Not All Wounds Are Physical

National Archives

PFC Dylan Jackson ran into the medical tent, Doc Milbury looked up from inspecting a soldier's feet and gestured, "wait."

"I told ya Gus, ya gotta take care of your feet. Put this ointment on after you clean 'em, and change your socks, every damned day. If you get trench foot, you can lose your feet, man. You want to be a cripple?"

Pvt Gus Belsha shook his head, "I know Doc, I know, it's just we've been up on the line for a couple of weeks now..."

"No excuses," Doc Milbury walked over to a corner of the tent and dug through a box, coming up with a pair of GI socks, "take these and change them tonight. Wash the old ones out as best you can, dry your feet as best as you can, every night at least."

"Thanks Doc."

As Pvt Belsha put his socks and boots back on, Milbury looked over at Jackson. "What's up Dylan?"

Pvt Jackson, a medic in training, came over and whispered into Doc Milbury's ear, "You have to come with me, it's Sgt Jenkins, I think he's lost it."

Doc Milbury grabbed his medic kit and said, "Alright, let's go."

The company had been running the urban combat course all day. The Army had taken over a small Belgian village which had been shelled multiple times. No one lived there now, so the Army decided it would be a good place to try and teach the men the tricks of the trade in fighting for a city. Aachen was there, the brass had decreed that the Big Red One, supported by the 3rd Armored Division, would be attacking, and taking that city.

But the large number of green replacements who had recently joined the division necessitated a lot of extra training. Some of the new men had barely put a hundred rounds through a rifle in their earlier training. They knew how to take orders, but that was about it, leave them on their own and they'd die.

1Lt Nathan Paddock had been talking with the company commander, Captain Alphonse Josephson, when his platoon guide ran up.

"Begging the captain's pardon, but we need the lieutenant." Cpl Jimmy Winston gasped as he said this, he had run the entire way from the platoon's bivouac.

The captain looked at Winston, then at Paddock, "It's okay, I think we're done for the day. Any questions Lieutenant?"

"No sir, I'll also get you those ammo counts you wanted."

Captain Josephson walked up the main street of the small ruined village as Paddock turned to the young corporal. "What's up Jimmy?"

"It's Sgt Jenkins, sir, we have a problem."

1Lt Paddock looked at the platoon guide and asked, "Problem, what problem?"

"He's lost it sir, he's in that shed next to the platoon CP, he's crying and stuff, he says he deserves to die for what happened to the new kids in his squad."

"Oh shit, let's go." The two men took off running back to their bivouac.

Doc Milbury was already there, it looked as if he was talking with Jenkins through the closed door of the shed, but Paddock didn't hear any response from inside.

"Greg, it's Paddock, what's going on?"

From inside they heard the ominous sound of a clip being inserted and the bolt sliding home on Jenkins' Garand.

"Jesus Lieutenant, I am so sorry about getting those guys killed the other day, it's eating me up inside Sir. What am I gonna do?"

"Don't do anything Greg, let's figure this out. Maybe you need a pass to go down to Paris for a week or two, see the sights, get laid, Hell, we can fix this. You and me buddy, together." Paddock looked over at Cpl Steve McDonald, the other NCO in Jenkins' squad. He walked over to the lieutenant and leaned in, whispering...

"We had a letter for Bill Crawford this morning, the dumbasses at battalion forwarded it to us. Greg got it and looked at it. It was from Crawford's wife, she had a baby, a boy, she wanted to know what Crawford thought of naming the kid for his grandfather. Sorry L.T., but Greg broke down when he saw that."

Sergeant Gregory (NMI¹) Jenkins sat there in the darkness of the shed, he had never felt this low in his entire life. He had loaded his M1 out of boredom, after he had done so, he did, for the briefest of moments, think about killing himself. But as a practicing Catholic, a little voice in his head whispered that that was a one way ticket to Hell, and it would kill his parents back home in Montana.

But the men outside the shed didn't know that, and it suddenly struck him that he should say something...

"Sorry L.T. I don't mean to hurt myself or anyone else, it's just that when I get anxious, I practice loading and unloading old Gertie. It don't mean nothing L.T., I just need some alone time or something. Man, I got those guys killed, Crawford's kid is gonna grow up without a dad. I did that L.T., f**k I am so damned sorry."

Cpl Winston looked at his lieutenant and mouthed, "Old Gertie?"

Sighing, Paddock just looked at Winston and whispered, "Lots of people name their rifles. Just like tank crews name their tanks. Airmen name their airplanes."

Winston just shrugged and said, "Okay."

"Hey Greg, we'll leave you alone then, okay. Don't do anything stupid, all right?"

"I won't L.T., I swear."

Taking Doc Milbury out of earshot of the shed, 1Lt Paddock asked, "I hate to lose Jenkins to this shit. Is there anything we can do to get him off the line for a week or so?"

"Not really lieutenant. Remember that guy Patton slapped in Sicily? Same kind of thing, the man just broke down. A few days R and R² will sometimes help. But it ain't something the Army wants to acknowledge."

"Hey Doc, L.T.?" PFC Jackson spoke up. Both men turned to look at him. "Cap'n wants to set up a rifle range, teach the new recruits how to shoot, he needs an NCO for that. Isn't Jenkins a pretty good man with a rifle?"

1Lt Paddock nodded, then clapped PFC Jackson on the shoulder, "Good idea little Doc! Jenkins can go back with you, I'll write it up for the captain, I know he'll go along."

Doc Milbury turned to look at Jackson as the officer walked away, "Heh, 'Little Doc,' I like that, I think you've got your official nickname now Dylan."

"I suppose that's better than what the battalion surgeon calls me."

"Yup, it most definitely is. Word'll get back that the doughboys call you 'Little Doc' and old Doc McPherson will probably stop referring to you as turdhead."

"One can only hope," PFC Dylan 'Little Doc' Jackson muttered, "one can only hope."

Captain Josephson liked Jackson's idea, who 1Lt Paddock gave due credit to, he also liked the young medic's new nickname.

Sgt Greg Jenkins went back to the company area, the captain got his rifle range set up, and Jenkins helped the new men zero their weapons in, something they hadn't learned in boot camp, and they had the chance to get more familiar with their weapons. Jenkins was able to keep busy and put the incident of the meeting engagement behind him.

After all, as 1Lt Paddock had told him, "You didn't kill those men Greg, the f**king Krauts did. We need your experience with these younger men. Get your act together, I need you Sergeant."

"Okay Sir. I'm okay, still feel bad, but..."

"You don't think I feel bad about every single man we've lost so far? You don't think the captain doesn't feel the losses? It's war Greg, and war is Hell on Earth. Stay alive, do your best to keep your men alive. Someday, we'll all go home. This f**king war can't last forever."

Sgt Jenkins nodded, he knew the lieutenant was right, but he was still going to write a letter to Bill Crawford's wife. He owed him that much.

¹ NMI = No Middle Initial, a very Army thing. Have to fill all the slots on the paperwork, even the one for middle initial, if you didn't have one, you were supposed to enter "NMI." So of course your name showed up like that on a lot of Army paperwork.

² R and R = Rest and Recuperation, and a lot of other unofficial names.