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Show .Marine Doctors Share Hardships With Fighters 'Offices' Are Crude Dugouts Or Wooden Huts ; Several Decorated for Valor. By TECHNICAL SERGEANT JIM G. LUCAS SOMEWHERE IN THE SOUTH PACIFIC (Delayed) Keeping the marine corps of World War II in fighting trim is not a hit-and-run job. Wherever marines go in the South Pacific, their doctors go with them. Their "sick bays" range from crude dugouts, dug-outs, at the front lines, to fairly presentable, but certainly cer-tainly not elaborate, wooden huts deeper in "safe" territory. terri-tory. On Guadalcanal, Tulagi, Tanambogo, doctors distinguished distin-guished themselves under fire. They have received navy crosses, silver stars and distinguished service medals for valor, others have died in action. Unable to get into battle, they are doing the same work they did at home. When they closed their offices and said goodby to civilian practice, they were moving 10,000 miles to the uncharted un-charted islands of the Pacific. A Typical 'Sick Bay.' Typical of the hundreds of "sick bays" now strung over Allied territory ter-ritory in the South Pacific is that directed by Lieut. A. A. Pringos, U.S.N., of 523 Washington street, Petersburg, Va., a graduate of the University of Virginia school of medicine med-icine who gave up his practice in New Orleans, La., to enlist in the navy nine months ago. Lieutenant Pringos' "sick bay" is far enough back of actual fighting that it handles no battle casualties. Those are evacuated from the front lines to hospitals elsewhere. His job is the routine one of keeping keep-ing fighting men fit. Assisting him are 11 navy corps-men, corps-men, another doctor and two dentists. den-tists. The demands on their time are enough to keep them busy 15 hours a day, seven days a week. They are the only doctors in a community com-munity of marines with a tetal population pop-ulation greater than that of many cities in the United States. An ailing marine is no marine at all. First sergeants know, from past experience, that it is best to be safe than sorry; better to send a man up for examination in case of doubt. Average 75 Patients a Day. Lieutenant Pringos' sick bay, like many others, averages between 75 and 100 patients a day. Only a small percentage of them are sent on to hospitals. A large fraction returns for a second or third treatment. treat-ment. The big majority are handled han-dled on the spot, and marines who otherwise might have been disabled for days and weeks remain on the job, ready for action when it comes. When it first was established, this sick bay occupied a large field tent. Now, it is located in a large, open shack, 60 feet long and 25 feet wide, and screened for protection against flies and mosquitoes. Marine officers see the decrease in the number of man-days lost; insist in-sist they are heroes of a different sort. Perhaps, because of them, civilian civil-ian patients who have given their family doctors to the war will feel the loss a little less keenly. Always in demand is the camp dentist, Lieut. George W. Fry, Wheaton, 111., who has appointments scheduled every 30 minutes from 7 a. m. to 5 p. m. 17 days in advance. ad-vance. As at the fighting front, doctors insist that their corpsmen are the real heroes. Boys who, until their enlistment, had only a speaking acquaintance ac-quaintance with medicine, they have quietly, efficiently learned the basic ba-sic facts of the profession; offer invaluable assistance to doctors by relieving them of bookkeeping routine, rou-tine, and handle minor details. A corpsman is on duty 24 hours a day; frequently takes care of serious seri-ous cases until a doctor can arrive. Heroes of a Different Sort. No heroes in the accepted sense of the word, these doctors have kept marines ready to hit the Jap whenever when-ever military strategists think it best. The doctors frequently joke among themselves about themselves; feel ashamed that they have not been called up where the bullets fly. |