In the Shadows

Back in London after a trip to Normandy, TIME Correspondent Mary Welsh last week cabled her feminine impression of U.S. invasion casualties and their treatment:

Nearly all wounded men brought to field and evacuation hospitals go first to "pre-ops" or "shock tents." There they lie pale and uncomplaining in the eerie, khaki shadows of a single string of overhead lights while they absorb whole blood or plasma. Blood is a miraculous strength-giver. In 20 minutes drooping eyelids lift, eyes become clear and focused. Normal color returns, and the men chat with the nurses and ask for a cigaret. Then they go on operating tables, where wounds too horrible to describe get enough patchwork to allow them to go safely to England.

Belly wounds have priority on the operating tables. Nurses call the belly-wound ward "Wangenstein Alley," after the inventor of a stomach suction device. In the olive-brown twilight, Wangenstein Alleys look like Spanish moss forests, with double rubber tubes descending from bottles high above each bed to the patients' noses and wounds.

The total casualties so far consist of 20% dead (i.e., before they can be given medical attention) and 80% wounded. Of the wounded, about half are able to walk. But the other half are hurt worse than Americans have ever been hurt and lived. Nobody in the tremendous U.S. medical service in Normandy underestimates the cost of the invasion.

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