Medic!: How I Fought World War II with Morphine, Sulfa, and Iodine Swabs (review)

Medically rejected for Navy enlistment right after Pearl Harbor, Franklin, a twenty-five-year-old failed actor, was drafted in 1942, served briefly in the 28th Division and volunteered for transfer to the 45th Division in order to go overseas. A corporal-clerk in a medical unit, he had very limited medical training. In North Africa in June 1943 he was assigned as a platoon corpsman and observed the treatment of an accidental extremity gunshot wound, "sulfa powder and dressing."

Medically ignorant, Franklin landed with his platoon in Sicily in July and began to learn casualty care on the job, helped by other medics and—when available—the Battalion Surgeon (especially for treating the sick). He found that artillery fire did not bother him and he learned that infantrymen cherish a "medic" who goes forward under fire to treat and evacuate the wounded. He earned a Silver Star for doing this.

In September 1944 he landed at Salerno, Italy. Malaria was widespread; he estimated fever by the pulse rate. Battle became a struggle in mud and mountains, in rain and cold, and with the usual confusion, misery, and fear. He had combat fatigue—and soldiered on. The weather, bad boots, command ignorance and indifference led to an epidemic of trench foot. The author's case was self-medicated too long and he was evacuated to a hospital in North Africa for two months (December and January), returning to his unit in February 1944—straight to Anzio.

The German 88s, the weather, air attacks, determined German resistance gave Franklin more than enough wounded and sick (malaria) patients. He never stopped moving up with the attack, or digging in with the defense—the men were his to care for. He had been reassigned in March from his company to the Aid Station—a good medical officer and his first sergeant insisted that he needed relief from the front lines.

He visited Rome, made Sergeant and landed in Toulon in August 1944 with the 45th Division, which fought through France and into Germany. He refused a commission. He was worn out—his feet never fully recovered, he had crippling back pain and weight loss—he was no longer fit for duty. He received a second Silver Star for bravery under fire at Anzio. There are thirty-two pictures in the book. One (Fig. 221) unwittingly says much about Second World War officer-enlisted status. LTG Alexander Patch pins the Silver Star medal on the author—Patch is standing on a wide plank with clean leggings and boots and a nice raincoat. The author is in rumpled fatigues and is standing in mud.

Franklin was hospitalized in Germany and evacuated to the U.S., married his college sweetheart, finished college, had three children, and taught high school English, history, and literature and lost his wife after fifty-six years of marriage. Retired, he works as a free lance photographer and produced this memoir at age eighty-eight.

A number of physicians and more nurses have published their World War II experiences. It is very rare to find a front-line memoir of an enlisted corpsman (medic, aid man). The author kept "detailed notes" while he was with his platoon and "all names are real." First Sergeant Cody is the admired "father" to the author and the platoon. Some were heroes, a few were cowards, most just kept going until they got sick, wounded, or killed. Some officers were good, some were awful. He is constantly angry that the Aid Station litter bearers were afraid to come forward and the infantry had to evacuate its wounded.

The spare and terse prose is vividly evocative of the job the author did: crawl forward to the wounded, dress, and evacuate. Dose the sick. Comfort the frightened. And do it in all weather and terrain while the enemy is...