15. The Battle Ends

After I had been at Oliver General Hospital for one month, the time came for me to appear before the Army Retirement Board. This was the board of officers who were to determine whether I was to be released from the Army or discharged from the hospital and sent back to active duty. For the past six months I had been going through the regular channels to get before this board. Ever since I had been declared a Zone of Interior patient back in Soissons, France, I had been making my way slowly to this decisive moment. This would be the culmination of my long struggle for freedom; either I would be discharged or I would be retained by the Army. In either case I would win my freedom from the clutches of the general hospitals.

During the course of my detention in the hospital I had talked with other officer-patients who had appeared before this Retirement Board. They had thrilled me with their tales of the rich rewards that were handed out by the board. I was particularly interested in what happened to those officers who, like myself, had ulcers. You can imagine my delight when I heard them say that the board had given them a clean bill of retirement from the Army, plus retirement pay of three quarters of their base pay for the rest of their natural or unnatural lives. I toyed with the fond hope of receiving a like sentence. What a wonderful thing it would be to retire from the Army with the assurance of a hundred and fifty dollars a month for the rest of my life!

The hospital commander appointed two medical officers to plead my case before the board. One of these officers was a specialist in ulcers; the other was my ward officer. Several days before the time I was to appear before the board, the ulcer specialist had me come to his office for a consultation. We went over all my records together, carefully checking each detail and selecting the most pertinent facts to be used in our argument to the board that I was in terrible physical condition. This procedure gave me a rather guilty feeling. There I was, trying to prove that I was a bad insurance risk, when all the time I never felt better in my life. I felt that I was in perfect physical condition and told this officer so. He hastily assured me that if I as much as hinted at that fact before the board I could just plan to spend the rest of my natural life in the hospital. He informed me that if I were to pass the rigid tests of the board, I would have to plead illness in the first degree. It was very much like a criminal’s trying to beat the rap by pleading insanity when everybody knows he isn’t insane, only a little nuts for saying he is crazy. Under this threat of life imprisonment, I consented to following the doctor’s advice. So we drew up our plan of attack and agreed on just what I was to say when the board started asking me questions.

The procedure before the Army Retirement Board was one in which the medical officer (witness, in this case) presented the patient’s case to the board, and then the board members asked the patient whatever questions they could think of. Under this arrangement the board acted as prosecution, judge, and jury. The patient was the witness and defendant, while the medical officer was the defense attorney.

Before the interview was ended, the ulcer specialist warned me that under no circumstances should I try to alter any of the testimony that had been given, or indicate to the board that I thought I should be released from the Army. This seemed a rather odd piece of advice. “After all,” I said, “isn’t that the whole purpose of our case?”

“Even so,” the ulcer specialist countered, “you leave it up to the board to determine if you should be retired or not. Don’t try to tell them that you think you are physically unfit for further military service. They don’t like patients to tell them what they ought to do with patients.”

Three or four days later I found myself sitting before the retirement board. My medical defense attorney presented my case, using such lengthy medical terms that I began to think that maybe I was much worse off than I had thought. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying. But I took comfort in the knowledge that neither could the members of the retirement board. Not one of them was a medical officer. Some of them were cavalry officers, some were infantry officers, some were Quartermaster Corps officers, and one was a veterinarian, which didn’t make me any too happy.

When my medical defense attorney finished his description of the frailties of my flesh, the chairman of the board asked me if there was anything I would like to add. I said, “No”. Then the questioning began. Right off, one of the board members asked me if I thought I could carry on in the Army. This was the very thing that I had been warned about. I wanted to tell him no, but I was afraid to. And I knew that I didn’t want to tell him yes. I took the middle road by telling him that I had spent nine months of my three years in the Army in hospitals—was that good? I asked.

When the questioning ended I was excused from the room while the members of the board compared notes and decided my fate. After about ten minutes, during which time I think they played a hand of gin rummy, I was called back before the board. The chairman of the board handed me a mimeographed letter, saying that this was their verdict, which I could read later. I saluted the board and departed from their august presence.

Outside the board room I read the letter. My sentence was that I was to be retired from the Army . . . without pay.

During the writing of this story of my life in the Army, I confess that I at times have been sarcastic toward Army brass hats and the insane rules and regulations they often passed down the chains of command. I confess also that I have consistently poked fun at the Army itself, at all its levels. That has been my purpose. But I wish to make clear in this final chapter that I have not told the whole story.

Many fine and wonderful experiences came to me during my three years as a chaplain, experiences I could never have gained in any other work. And I would not exchange ten years of civilian life for those three Army years that were so packed with excitement, pleasures, hard work, and intimate contact with the bare fundamentals of life. It was for these reasons that I left the Army with deep regrets.

I must confess that when the Army Retirement Board handed down the decision that I was to be retired from the Army and placed on inactive status, I was happy. But my gladness did not spring from any dislike of the Army. The war was over and the Army was rapidly returning to a peacetime status.

As far as I had been able to see before I had appeared before the board, the urgent need for chaplains was over. The work that I would be called upon to do if I remained on active duty, I had realized, would closely parallel that of a civilian minister, but it would be on a much less challenging level. Because of my physical condition I could not be sent overseas and would be assigned to a permanent base here in the States. . . . Frankly, the prospect of that kind of life had not appealed to me. I had believed that I could be of much more service to my church, my country, and my family by returning to the civilian ministry. It was for this reason that I received my release from the Army with such joy.

A few days after I had passed the retirement board, I was notified to appear at the Army Discharge Center. Several other officers also reported. We were told how to act when we got back to civilian life. This was a reversal of the process we had gone through when we had come into the Army. Then we had been told all the secrets and mysteries of military life: whom to salute, and why; how to wear the uniform; how to apply for a leave; and how to make friends and influence commanding officers. Now we were being told the strange secrets of civilian life.

We were duly warned that a person had to work for a living as a civilian; that there was no great organization to provide food and shelter and clothing; that there would be no one (unless we were married) to tell us what to do, where to go, and when to get up, eat, and go to bed. We were being cast from under the protective wing of the Army and would have to find some way of shifting for ourselves. I was rather unimpressed by these warnings of the difficulties of civilian life. I was just cocky enough to believe I could take care of myself.

On February 9, I completed all the details pertaining to the termination of my military career and drove over to Atlanta, Georgia, for an interview with my presiding bishop, Arthur Moore. It was necessary for me to inform him that I was now out of the Army and ready to resume my work as a minister of the Florida Methodist Conference. When I explained the nature of my visit to Bishop Moore, he expressed his delight that I was available for an assignment, since there still existed a critical shortage of ministers.

“We have missed you very much from the pastorate,” the bishop continued, “but we have not been sorry that you left us for service in the Army. It has always been my conviction that the church must follow its people wherever they go. We are proud that the Florida Methodist Conference sent more than forty of its active ministers into the military service of our country.”

“It was a great service,” I said, thanking the bishop for his gracious remarks, “and I would not exchange it for any other experience I know of. But I am now out of the Army and ready to go back to work in a civilian church. I came to ask if you have an appointment open at this time of the year.”

The bishop nodded, “Yes, I am sure I can find a place for you. You must remember, though, that this is midyear in the conference. I can send you only to the charges that have been left without pastors. We can possibly make some adjustments at the conference this June.”

“I understand that, Bishop,” I responded. “All I ask is that you send me to a place with a parsonage for my wife and babies.”

The bishop opened a drawer in his desk, took out a folder of charts and papers, and began thumbing through them. After a moment he paused and carefully read one page of the papers. Then he said to me, “I have only one charge free at this time that has a parsonage. I can send you there.” ,

Eagerly I asked, “Where is it?”

“Florida City,” he answered.

So it was settled that I would take myself and my family to Florida City as soon as possible. I didn’t have the faintest idea where the place was except that it was in Florida. But what did that matter? I had a church in which to work, a home in which to live, and people to love. What more could I ask?

THE END