Taught to Kill: An American Boy's War from the Ardennes to Berlin

Some Win

Some Win z One of the biggest and most frustrating management jobs in my war—maybe any war—was caring for the wounded. There are five to six times as many casualties who live as who die, and the odds improve with every war. The primary link to professional help on our battlefield was the medic. Our medics were officially members of Battalion Headquarters Company, assigned for duty in the roster of the rifle company they regularly accompanied in battle. To the men who looked to their ministration , the medics traveling with each company delivered security and compassion. The company medic was truly your ‘‘family’’ doctor. The pejorative ‘‘chancre mechanic’’ or ‘‘pill roller,’’ reserved for garrison doctors and orderlies, were never invoked for the company medic, even in fun. Most medics were corporals or buck sergeants, with a ‘‘T’’ under the inverted ‘‘V’’ of their stripes to designate their skills as technical , medical in their case. A private is a seventh-grade soldier, a private first class is grade six. A two-stripe corporal with a ‘‘T’’ is a T-5, a three-striper a T-4. When things were tough or you had blisters on your feet that cried for treatment, they were respectfully hailed not by rank, but as ‘‘Doc.’’ And to many a badly wounded man, they were addressed with heartfelt reverence as ‘‘Doctor.’’ Company medics deftly wielded a scalpel to whittle away cal137 138 Taught to Kill luses and blisters on feet too sore to bear weight. They applied medicine, painkillers, pads, and patented dressings to keep a man walking. While their contributions were accomplished with limited medical knowledge, no skilled surgeon or senior medical of- ficer could match the infantry medic’s skill in foot care. The infantry may travel on its stomach, but it gets around on its feet. The foot was a dedicated medic’s primary concern. If there were a civilian counterpart to infantry company medic, his shingle would picture a bare foot with umpteen sores and blisters. Trained Stateside to identify and render first aid for all sorts of injuries, they learned in battle to practice medicine far beyond the compress, tourniquet, and sulfa pill. Absent a physician, frontline medics improvised on uncharted medical ground, forced to treat emergencies the manual never described. After hastily performing first aid, they then served as pack mules to take their battered burdens to the rear and a real doctor. Experience in the field beat out textbook knowledge; formal medical training took a back seat to practical experience, love of craft, and real dedication. I once suggested to our original medic, Ben Tanner, shot in cold blood during our first attack, that following the war he might think of making podiatry his profession. He thought a long minute, and shook his head: ‘‘Nope, I think I’d like to get into foot care as a full-time job,’’ he replied. Tanner was not long on book learning. You couldn’t miss the large red cross on a white background that medics displayed front and rear. It was accorded worldwide respect ordained by the Geneva Convention. This same international rulebook that decreed a prisoner of war need give his captors only his name, rank, and serial number dictated that each side would care for the other’s wounded. After all, some rules and restrictions should apply in war, just as they do in a Spanish bullring , or did in an ancient Roman arena full of lions and Christians. Except the war that engulfed us GIs grew to be grotesquely devoid of humane rules and customary amenities. Perspectives narrowed . The obsession was to kill or be killed. No place for Mr. Good Guy. No scoring markers, as in Stateside maneuvers, to designate make-believe casualties. We played for keeps. Rather than Some Win 139 turn the other cheek, if the enemy deliberately harmed one of our medics, we short-circuited to pure revenge. Incessant violence and the specter of our own imminent deaths blunted compassion. Some formerly clean, upright, and thoroughly ethical American soldiers occasionally took a shot at an enemy medic; our guys beat up or shot prisoners once in a while; enemy wounded were occasionally left untended for long periods, sometimes out of spite. But our own precious medics watched out for their own like a bear guards its cubs. One strapping PFC in our outfit called Popeye (all muscles...