Think of this chapter as a small side channel in the river system. We're still headed downstream but not in the main flow.
In my opinion, what makes Combat! extraordinary is how the series focused on personality rather than action. The war was just the setting. The characters were all important. Decades later, those characters remain fresh and relevant as the day they first graced the small screen. How someone acts and reacts in situations that are often brutal and dehumanizing. What makes a man or a woman.
Personalities. Sometimes they get us in trouble all unintentionally. Nearly everyone reacts to a novel situation with their "native" personality. Oh, can that get us or someone else in trouble. Lots of opportunity to misinterpret what we say or put a different spin on a situation.
Some of us are introverts and enjoy working and being alone, others have "never met a stranger" and can't stand the thought of spending more than a day without someone there – anyone. We can be outside of our comfort zone for a while, but it is hard. Most of us put a veneer on when we work and firmly keep it in place and only revert to nature when under great stress or when we can relax, away from others. So it is with the medical staff that the Soldier encounters. Meet two of them.
Arndt and Zimmermann
The medic walked over to Dr. Zimmermann who was working on a soldier. The major straightened up and glanced over at the prone figure on the cot, eyebrow raised. Arndt didn't want to say too much in front of the man the doctor was treating. He kept his answer short. "He's asleep. Rough. Exposure. Fever 104°. Pretty banged up," and then ran through a short list of the hurts he'd seen, no detail. Arndt concluded with "he's hurt and feeling it." Something about the way Arndt spoke, too abbreviated, let Zimmermann know there was something more to tell, privately. Zimmermann thought it was about the uniform mismatch; he'd already seen that when the soldier was walked in. That was fine. They didn't need rumors swirling around about a captured spy or something. The MPs could just wait. The man was not physically capable of going anywhere on his own.
"He's good for a while?" the major asked.
Arndt nodded. "He's sleeping. He's worn down to a nub." "Needs a tetanus shot. We still have some of that."
The major nodded. "Of course." Even though every GI had one, if this man was a German, maybe he didn't. It never hurt to give another. Good cheap insurance. And part of Zimmermann's standing operating rules. If someone came in with holes in their skin, they got a tetanus shot. Zimmermann couldn't imagine a much harder death than tetanus, lockjaw, and one that could easily be prevented with a simple shot. Zimmermann wandered back into an old memory of a drawing of one of Napoleon's soldiers locked in the final throes of tetanus. Arched like a bow, only head and heels touching the ground, every muscle locked in rigor, that man, his suffering was the inspiration for Zimmermann to become a doctor. He'd spent most of his professional life in a lab, hunting down microbes that were as deadly as any bullet. He also taught as an adjunct professor, sometimes scientists and sometimes medical students. He enjoyed teaching and sharing what he knew. Passing on that knowledge was important. It could save someone's life, tomorrow or maybe decades later.
When the war came, he'd volunteered. The Army was more than happy to have him, with his expertise in disease and infections. He'd spent a couple of years State-side, working in his lab, but wanted to really see what it was like for physicians and soldiers near the front lines. He'd spent the last year observing and working in several different settings. It would better inform his work in the lab. He got himself transferred to Italy, then England, and now, France. Such was his pull with the high command.
Zimmermann trusted the medic's judgement. Arndt joined up not long after Pearl Harbor and he'd seen plenty in his time. He thought that Arndt seemed to know people at a different level than he did. He could see beyond the physical wounds and sense the suffering of the person. He would make an excellent doctor with a good bedside manner. After the war, if that's what Arndt wanted to do, Zimmermann would make sure he had a chance. The major had excellent connections, in the civilian world, academia, and in the Army.
Zimmermann was not good with patients, not like Arndt. They both knew it. Arndt wasn't a glad-handing kind of personality, but he was much more outgoing than the major. That was Zimmermann's biggest problem with being a doctor. Not that he didn't like people or helping them, but he had a hard time relating to strangers. Most of the people that needed his help would always be strangers. That was the nature of his business right now, that of a wartime doctor near the front lines.
"I'll finish off here." Considering, "then I need a few minutes." He needed a few minutes without people, just a few. It was mentally fatiguing dealing with so many different people, trying to be the perfect doctor that never makes mistakes and always had a smile. "Go ahead and get what you think we'll need for him. Plasma?" A nod from Arndt. "OK." Too bad they were so short on supplies right now. The supply truck had gone missing. Raiders? Black marketeers? That French underground, no, underworld, that the doctor had been hearing about? Made no difference. If supplies weren't getting where they needed to be, then it doesn't help me; help them.
The doctor turned back to the GI he was working on. "Sorry." "We're nearly done. Won't be another minute." He mused while putting the finishing touches on the man. He'd been hoping for a nice long break. He was tired. Everyone was. Perpetually. A little cat nap had sounded good. Then after that nap, a little scribbling in his journal. He was going to publish it when he got out of the service after the war. His working title, 'Chronicles of a front-line physician in the war against fascism.' Maybe a bit overblown, but it would sell well. His wife teased him about his scribbles, telling him his handwriting was as bad as that of the proverbial doctor. He would tease back; hers wasn't any better. She was a doctor too, an astronomer. Two introverts, happy together. He missed her.
"Doc, Doctor?" The man he was working on had just asked him a question.
He abruptly came back to the present. "Sorry, just wool-gathering."
The private looked a little puzzled, then knew, that doc had gone back home to gather wool. He did that too, but not often, not a good thing for a front line soldier. That could get you killed. "Got 'cha. Sorry." "To interrupt, I mean. Sir."
"No, that's okay." That private was talkative. The doctor hadn't really been paying close attention, just doing the usual "Um," "uh huh," "nuh huh," and "yes's" at times in the mostly one-sided conversation the man had been carrying on. "I'm done here." Then a bit more 'doctor-ly' and with a slight smile, "There you go. Just keep it dry and covered for a couple of days, and you'll be good as new. Check over there with the orderly. He'll give you any paperwork you need."
"Hey, Doc, who was that? A Kraut?" asked the private. He'd seen the soldiers walk somebody through but didn't get more than a brief glance at the back of a darkish shirt and dark boots. He hoped it was an American. His squad was missing someone.
"Just someone that needs attention. Not to worry." "Good luck, soldier." "Try not to come back and visit us again."
"Sure, Doctor. Thanks again." "Looks almost good as new." "I'm headed to the mess tent, if that's okay. Haven't seen a hot meal in several days." The private grabbed his jacket and weapon, plopped his helmet on, a bit askew, and headed out.
Dr. Zimmermann rose and went off into a small private area for a fast break. He took off his long white coat and made sure it was still clean. He required that everyone wear white shirts and long white coats on duty. It looked professional, but not just because it looked professional. White showed dirt, unlike their uniforms, so was an unsubtle way to make sure the staff stayed clean and hopefully, antiseptic between patients. Infections and disease killed more soldiers than battle wounds. As a young intern, he'd seen what could happen if infection got loose in a hospital. It was a killer, especially in the days before penicillin. What a wonderful discovery, penicillin. Some colleagues laughed at his "little fetish," as they termed it, but as long as he commanded, everyone would follow that order. He thought it saved lives.
Doc Arndt stepped out into the supply area. He mindlessly hummed a little tune as he gathered up supplies and instruments they'd need. "Roll me over in the clover, roll me over, lay me down, and do it again," Arndt smiled to himself as he quietly sang the chorus. Been awhile. I'd settle for even a little kiss right now.
Arndt thought about the doctor, Dr. Zimmermann. Smart, that's for sure, but too much of an academician for war. He had a PhD and an MD to his credit and wasn't bashful about letting it be known. He didn't have much of a bedside manner, detached and cold, Arndt thought. Sometimes it seemed as if the man viewed each patient as subjects for study, rather than people. Or if he was writing that book of his in his head, instead of focusing on his patients. Not that Zimmermann wouldn't do his very best for the soldier, but sometimes he did like to test limits almost as if a patient was a lab rat and Zimmermann was trying to see what made him tick, or how much one could endure. The doctor really belonged in a laboratory. That's where he'd been before volunteering for the war effort. Not here, just behind the front lines in an active combat area, about as far away from a lab as one could get.
Arndt continued thinking in this vein. He was in charge, "Herr Doktor" Major Zimmermann. That was a little mean of Arndt to categorize the major like that, but he seemed so stuffy sometimes, he was practically the Hollywood caricature of a German doctor come to life. A real fish out of water, was Zimmermann. The major insisted on white coats, all around, and white jackets or shirts underneath the coats. He thought it made the place more professional and gave the impression of cleanliness. Arndt thought that confused soldiers would rather see a friendly uniform, not a polished, white-coated, coldly professional doctor tending to him. But if he needed expert medical care, none better. He was probably the best diagnostician Arndt ever met. Very skilled in the mechanics of doctoring.
He had the most sensitive fingers Arndt had seen, practically like he had little sensors or X-ray machines in them. But he could sure annoy patients by touching anything that he wanted to investigate. An excellent teacher, Arndt conceded, and he was generous in sharing his knowledge, but sometimes he got a bit carried away. Arndt learned a lot from Zimmermann and Zimmermann trusted Arndt's judgment. The medic liked that. He knew the major had asked for him personally after watching his work in Italy and they'd been together since late '43. It wouldn't hurt to be his protégée. He thought they made a pretty good team. He would rather work for a careful, analytical doctor than one who was sloppy and just viewed each patient as another job, and not always a job well done, either.
Arndt finished collecting things. They were short on almost everything, since they'd used nearly all of it after that last barrage, and the expected resupply had not come in. Rumor was the truck had been ambushed by a regional LeMilieu kingpin and their supply was headed for the black market. There wasn't a bit of local anesthetic, and hardly any morphine. A couple of doses, he thought. That would make it rough if they had to do some deep cleaning or stitching. He added a couple of bottles of plasma to his little pile of things. Whole blood he didn't worry about. If that soldier had a common blood type, all he had to do was look outside. He headed back to the soldier still singing and humming about rolling over in the clover, slightly off-key.