Out of every 100 men of the United
States Navy and Marine Corps who were wounded in World War II, 97
recovered .
That is a record not equaled anywhere
anytime.
Every individual who was thus saved
from death, owes an everlasting debt to the Navy's Hospital Corps.
The Navy is indebted to the corps. The entire nation is its debtor
for thousands of citizens are living normal, constructive, happy and
productive lives who, but for the skill and toil of the Hospital
Corps, might be dead or disheartened by crippling invalidism.
So, to the 200,000 men and women of
the Hospital Corps, I say on behalf of the United States Navy:
"Well Done. Well done,
indeed!"
Without your service, the Navy's
Medical Corps cou7ld not have achieved the life-saving record and
the mind-saving record its physicians and surgeons and psychiatrists
achieved. That others might live, your fellow corpsmen have given
their lives; 889 of them were killed or mortally wounded. Others
died as heroically from disease they were trying to combat. In all,
the Corps' casualty list contains 1,724 names, an honor roll of
special distinction because none among them bore arms.
The hospital corpsmen saved lives on
tall the beaches that the Marines stormed. Corpsmen were at the
forefront of every invasion, in all the actions at sea, on all
carrier decks. You were on your own in submarines and the smaller
ships of the fleet, performing emergency surgery at times when you
had to take the fearsome responsibility of trying to save a life by
heroic means or see the patient die. Your presence at every post of
danger gave immeasurable confidence to your comrades under arms.
Their bravery was fortified by the knowledge that the corpsmen, the
sailor of solace, were literally at their sides with the skill and
means to staunch wounds, allay pain and to carry them back, if need
be, to safe shelter and the ministrations of the finest medical
talent in the world.
You corpsmen performed fox-hole
surgery while shell fragments clipped your clothing, shattered the
plasma bottles from which you poured new life into the wounded, and
sniper's bullets were aimed at the brassards on your arms. On Iwo
Jima, for example, the percentage of casualties among your cops was
greater than the proportion of losses among the Marines. Two of your
colleagues who gave their lives in that historic battle were
posthumously cited for the Medal of Honor. One of the citations
reads: "By his great personal valor in saving others at the
sacrifice of his own life (he) inspired his companions, although
terrifically out numbered, to launch a fiercely determined attack
and repulse the enemy force." All that he had in his hands were
the tools of mercy, yet he won a memorable victory at the cost of
his own life.
No wonder men and women are proud to
wear the emblem of the Hospital Corps! It is a badge of mercy and
valor, a token of unselfish service in the highest calling the
saving of life in the service of your country.
Your corps' men and women toiled,
often and dangerously, never less vitally, in areas remote from
battle: In hospitals, on hospital ships, in airplanes, in
laboratories and pharmacies and dispensaries. They helped, and are
helping (for the task is far from over) in the salvage of men's
broken bodies and minds that is the grim product and perennial
aftermath of war. Some of you contributed skills in dental
technology, some engaged in pest control to diminish unfamiliar
diseases, others taught natives of distant islands the benefits of
modern hygiene, even to midwifery and everyday sanitation.
Scores of corpsmen, made prisoners of
war, used their skill and strength to retain life and hope in their
fellow captives through long years of imprisonment and deprivation.
Whatever their duty, wherever they
were, the men and women of the Hospital Corps served the Navy and
served Humanity, with exemplary courage, sagacity and effort. The
performance of their duties has been "in keeping with the
highest traditions of the United States Naval Service." That,
to any man or woman, is the highest of praise. The corps has earned
it an continues to earn it.
For, as I said, the task is not yet
completed. Thousands of the War's casualties will long need the
ministrations of physicians, nurses, and the Hospital Corps before
they can return to normal peacetime pursuits. Hundreds may have to
be cared for as long as they live; that these unfortunates are so
few is in large measure due to the prompt, skillful aid accorded our
wounded and stricken, by your corps.
Illness and accident will add to
these numbers, of course. There will always be the sick and injured,
and there will always be need for trained personnel to help restore
them. The Navy's best laboratories are forever engaging in research
to combat disease, to speed the healing of torn flesh and broken
bones, to devise new aids for the maimed to lead a normal life. And
so I am impelled to address this message not only to the men and
women of the corps who have completed their service to the Navy, but
to those who are joining-or rejoining-in that inspiring career.
It is no easy profession, even in
peacetime. There is danger in the test tubes and culture racks as
menacing as in the guns of an unvanquished enemy. The Hospital Corps
is never at peach. It is forever on the firing line in the ceaseless
war against disease and premature death. That is why the corps'
emblem is truly "the red badge of courage," a designation
to all the world that the person who wears it has been
self-dedicated to the service of humanity.
Customarily the "Well done"
signal is reserved for the closing phrase of a message of
congratulations, but I placed it in the forefront where, in this
instance, it most fittingly belongs. I repeat it, here with the
postscript that in earning its "well done" the Hospital
Corps is assured no other unit in the Navy did better in the degree
of essential duty inspiringly performed.
