The Diary
D-Day + 1
I operated for 22 hours yesterday. This morning I find I cannot remember the faces of the men I saved, only the ones I could not. We have no plasma left. The blood is caked on my surgical gloves, flaking off like rust. I cannot get it wet or it will run down my arms again.
A boy came in this morning with both legs gone at the thigh. He asked me to tell his mother he felt no pain. I wrote down her address—Mrs. Robert Henley, 412 Elm Street, Pittsburgh—but he died before I finished the letter. I am keeping his wallet. I will write to her when I can.
D-Day + 4
The stench is indescribable. We are operating in a concrete bunker that was a German command post. The walls are still covered with their maps. I sleep between cases on a stretcher stained with someone else's blood.
Today I removed the fourth leg from a boy who kept asking for his "buddy." The buddy was buried at sea this morning. I did not tell him.
D-Day + 12
I wept today for the first time since medical school. A young lieutenant, gut-shot, asked me if he would see his daughter. She was born three days ago. He had a photograph. I told him yes. He thanked me and closed his eyes. He knew I was lying. I think he was grateful for the lie.
We have run out of morphine. I am using brandy and prayer.
[Major Smith served through the Normandy campaign and the push into Germany. He received a Bronze Star but never spoke of his experiences. His diaries were found after his death in 1987 by his grandson. They were donated to the National WWII Museum in 2004.]
I operated for 22 hours yesterday. This morning I find I cannot remember the faces of the men I saved, only the ones I could not. We have no plasma left. The blood is caked on my surgical gloves, flaking off like rust. I cannot get it wet or it will run down my arms again.
A boy came in this morning with both legs gone at the thigh. He asked me to tell his mother he felt no pain. I wrote down her address—Mrs. Robert Henley, 412 Elm Street, Pittsburgh—but he died before I finished the letter. I am keeping his wallet. I will write to her when I can.
D-Day + 4
The stench is indescribable. We are operating in a concrete bunker that was a German command post. The walls are still covered with their maps. I sleep between cases on a stretcher stained with someone else's blood.
Today I removed the fourth leg from a boy who kept asking for his "buddy." The buddy was buried at sea this morning. I did not tell him.
D-Day + 12
I wept today for the first time since medical school. A young lieutenant, gut-shot, asked me if he would see his daughter. She was born three days ago. He had a photograph. I told him yes. He thanked me and closed his eyes. He knew I was lying. I think he was grateful for the lie.
We have run out of morphine. I am using brandy and prayer.
[Major Smith served through the Normandy campaign and the push into Germany. He received a Bronze Star but never spoke of his experiences. His diaries were found after his death in 1987 by his grandson. They were donated to the National WWII Museum in 2004.]