Missing in Action: Stories from Our Veteran Patients

My patient was a B-17 pilot. While on a bombing raid over Bremen, Germany, in July 1944, his plane was hit by anti-aircraft fire, forcing the crew to abandon and parachute. During the confusion he had inadvertently ripped off his dog tags - containing his name, rank, serial number and religion. His lack of identification nearly caused his death.

At the height of World War 2 there were a total of 15 million men and women in the armed services of the United States, this number representing an astounding 10% of the then population. A comparative group today would be 28 million! Currently 140000 military are deployed in Iraq.

The remaining veterans of World War 2 number 3 million today. They are rapidly dying or suffering from chronic degenerative diseases - heart failure, joint disease and macular degeneration. They represent a diminishing breed and source of personal history. Long silent, even to close relatives and friends, the vets are opening up. Many realize they have suppressed stories to tell.

My own father served in the Navy on a destroyer during that war. He remained silent over his experiences. When I had located the web site of his ship a few years after he died, I was astounded to read its itinerary. Of note was a sinking of a German U-boat 30 miles off the shore of New Jersey! After the war in Europe had ended, my father's ship was involved in the Okinawa campaign. The ship had been nicked by a Kamikaze and also shot one down. I had to read this on the Internet. I never heard it from him.

One of the advantages of being a physician is hearing a story or two volunteered by a World War 2 vet, such as the above patient. My patient, 85, with dense cataracts, was seeing me for a pre-op evaluation. After parachuting out of his aircraft he landed in a pile of manure, hid for 3 days, heading for less belligerent Denmark. He was found by a group of farmers who slashed his left arm and chest with pitchforks.

When he was finally turned over to the German military, he was accused of being a Jewish spy. Since he had no ID, he had no religion. He protested and said he was a Presbyterian, which he was, but the German officer knew only of Lutherans and Catholics. He convinced them that he wasn't a Jew and took him to the prison camp surgeon, a man nearly 80. Anesthesia was scarce. He was given a shot right through his manure-covered outfit. Fortunately, he was well immunized against tetanus. Looking at his scars, I told him the old surgeon did a great job.

The patient was now weeping as he continued his saga of near-starvation, unheated barracks, and a threat that the entire barracks would be executed if even one person escaped.

His liberation came in February 1945, when the British entered the camp. By now in his story, he was shaking with sobs. End of story? I think not. This past Memorial Day, while watching a parade, an open car of octogenarians passed by, practically unnoticed by the crowd. I thought how words like liberty and freedom are easily bandied about. A closer look at those old men gave relevance of freedom's meaning and dreadful cost.

A clinical session with a vet, despite a heavy schedule, is a gift. They're dying at increasingly rapid rates. Soon they will all be gone. I suggest that every student, resident or faculty take the time to listen to personal history. We are in a position to hear these sad but enlightening events. Let's savor the opportunity.

Jack Kaufman, MD
Professor of Medicine

"Reflections" is a collection of essays by the health professionals of the Medical College of Wisconsin.