A ROSE FOR DOC MUNGER

By Delbert R. Gardner

My World War II outfit--the 790th Bomb Squadron, 467th Bomb Group (Heavy)--was a good deal like other squadrons in the Eighth Air Force. We had some very good officers, some not-so-good officers, and some that were mediocre at best. But we were fortunate above all other squadrons, I am bold to say, in having one officer who earned the respect of every man in the outfit--and he was an officer only by accident of profession. This was our flight surgeon, Captain "Doc" Munger.

Doc Munger was an officer simply because that's what the army does with doctors. We enlisted men often wondered why the doctors and nurses had to be officers. Was it to make us respect them? But we would respect them anyway because of their profession. It seemed irrelevant and unfair to establish a military relationship between doctors and patients, so that we had to salute them and call them "Sir" instead of "Doctor."

Some army doctors, unfortunately, got caught up in their military role and took themselves more seriously as officers than as doctors--sort of like Major Burns of MASH. I remember one such when I was hospitalized for scarlet fever. He was a major, impeccable in uniform and military bearing. At dawn one day he came in, threw open some windows, and shouted, "Everybody up! Hit the deck and start sweeping and mopping!"

Some of us reminded the major that we were sick and under orders to stay in bed.

"Poppycock!" he snapped. "I'm countermanding those orders! The best medicine for you is to get some fresh air and exercise. Now hop to it; I want this floor clean enough to eat from!"

The major stayed in the ward long enough to see us get up and begin to do his bidding. We staggered around and did the best we could; then we closed the windows and fell back into our beds.

When Doc Munger came in a little later, with his white coat covering most of the signs of his officer status, he was concerned to find some of the patients showing signs of worsening condition. Some had fits of coughing and showed temperatures more elevated than usual.

"I don't understand it," he said after checking the second patient. "You fellas were doing better yesterday."

"Maybe," said the patient between coughs, "it's because we just had a GI party."

"Sure," the doctor smiled, thinking it a joke. "You all jumped out of bed and scrubbed the floor!"

"That's right," I said. "No joke, sir. The major came in and ordered us to do it."

"Is that so?" The doctor's eyebrows raised a second; then he looked around at the floor, which still glistened from the mopping. "So I see. Did you tell him you were on orders to stay in bed?"

"Yes, sir."

"Hmm. Well, we'll see if we can get this straightened out," he said calmly with a look of determination. "I want to see all of you get well without any hitches. I'll talk to him on a professional basis."

We knew the "profession" Doc Munger had in mind was medical, not military. His professional talk with the major must have been effectual, for the major did not repeat his martinet act of the morning.

That's the way Doc Munger was. He was not in it for the money or glory or power. However, he was not a Hawkeye Pierce type either, except in his dedication to healing. Doc's uniform was not sloppy, and he was not a playboy; nor did he flout authority. But he did his best to influence those in authority to keep the health of the troops in mind.

I couldn't say precisely how many lives of flight crew members were saved by Doc Munger, but I know there was at least one ground crew member who owed his life to Doc. It's a common belief among combat crews that there is virtually no danger to ground crews--except from whatever enemy air raids may occur, and these are a danger to all. This belief is definitely not valid for those who work with armament.

One of our B-24 bombers returned from a mission one day with a jammed .50 caliber machine gun in the upper turret. An armorer friend of mine (I'll call him Bob) tried to clear the weapon.

Bob took the backplate off the gun and remembered the safety precaution of removing the recoil spring. This was very important when trying to unjam a gun with a cartridge in the chamber, for the recoil spring could be driven through a man's brain like an arrow if the gun fired with the backplate off. But Bob forgot another basic precaution: he removed the bolt stud. The bolt stud was the gun's most important safety device; its function was to stop the bolt at the back of the gun in case of accidental firing. When Bob reached in with a rod to try to disengage the bolt, the gun fired and, since the bolt stud wasn't there to stop it, the heavy steel bolt slammed into his forehead.

A couple of us heard the loud report from where we were working on other parts of the plane, and we scrambled through the bomb bay into the radio operator's compartment where the upper turret was located. We found Bob crumpled on the floor in a pool of blood, his face an unrecognizable mass.

"Oh, my God," I whimpered, "he's done for!" We called for the ambulance and helped the medics load him into it, but we had no hope at all for his survival.

Shortly afterward, we heard that Doc Munger was working feverishly in the operating room in an effort to save Bob's life. We admired him for trying, but still thought it was a futile effort--after all, that smashed forehead! Then the next day we heard the miraculous news that our flight surgeon had been successful in removing all the broken bone from Bob's forehead, and with luck the patient would recover.

Within a month Bob left the hospital with a plate in his forehead and new skin covering the wound. He laughed ruefully when telling about his near-fatal error with the bolt stud. "How could I forget a thing like that? It flashed into my mind a split second before the gun fired, but it was too late!"

"Well, at least," I consoled him, "you remembered the recoil spring, thank God! If you hadn't, you wouldn't be here talking to us!"

"That's right," he agreed with a light in his eyes. "And if it hadn't been for Doc Munger, I wouldn't be here either. Thank God for him too!"

I don't know where Doc Munger is today--but I would like to. I'm sure many other former members of the 790th would like to know also. Are you out there, Doc? If so, stand up and receive our salute--not because of your officer status, but because you were one helluva flight surgeon!