Walter Reed - sign of the times

There was this man, naked except for a diaper, rolling and twisting on the hospital bed.

I was stationed at Walter Reed Army Medical Center for two months in 1965 as part of my U.S. Army medical/psychiatric training prior to my assignment at Valley Forge General Hospital in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania.

I remember changing the diaper of this young man, a newly commissioned 2nd lieutenant. He had been out on the town, celebrating his commission, when he got in a car wreck that left him with an inoperable brain injury. He couldn't feed himself. He spoke only gibberish. He had no control of his bowel or bladder. I was told he'd be that way the rest of his life.

I remember washing down the colonel in the showers. He had shit the color of yellow mustard over the lower half of his body. Today he'd be diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease.

I remember talking with another colonel who had been admitted to the psychiatric ward for depression. He was quiet, soft spoken. Neither of us could ever quite get a handle on the reason for his chronic depression. I remember feeling intimidated due to the man's rank, although he never gave me cause to feel that way. (I later experienced depression at the age of 40. I too, never got a handle on it. Best way to describe it is to ask you to picture that brief scene in The Graduate where Dustin Hoffman is at the bottom of the swimming pool, totally disconnected from the guests chatting poolside.)

I remember the day I turned 19. That night I hoisted a few at a bar across the street from Walter Reed. The place was dimly lit and smoky. I remember the beers were very good.

I remember the lady, a captain, who'd been committed to the psychiatric unit. She scared me. I hated working that ward, dreaded going there, because she always scared me. Her right leg had been amputated because of cancer. The operation saved her life, but she lost her soul. She was verbally abusive to everyone she came in contact with, patients and staff alike. She was the only patient who ever truly frightened me during my three years in the Army. It was like she was dead inside. She still scares me.

I remember being taught how to properly change bedsheets. The Army way. I remember being taught the proper procedure to administer an enema. We practiced on a pliable plastic dummy. (I remember hoping the day would never come when I was called upon to give an enema, unless it was to a pliable plastic dummy.) I remember learning how to give three different types of injections. Learning the time-saving method of checking a ward full of patients' pulses. (15 seconds, then multiply by 4.) How to take blood pressure. (Blood pressure was always one of my favorites. I don't know why. Maybe it was because I got to use a stethoscope so I could listen to the woosh-woosh of blood.)

I remember the young catatonic soldier back from Vietnam. I remember goofing on him as a way to shock him out of his catatonia. I remember him telling me, after he had recovered sufficiently to speak to me, that he was aware that I was goofing on him and that he thought it funny. But that wasn't enough to shock him out of his frozen state, and so he could only observe me, but not react in any way.

I remember Private Borkowski, a patient on the psychiatric ward. He could have been the model for Jack Nicholson's character in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

I remember the soldier on the orthopedic ward. He was a big, muscular man. A sergeant. His right femur had been shattered by a bullet. He was always complaining about the pain. The white bone stood in marked contrast against his black skin. He could have been a linebacker, once.

I remember the triple amputee on the other side of the same ward. A mine had blown off both legs and an arm. Shrapnel pocked his face. The explosion left him partially deaf and partially blind. His mother visited him every day. He hoped to eventually go to college.

I remember the nurse I should have dated.

I remember the soldier, recently deemed fit for psychiatric outpatient status, who one day grabbed an MP's pistol, fired one shot into the wall, and, with the second shot, blew out his brains. We washed down the walls.

I remember the sergeant, Sergeant Glen McCabe, taking me on my first coon hunt with some other wardmasters. I remember their look of astonishment when my first shot brought down a coon treed high up a tall pine. The spotlight caused the coon's eyes to glow as I took a deep breath, let out half, and squeezed off a round. I thought I'd missed. Seconds later we heard a rustling where the coon's eyes had been. Small limbs floated to the ground. The coon followed, crashing to the forest floor. It landed with a thud, missing one of the sergeants by a few feet. Lucky shot.

I remember Lieutenant Swain, a blonde nurse with whom I spent some quality recreational time.

I remember assisting in the administration of ECT to a young woman patient, the wife of an Army captain. I remember my embarrassment as the nurse unbuttoned her blue pajama top, briefly exposing her breasts. I remember the instructions to hold her left wrist loosely when the electric current was applied. I remember how she appeared to be quite sane for an hour or two after each treatment, only to later descend into a depth of madness I could not begin to fathom.

I remember Captain Dinoff, a psychiatrist from New York City. He appeared competent but somewhat detached, as if he'd rather be at some party in New York City instead of doing a tour of duty in Phoenixville, Pennsylvania. I remember him ignoring complaints voiced by a young patient of pain in the knee. Captain Dinoff dismissed the soldier's complaint, contending it part of the soldier's psychological disorder. The soldier kept complaining of the pain until, weeks later, Captain Dinoff finally relented and sent him off to be looked at by a medical doctor. The boy's leg had to be amputated just above the knee due to cancer. The rest of the patients soon came to believe this was Captain Dinoff's fault. Some of the staff felt the same way.

I remember Private Borkowski loudly belittling Dr. Dinoff whenever he walked on the ward. The young man whose leg was amputated was Borkowski's friend. Borkowski publicly (and quite loudly) declared Dr. Dinoff unfit to be a doctor. Borkowski rallied the rest of the patients, turning them against Dr. Dinoff.

I remember the running joke on the psychiatric wards at Valley Forge General Hospital. That the only way to tell the patients from the aides was that the patients wore blue and the aides wore white. To some extent this was true.

I remember so much. That's why it hurts me to learn of the mess at Walter Reed, and it angers me when the incompetencies of our nation's leaders are exposed for Americans to see, and yet they continue to sit on their hands and do nothing.

Sometimes I read, or I hear, that the American people are not stupid. I strongly disagree. The great majority of this country's citizens are either incredibly, pathetically stupid, or they are simply out to lunch. If this were not so, the American people would have long ago demanded impeachment of those responsible for the ever lengthening list of moral tragedies following September 11, 2001.

America, you are like the lady captain who gained her life but lost her soul. You're beginning to scare me.

Whenever you can, please give to the Disabled American Veterans.

Updates - Why in the world is anyone surprised that the Bush administration has not been taking good care of wounded and disabled American troops?

Ouchie

One Black Soldier

Summer, 1966.

I am trying to take
a Polaroid picture
of one black soldier
doing the Ali shuffle
outside the barracks
at Fort Sam Houston
in San Antonio, Texas.

He will not hold still.

"Viet Nam, here I come!"

He is 19 years old,
bobbing and weaving
up and down
the barracks' steps,
smile as wide as Texas.

Hey! Hold still a minute wouldya?
Okay... Now!

The print slides from the camera.
A minute later he is grinning at me,
fists frozen in air,
the world's greatest.

"Yeaaahhh! We gonna whip old Charlie's tail!"

Pop! Pop!! Pop!!!
His fists smack the air as he
ducks and dodges
through the jungles of Viet Nam.

He is 82nd Airborne.
He is my friend.

One year later -
I'm stationed at Valley Forge General Hospital at
Phoenixville, Pennsylvania.
I work nights on orthopedic ward 5.
There are strange, sucking noises
coming from the ward

as I

sterilize the medicine carts.

Broken femurs.
Maggot-eaten men.

I keep my distance.

One morning,
one black soldier
wheels himself along the
polished wooden hallway.
His stumps end
high on boxer's legs,
six inches above the knee.

Our eyes touch.

I want to disappear.

We shake hands.
Smile still as wide as Texas,
yet,
(we both silently understand)
not the same smile.

He tells his story.
As he speaks my mind begins to wander...
those two white-bandaged phantoms are
waving the air,
waving at me?
telling a different story,
speaking the body's agony of being

blown

apart

while on night patrol in the
jungles of Nam.

Ascuncian,
the Hawaiian GI
who bunked on the cot
under me
at Fort Sam,
(whom I never liked
because,
one day,
for no apparent reason,
he threatened me,
and then he slammed me,
hard,
against the latrine wall)
was ripped into
two pieces,
machine gun fire
raking across his back
from an unseen enemy
embedded in the jungle.

A year never seemed so far away.

My friend
has brought the war
home.
I grudgingly accept it.
I take it to
my barracks' room
and sleep with it.
I wake up with it
that afternoon.
I strap it to the back
of my motorcycle.
I ride the back roads of the
Amish countryside.
I bury it beneath a
dying
red sun.
Summer's greens turn gray,
as a Polaroid picture
of one black soldier
burns a hole in my heart.

Comments

[Lynton Stewart]

The "essay" about Valley Forge General Hospital is largely made up. This person was never a "wardmaster", as persons of that rank did not serve on E.C.T. teams, or bathe patients. He/she may have been a lower ranking 91F, but even that is questionable.

It would appear that the writers memory has been "modified" (or the author is simply lying to make some kind of a point). The episode concerning the amputated leg never happened at all, even though it is a wonderful "story".

I served in the Department of Psychiatry and Neurology (P&N) at V.F.G.H. for 4 1/2 years. After leaving the Army, I went on to earn my Ed.D. in Rehabilitation Counseling. I can quite honestly state that the Department of P&N at Valley Forge General Hospital was one of the finest psychiatric facilities in the USA. Even most University Psychiatric centers could not match the level of treatment offered to the patients at V.F.G.H.

Oh yes, under the Constitution of The United States of America, the people do not demand impeachement of the President, or of any other person. There is a specified manner for impeachement to be done, The "voice of the people" quite literally has nothing to do with the process. In fact, the founding fathers of this country would have been appalled at the very concept that the "mob" mentality might prevail.

I can not help but wonder why people make up things like this story, and why they have so little knowledge of how our political system actually works.

[Jeffrey Field - prison no. 2001]

Lyndon, may I call you Lyndon?

No?

Okay Lynton, I'm just goofing here.

Are you calling me a liar?

Pax,
Jeffrey

[Lynton Stewart]

Jeffrey, I guess I am calling you a liar. Since the stories you cite are made up out of whole cloth, the only really accurate way to describe you is a liar.

What was the ward the Colonel was on? What was the womens ward number? Which ward was the amputee on, and in what month/year? Where was E.C.T. given, and what was the procedure used (from leaving the ward until the patients return)? Who was the Chief of the Department of Psychiatry and Neurology? Who was the Head Nurse?

I can assure you that any medic that verbally harassed a physician would have been bounced out of P&N so fast his head would have been rolling down the aisles. This makes for fine story telling, but in real life it would never have been tolerated.

You should be able to answer those questions, and also tell me what building the Orderly Room was located in. Who was the 1st Sergeant while you were there? Who was the NCOIC of the Dept. of P&N? Who was the head nurse on the female ward, the ward with the amputee, and the ward with the Colonel?

I am as pissed about the treatment of the personnel at Walter Reed as anyone out there. But that is no reason to make up a load of crap, about an earlier era.

Lynton Stewart, Former SFC, AMEDS

[Jeffrey Field - he who marvels]

The experiences I described, Lynton, are a montage of my time spent at Walter Reed (two months) and at Valley Forge General Hospital (approx. two years).

I can remember only what is left in memory. These memories (because they ARE memories and therefore have some significance for ME personally), do not include numbers and names of those things peripheral to the incidents I describe. Hey, but I can still remember my RA number - 13891803 - pull some rank and look up my file.

(BTW - did I say I was a wardmaster?)

I suggest that you, Lynton, take it upon yourself to track down Dr. Dinoff and recount my post here. If and when you are successful, look me up. Bring Dr. Dinoff with you, and we'll have a three-way chat. (Borkowski and Dinoff were at Valley Forge.)

BTW-When you find Dr. Dinoff, mention the name Ken Horn. He'll understand.

If I can help you in any way, let me know.

Sincerely,

SP5 Jeffrey Michael Field
RA13891803

[Lynton Stewart]

Jeff: There is no person that was assigned to P&N that would not know what the numbers of those wards were. You had those numbers engraved into your psyche, especially those assigned there for two plus years.

Everyone assigned to ECT teams would be able to describe that process, as well as where ECT was conducted. Especially because ECT was so tightly controlled, and used so sparingly. Do you remember patients asking if they could have treatments, because of certain things that ECT patients received? Once again, the fact that you can't remember that process, makes me wonder about your truthfulness.

That is, unless you have sustained some form of brain damage (either because of trauma, chemical damage, dementia or mental illness). But I strongly suspect that you made this all up, because of some weird internal need.

We did have a very few patients with amputations, THAT OCCURRED BEFORE THEY WERE ADMITTED TO P&N. But, between 1965 and 1969 (when I left VFGH), not one P&N patient had any form of amputation because of neglect, or because of disease that was not treated.

Rather odd that you have no idea where the Orderly Room was located. Every member of the 3416 Medical Company would have known where that was (and 100% of the enlisted male medics were assigned to the 3416 Medical Company). As a SP5, you would have been assigned to CQ duty in the Orderly Room.

You also claim to have gone on a coon hunt with wardmasters. That is also made up. You might have gone out with one, but those men didn't socialize together during off duty hours. In case you have forgotten, there were no married quarters at VFGH, and those married personnel were scattered all over, from Philly to Norristown to Bucks County and all points in between. And all of the wardmasters between 1965-1969 were married.

Besides which, E-7's would rarely socialize with junior enlisted personnel. That was frowned upon by the Army.

The only place you would have seen them together was at the NCO club!

Maybe that's the problem. Maybe you spent too much time drinking at the club, and pickled your brain, leaving you with a false memory syndrome.

By the way, do you remember the Chief Nurse's name? The Chief of P&N that is. I worked directly for her for almost 2 years, and in that position I saw every daily ward report. That's how I know for a fact that what you claim never happened.

Oh well, your "memories" are certainly colorful, even if they aren't accurate.

[Jeffrey Field - he who marvels]

Lynton,

I believe we've arrived at a no-win situation. Before I brush you off, I want to make something very clear (something which I should have made VERY CLEAR earlier). My original post concerning these two military hospitals were meant as a fond rememberance, nothing more. During my serice at Walter Reed and Valley Forge General Hospital, I had nothing but respect for the military/medical organization which, I felt then and still belive today, had nothing but the best intentions for our soldiers, whether they suffered physical or metal wounds. (I cannot say the same regarding the quality of treatment of today's Iraq war veterans. This is based on published media reports, of which I am sure you are well area.)

That said, your truculence (seemingly intent on starting a fight, or, perhaps, designed to impugn my personal integrity) ends here and now.

I wish you well. May you find peace and happiness in your endeavors.

Pax,
Jeffrey

[Lynton Stewart]

You have some reason for making this up, but you have not yet revealed what that motive might be.

I have corresponded with dozens of former psych techs from Valley Forge. Each and every one of them has vividly remembered the ward (or wards) they were assigned to. Even the actor Gene Wilder, remembers the ward he was assigned to in the late 50's (yes, he was a psych tech at V.F.G.H.).

I have challenged your lack of knowledge about that facility, because it demonstrates that you likely were never there. (Unless perhaps as a patient?) The most basic things, that any person assigned to the Department of P&N would know, are beyond your grasp.

If a person describes such horrible treatment, gross malpractice (and ignoring an injury/illness to the point that an amputation is required is horrible treatment and is malpractice), one would expect that the same person would be familiar with the physical layout of the facility where this supposedly took place. But you can't remember where you were assigned, yet you recall in such vivid detail what specific people had to say over 30 years ago?????

I can assure you that under either Colonel Orr, or Colonel Coates, any physician that had neglected a patient like that would not only have been relieved, but would have been undergone Courts Martial. The kind of treatment you have described would not have been tolerated on ANY ward in that hospital, much less one in the Department of P&N.

It is just too bad for you that someone that was VERY familiar with the Department of Psychiatry and Neurology at Valley Forge General Hospital happened to come across your "story".

Oh yes, just to let you know why I call myself a "former SFC". I left the Army after 9 years, 11 months, because I had to raise my children as a single father. But, thanks to the Army, I had been able to complete my B.A. while on active duty (at no expense to myself) In fact, I attended classes at U. of PA while at Valley Forge.

After leaving the Army in late 1969, I went on to earn my M.A. and my Ph.D in Rehabilitation Counseling. I have worked with mentally ill clients since 1964, in one capacity or another. I can honestly state that I have never seen any facility in the USA that provides better treatment than those patients received at Valley Forge.

Maybe that's why our return to duty rate was over 90%.

[Lynton Stewart]

It is a shame that Mr. Field can't remember simple things like whether he was on Ward 25 A-B or 27 C-D; building 94 where the orderly room was located; Major Teschendorf, the Chief Nurse of P&N while he was supposedly stationed there (EVERYONE IN THE DEPARTMENT KNEW HER); the brick buildings all interconnected by long corridors (except for the Department of P&N, which was physically seperated from the rest of the complex).

Jeffrey couldn't remember the fact that all E.C.T. patients were put to sleep on their ward, and woken up only AFTER the procedure. Then, they were given a freshly cooked breakfast of their choice, from the kitchen located in the treatment area. Those breakfasts were so good, that patients would request E.C.T. treatments, just to get those breakfasts (they were not given the treatments though).

There is no way that discussing a soldier having their leg amputated because of medical neglect is a "fond rememberance".

Oh yes, just so you know, the patient that committed suicide by shooting himself in the head, shot himself in the Chief Nurses office. I know, because I was the Department Clerk at that time, and my office was right next to hers (and the only entrance to hers was through my office).

He had NOT been deemed ready for outpatient status at all. He was on "work therapy", and had been sent to the department office with some paperwork.

An MP had come into the department, and instead of waiting for me to return to my office so his weapon could be locked up (as regulations called for), he left his loaded .45 on my desk. The patient came into my office, saw the pistol, picked it up and went into the Chief Nurses office. He fired one round into the wall, and the second into his head, about 1 second later.

I was directly across the hall when this happened, at the steno pool. I was the first to get to him, about 2 seconds after he killed himself. I will never forget that, so long as i live.

The MP was Courts Martialed, and sent to prison for some period of time. From that day onward, no M.P. was allowed to come into the Department of Psychiatry and Neurology, unless disarmed and accompanied by personnel from that Department.

If you are going to tell a story, please tell it accurately!