If then you regulate your mental habits by such a code other habits will of necessity fall into the proper line. The only other admonition I would give you in parting is summed up in these beautiful lines of our own Bryant:
That the sentiment is not new, however, will appear in this other and ancient version which Sir William Jones has thus rendered from the Persian:
The experience of listening to a so-called Commencement Address under these peculiar circumstances is doubtless as novel to you as is to me its preparation. So different is this occasion from that usually spoken of as Commencement Day, that it taxed my judgment as much as it did my ability to—as it were—"meet the indication," and to try to say the appropriate thing. It behooves me to remember that this is in effect not an address to a class of students just entering a learned profession, but an effort on the part of one on the borderland of experiences gathered from a civil surgeon's work, yet enjoying a quasi military title, with strong ties and leanings—to some extent inherited—toward the course of the army surgeon and the fascinations of the soldier's life. Self-evident it is that you need no admonition which I could give, for the very fact of your presence here indicates that your selection by your superior officers stamps their approval of your ability as well as your character.
Time has wrought vast changes in the personnel of the army medical corps, as in every other branch of the service. From the days of Xenophon, with his selection of the best material afforded, to the dark middle ages with practically no provision, then to the later centuries with their menial barbers and barber surgeons, and then the very gradually improved conditions which bettered the service, down to the present time, when the best is none too good, there has been that same evolution which has characterized all the rest of mankind's surroundings and man's realization of his public and private duties. From the days when the first duty of the so-called army surgeon was to minister to his commanding general, and when the private soldier received but the scantiest if any attention, we have arrived at that time when the good health of the entire army is the aim and pride of the medical corps, and when public opinion demands for every enlisted man a degree of watchful care greater than many parents bestow upon their own families. The line officer of to-day can no longer afford to disregard the advice of his medical officers, and camp sanitation is now of even greater importance than operative technique, because preventable sickness and the incapacity caused by disease are recognized as far more to be dreaded than the bullets of the enemy.
Public estimate of our duties to the sick and wounded has varied largely during different epochs. Thus Homer makes Nestor say:
Homer also lauded the services of the two sons of Aesculapius, whom he deified as the grandest of heroes and the wisest of surgeons, and thus wrote of them at the siege of Troy, twelve hundred years before the birth of Christ:
Again he thus describes an operation:
Contrast the tender mercies thus described with an incident occurring during one of the exciting experiences of Ambroise Paré, who one day, during a battle, saw three desperately wounded soldiers placed with their backs against a wall. An old campaigner inquired, "Can those fellows get well?" "No," answered Ambroise. Thereupon the old campaigner went up to them and cut all their throats, "sweetly and without wrath." Note, if you will, the expression, "sweetly and without wrath," since it implies a primitive form of humanity in providing euthanasia for the hopelessly wounded.
While it has been from time immemorial the custom to attach surgeons to various armies, some idea of prevailing notions of antiquity may be gained from the statement that Xenophon had but eight field surgeons with his 10,000 troops. In his army the sick and wounded were cared for in adjoining villages, or, when on the march, were carried in the rear of the troops, being cared for by women from "the baggage." Whether these women were the "vivandieres" of those days I do not quite make out, nevertheless they must have been much the same thing.
In the days of Rome's greatest glory each cohort of 420 men had four surgeons, while each legion of ten cohorts had one legionary physician. In the navy there was also one physician to each trireme; nevertheless the wounded on land or sea received scant attention, although it is interesting to read that each soldier carried with him the most necessary bandages ready for use, an emergency packet supposed to be quite modern.
A few hundred years later, in the Eastern Empire, the Emperor Maurice ordered that throughout every division of from two hundred to four hundred cavalry eight or ten of the strongest men be selected, in order to bring to the rear those who were severely wounded, to supply them with water, and to collect the weapons lying upon the field. These mounted cavalrymen received a small reward for each person rescued. Three hundred years later this arrangement was continued in operation by Leo VI. Wherever it was possible the sick and wounded soldiers were cared for by monks or by sisters, in the numerous hospices and institutions which abounded throughout the East, and although the care was often of the worst the efforts made were in the right direction. Holy oil, laying on of hands, supplication, and the use of holy relics constituted a large part of the treatment in vogue; nevertheless these remedies were not quite so injurious as some of the other and more disgusting ones whose use prevailed in those days.
Without doubt the two army surgeons who during the last 500 years achieved more fame than any of their colleagues were Ambroise Paré, and Baron Larrey. Such commanding figures were they, not only in their professional work, but in the general influence which they wielded alike upon sovereign and common soldier, that they will ever be regarded as among the most memorable characters of common history. Paré died in 1590, Larrey in 1842. Each was passed along from one ruler or commander to his successor, and each was regarded as about the most priceless legacy which could be thus transmitted.
Paré's name has always been most conspicuously mentioned in connection with the history of the introduction of the ligature as a substitute for the cautery iron or boiling oil, previously in use for the checking of hemorrhage, and for his teaching concerning the nature of gun-shot wounds, which had been previously and universally considered as necessarily poisoned wounds; but his new practice and his new views in these respects were but a small part of the general services which he rendered. It is not worth while to try to even epitomize here to-day the history of the ligature; though while its introduction has been widely credited to Paré, you must not forget that it was in use many centuries before his time, and was frequently mentioned by the early writers. What Paré really did was, first, to abolish a barbarous and unscientific method of dealing with hemorrhage, and then to re-introduce or promote the employment of the ligature as a far preferable substitute, more humane, more clean, and more desirable. And so rather than do scant justice by incomplete reference to Paré's actual contributions to knowledge I prefer rather to speak of the other side of this great man's character, and to remind you of some of the many ways by which he secured such marvellous influence over those around him, and made his remarkable personality of the greatest use. As he passed through one campaign after another his reputation became more and more firmly established, and inspired surgeons the world over with the desire to visit him. In almost his every act his sagacity was conspicuously displayed, while, whenever they were called for, his personal courage and absolute lack of fear were equally apparent.
Deprived of the benefits of early and liberal training he probably, on that very account, developed his power of thought, his memory and his analytical powers all the more keenly, inasmuch as these were made to take the place of what he might have learned from books.
The following anecdote will serve to illustrate, for instance, the general esteem in which he was held. In October, 1552, the army of Charles V. was besieging the city of Metz, and Charles himself came to take command. In the beleaguered city were gathered the nobility and the bluest blood of France, while at the head of the defending forces was the Duke of Guise. The imprisoned soldiers and civilians suffered alike from the onslaughts of the enemy, the rigors of a frightful winter, the lack of food, and the presence of disease. The Duke had established two hospitals for the soldiers, which he put in charge of the barber surgeons of the city, and furnished them with money with which to procure supplies, but owing to the wretched incompetence of these same barber surgeons nearly all the wounded perished, and the horrible suspicion arose that the soldiers were being poisoned. The Duke sent word to the King of France that the place could hold out for ten months, but that they needed more medicines. The King then sent for Paré, gave him money, ordered him to take all the medicines and other supplies he deemed necessary, and further aided him by bribing an Italian captain to permit the celebrated surgeon, in some way, to enter the besieged city. Braving all dangers, and being finally successful, Paré entered Metz two months later. He had at this time been with the armies for at least sixteen years, and was known by sight to officers and soldiers alike. On the day after his arrival the Duke of Guise dramatically presented him, on the ramparts, to all his officers, who embraced him, and hailed him with loud acclaim, while by the soldiers he was received with shouts of triumph. "We shall not die," they exclaimed, "even though wounded, for Paré is among us." The effect of this great surgeon's appearance was to give new vigor to the defenders, and to it was due the fact that the city was saved.
In his time Paré met with success such as to-day would be pronounced most extraordinary. He inspired the wounded with utmost confidence, and displayed, always and everywhere, remarkable firmness. Not the least notable feature in his personal history is it that he should have so long retained favor at court with such outspoken independence of character.
Equally reputable among army surgeons of the past, and one of the most commanding figures in history, medical or other, was Baron Larrey. For more than fifty years he was an army surgeon, and for a great part of that period he stood really closer to Napoleon than almost any of the men whom the latter attached to his person by one or another of those traits that made him such a remarkable figure. That one of the greatest murderers and one of the greatest life-savers of all time should have been so closely drawn to each other, constitutes one of the most noteworthy incidents of history. Alike in many respects, so unlike in so many others, it is one of the most creditable features of Napoleon's career that he should have accorded to Larrey that recognition which he early gave and never withdrew. Never was such tribute more signally deserved nor worthily bestowed. Though he passed through twenty-six campaigns, "from Syria to Portugal, and from Moscow to Madrid," and though his wonderful courage never failed him under the most trying surroundings of carnage and conflict, it may still be questioned whether it did not take a higher degree or order of courage to face Napoleon in his tent, or tell him plain truths in the Tuilleries.
The history of campaigning affords innumerable incidents illustrating heroism under fire, or equally trying circumstances, and it is difficult and perhaps unjust to single out a few for individual mention. Bravery is confined to no epoch and to no race; it is simply a God-given trait, not by any means possessed by all men. Take, for instance, one incident in the career of Larrey. During the landing of the English on the shores of Aboukir Bay, when General Silly had his knee crushed by a bullet, Larrey appreciated that immediate amputation was imperative, and gaining consent performed it, in three minutes, under the enemy's fire. Just as he was finished the English cavalry charged upon them; in his own words, "I had scarcely time," he said, "to take the wounded officer on my shoulders and carry him rapidly toward our army which was in full retreat. I spied a series of ditches across which I passed, while the enemy had to go around by a more circuitous route. Thus I had the happiness to reach the rear guard of our army before this corps of dragoons reached us. I arrived at Alexandria with this honorable, wounded officer, where I completed his cure."
Perhaps under no circumstance did Larrey's courage and zeal show to better advantage than in the awful retreat from Moscow. For example, after the terrible battle of Borodino, Larrey made two hundred amputations, practically with his own hands, where there were neither couches nor coverings of any kind, when the cold was so intense that the instruments often fell from the benumbed fingers of the surgeons, and when food consisted of horse flesh, cabbage stalks and a few potatoes. And all this while the savage Cossacks were hovering around equally ready to kill both surgeons and patients. Soon after came the passage of the Beresina, with its attendant horrors. General Zayonchek, over sixty years of age, had his knee crushed, and was in need of immediate amputation, which Larrey performed under the enemy's fire, amid the falling snow, with no shelter except a cloak, held by two officers over the patient while the operation was being performed. The General recovered, and died fourteen years later as Viceroy of Poland.
It was after this passage of the Beresina by the Imperial Guard that it was discovered that all the requisites for the sick and wounded had been left behind and on the other side. Larrey at once recrossed the river, and found himself amidst a furious, struggling crowd, in danger of being crushed to death, when suddenly the soldiers recognized him. Immediately they took him up in their arms, crossed the river with him, crying, "let us save him who saved us," and forgot their own safety in their regard for him whose merciful kindness they had so often experienced.
Another incident in Larrey's career: Ever faithful to Napoleon, his adored master, through victory or reverse, Larrey stood one night with a small group of medical men gazing over the field of Waterloo, and upon the wounded and dying who lay groaning around him. Suddenly they were charged by a squadron of Prussian Lancers, at whom Larrey fired his pistols and galloped away, but was overtaken by the Prussians, who shot his horse, sabred him, and left him for dead. After a while he recovered his senses, and tried to make his way across lots to France, but was again captured by another detachment of cavalry, who robbed him of everything, and then took him to headquarters, where it was ordered that he be shot. Think of such a fate for one who had saved so many lives! But the order would have been carried out promptly had not one of the Prussian surgeons recognized Larrey, having attended his lectures several years previously. Accordingly he was brought before Bülow, and finally before Marshall Blücher, whose son had been wounded and captured by the French in the Austrian Campaign, and whose life had been saved by Larrey's exertions. You may imagine that it did not take long to reverse that order for execution.
Praise from Napoleon was most rare, but of Larrey he made this remark in his will, along with a bequest of 100,000 francs, "He is the most virtuous man I have ever known."
Let us mention a few other instances. For example, Surgeon Thomson, who during the Crimean war, after the battle of the Alma, volunteered, with his servant, John McGrath, to remain behind on the open, unsheltered field, with five hundred Russians so wounded as to be disabled or even at the point of death. For three days and nights these two Englishmen remained practically alone upon that field, covered only with dead and dying, among foreign foes, none of them able to help themselves, or even to speak in a language that could be understood.
At the battle of Inkerman Assistant Surgeon Wolesley had established his field hospital in that awful place of slaughter, the Sandbag Battery. When its defenders were reduced to 150 men, and were forced to leave it, most of them retreated in one direction to find, only thirty paces away, a Russian battalion blocking their path. There was not one competent officer left, so this surgeon took command. Seizing a bayonet because he had no sword, he spoke hurriedly to the men, and explained that their next fight was not merely for victory, but for their own lives; then he led them in a charge that tore so fiercely through the Russian detachment that but half of them reached the other side alive.
During the South African campaign the papers recorded (but how few read of it?) the fate of Surgeon Landon, who was shot through the spine while ministering to the wounded on Majuba Hill. Paralyzed below the waist, he had himself propped up, and continued his work as best he could until his strength failed, when he said, "I am dying; do what you can for the wounded."
It may be of interest to devote here a few minutes to the consideration of conditions obtaining at the time of our Revolutionary War. In 1776 the barber surgeon still had a place in the armies of the world and was even then regarded as scarcely more than a menial. Never was he accorded the respect or the honors of a gentleman, nor was he allowed to carry a sword. On the other hand, he was subjected to corporal punishment, and could be caned by his colonel, or almost anyone else, whenever such an act was provoked. It may be said that the English troops were somewhat better equipped than were the hired Hessians, while the French, who came to our aid, brought with them some far better men, who were in many respects a revelation during our revolution and an inspiration to our own so-called surgeons. But our colonial and general governments dealt very stingily with our army medical department, and their professional equipments were of the most meagre; in fact, the history of surgery of those days, either in the army or in civil life, is practically the history of a few prominent individuals, most of whom had spent the time and money required for study abroad, and who had come home bringing back with them the best of their day, such as it was. For instance, there were the Warren brothers, in Boston, of whom the elder, Joseph, started Paul Revere on his famous ride. He was elected President of the Provincial Congress, and just before the battle of Bunker Hill was made Major General of the Continental forces, a position which he preferred to that of Physician General, which he had been offered. During the battle he fought with a musket, as though a private, and was shot down just as the conflict ended. The younger brother, John, lived to achieve fame and reputation, and transmitted them to his posterity.
During the war some colonial regiments even came into camp without any surgeon, or the slightest provision for disease or injury. In 1776 Congress ordered that there should be one surgeon and five assistants to each 5,000 enlisted men, the former being paid $1.66 per day, the latter $1 a day. Imagine the attention that could be bestowed upon 5,000 soldiers by six men whose services were thus compensated. Camp hygiene, hospital corps, and ambulance service were undreamed of; nevertheless John Warren, then only twenty-three years of age, accomplished a great deal in building up a medical corps, while as much more was done by Benjamin Church, of Boston, who was styled Director General and Chief Physician, and who was paid $4 a day. Unfortunately Church was detected in traitorous correspondence with the enemy, was court-martialed, imprisoned for a year, then allowed to leave the country, and was probably lost at sea. He was succeeded by John Morgan, of Philadelphia, who had to fight the politicians as well as the foreign enemy and, failing to satisfy them, was dismissed from the service, though acquitted from all blame. Thus you see that even in those days the politicians made it hard to secure adequate and proper care for our sick and wounded soldiers. Everywhere at that time were unrest, excitement, and suspicion, and their demoralizing effects showed in every department of military as of civil government. After Morgan came Shippen, who held office from 1777 to 1781, under whose guidance affairs in the medical department improved very much. Smallpox had been perhaps the greatest scourge of the soldiers, as well as of the people in general, but this was kept in subjection by the practice of inoculation, which had been generally accepted in this country by nearly all men from Washington down.
A word or two must also be said about that remarkable man, Benjamin Rush, with his many-sided, versatile, erratic, obstinate and querulous character, who nevertheless constituted in his day the most prominent figure in the profession; who served two years in Congress; who signed the Declaration of Independence; and who, in the same year, got his first army medical experience. It was perhaps not strange that, with his peculiar temperament, he failed to come under the influence of Washington's peculiar personal magnetism, and that their personal relations were not at all to Rush's credit, since he endeavored in many ways to belittle his Commander-in-Chief, and suffered therefor a rather ignominious exposure.
The temptation is always to place most stress upon accounts of heroism which happens to be most publicly performed. While this is not unnatural it is often an injustice, since an act of courage may be performed in the lime-light of publicity, with a regard for notoriety, that would be lost were it done in private. It perhaps is not kind to think that anyone would ever be more courageous in public than in private, and yet it is to be feared that human nature is not always free from temptation of this kind. But the real silent heroes of military or civil medical life are those who engage in duties which nevertheless have even more of danger about them than spectacular performances upon the battle field. Take for instance, the work done by Major Reed and Dr. Carroll, who devoted themselves for months to the study of yellow fever. Many a man will stand upon the field of battle permitting himself to be fired upon, but how many will deliberately submit to being bitten by insects believed to be carriers of the germs of yellow fever. Dr. Carroll had this quiet kind of bravery, and allowed himself to be bitten by a mosquito that twelve days previously had filled himself with the blood of a yellow fever patient, and in consequence suffered from a severe attack, barely escaping with his life. Dr. Lazear permitted the same experiment upon himself, but was not at that time infected; but some days later while in the yellow fever ward he was bitten by a mosquito, made careful note of the fact, acquired the disease in its most hideous form, and died a martyr to science, as true a hero as ever died upon fortress or man-of-war. Others, too, willingly exposed themselves, but there was at that time no other fatality to record. But realizing the value of the service rendered, the indisputable proof of the nature of the disease, and the method by which it is carried, the value of the demonstration becomes inestimable, since a true prophylaxis was demonstrated, and a means furnished of ridding the community of this fearful pestilence. Moreover, it was shown how unnecessary it is to destroy valuable property, it being only necessary to kill the mosquitoes, and do away with their breeding places. Major Reed died a few years after he had led in this fight against the dread disease, but no monument, or other testimonial which can be erected to the memory of Reed, Carroll and Lazear can adequately express the value of the service which they have rendered to the world.
"Peace hath her victories no less than war." This epigram is as true of the conflicts in which the medical profession engage as of any other. This same sentiment has been put in other words. It is said, "That peace hath higher tests of manhood than battle ever knew." For instance, in New York there is a simple tablet commemorating, in loving remembrance, the death of eighteen young physicians who, one after another, attended a ship load of emigrants sick of typhus fever on Quarantine Island. They fought their good fight and were buried without martial music, adding eighteen names to the innumerable list of victims who have fought the silent battle of dealing with disease, public gainers only in this, that someone has been thoughtful enough to record their names in this semi-public fashion.
Taken again the case of Dr. Franz Muller, of Vienna, who contracted the bubonic plague while working in the laboratory with its germs. Just so soon as he realized that he himself was infected he locked himself in an isolated room, and pasted upon the window pane a sheet of paper containing this message, "I am suffering from plague. Do not send a doctor to me, as in any event my end will come in four or five days." He refused to admit those who were anxious to do for him, wrote a letter to his parents which he placed against the window, so that it could be copied from the outside, then burned the original, fearing that if sent through the mail it might carry the elusive germ. Was not this equal to any instance of valor under the excitement or the stress of battle and cannonade? Could anyone more worthily win a Victorian Cross, or any other emblem of courage and heroism?
Many of you have been in, or will go to Havana. It will be worth your while to make a pilgrimage to the cemetery there, where were buried sixteen young medical students who lost their lives under peculiar circumstances, which afford as well an illustration of Spanish tyranny and injustice. In 1871 one of the professors in the medical school died, and was followed to his grave by the students whom he had taught, and who loved him. Unfortunately they committed an indiscretion by scribbling with a pencil in a public place some criticism on the government; in consequence they were reported, arrested and court-martialed. The written paragraphs were evidence sufficient, and the Governor General ordered the ranks of students to be decimated. There were 160 students all told, and in accordance with this sentence sixteen of them were next day shot without any further ceremony. Of these the youngest was not quite sixteen years old, and his father offered his entire fortune for his life, but without avail. Later the citizens of Havana erected a monument of white marble, at no small cost, to commemorate this sacrifice.
There comes over me, as I prepare these words to read to you, a feeling of their inadequacy, and of lack of personal justice to many of my auditors. Brought up in civil life, with but a smattering of military training, I am rehearsing incidents of which you may read as easily as I, while at the same time I do not forget that from the lives of many of my auditors there might be drawn just as many illustrations of courage, fortitude, endurance and personal valor as any that the Surgeon General's library records. Unfortunately I am not familiar with them. They are, happily in one respect, too numerous to mention, and again are not yet public property, because modesty is ever the accompaniment of these other traits which we all admire so much. Hence, gentlemen, if I seem to you to disregard or forget many an incident in your lives or the careers of your friends, ascribe it to my ignorance rather than to my intent, and to the fact that I have never seen a battle, and that my fights with disease have not been fought in camps, but within the walls of the quiet sick room or hospital ward. Nevertheless I am never happier than when I can try to compel a wider public recognition of what you are constantly doing and of your valorous deeds.
Next to those general improvements in the service which have come about through natural causes, and as results of a better appreciation of its needs, and of a generally improved state of the profession, nothing has come from outside during the past fifty years which has been so helpful and advantageous as the support afforded by the Red Cross, and the introduction of skilled nurses; in fact the greatest help which the medical service of the army and navy can enjoy is that which comes from this volunteer and outside source. By the way, I wonder how many of you recall, or are familiar with, the beginnings of the Red Cross movement? So important has it become that its history should be well known to all. In June, 1859, was fought the bloody battle of Solferino, at the conclusion of which some 36,000 French, Sardinian and Austrian soldiers lay dead or dying on the field. The medical corps was, of course, absolutely inadequate to the work thrown upon them, and as usual thousands of wounded men had to care for themselves as best they could. A Swiss traveler, Henri Dunant, viewing the scenes, and being profoundly impressed by them, not only assisted in the work of relief, but wrote a book entitled, "A Souvenir of Solferino," in which he urged more humane, widespread and speedy aid to the wounded. M. Moynier, president of the Society of Public Utility, of Geneva, a man of independent means; Dr. Appia, a wise physician, and M. Ador, an eminent lawyer of Geneva, also became interested in the movement. The attention of the General of the Swiss Army was called to it and his co-operation enlisted. In this way came about, in 1863, the formation of a permanent society for the relief of wounded soldiers. At a meeting held in October in the same year men from many countries joined in discussing the subject, and an international conference was held, which resulted in calling an international convention, to be held at Geneva in the autumn of 1864.
Such was the beginning of the Red Cross movement, which has now extended all over the world, and has afforded an opportunity for all races, creeds and nationalities to care for those who are made victims of war or pestilence, or who suffer from any other great disaster with which private charity is unable to cope. It marks a step in the evolution of mankind, and has now achieved such universal recognition that national governments and individual potentates are glad to join hands in the great work.
A more concrete application of the same idea has been the comparatively recent formation of ambulance corps and later of nursing bureaus, within our own service, and the employment of trained nurses. This has not been in all respects an easy matter to bring about, nevertheless it has redounded to the credit and to the welfare of all concerned. Never at any time were the sick and injured, either in private or in military practice, so well cared for as now, and America should lead the world to-day, as ever, in the adequacy of its provisions and the perfection of its methods. In private this is notably the case in ordinary hospital work, as seen by all travelers, upon the continent and in Great Britain, who take pains to make comparisons with the way in which things are done there and in our own country. Although Florence Nightingale immortalized herself by showing what woman could do on the battle field and in military camps, it has remained for Americans to improve upon the lessons which she taught, while at the same time revering her for her wonderful devotion to her self-imposed duty and her enthusiasm. In its performance the lessons of the Crimean and the Civil War, for instance, have left their impressions upon history in such a way as may never be erased, and certainly no one was ever more entitled to the designation of "angel of the sick room" than was Miss Nightingale.
Wars of conquest bring about curious results and in unexpected ways. While greed, lust and fanaticism have been the three great impelling and underlying motives for most of the wars which man thrusts upon his fellow-men, one far nobler motive has been the occasional and the only just cause of strife, namely, the desire for liberty; still this is always secondary and the product of some other man's or people's greed. As only by the cataclysms of the natural world has it been prepared for man's habitation, so by some wars have come benefits unforeseen, with an amelioration of the condition of mankind in general, which could not have been secured by any less drastic measures. It is, however, a sad commentary on man's intelligence that most honor is paid to those who have taken the most lives rather than to those who have saved them. No school boy in the remotest districts but is brought up with some trifling knowledge of the world's heroes, so-called, though they were in reality the world's wholesale murderers. Yet you may find many persons, credited with higher education, who are still densely ignorant of the benefits conferred by those two greatest discoveries in the world's history (both of Anglo-Saxon origin), anaesthesia and antisepsis, who will talk entertainingly and at length of Darius, Caesar, Hannibal and the more modern military lights, yet who never heard of Morton nor of Lister. Yet if to-day you inquire what is doing in the various parliaments of the world you learn that the talk is ever of more numerous and more powerful engines of destruction, and that those in power have no time to devote to improvements in the army or navy medical service, and that it is even now impossible to secure anything like adequate attention to our needs in this direction.
Means of taking human life must be constantly at hand; means of saving it are of small importance until the emergency has arisen; and then the blame for inadequate provision of both means and men falls not where it belongs, on the politicians who would not look ahead, but upon the administration of the medical department, who work to the point of desperation and despair in times of peace, who keep perpetual vigil, with scant recognition of the sacredness of their purpose, and scant aid in its accomplishment.
Are the lessons of the South African, the Spanish-American and the Russo-Japanese wars to be forgotten almost before they have been recited? Are we prepared to-day to give adequate care and attention to our soldiers and sailors were war in sight? You well know that we are not; every military or naval surgeon knows we are not; the medical profession generally knows it; and our legislators have been told it until we are tired of repeating it. Yet, what is the result? The same indifference on their part, the same ignorance of what it all means; and on the part of the public the same blindness and fatuous confidence that "everything is all right."
For instance, if an adequate medical service is to be built up for war there should be one officer to every 100 of enlisted men. Estimating that an army of at least 400,000 men would be required were we engaged with a first-class power—and what other would dare to engage with us?—this means 4,000 army surgeons. Of these at least one-fourth should be regular and experienced medical officers. In other words, there should be for such an army at least 1,000 medical officers in the regular service, and also at least 3,000 volunteer surgeons, professionally and physically equipped for such work. Should anyone object that this exceeds all the provisions of time past, the reply is ready and all sufficient, namely, that in time past all such provisions have been utterly inadequate; that the conditions of modern warfare have undergone an entire change, that a sick, wounded or disabled man is an encumbrance, and that it behooves us to prevent sickness, and to cure the disabled man as quickly as possible. Furthermore, advances in medicine and surgery have been so great that far more is now expected of the medical corps than ever before, and it is a duty which we owe to those who incur the dangers of fighting for us that we should care for them. We are, therefore, under the very highest moral obligation to give them our best, and enough of it. It must be a small inducement that we offer to men to fight our battles if we permit them to feel that they are not objects of our solicitude when sick or wounded.
There is another feature which we cannot disregard. So long as army regulations require that a man educated in advanced science spend much of his valuable time in acting as bookkeeper or clerk, there will be less inducement to enter the service, and it will consequently not attract men of highest proficiency. That which is required of you is complicated and exacting. You must be good bookkeepers, good sanitarians, and equally good surgeons, physicians and even obstetricians. Above all, you are expected to be able to keep all the men under your supervision ready for the "firing line" at a moment's notice. You have received the highest compliment which the State can pay when you have been adjudged versatile and competent enough to fill all these rôles and do all these things.
Moreover, as you gain promotion other things will be expected of you, even, I hope, the filling of the chairs in this modern Military Medical School. It is in a way the West Point of the medical corps, and it would seem as though there should not be the slightest difficulty in replenishing vacancies in its faculty by detail from your ranks. The collections and the literary labors of your corps constitute to-day treasures exceeded in value by but few if any in this, the Nation's Capital. The library, the museum and the archives of the medical department have been models from which all the nations of the earth have copied.
In this connection there occurs to me, by way of contrast, the story of a French surgeon's experiences when he undertook to teach anatomy in a conquered and reconstructed country.
After the French occupation of Egypt, Mehemet Ali took it into his head to introduce European civilization into Africa, and imported all sorts of artists, scientists and medical men, among them a practitioner of Marseilles, a true Bohemian in the modern acceptance of the expression, who presented himself in most seedy apparel, saying, "I am a doctor of medicine, with plenty of courage, but no clothes; I want to try my fortune." This man was Dr. Clot, who rapidly became a favorite of the Viceroy. He soon learned Arabic so as to speak it fluently, and in six months not only received an army commission, and became a Bey, but took the chair of anatomy in the newly organized school of medicine. Conditions were all against him. Mussulman fanaticism and the prohibitions of the Koran opposed all anatomical pursuits, and so soon as he proposed a dissection there was a general explosion. By Mohammedan ceremonial one who even touches a dead body is thereby rendered "unclean" for seven days. The Ulemas, the Muftis, and all of the other fanatics, demanded of the Viceroy the closure of the school, and declared dissection a sacrilegious profanation. Mehemet refused this, and ordered Clot Bey to commence his demonstrations. Then one day happened the following incident: The professor, scalpel in hand, standing alongside the cadaver, began to open the thorax, when one of the students, either from sheer fanaticism, or more bold than the others, jumped upon him and stabbed him with a poignard. The blade slid over the ribs, and Clot Bey, perceiving that he was not seriously hurt, applied a piece of plaster to the wound, observing as he did so, "We were speaking of the disposition of the sternum and the ribs, and I now can illustrate to you why a blow directed from above has so little chance of penetrating the cavity of the thorax." He continued his lectures, and turned out some skilful practitioners. He became an officer of almost every order in the world, and acquired more than sixty decorations, although he never wore but one, the red rosette of his own country. (Med. Times and Gazette, September 19, 1868.)
While just such an experience may never be duplicated again, the Philippines, or some other country yet to fall under our rule, may afford an opportunity for a similar display of sang froid.
While no one may see far into the future, the maxim, "In time of peace prepare for war," is as true of the medical department as of any. Were it a state secret no one would breathe it here, but it is lamentably true and publicly known that even now we are not prepared as we should be. The awful lessons of the Spanish War have been forgotten. West Point officers have until comparatively recently received no instruction in camp sanitation. Some of us worked hard a while ago to have at least elementary instruction in it introduced into their curriculum. As an illustration I believe that to-day they are taught more about horse's feet and how to keep them in good condition, than about those of their men. Line officers, especially volunteer, have never been too ready to locate their camps where water and drainage were the best, and the awful mortality of the Spanish War was mainly due to preventable disease, while this was due to stupid and inexcusable disregard, on the part of officers of the line (mainly volunteer) of the advice of their medical officers.
But, after all, gentlemen, the discouragements you will meet with will be far fewer than those with which your predecessors had to contend, while the pleasant side of your lives will be far pleasanter than was theirs. In fact, I think your lives have in many respects fallen in pleasanter places than have ours. Discipline and order protect you to a large extent from quackery and idiocy. The fads of the day disappear before the appearance of the flag and the sound of the drum. So-called Christian Science finds no place in your curriculum, and it will be long, I trust, before the army chaplain tinctures the military hospital with sectarian therapeutics or an Emanuel church cult. If by entering the army one may escape disgusting influences of this character, then it may become such a refuge that it shall thereby be made both inviting and invincible.
It is pleasing to those of us who co-operated in the movement, to have the assurances of the Surgeon General that the establishment of the Medical Reserve Corps has been of actual benefit to the regular Army Medical Department. While the military rank to which its members found themselves suddenly elevated was not so lofty as to cause any attacks of vertigo, none having been up to the present day reported, it at least gives us satisfaction to realize that help may thus be afforded from private life, and that a closer rapport has been effected.
And now it is well nigh as difficult a task to appropriately conclude these remarks as to begin them. Men come and go; a few leave imprints of their footsteps; the vast majority make no impression that lingers.