They were both killed. When I look back at my notes here I did not land with either one of them. According to the schedule I have here, I was supposed to have landed with LTJG Ludwig, communication and Dr. Collier, medical. I have no idea how they divided us up for landing. In fact, the bosun's mate for B6, Mario Mesa, isn't even listed on my landing roster.

Periodically, we were shelled. I treated some casualties. I don't know how many. But later on that afternoon, things really quieted down on Easy Red. I guess the Army had cleared the top of the bluff as far as small arms fire was concerned.

About 8 or 9 o'clock Mesa came to us and told us we were supposed to move up to the hill. There was no more we could do down where we were. There was one path leading up to the hill and that path is still there right next to that bunker. And top of that path is the Croix de Guerre, a French monument. It was an '88 bunker and you could see right where a shell had gone right through and destroyed everything in it. We ended up using it as a headquarters for the 6th Beach Battalion.

That night we moved up to the hill and dug in. Messer told us we were on standby because we might have to pull out. To this day, I don't know what he meant by that. So we dug in. Before we went up that path in the dark, there were slit trenches along that path and they were working with flashlights. I don't know whether they were Army or Navy doctors. We were not asked to help so we just went up the hill.

About 2 in the morning I finally figured out what happened. The Army was maybe a half mile inland and they were pinned down. Somehow they broke through and that was it. And then a plane of two came over and dropped some bombs. Some of the guys said they were strafing. Keep one thing in mind. On D-Day itself, after we landed, there were no more boats coming in. In other words, we were isolated on the beach. That LCT was the last to come in and take casualties off.

The next day boats were coming in and what we were doing most of the time was taking casualties to these landing craft.

With litter teams?

Right. Actually anybody who was around carried litters when you needed them. I and Jerome Ginsberg, a hospital apprentice, carried casualties. Let me give you a list of the corpsmen from my platoon. Aiesi, PhM1c; Kordack, PhM3c; Lamar, PhM2c (I think Lamar was killed.); Snyder, HA1c; Ginsberg, HA1c; Green, HA1c; Dominico, HA1c. These are the men I landed with on D-Day. Mesa is not listed here and I have no idea how he caught up with us.

The next day we came down out of the hills and started cleaning up. In other words there were some casualties there. We rebandaged and regrouped. There was a rhino barge up on the beach waiting for high tide. I went down to the barge and it was completely covered with litter cases from all the way forward aft on both port and starboard side. You couldn't walk between them. I decided to go down and try to help any way I could. I still see this one guy on the end. I don't who he is, blood all over the place; the litter was just covered with blood and he was asking for help. At that time, I have no idea why, how, when, but the Germans started dropping '88s again. And they were dropping on both sides of us so I got out of there. That is the last time I recall anything from that second day. On the third day, we corpsmen were finished. We had nothing to do.

What did the beach look like at that time?

I've tried to remember this thing. I've tried to picture it. I went to see "The Longest Day," and that didn't refresh my mind in any way. I also saw "Saving Private Ryan." I do not recall such a disastrous type of battle.

That you saw in "Private Ryan?"

Right. I don't recall anything like that on D-Day. Keep in mind that I have no idea. There was shelling and firing where I landed and I did treat some wounded. What always amazes me is I don't recall that many wounded on Easy Red. They were coming down over the hill on litters to be taken out by landing craft and I've tried to visualize this, but I have no idea why my mind is a blank. Maybe I just don't want to remember it; I don't know.

What happened then?

I was transferred to the Pacific and sailed on the USS Kent (APA-217) and participated in two invasions. Each ship had a platoon of corpsmen and doctors and we landed with the Army. I landed on Leyte and Okinawa. After we landed on Okinawa there was nothing going on so we went back to the ship and came home.

Oral history: Capt. Madeline Sebasky Kirby, Air Force flight nurse

2011-11-22T10:45:00.001-08:00

Telephone interview with Capt. Madeline Sebasky Kirby, Air Force flight nurse with the joint Air Force-Navy 1453rd Medical Air Evacuation Squadron during the Korean War. Conducted by Mr. Jan K. Herman, Historian, Bureau of Medicine and Surgery, 27 December 2001.

Where are you from?

I'm originally from Illinois, a little town called Westville, south of Champaign-Urbana.

When did you decide you wanted to be a nurse?

I guess around Pearl Harbor. I was working in a factory in Chicago and was ready to go to work. President Roosevelt came on the radio and declared war. The duck came down from the ceiling and told me that I was going to be a nurse. I know that sounds strange.

Did you say duck?

I say duck because . . . Did you ever watch the Groucho Marx show?

Yes. Oh, the duck that came down from the ceiling with the question?

That's right. I knew I wanted to get into the war but didn't know just what I wanted to do. I decided to be a nurse. I went through 3 years of nurse's training at St. Elizabeth Hospital in Danville, IL, about 7 miles from my home town. In my senior year I became a cadet nurse with the promise to go into the Army after graduation.

I graduated in '44, and got my commission in the Army in '45. I went to basic training at Camp McCoy, WI. Right after V-J Day we were on our way overseas on a Merchant Marine ship. We staged in the Philippines for a couple of months, and then I went on to Tokyo where I was part of the Army of Occupation. I was there from January of '46 until '47 when I got out. I knew I had to get out if I wanted to get into the Air Force because the Air Force became a separate service in '47. They had to process my papers shifting from one service to another.

Then I worked as a nurse in Duval County Hospital in Jacksonville, FL, when my orders came for the Air Force.

I then went to MacDill Field in Tampa for several months. They were going to open the base at Topeka, KS, so I and two other girls were sent to reopen the hospital there.

I wanted to go to flight school and finally got my orders to Randolph Field in San Antonio.

From flight school, my home base was Kelly Field. From Kelly, I flew the southern route carrying airevac patients up through Brookley AFB in Alabama, Warner-Robbins, GA, and then up the east coast to Westover AFB in Massachusetts. We had patients going both ways, getting them close to hospitals near their homes.

So, I had temporary duty there at Kelly, temporary duty at Westover, and then temporary duty at Travis in California. At that time, Travis was called Fairfield-Suisun AFB. I then came back to Kelly and flew to Westover where I got orders to return to Kelly because I was being sent PCS to Hickam in Hawaii. This was during the Korean War in 1950.

During the "Big Push" in July of '50, we also did a lot of flying. From the minute we got there, we didn't even have time to unpack. We were flying from Hickam to Japan by way of Midway or Wake. We used to refuel at either at Midway or Wake Island.

You were flying C-54s?

Yes. '54s. During the "Big Push" we had chartered aircraft from Pan Am along with the Royal Canadian Air Force. We would fly with anybody who had an airplane that could carry patients.

How many patients could you get on a '54?

A lot depended on the size of their casts, how much room they took up, and the number of ambulatory patients. You had patients confined to litters and those in partial body casts. You could carry about 50 patients if most of them were ambulatory.

You were taking patients from Japan back to the states?

Yes. We had another squadron that brought them from Korea to Itami outside Osaka. Our squadron, the 1453rd, picked them up at Itami and flew them up to Haneda in Tokyo. There the patients were screened again to see who could go on to the states and who would stay behind. We brought back several planeloads of frostbite patients in addition to other patients.

What kind of medical procedures could you perform on these flights?

We gave them their penicillin injections which, in those days, was administered every 4 hours. There were dressings to change and medications to be given. We had several feedings on some patients; they would have to be fed every hour. Some had chest wounds that had to be suctioned.

Was this still 1950?

The latter part of '50 and '51.

So, you would have been seeing some of those patients from the Chosin Reservoir.

Yes. We would fly them back by the same route via either Wake or Midway. We would refuel, feed the patients, change their dressings, and then go on to Hickam. There we'd off-load them overnight. Then they'd be put on another flight to come into the states at Travis AFB. From there they were brought on up the coast to hospitals close to their homes.

Your squadron, the 1453rd, was a joint squadron with the Navy.

Yes. We also had the RCAF (Royal Canadian Air Force) nurses with us. In fact, we were so short of nurses that the Army sent us a few. Of course, they weren't trained in airevac procedures. So they worked in the office at our headquarters in Hickam.

Do you recall any specific patients you may have treated?

I kept my log book. It must have been in '52 when I was in a C-97 crash at Haneda. We crashed on takeoff when the landing gear collapsed. We had a full load of fuel aboard because we were going to overfly Midway or Wake and go straight into Hickam. It was raining and the runway was wet. We were taking off, the right landing gear collapsed, and the pilot reversed the props. That aircraft spun around and headed toward the seawall of the Sea of Japan and came to rest.

We had three patients who were injured. One was hit in the back by a piece of metal that pierced the fuselage and came up through his rubber mattress when the wing dragged on the runway. A piece of metal from the landing gear hit another patient in the shoulder. Another patient suffered a mild heart attack. We had a nurse and two techs up front and a nurse and two techs in the back.

I was in the back, briefing one of the RCAF nurses. I could hear metal giving way, and the aircraft spinning. I prayed. Everybody was quiet. The crash crew came out and sprayed us, and we got the plane off loaded in a matter of minutes.

Two hours later, we were on another airplane heading to Hawaii with our original patients with the exception of the three who were injured.

Were they badly injured?

No. They remained in Tokyo.

So, that was the closest call you ever had?

Yes. But, you don't think about yourself at a time like that. All the years of training and all the procedures you've learned go through your mind. "What am I going to do when this thing settles down?" All you think about is how you're going to get the patients out of there.

Had you been trained to get patients off loaded quickly in case of an emergency?

Yes. We had been taught that in flight school. Off course, in flight school we had been training on C-47s. We didn't have any '54s or '97s. The '97s didn't come out until later.

Did you ever fly with Bobbi Hovis on these missions?

Bobbi and I were on what was called the "sucker list." In the service, they always say, "Don't volunteer for anything." Well, I never believed in that. I liked to volunteer so my name was on the volunteer list. Bobbi's must have been also because one time we both volunteered to fly to Maui. We participated in an air show. People came through and asked us questions about the aircraft and the patients we carried. The chamber of commerce then took us to lunch and filled the plane with exotic flowers.

So, between your airevac flights you were showing off your planes?

Right. This, of course, wasn't done during the "Big Push." At that time, we never got any crew rest. We rested when we were dead-heading. So, we were used to sleeping on the floor of the plane or the floor of any terminal we landed at. When we got to Wake or Midway it was usually in the middle of the night. As I recall, both places depended on desalinization for their water and so water was only available during certain parts of the day. When we got there there wasn't any so we had to do the best we could, drinking water out of lister bags.

We used to serve box lunches on our flights, and sometimes there wouldn't be enough of them and we had to split everything up.

Normally, the box lunches would suffice for both the patients and the crew?

Right. There were times when there would just barely be enough box lunches for the patients.

But you must also have had some special feeding requirements for some of the patients.

Yes. We screened the patients at the hospital, where special lunches were then prepared and packed.

What was your rank at this point in your career?

I as a 1st lieutenant. I made captain in '52.

When did you leave the Air Force?

I got out in February of '53. In those days you had to get out if you got married. And you had to get out if you were pregnant. I had gotten married in November of '52 and, by the time they got my papers straightened out, it was February of '53.

How many years were you in altogether?

I had 2 years in the Army and 5 years in the Air Force.

What did you do after that?

My husband, who was in the Marines, was instructing at Pensacola. We lived there until my daughter was born and then he got orders to Quantico when she was 3 months old. We then moved to Quantico. After that he was stationed at the Pentagon and then at the Naval Observatory with intelligence. He was a pilot and had a clearance for intelligence. During the Vietnam War he flew helicopters. He retired after 27 years.

So you became a housewife when you got out and raised a family.

That's right. I raised five children and now have 13 grandchildren. We ended up on this farm in Capron, VA. We raise cotton and peanuts.

It's been close to 50 years since all that happened back in Korea. Do you ever think about that time.

Yes, I think about it a lot. I love to write to my old flying buddies. I took a lot of pictures back then and my grandkids ask me about them and what happened back then. This year, the local historical society had a get together of Korean veterans and asked me to speak to the group. That was interesting. A lot of the fellows served, but, as you know, the women who served are in the minority, especially in this rural area.

The other day I was talking to a young woman who asked me what I did before I got married. I told her I was a flight nurse during the Korean War. She looked at me and said, "Korean War? When was that?"

It was an honor and a priviledge to have served my country and I would do it again if I wasn't so darned old.

Archives: Kirk Diaries

2011-11-22T10:30:00.000-08:00

Kirk Diaries
Personal papers
1952-1953
1 box, no finding aid, unrestricted

Three diaries from LT (J.G.) Thomas A. Kirk Jr, USNR of the Surgical
Team No. 22, 14th Field Hospital during the Korean War. Two are his
record books of operating most often on Koreans, North and South, but
also Chinese prisoners of War and some American Marines. The surgical
operations are from March - December 1952. The third diary is a personal
one, to be read by his wife, and maintained from February - March, 1952.
Also included are five Kodachrome prints of his unit's grounds. The
diaries were dropped off with no paperwork at the Office of the
Historian by a relative of Kirk.