Supplemental: Archival Records
Marker: Journal Entries From The Journal of Dr. Rory Williams
Frequency: Intermittent
Entries provided courtesy of Mr. Anthony Brian Williams

11th of November 1943

In the end I really had no choice. They effectively threatened me into service and the threats worked. I didn't tell Amy, no reason to scare her. Allied forces or not it was mentioned in no uncertain terms that a Brit and Scot no matter how American they "claimed" to be were likely to fall under suspicion if they didn't do their duty.

"No family to speak of Rory," Welling oozed. "No parents, cousins, hardly even any friends. And most of your mail comes from overseas. What would people say if they really started to question you, Rory? If that's really your name. I've been digging and your past...is a curious one, Doctor Williams? Doctor who?"

Christ, the irony of it all. The damnable irony. Are you getting all this, Doctor, wherever you are? I think it would be a right good laugh if it weren't happening to us.

Every morning I sign what is indeed my name dozens upon dozens of times a day on the bottom of little 3 by 5 cards. These little cards effectively sum up someones life or if not their life their worth to this government. Height, weight, age, race, name and address. I sign the bottom of the notification alerting them of their classification and if selected from that moment on they are enlisted men in the United States Army.

Before that I go to work and I talk to Mr. Ostin in the iron lung ward. We discuss his children, his wife and some of the pretty nurses. Mr. Ostin has no control over his muscles due to the disease attacking his central nervous system. The left side of his face droops where polio has weakened his cranial nerves. He's completely immobile but we talk about the one day where he might be able to play baseball again. He was a shortstop for the Williamsport Grays in the 1930's.

I visit my other patients in the ward then proceed with my daily rounds. I usually work straight on through lunch, going over my notes, updating charts and rewriting my paper. I check the post and wait for news from the grant committee. After lunch I walk five blocks to the local high school gymnasium. I move in and out of lines that snake nearly around the building until I arrive at the front door. There's nothing but noise and activity inside, the smell of sweat and nerves, blood, piss and and endless barrage of questions that float to my ears followed by timid, halting answers.

I take my place at the area cordoned off for physicals. I rate the boys on the silliest of things, jumping jacks, the number of squats and sit ups they could do. Pull ups, shuttle runs and a battery of others. It was nonsense. None of these things would help you in battle, none of them would sharpen your wits, none of them would make you a soldier, but this was the barometer with which I had to judge. I'd fill out their score cards and send them on to the next area. If they failed, they were designated 4-F or something similar and sent home. If they passed it was on to vision tests, hearing tests, blood tests, urine tests and finally what passed as a psych evaluation. Sometimes I did that too, despite my protestations that I was not a trained psychologist.

Have you ever suffered from depression?
Do you have any enemies?
Do you like girls?

I asked these young men, the hundreds who came before me these same questions hour after hour day after day. I tried to comfort them, tried to listen to them and in some cases tried to find any reason not to send them. Flat feet? 4F. Asthma? 4F. Brittle bones? 4F. Possible syphilis? 4F. I sent them home, as many as I could and I told them to go to school, find God and join the clergy or just run, but for Christ sakes make it so they never, ever come back here again.

My first day I had more 4-f's, 1-A'a and 1-Y's than our board had seen in the past six months. When questioned I stood by my findings and told them if they didn't want me I'd happily resign. I'm still here.

But some of them I couldn't save. Some of them were solid 1-A's fit for service and whether terrified or filled with that naive confidence only the young possess I signed their cards and sent them off. They were told to bring enough clothing for 3 days and sometimes that was it. They were hustled onto buses and shipped to boot camp that very day. I wonder how many of them knew when they said goodbye to their parents that morning they might not see them again for years, perhaps forever.

My first day on the job I excused myself, stepped out into the alley and vomited. I don't want to be this man again. I don't want to send scared children off to die. But somehow I had wound up here again. Century after century I wind up here. Is that how life works, or is it destiny, was I fated to be caught in this pendulum swing between saving and killing, injuring and healing, life and death. Is that written into my stars if there even is such a thing?

I come home each night, exhausted and mentally destroyed and I'm tended to by the most loving and wonderful wife in the world. She and I are stronger than ever. I need her so much now and I'm glad she's here. I can't imagine doing this alone.

When I can spare a thought, I think about the Doctor. I remember when Amy and I had shoved our ego's aside for our friend, our lover and specifically put into the afterword that he should not be alone. He should never be alone. Stubborn arse that he is, I'm glad he listened. Amy told me about Clara and while for a flash we were both a tiny bit jealous, overall we're happy. He shouldn't have to do this...life alone either. Who could possibly manage it?