July 9 — Beautiful New England Morning

By Howard Sachs, PhD, MD/howardsachs@rocketmail.com
As usual, here, at the retirement community where I live, my aide, Bonnie arrived at 7:30 AM, got me up and into the shower, dressed and shaved, made certain that I took my anti- epilepsy pills, drank some orange juice for my low blood sugar before shoving me out the door at 7:50 AM for my morning walk.

The sun was not yet up, the pavement and bushes were still damp from the evening rain and the air was crisp and fresh. After about three steps on the damp pavement of the parking lot, I felt a smile cross my face and the urge to discard my walker and to dance and sing across the lot. I kept the smile but resisted the urge as I knew that without my walker, I would end up on the pavement. Instead, I began to chant loudly in Chinese the numbers one to eight, learned from a Chinese resident.  And thus I marched in step to my chant, in imitation of a Chinese infantry brigade. However, the Chines numbrs sound to me like a song, and heightened my spirit on this spectacular morning. What a way to start the day! If only, I could persuade my neighbors to join me.

But I do laugh when I think of 100 elderly  women marching along Mulberry Lane, chanting Ee,  Ei  San Shu, U, Yu, Shi ,Bah; would the other residents call out the National Guard?

American Casualties in Afghanistan

By Howard Sachs, MD, PhD

Follow-up to my earlier entry involving the dilemma of our war in Afghanistan, or war on Islam.  I printed the piece out with some disturbed feelings, picked up my lunch, brought it to my room and turned on CNN. Across the screen were shots of the unloading of a coffin carrying the latest casualty, a young American Sergeant, recently killed in one of our far-off wars in some remote corner of the earth, The question was then posed, “ Should the media be allowed to present this kind of dismal homecoming to the American public?”

I say why not? So that the public is disabused of the Hollywood concept of our wars as a demonstration of American courage and valor in defense of the stars and stripes. The people in government who write and bellow this kind of garbage have never been in a foxhole shivering with the earth as an artillery or mortar shell explodes a few feet away, or had to pick up in your arms the body of a young comrade, just killed by enemy fire during our last attack. Never had to place their friend’s body onto a poncho to then drag back to our own lines for burial in the US rather than Okinawa. For Gods sakes, that’s not John Wayne in that coffin, but a young American youth taken from the arms of his loved ones, forever, forever. Why? Were the Afghans about to invade our shores or shower us with missiles?— the poorest country in the world? Obviously, the same questions would apply if the poor GI was killed in Pakistan or Iraq.

More About the Battle on Okinawa

April 16th entry to Howard Memoirs
In an ealier entry  my experiences in WW II,  I recall ending with our landing on Okinawa as replacements in the 96th Infantry division, who by now had lost half their men to a fanatical Japanese combat force, who were well trained and equipped and skilled.

Armored trucks met us as we emerged from the LSTs which brought us to shore, and they then brought us to the front lines, now about halfway down the island, but still a bit more to go in order to clear the island of Japanese forces. The positions that we took up consisted of a line of empty foxholes, once occupied by now dead or wounded 96th infantrymen. The foxholes lined a ridge of a small cliff facing a tract of grassland to the base of Oboe Hill. Beyond Oboe Hill lay a vast prairie over which our tanks could then roll. But Oboe Hill would be our next objective, the battle for which took the lives of 90% of our company.

As I slid into my hole, I saw who was to be my companion, a young Greek boy, known as “ the Greek” He was already  reading his bible. From the opposite corner, I yelled to him, “ Hi Greek, pray for me, too.” None too soon, because the Japs must have learned of our arrival and began artillery– mortar bombardment, nothing we had ever experienced before. We were both scared to death and clung to the ground as each shell exploded feet from our hole. After about a half hour of continuous shelling and the Greek’s furious praying, Sgt Beester slid into our hole, to calm and reassure us, the green, virginous combat replacements. He looked calmly at us and said softly, “ It’s okay men, we weren’t made for this, but remember, we still got to take Oboe Hill, tomorrow.” His presence was certainly reassuring, as the bombardment slowed and then discontinued about the time the sun set. I guess they too were also getting hungry and wanted some rice and whatever else they ate. We heaved a sigh of relief and opened our C rations, and leaned back against the mud wall of our hole. The Sgt now left, but not before warning us that the worst was yet to come in the form of one of their nightly Banzai attacks.

Shortly before midnight, our flares began to light the sky and the world about us. And we could hear them below chanting, “ Banzai, Banzai, Banzai, melican sonomobitch die tonight,” eventually, the screaming of “ Banzai” – Glory to our emperor came closer, as they charged our positions, carrying rifles and concussion grenades which they activated by banging the grenade against their helmets, and then flinging themselves into one of our foxholes to blow themselves up along with the other occupants of the hole. Our automatic BARs were blasting away, along with our rifle fire to keep those maniacal, screaming Japanese soldiers away from our hole. One came from nowhere to within a few feet of us; I emptied my M1 rifle into his chest which stopped him, but I recall his face looking down at us. It looked frozen in the act of screaming, surprised, quizzical, what now in death?”

That face is engraved in my brain, a youth I killed. Do those idiots in Washington or the media have any notion of what they’re shouting about with the threat of making war, something I hope no more American youth will have to  experience.

Suicide Bombers — Is There Ever Justification?

Is it ever justifiable, suicide bombing in defense of Islam?”
Surely a question of some pertinence today, emphasized by Obama’s announced new war in Afghanistan, supposedly, directed against the Al Quaida, a fanatical fringe of suicide bombers directed against the West and a modern world of nonbelievers. Most informative on this subject is a recent book by Steve Coll, “ The Bin Ladins.”  Yes, the family from which the most noted terrorist, Osama Bin Ladin derives, and the terrorist involved in the destruction of the World Trade Center on 9/11. The book, most importantly gives some understanding of the crises today. The author, in tracing the vast resources of the Bin Ladin family, exposes their excessive wealth, power, and devotion to Islam supported by their compatriots in the West and Saudi Arabia, leading to the conviction that this great wealth  – power can lead to the eventual victory of the 200 million or more Muslims in this world over the nonbelievers. Of interest are the vignettes and stories of how Osama, by means of his luxuriant assets – cash — exploits the greed of mankind to carry out the terrorist deeds.

But this is hardly the framework of beliefs of a few. A more accurate picture of Muslim tolerance of terrorism comes from a poll conducted in 12 countries, indicating that there are more than 200 million avowed supporters of terrorism, and the murder of innocent women and children in defense of Islam. A significant number of devout Muslims believe that all those terrorists who participated in the 9/11 suicidal attacks are now seated to the right of God in paradise, where there are rivers of milk and honey.

A Terrifying Surgical Experience

Howard Sachs, MD, PhD

In these modern times, most surgical procedures are routine, painless events, especially with high tech imaging devices to guide the surgeon and an array of general and local anesthetics, Most people facing any kind of complex surgery will say: “ Just put me to sleep and wakeme when it’s all over.” They usually receive general anesthesiology, and go through a more prolonged recovery period of clear brain function.

Thus following a routine MRI to assess the damage of the first brain surgery and postsurgical mistreatment, my neurosurgeon approached and said, “Howard, the MRI showed, as expected, an infracted right temporal lobe, but also some subdural blood.” I awaited the remainder of the pronouncement with apprehension, and it came. The illustrious man said: “ We should evacuate the blood, and we can do it under local rather than general anesthesia, with a quicker recovery period.” He must have read my mind, and said, “No worry, it won’t be painful, guided by infra red imaging.” I remembered that the brain had no pain receptors, and didn’t enjoy being in a daze for days after genera anesthesia, and so I agreed.

Next day, the gurney arrived at my bedside; I was loaded on and wheeled into the surgical suite. Once on the table, I was aware of them shaving my head, and receiving some local lidocaine in my scalp muscle, But then came the most terrifying sensation I could imagine, I felt the razor sharp scalpel blade slicing through my scalp muscle. I screamed in pain and terror: “ YOW, you bastards, how about some more lidocaine.” They complied quickly, both locally and intravenously, I assume, because I became dazed and numb, for the rest of the procedure, though awake and frightened to death. They still had to drill through the scalp bone. Although I heard the drill, I felt no pain, as presumably they had gone through the old holes drilled during the first surgery, in order to create a bone flap.

I lay quietly, trying to erase the memory of that initial slice, thinking of the poor animals butchered before being completely dead. Thus reinforcing in later years, my decision to be a vegetarian.