Even as a kid I was intrigued by the Second World War. My Dad had served in the infantry in the South Pacific but had little to say about his experiences. It only triggered in me an insatiable curiosity about those times. I was a voracious reader of Samuel Eliot Morison’s landmark series of Navy history in World War II, and eagerly awaited each released volume. It was such a righteous war, I guess, more or less good guys against bad guys and all the might and technology that industrialized countries could muster to bring Earth to the brink of Armageddon. Yet it still was battle fought by individual soldiers, sailors, and Marines. The infantryman and the seaman were the final common element in victory or defeat. The rifle, bayonet, and turreted gun ruled land and sea and spelled the difference in conquest or capitulation. Even in the air, planes were extensions of the pilot’s hands, still fought within sight of the enemy and maneuvering as if engaged in fighting mano-a mano. And into that melee was thrown surgeon and nurse, men and women naïve to the rigors of combat but dedicated to the irrevocable mission of saving life and limb under the direst of circumstances. It was irresistible drama and, in the Pacific Theater, provided the most compelling stories of heroism and sacrifice. In telling these tales, I cared not so much about organization or hierarchy but instead my focus was the harrowing experiences and circumstances that doctors encountered and the magical feats they still were able to perform on men brutalized beyond description in jungles and atolls and iron ships miles from the conveniences of modern medicine. It was truly a war fought by the Greatest of Generations.
