North Africa 1942-43

The American 5th Army was slowly progressing eastward with intentions of squeezing the German Africa Korp between it and the British 8th Army. During that slow eastern progress our anti-aircraft battalion was ordered to deploy our guns, radar, and search lights about the city and port of Algiers. It was larger than Oran, more cosmopolitan and picturesque.

It resembled a small version of San Francisco. If I recall correctly, we stayed at that position for a month, perhaps longer.

My first aid station was placed up on a hill in a little wooded area overlooking the city with its vulnerable military unloading docks below. Enemy bombers came in at night during our watch, and when they did, it was like the celebration of the Fourth of July multiplied 100 times.

That description comes from my peeking over the sand bags that I was hugging while trying to pull my helmet down to my knees. Any German bombers that were hit must have fallen beyond the hill that I was on.

For the men of Headquarters Company “Sick Call” was held every morning shortly after first light. The men of the other companies came in at any time, but were encouraged to come in at “AM Sick Call” so that collected blood and urine samples could be delivered to a nearby tent hospital in one trip.

One morning, during sick call, a young Arab girl about 11 or 12 years of age asked me in English, but with a French accent, to examine her father. They approached apprehensively, firmly holding her hand in his. I was quite surprised at her fluent English, and I explained to her that my professional efforts were limited to the military, and that she should take her father to see a local French doctor, unless of course, she had no money. “No,” she responded, “We have money, but our doctor is in the army, and he is gone. We don't have any doctors!”

Well, the morning was young, and I could feel that Greek fellow, Mr. Hippocrates, tweaking my conscience, so I said OK. And with that, her father took his shirt off and displayed a huge, oozing, purulent, draining carbuncle on his back, the likes, and size of which I had never seen before. It covered almost the entire surface of his back.

This occurred early in 1943, and the only medication that I had for preventing or treating infection was sulfanilamide powder. Penicillin was not yet available to us at that time. So, with the old fellow bent over, I sprinkled the sulfa powder generously over his lesion and covered it with sterile dressings. His very grateful daughter agreed to bring him back every morning for repeat sulfa applications.

To my amazement, in just a few days, the large draining abscess decreased in size miraculously. The patient and family were delighted, and I was truly amazed.

A few days later, the laboratory reported staphylococcus was the causative bacteria. Fortunately, the staphylococcus bacteria were sensitive to sulfa drugs (in those days). But what occurred later justifies my telling this story.

About one week after the large draining abscess healed, the daughter reappeared at sick call one morning and invited me to come to her house and have dinner with her father and family. She pointed out that they lived only a few hundred yards down the road and that I could bring a friend .She repeated several times, “I know that you will be surprised!” I politely refused of course, having visions of eating food in an Arab hovel and suffering a gastro-intestinal catastrophe. But she was really insistent and repeated the comment about being “surprised.” My curiosity was truly piqued.

I convinced my friend “Hutch” to join me for this dinner and unknown adventure. Hutchinson was a warrant officer in charge of some special administrative duty (and was assigned to my quarters). I really had to coax him to come along.

We followed the directions given by the little Arab girl and walked down the road about a quarter of a mile. As we left the dense wooded road, we suddenly beheld a magnificent white building on top of a hill. Its flowered gardens, exquisitely trimmed, seemed to flow stepwise down the hill forever. It brought to mind pictures of the historical “Hanging Gardens Of Babylon.”

		Home of the Arab with the carbunkle on his back. Garage is the black square at the bottom left of the house.

Obviously, we were awed and astonished by the beauty, size and elegance of this magnificent estate. The little Arab girl and her father came out to greet us, as did other members of the family. They wanted to touch and shake the hand of the “American God” who cured their father.

Apparently, in spite of all my efforts to be humble, I must have overdone it because Hutch later said he became a bit nauseated as he observed my humility.

Attached to the house was a large open garage housing three or four vehicles. The young girl took me by the hand and pointed to one of the smaller cars, which was a Renault, an open sports model. She then pointed to me. It didn't dawn on me what she had in mind until Hutch came out with, “Doc, they want to give this car to you as a gift!” Well, can you believe that? Of course, I thanked them profusely and explained that I couldn't use anything other than military transportation, and perhaps, one day, after the war I would come back and visit with them, etc. etc.

I could just picture myself at the end of our battalion convoy in my Renault sports car waving at the liberated French people.

What a thought! But back to the house.

The family courteously held the doors open and asked us to come inside.

It would take another chapter to describe the unique Middle Eastern charm and beauty of the layout and furnishings of this elaborate home. As I entered the foyer I felt that if I clapped my hands, dancing girls would appear and twirl around the center fountain as in a Hollywood movie.

The depth of their gratitude and happiness shown to Hutch and me for successfully treating the father's affliction was unending. As to dinner, it was my first introduction to couscous.

Hutch and I had many delightful conversations about that evening in the weeks to come.