What to do about your brain-injured child how to teach your baby to read how to multiply your baby

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Mentally Retarded, Mentally Deficient, Cerebral-palsied, Epileptic, Artistic, Athetoid, Hyperactive, Attention Deficit Disordered, Developmentally Delayed, Down's Child

the Gentle Revolution Series:







Children 's Book.



There are four groups of people without whom there would have been no book and, for that matter, no Institutes for the Achievement of Human Potential. They have my love and respect which go far beyond the book; they make me the most fortunate of men. I list them with love.

The Staff of The Institutes for the Achievement of Human Potential

The Kids

The Parents

My Family

In regard to the first edition, I thank beyond measure Dr. Raymundo Veras and Dan and Margaret Melcher who made me tackle it again for the ninth time. For the illustrations, I am indebted to David Melton, father, artist, and author who made it easy by understanding it all. For the research, I am indebted to my assistant, Greta Erdtmann. For the preparation, I thank Vicki Thornber. The endless manuscript changes were made efficiently and cheerfully by Irma Kieslich, Cathy Ruhling, and Sherry Russock. The original version was instigated and carried out by Lindley Boyer.

For the 30th anniversary edition, I am indebted to the very capable team that undertook the task of updating the book: my daughter Janet; my son Douglas, and Susan Aisen. In addition Dr. Mihai Dimancescu, Dr. Denise Malkowitz, and Dr. Coralee Thompson contributed invaluable advice for which I am very grateful. I thank Dr. Ralph Pelligra for writing the Foreword for the book. The Institutes editor. Janet Gauger, deserves special mention for the many hours of love and care she put into this new edition and without which it would never have been completed.


This book is a precious gift for thousands of brain injured children who drift perilously on a sea of ignorance and misunderstanding tor beleaguered parents who desperately seek guidance and refuse to give in or give up and for medical professionals who can find within its pages scientifically sound and intellectually satisfying answers to a difficult and perplexing clinical problem.

It is not a medical text in the classic sense nor has it been sane titled on the holy altar of the prospective double blind controlled clinical study. But like all seminal scientific discoveries it uncovers fundamental receptively simple truths that have been obscured and subverted by prevailing dogma.
Glenn Doman and his team anticipated by several decades the discoveries of modern neuroscience-that the human brain has remarkable abilities for self repair (neuroplasticity) and regeneration (neurogenesis) that the brain is easily accessible and modify able by intense sensory stimulation that the protean symptoms of brain injury are just symptoms and that treatment should be directed at their cause the injured brain itself.

Glenn Doman looks at the commonplace and sees the profound. He looks at the floor and sees not a floor but a landscape of opportunity for the developing infant. He looks at human mobility and sees not just a mode of locomotion but a key to unraveling the complexity of a pathological process. He questions the obvious "What is normal" -and asks provocatively, "Who is not brain injured". He extracts scientific truths from insights and observations and not content with theoretical explanations alone he incorporates them into a practical and meaningful manual for parents.

This book tells us nothing of the years upon years of exploration into the lives of children all over the world. Glenn Doman does not tell of his expeditions and explorations into the wildest areas of the world, and they were many. He went so that he and his beloved who fails to question, to challenge, and to remember from history the unreasonable personal toll we exact from those who dare to innovate.

I was deeply honored when Glenn Doman asked me to write the Foreword to the 30th Anniversary Edition of this rare literary and scientific gem, but I would not have agreed had I felt unqualified to do so. I have worked side by side with Glenn and the staff of The Institutes for the Achievement of Human Potential for more than a quarter of a century.

Under Glenn's direction as senior researcher, we have conducted research programs that validate the basic premises put forth in this book, particularly those regarding respiratory and oxygen availability programs. I have been a researcher for many years and know well the gratifying feeling of publishing the results of good research. But there is nothing to compare to the intellectual and emotional excitement of seeing scientific premise come to life-to see a formerly paralyzed child doing handstands and other gymnastic feats, or to see a presumed "mentally retarded" child reading and comprehending above the level of his chronological peers. Even today there are still children who fail to progress, but the work set in motion by this book continues and the results improve steadily.

For all its science and innovation, this is a moving story of human dedication and devotion. It is told with warmth and honest directness by a decorated war hero whose battlefield has changed but whose cause has not. Tyranny and the threat to human dignity come in many forms, but none so devastating as the innocent child who is imprisoned in his own body, labeled with false deficiencies, and often warehoused and forgotten. Glenn Doman, a scientist, humanitarian, and tireless warrior has given us a battle plan-a fighting chance for the brain-injured child. He provides an end to false despair and a beginning for hope.







This book by Glenn Doman is in many ways a very bad book. Upon my sober reflection, I see it to be the least good book of major importance I have ever read. However, perhaps this is so because I have not read many so-important books in my lifetime of reading. It is not so important to all people alive, but only of major importance to the parents of children.

This is not a bad book because to read it is difficult, for truth dictates that I report that it is very easy to read. Glenn Doman does not address himself to professionals but writes only for the parents, whom he so admires and respects. This makes it a marvelously easy book to read.

This is not a bad book because it is unexciting. His descriptions of the early discoveries of "the team," such as those which revealed the importance of the Floor to hurt children and normal infants, the reader will find exciting.

This book is not bad because it is not emotionally moving. The reader may find himself enraptured even to tears while reading the chapter on motivation, as I found myself moved.

I find this in many ways to be a bad book, because having started a New Age, he tells us so little about it in a doctrinal sense.

Glenn Doman gives us only the slightest glimpse into the years of unrelenting work through the brightness of days and the darkness of nights. It is a heroic story of a group of people who would in no case accept defeat and most especially when they were defeated.

This book tells us nothing of the years upon years of exploration into the lives of children all over the world. Glenn Doman does not tell of his expeditions and explorations into the wildest areas of the world, and they were many. He went so that he and his beloved "team" could see with their own eyes, while living with children, what no child expert had ever seen before since the beginning of time. He docs not tell us how they have lived with children in more than fifty different countries, from the most highly sophisticated to the most wild. They have circled the globe at the Equator and lived with the great Masai in Africa and with the very small Bushmen in the Kalahari Desert in Africa. They have wandered over Africa, living with many tribes, and through the Middle East, the Holy Land and Asia. It was sometimes not very safe. It has almost always been uncomfortable. I know this because sometimes I have been privileged to be with them.

I remember a day, deep in the Xingu Territory of my own Brasil, where live the people who will one day come to the Stone Age, but who were not there yet by a long time. On this day, when the Brazilian Air Force had left us eight hundred miles from the nearest road and had flown away, we had marched for many hours toward a tribe called Kalapolo. The temperature was very high and there were clouds of biting mosquitos. I remember looking at Glenn Doman, Dr. Bob, and Dr. Thomas. Their blood, from thousands of mosquito bites, joined with their perspiration to run down their bodies in rivulets, making of them a sight most fearful. They did not complain as they pushed through the tall jungle grass to see children and childbirth and child-rearing practices no child expert had ever seen before. Delacato and I, being more dark complexioned, suffered little from these nasty little creatures. But I have suffered elsewhere, having been with them to the Arctic to live with and study Eskimo children. The Arctic at 56 below zero F is not the natural place for a Brazilian from Ceara. Of these storybook adventures. the book tells nothing.

Nor does this book tell us about the vicious attacks and terrible libels of fearful and jealous societies which the staff had to endure and fight off during the pioneering years. These unworthy enemies retarded for some years the work of the group, while they were developing the doctrines, the philosophy, and the techniques which would give new lives to thousands of children and their families, not only in their own country, but here in Brazil and in other countries in South America, Europe, Africa, and Asia. Although they have collected the fruits of victory, their continuing struggle for new knowledge and techniques give them no time to enjoy them. They have only tasted them. Of all this, the book tells us almost nothing.

This incomplete book tells us nothing of the worldwide search, in the beauty of their enthusiasm, for a single piece of the puzzle as to why it was that a certain group among the children, called athetoids, were failing to learn to walk even after years of treatment. It does not tell us of the brilliant deductions that led to the discovery of brachiation [using gravity to straighten rather than bend the body by using arms to swing from rung to rung on an overhead ladder] as a solution to the problems of those children and many others. In fact, it does not tell us of brachiation itself as the most important advance in treatment in twenty-five years, which has added an entire new dimension to the world of brain-injured children.

For everything this book says, there are a hundred things of importance it does not say. For every story it tells, there are a thousand stories it does not tell.

It is these things which make me say that in many ways it is a very bad book.

In contrast, I am forced to say that if this book told all the marvelous stories of the "team" and the rich, glorious days of The Institutes, which are worth telling, it would be a grand library instead of a small book.

I can't say that Glenn Doman knows more about children than any man alive, because I don't know every man alive, but I can say that he has done more about children than any man alive. I can say as well that he knows more about children-little ones and big ones-hurt ones and average ones-civilized ones and primitive ones-poor ones and rich ones-and how to make hurt ones well and well ones weller than any man I have ever read about or heard about or met. I know of no other person or group of persons who knew about all those kinds of children except him and the people he has taught.

Yet, Glenn Doman believes that every mother in the world knows more about her child than he does. Not only does his mouth say it and his heart feel it, but his brain knows it and he believes it.

He believes some unusual things for a professional. He believes in parents. He believes in children. He believes parents are the answer to children's problems, while everybody else believes they are the problem. It is easy to understand why he makes unhappy all professional organizations which earn their money from brain- injured children. He believes in fixing the children. Worse, he believes that parents can fix the children better than professional people. He teaches parents how to fix their children, not because to do so makes it economically feasible-although it does-but instead because he is sure that parents get better results than does any professional, including himself. This book does say these things.

He exists within a philosophical base very different from what we have formed through the example of our predecessors.

Most of all, he believes in results, and this book is the first book in history, to my knowledge, which tells how to treat brain-injured children, why to treat brain-injured children, and most precisely what happened to a group of brain-injured children when they were so treated.

It is not only appropriate but also typical that he should write the first book in history which gives results of treating brain-injured children by a particular method in a straightforward, easy-to-read way. No other book in history has done that. Moreover, no precise results have ever been given of any treatment of brain-injured children before, with one exception. In 1960 an article appeared in the Journal of the A.M.A. on the treatment of brain-injured children with precise results. The reader may not be surprised to learn that Glenn Doman and his staff wrote that article also.

When we sum up this book we find that this is a book about brain-injured children and their parents. It tells why brain-injured children should be treated. It tells how the human brain can be treated and it tells exactly what happens to brain-injured children when you do it.

It is true to say that it is the worst such book ever written. But we must remember it is also true to say that it is the best such book ever written. The reason for this is that it is the only such book to be written.

It is very good for children-I think-that when it was finally written it was written by the man who knows more about the subject than any other man.

I think perhaps, in the beginning, the people who make books will not like it so much. Perhaps as well the people who are paid to criticize books will not like it so well. And, as I said earlier, in many ways it is a bad book.

But I believe that many parents will find within this not-so-perfect book the knowledge and the courage they need to make their severely brain-injured children well without any further help.

I believe that many thousands of parents of the brain-injured, brain-damaged, mentally retarded, mentally deficient, cerebral-palsied, epileptic, autistic children will find their own child within the pages of this book and will also find inside it the confirmation of their own heart's belief that he must have his chance to be free and will find the road to get the help they need to give their child that chance.

I believe this book will be the first true hammer in striking down the horrible institutions in which the brain-injured children of the world have been cruelly and unjustly confined.

-Raymundo Veras, M.D. President Emeritus

The World Organization for Human Potential Rio de Janeiro, Brasil


Periodically one hundred people will arrive at The Institutes tor the Achievement of Human Potential in Philadelphia for one week.

They will have nothing in common except that all are the parents of brain injured children.

They will be mothers and fathers who have in common the refusal to believe that their hurt child cannot be helped.

It is a typical group the families will come from the four corners of the Americas and from Europe Africa Asia Australia or the Middle East.

In short from everywhere on earth.

The children will range in age from one year to nineteen years.

There may be one young person or adult in the group.

Some will be so paralyzed that they are barely able to breathe.

Some will be so mildly injured that they appear to the eye to be totally well.

Some of the kids will be paralyzed from head to toe Some will he blind as a bat Some will be deaf as a post Some will suffer from recurring violent convulsions Some will be unable to talk 01 ever make sounds Some will have all of these problems.

They will come with recorded IQs of 90 80, 70 60 50 40 30 20 10 or O Most of them will be said to have immeasurable IQs.

They will arrive having been diagnosed as brain damaged men tally retarded mentally deficient cerebral-palsied Down syndrome spastic emotionally disturbed flaccid epileptic quadriplegic autistic psychotic hemiplegic, rigid etc.

Almost every one of them, on the basis of lengthy and sophisticated examination we will diagnose as brain injured meaning that the problems are not problems of weak arms or legs or poor musculature or malformed organs of speech or defective eyes as much о the world has believed Instead we will conclude that his problem originated within the brain out of some accident which occurred before, during, or after birth and that either interfered with the brain's ability to take in information or with the brain's ability to respond to it.

Of course, if the problem originates in a condition that could be solved by surgery-such as hydrocephaly-we prescribe surgery. However, operable cases will ordinarily have been diagnosed and taken care of before the child reaches us.

In a typical group, about fifteen percent will return home and do no program but will see their children in an entirely different and better way and, as a result, give their children new opportunities to grow.

Fifty percent of a typical group will return home, diagnose their child, design a program for him, and carry it out with varying degrees of frequency, intensity, and duration with commensurate results.

The remaining thirty-five percent, the most determined group, will apply for and be accepted into the aspirant program, with the goal of being accepted into the Intensive Treatment Program.

It is for these parents that this week is designed so that we can teach as fully as possible the principles of brain growth and development and how to design a program to increase brain growth and development.

After this week these families will design such a program and carry it out with the intention of joining the Intensive Treatment Program in the future.

By addressing ourselves this week to the needs of these families we best serve all the families who have come to learn.

We act as if every family here is going to be a part of the Intensive Treatment Program because all of them will have everything to gain and nothing to lose if we do so.

Some of the children will be on the Intensive Treatment Program for a year. Some children will be on the program for five years. Some others will be on the program for longer. Some of the parents will run out of energy and give up. Most will not give up. Some will never give up, even if they lose.

The great majority of children will do better than their parents had dared hope on the basis of prior experience with the conventional methods. With others there will be disappointment.

Sometimes a severely hurt child will make greater gains more quickly than another child whose problems seemed much less serious.

Some of the children who were completely blind will end up reading-not with their fingers but with their eyes, like everybody else. Some will remain blind.

Some of the children who were completely paralyzed will end up walking, running, and jumping-not with braces or crutches but with their legs like everybody else. Some will fail to walk.

Some of the children who were unable to make sounds will end up talking-not with their fingers by pointing and pantomime but with their lips and mouths, like everybody else.

Some who writhed endlessly or could not remain still will find an end to their writhings.

Some of the children who were paralyzed and speechless and blind and deaf will end up totally well and in the same school and grade as their normal peers. In short, they will be normal.

Others will end up walking, talking, and dancing and perhaps with IQs in the genius area.

The results, therefore, will range from total success to total failure.

It is not surprising that children sometimes fail in a world where most professionals were taught in school that hurt brains are beyond mending. Instead, it is surprising that anyone gets well. To many it would seem miraculous.

And who is it who has accomplished such miracles, if miracles they be, in this new century? It is the parents who have done so, and at home. Parents-those commonly ignored, sometimes despised, frequently patronized, almost never believed people-will have done at home all of the treatment which brought a child from despair to hope, from paralysis to walking, from blindness to reading, from an IQ of 70 to an IQ of 140, from dumbness to speech. Parents.

In some cases, a medical doctor will be closely involved in the home treatment. Hundreds of physicians have come and watched the work at The Institutes-and then enrolled their own brain-injured child. However, more than 20,000 parents, quite without medical training, have brought us their hurt child and then gone home to carry out the prescribed treatments.

How is it possible for parents to accomplish this with their children?

Perhaps to understand such a process, it is best to begin at the beginning, which was more than a half century ago.

That's where we begin in teaching parents about brain-injured children. If one really wants to understand about brain-injured children, perhaps there is no place else to begin.

1950 to 1960



When I entered the gleaming halls of Temple University Hospital & Medical School in 1941 to take up my new post as assistant chief of the Physical Therapy Department I was considered by all to be fortunate to receive such an important appointment at a leading medical school at such a young age.

To keep the truth in perspective however it should also be pointed out that there were only two full time therapists the chief and me.

It should also be pointed out that my salary was ninety-five dollars a month plus meals for a five and a halt day week which in all I fairness was not bad for a physical therapist in those days.

To put the truth into final perspective I was an eager but not very good physical therapist Although I had graduated high in my class and had a high theoretical knowledge I had had little experience.

There was one area in which I had absolutely no knowledge, either practical or theoretical and that was the field of brain injured children It took me several years to find out that almost nobody else lid either In 1941 there were very few people who even claimed to know anything about brain injured children.

Fortunately for me and for my future there was a man at Temple who probably knew more about such children than any man alive His name was Temple Fay and although Dr. Fay was then only in his early forties he was both professor of neurology and professor of neurosurgery He was one of the all time Greats of Medicine It was in his service at Temple University that I saw and was fascinated by my first brain injured child.

In those days few if any people referred to severely brain injured children as brain injured Instead, they were called by names like feeble minded This was because, being severely brain injured а high percentage of them could neither walk nor talk It was assume that the fact that they couldn't talk constituted sufficient evidence to prove that they weren't smart enough to talk.

I shall not forget the first brain-injured child I met Being fascinated by all that went on and being aware of my monumental ignorance, it was usual for me to spend my off hours in the evenings going everywhere in the hospital. Because I was young and pathetically eager, department chiefs and head nurses opened the doors of their departments to me. Now that I am no longer young, I realize how irresistible it is to be confronted with a person who is at once young and eager to learn. How powerful is the alchemy and how mutually marvelous the opportunity when one who is young and eager to learn meets an older person who knows something worth learning.

On this particular day I was in the nursery, not where the newborns (who also fascinated me) were kept, but where the very small, very sick children were kept. The children were in little cribs, and except for them I was alone in the room. I had read some of their histories and was now seeing the children. Most of the babies in the room were asleep, and the room was quiet except for the labored breathing of the babies and the sounds made by my white crepe-soled shoes as I moved quietly from bed to bed.

I was therefore more than a little startled, and I jumped visibly, when a voice said, "Hello," in a room where I considered myself alone except for infants and small babies. While the voice wasn't an adult voice, it certainly wasn't a baby's. I glanced hurriedly around the room and was extremely uncomfortable when I could see nothing but very small cribs.

Just as I was persuading myself that I had imagined the voice altogether, the small voice spoke again. This time I happened to be looking at the precise corner from which the voice came, and, as a result, I started even more violently than the first time. "What's your name?" the voice asked.

By now I was totally confused and more than a little frightened as I took three or four reluctant steps toward the corner of the room from which the talking was coming. I would not, even then, have seen him if he hadn't spoken again as I stood directly over the tiny crib in which he was lying.

"My name's Billy," said Billy, as I looked down at him. If it had been difficult to believe my ears, it was now even more difficult to believe my eyes. No one in neurology or pediatrics had ever taught me that such children existed. Looking up at me from a tiny crib was an extremely strange but not unpleasant adolescent face set in a head as large as any adult's. What shook me to the core was the fact that, although I could see the very large head, the rest of this child's body- covered with a blanket-could not possibly have been more than two feet long. I had the horrible feeling that he had no body at all and that I was being talked to by a disembodied head which spoke pleasantly and intelligently.

Although today, many thousands of brain-injured children later, I can honestly say that I have never once since felt horror at contact with a brain-injured child and am, in point of fact, quite upset by people who do, I must admit that I strove mightily to contain the horror I felt then. I now realize that it was not the child I was seeing that so upset me, rather it was not understanding the child I was seeing.

If I was upset. Billy was not, and his next statement gave me time to gain my outward, if not my inner, composure. "I'm eleven years old," said Billy, in a voice that made me think he had often answered that question. I do not remember the conversation that followed, but I do remember that Billy remained entirely composed throughout the ten or so minutes which followed. I have always hoped that I sounded more sensible than I felt.

When finally I managed to escape that room, I paused outside the door to calm myself before seeking out the charge nurse. I tried hard to appear nonchalant when I said to her, "Oh, by the way, what's the matter with that big kid...er...ah...that is, that eleven-year-old kid, Billy?"

I shiver a little as I remember that question and realize how it revealed my total ignorance. The searching look she gave me as she answered made it clear that the question itself completely revealed my ignorance. "He's hydrocephalic," she said steadily. "One of Dr. Fay's patients." She made both of these statements as if either one by itself explained everything.

I wonder now how I got the courage, but without even stopping to look hydrocephalic up in the medical dictionary, T took myself directly to the elevator and to Fay's office and asked his secretary if I might see him. It was an impulsive and astonishing thing to do since his appointment list was crowded with famous people. Fay had been called in to examine no less a person than President Franklin D. Roosevelt himself.

While I had made rounds with Dr. Fay, I had never actually spoken to him, and so large was his retinue when we made rounds that I had sometimes made rounds with him without actually seeing him. Since he was at the head of the long column, and I at the very end, I was frequently around the corner from him and received whatever physical therapy orders he gave me at third or even fourth hand.

I shall never know for sure why he agreed to see me and saw me immediately, unless it was his insatiable curiosity, whetted by the unlikeliness of my request operating room and the other a bull in a china shop, and that regardless of how he felt about Fay otherwise, it was Fay who was the artist.

Even so, it was not Fay's brilliant surgery or even his love of that marvelous organ, the human brain, which made him the delight he was in the operating room. What fascinated me was his eternal teaching. He taught every moment he operated, beginning with his preparation of the patient, which, in later years, he insisted on doing himself, and ending not before he had personally put the patient back into the patient's own bed. One could learn more practical neurology and neuroanatomy watching Fay in an operating room than from any book or lecture.

There before my very eyes was the "beautiful and wondrous" thing he so respected and loved. Here was no dead, gray, ugly thing in a jar but instead the live, throbbing, coral-colored human brain. Even hurt ones were beautiful to Fay, and so they became to me. In those days, more than a half century ago, there were not a great number of people who had ever seen a live human brain, not even among graduate physicians.

A certain way to arouse Fay's quiet ire was to let him hear an "expert" discuss the human brain familiarly if he had never seen a live one. Fay would note caustically that getting an idea of what the human brain was like from looking at dead ones in jars or photographs of dead ones in jars was very akin to getting an idea of what human beings were like from looking at corpses in caskets.

We had the extraordinary opportunity to see live ones, for in those days it was not unusual for a single piece of neurosurgery to require eight hours.

Apparently my behavior in the O.R. passed muster, because after the first time I was invited back again as often as I liked. Not only did I spend every moment of my off hours watching and listening while Dr. Fay performed his brain surgery, but indeed, I began to use the slow periods in the physical therapy department for the same purpose. By and by, I began to use some of the not-so-slow time in the physical therapy department, and as a result it was not long before I was called on the carpet not only by the chief therapist but also by the physician who was responsible for the department.

What the devil was the matter with me, they wanted to know? Didn't I know I was a physical therapist and had work of my own to do? Watching brain surgery performed by the master himself was interesting and all that, but when you had seen a few operations you had seen them all: but what was most important was that I was shirking my work.

They were right and I promised to reform, at least in terms of my working hours, which I did. But I still haunted Fay's operating room in all my off hours, including full time during vacation.

Still, I had to ask myself what I was doing spending all that time in neurosurgical O.R. After all, I was a physical therapist and a pretly junior one at that. Aside from the fascination of watching an artist work with his hands, aside from listening to a true scientist discuss what he was doing, why indeed was I wasting such a major portion of my life on this subject? There did not appear to be even the most remote relationship between what Fay was doing in the operating room and what I was doing in the physical therapy department.

Why was I gathering such large amounts of knowledge I would never be able to use? I did not know. I knew only that I was compelled, absolutely compelled, to spend every single moment I could steal watching Fay and listening to him. I was hypnotized. I was fascinated. I was intrigued. I was bewitched. I was hopelessly lost in what I was watching. Every day I was learning, although I had not the foggiest notion that ultimately his specialty, neurosurgery, and my specialty, physical therapy, would interact to provide new hope for brain-injured children everywhere.

Although I had no way of knowing it at that time, what I was seeing was the answer to what was wrong in the world of the children who had been written off as being hopelessly retarded. It would be a heartbreaking number of years before we would appreciate the relationship between those "beautiful, throbbing, coral-colored brains" that Fay was showing me and the children the whole world was failing so miserably.

Although I had not the faintest notion that it was so, it was the beginning of the beginning. A team was forming which would some day profoundly alter the lives of brain-injured children the world over and the lives of their families as well. It was a team whose work would lead it deep into the world of brain-injured children and beyond that into the world of children we presently call well. It was the beginning of a journey that would consume the lives of many people, some of whom were not yet born.

There was, however, much to suffer before that team would become a working reality. For one thing, there was World War II.

The morning after Pearl Harbor, I enlisted as a private in the U. S. Army. For the next four years I went from the Medical Corps to the Infantry, from the United States to Africa and back to the United States for infantry Officer Candidate School at Ft. Benning. In the course of infantry combat through France I became an infantry rifle company commander. Through the bloody, icy Battle of the Bulge and the struggle through Luxembourg, Holland, and across Germany and the assaults across the Moselle River and the mighty Rhine and into Czechoslovakia itself, we fought, we maimed, we killed, and we were maimed, and we were killed until we stood victorious. We had wounded, killed, or captured many thousands of young German soldiers. Of an original company of 187 men and 6 officers, I had three times been reduced to 18 men and no officers. In all the world there is no greater pacifist than a victorious combat infantry soldier at the end of a war-unless it is possibly a defeated combat infantry soldier. Except for uniforms they are astonishingly hard to tell apart. The brains I had destroyed sharpened my desire to return as quickly as possible to my practice of healing rather than destroying.

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