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His uniform still fits, bravo!!!
S.F. doctor honored for helping save France from Nazis
Dr. John Kerner is an unlikely war hero.
He is 88 years old, slight of build and soft of voice. He smiles easily and has a firm but gentle handshake. And he hates everything associated with war.
And yet, there he was more than 60 years ago, driving through German lines to bring medical supplies to an Army unit surrounded by the enemy. Performing surgery in a makeshift tent after dark with oil lamps for light. Cutting off shattered limbs. Watching young soldiers die because they were too shot up or blown up to save.
Kerner was awarded two Bronze Stars and a host of lesser awards for his service in World War II. His most prized possession was a Combat Medic Badge, which is usually given to medics who live with the soldiers in the dirt and are the first line of help when someone is shot.
The doc was an officer, a trained surgeon, but he spent a lot of time under fire, alongside the medics who brought men to him on stretchers.
He did not win the war all by himself, but a lot of people went on to live long lives because he was in Europe in the aftermath of D-Day, and all through the bloody fighting for France, including the savage Battle of the Bulge.
The French government considers him a hero, too. Kerner was one of seven American veterans of World War II who were recently awarded the French Legion of Honor for helping save France from the Nazis.
The new president of France, Nicolas Sarkozy, delivered the medals and the kiss on each cheek typical in France during a ceremony in Washington, D.C., in November.
The men were chosen as representatives of the veterans who fought in World War II. Sarkozy, a pro-American Frenchman, said he wanted to honor U.S. servicemen for their role in saving France.
"If there is peace in Europe today, it is because of you," he said during the ceremony. "You did your duty, and we will never forget what you did for France."
And so Kerner now has another award. This one has a red ribbon and a medal that resembles a cross. He keeps it in a box in his very tidy study, next to the diplomas and medical books.
"I'm a physician, and when you get to my age, you get all sorts of rewards and trophies," Kerner said. "It's like getting the gold watch at retirement. But this was entirely different. This was very exciting."
What makes the story even more interesting is Kerner's medical specialty. He is an obstetrician and gynecologist. Not exactly the kind of training necessary for a combat medic, but in the middle of World War II, the government didn't much care what you knew, as long as you could handle a scalpel and wrap a bandage.
"I got a lot of funny looks from people when I told them what my specialty was," he said.
Kerner was raised in San Francisco. He went to the city's public schools and then to UC Berkeley and the UC medical school, located then in Berkeley and San Francisco. He was called to active duty with the Army in December 1943 and commissioned a first lieutenant.
He was sent to the infantry to become a battalion medical officer, which meant he would be in charge of the medics and set up aid stations just behind the front lines. Medics would treat wounded soldiers on the battlefield, then bring them back - often on litters - to Kerner. From there, they would be evacuated to field hospitals or hospital ships for further treatment.
Sometimes the bullets were flying even as he treated the wounded. The front wasn't just a point on a map, it was a few feet away in some cases.
Kerner landed at Omaha Beach shortly after the Allied invasion of France. It was rough and ugly, and Kerner and the others had to learn quickly. He'd had some experience in hospitals before, but nothing could prepare a young doctor for the horrific wounds delivered by high-powered rifles, mortars and tank shells.
As the American soldiers moved inland, Kerner had his first experience with the capriciousness of war. Two French men showed up at the aid station carrying a ladder like a litter. On it was a young woman who was in active labor. Kerner checked her out and determined that the baby was a footling breech; it was coming out bottom and foot first. Delivering a breech baby was never easy, especially in those days, and in all likelihood, mother and/or child might have died if they hadn't found a doctor. As it was, Kerner knew how to deliver a breech baby, a complicated maneuver that involved turning the baby as it came out.
And there, in the middle of the blood and dirt and war, a baby girl came into the world.
"I was in the Army for a year and a half, and that was the only baby I ever delivered," he said. "If you were to go through all of Normandy then and collect up all the doctors there, there was probably not one who knew how to deliver a breech."
Mother and daughter were taken to the rear, and Kerner never heard from them again. Many years later, when Kerner went to France and revisited some of the old battlefields, word of the combat birth made it to the French media, who launched a campaign to find either or both. But they never found the mother or the daughter.
Not long after the birth, Kerner learned that an American unit was pinned down by German forces and surrounded. The Americans expected to break through at any time and help their comrades, but Kerner knew that the trapped soldiers had plenty of wounded and were short on medical supplies.
Kerner and one of his medics decided to make a mad dash to the trapped unit. His medic, nicknamed Gangster, had been a rum runner in New Jersey during Prohibition, and so knew something about driving fast on bad roads and avoiding capture. The two men filled a Jeep with as many supplies as it could hold and then drove straight through enemy lines.
They found the wounded inside an old stone quarry. The men were in bad shape. Kerner used up all his morphine on the worst cases, and the rest of the supplies soon thereafter. A day or two later, the Americans broke through and the lost unit was lost no more.
It was a remarkable run, and the men saved lives. Kerner said he never really thought about the dangers of such a mission, or the possibility of death. Like a lot of combat veterans, he made peace early on with the idea that he would probably die in combat. Somehow, when your mind gets wrapped around that concept, he explained, you lose your inhibitions and fear of death.
"You do what you have to do," Kerner said.
There were other escapades. As Gen. George Patton maneuvered to bring support to the American soldiers trapped in Bastogne in the Battle of the Bulge, a tank commander drove up to the collection point, where Kerner was working with other medics to stabilize the wounded and prepare them to be moved to the rear for better medical help. The tank commander said he was with a group headed directly into Bastogne, where the trapped soldiers were short of doctors and medical supplies. Would anyone want to volunteer?
"I did," Kerner said. "I went in with them."
The young doctor climbed onto the outside of the Sherman tank and rode into the shattered city. He could see bomb blasts all around, as the fighting raged nearby.
"The Germans were just being stopped at that point, but we had an awful lot of casualties."
Kerner speaks little of the horrors he witnessed, although he did put his memoirs to paper in 2002 when he wrote a powerful book titled "Combat Medic." In person, he spends more time talking about the people he served with and all the funny little things you see in places of great devastation.
After Germany surrendered, Kerner was supposed to go to the Pacific as part of the invasion of Japan. But the atomic bomb ended that war, and a couple of months later, Kerner was back in San Francisco in civilian clothes. He went straight to work at San Francisco General Hospital as an OB/GYN.
Later, he rose to head the obstetrics, gynecology and reproductive sciences department at Mount Zion Hospital, and then had his own private practice. He delivered both of Sen. Barbara Boxer's children and has been Sen. Dianne Feinstein's physician as well. Not to mention the 2,000 babies.
He retired about seven or eight years ago (he can't remember the exact date). He keeps his hand in medicine by funding research into cancer-fighting drugs.
He's still fit and trim, and may be one of the few veterans anywhere who can still fit into his uniform.
"I never liked war," said Kerner, who in the last pages of his book says the big war and those that followed could have been prevented with the use of political wisdom and economic aid. "I was always against it. And being there just reinforced that opinion. It's a terrible thing."
Kerner has returned to France several times, and gone over the same blood-drenched battlefields he saw as a young man. Most of the time, he viewed those sites with the logic and detachment of a trained doctor.
But the last time, about two or three years ago, he was with a group of young people. Kerner saw all those grave markers, row after row after row of white crosses and Stars of David. For the first time, he wept.
Maybe it was because of his traveling companions, or maybe it was because he was getting older.
"I was thinking I was fortunate to be alive, and they weren't. I had the chance to have a really good life, and they didn't. All those young men, dead before they really had a chance to live.
"I just couldn't keep the tears from flowing."
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2007/12/17/MNJQTOFC2.DTL
S.F. doctor honored for helping save France from Nazis
Dr. John Kerner is an unlikely war hero.
He is 88 years old, slight of build and soft of voice. He smiles easily and has a firm but gentle handshake. And he hates everything associated with war.
And yet, there he was more than 60 years ago, driving through German lines to bring medical supplies to an Army unit surrounded by the enemy. Performing surgery in a makeshift tent after dark with oil lamps for light. Cutting off shattered limbs. Watching young soldiers die because they were too shot up or blown up to save.
Kerner was awarded two Bronze Stars and a host of lesser awards for his service in World War II. His most prized possession was a Combat Medic Badge, which is usually given to medics who live with the soldiers in the dirt and are the first line of help when someone is shot.
The doc was an officer, a trained surgeon, but he spent a lot of time under fire, alongside the medics who brought men to him on stretchers.
He did not win the war all by himself, but a lot of people went on to live long lives because he was in Europe in the aftermath of D-Day, and all through the bloody fighting for France, including the savage Battle of the Bulge.
The French government considers him a hero, too. Kerner was one of seven American veterans of World War II who were recently awarded the French Legion of Honor for helping save France from the Nazis.
The new president of France, Nicolas Sarkozy, delivered the medals and the kiss on each cheek typical in France during a ceremony in Washington, D.C., in November.
The men were chosen as representatives of the veterans who fought in World War II. Sarkozy, a pro-American Frenchman, said he wanted to honor U.S. servicemen for their role in saving France.
"If there is peace in Europe today, it is because of you," he said during the ceremony. "You did your duty, and we will never forget what you did for France."
And so Kerner now has another award. This one has a red ribbon and a medal that resembles a cross. He keeps it in a box in his very tidy study, next to the diplomas and medical books.
"I'm a physician, and when you get to my age, you get all sorts of rewards and trophies," Kerner said. "It's like getting the gold watch at retirement. But this was entirely different. This was very exciting."
What makes the story even more interesting is Kerner's medical specialty. He is an obstetrician and gynecologist. Not exactly the kind of training necessary for a combat medic, but in the middle of World War II, the government didn't much care what you knew, as long as you could handle a scalpel and wrap a bandage.
"I got a lot of funny looks from people when I told them what my specialty was," he said.
Kerner was raised in San Francisco. He went to the city's public schools and then to UC Berkeley and the UC medical school, located then in Berkeley and San Francisco. He was called to active duty with the Army in December 1943 and commissioned a first lieutenant.
He was sent to the infantry to become a battalion medical officer, which meant he would be in charge of the medics and set up aid stations just behind the front lines. Medics would treat wounded soldiers on the battlefield, then bring them back - often on litters - to Kerner. From there, they would be evacuated to field hospitals or hospital ships for further treatment.
Sometimes the bullets were flying even as he treated the wounded. The front wasn't just a point on a map, it was a few feet away in some cases.
Kerner landed at Omaha Beach shortly after the Allied invasion of France. It was rough and ugly, and Kerner and the others had to learn quickly. He'd had some experience in hospitals before, but nothing could prepare a young doctor for the horrific wounds delivered by high-powered rifles, mortars and tank shells.
As the American soldiers moved inland, Kerner had his first experience with the capriciousness of war. Two French men showed up at the aid station carrying a ladder like a litter. On it was a young woman who was in active labor. Kerner checked her out and determined that the baby was a footling breech; it was coming out bottom and foot first. Delivering a breech baby was never easy, especially in those days, and in all likelihood, mother and/or child might have died if they hadn't found a doctor. As it was, Kerner knew how to deliver a breech baby, a complicated maneuver that involved turning the baby as it came out.
And there, in the middle of the blood and dirt and war, a baby girl came into the world.
"I was in the Army for a year and a half, and that was the only baby I ever delivered," he said. "If you were to go through all of Normandy then and collect up all the doctors there, there was probably not one who knew how to deliver a breech."
Mother and daughter were taken to the rear, and Kerner never heard from them again. Many years later, when Kerner went to France and revisited some of the old battlefields, word of the combat birth made it to the French media, who launched a campaign to find either or both. But they never found the mother or the daughter.
Not long after the birth, Kerner learned that an American unit was pinned down by German forces and surrounded. The Americans expected to break through at any time and help their comrades, but Kerner knew that the trapped soldiers had plenty of wounded and were short on medical supplies.
Kerner and one of his medics decided to make a mad dash to the trapped unit. His medic, nicknamed Gangster, had been a rum runner in New Jersey during Prohibition, and so knew something about driving fast on bad roads and avoiding capture. The two men filled a Jeep with as many supplies as it could hold and then drove straight through enemy lines.
They found the wounded inside an old stone quarry. The men were in bad shape. Kerner used up all his morphine on the worst cases, and the rest of the supplies soon thereafter. A day or two later, the Americans broke through and the lost unit was lost no more.
It was a remarkable run, and the men saved lives. Kerner said he never really thought about the dangers of such a mission, or the possibility of death. Like a lot of combat veterans, he made peace early on with the idea that he would probably die in combat. Somehow, when your mind gets wrapped around that concept, he explained, you lose your inhibitions and fear of death.
"You do what you have to do," Kerner said.
There were other escapades. As Gen. George Patton maneuvered to bring support to the American soldiers trapped in Bastogne in the Battle of the Bulge, a tank commander drove up to the collection point, where Kerner was working with other medics to stabilize the wounded and prepare them to be moved to the rear for better medical help. The tank commander said he was with a group headed directly into Bastogne, where the trapped soldiers were short of doctors and medical supplies. Would anyone want to volunteer?
"I did," Kerner said. "I went in with them."
The young doctor climbed onto the outside of the Sherman tank and rode into the shattered city. He could see bomb blasts all around, as the fighting raged nearby.
"The Germans were just being stopped at that point, but we had an awful lot of casualties."
Kerner speaks little of the horrors he witnessed, although he did put his memoirs to paper in 2002 when he wrote a powerful book titled "Combat Medic." In person, he spends more time talking about the people he served with and all the funny little things you see in places of great devastation.
After Germany surrendered, Kerner was supposed to go to the Pacific as part of the invasion of Japan. But the atomic bomb ended that war, and a couple of months later, Kerner was back in San Francisco in civilian clothes. He went straight to work at San Francisco General Hospital as an OB/GYN.
Later, he rose to head the obstetrics, gynecology and reproductive sciences department at Mount Zion Hospital, and then had his own private practice. He delivered both of Sen. Barbara Boxer's children and has been Sen. Dianne Feinstein's physician as well. Not to mention the 2,000 babies.
He retired about seven or eight years ago (he can't remember the exact date). He keeps his hand in medicine by funding research into cancer-fighting drugs.
He's still fit and trim, and may be one of the few veterans anywhere who can still fit into his uniform.
"I never liked war," said Kerner, who in the last pages of his book says the big war and those that followed could have been prevented with the use of political wisdom and economic aid. "I was always against it. And being there just reinforced that opinion. It's a terrible thing."
Kerner has returned to France several times, and gone over the same blood-drenched battlefields he saw as a young man. Most of the time, he viewed those sites with the logic and detachment of a trained doctor.
But the last time, about two or three years ago, he was with a group of young people. Kerner saw all those grave markers, row after row after row of white crosses and Stars of David. For the first time, he wept.
Maybe it was because of his traveling companions, or maybe it was because he was getting older.
"I was thinking I was fortunate to be alive, and they weren't. I had the chance to have a really good life, and they didn't. All those young men, dead before they really had a chance to live.
"I just couldn't keep the tears from flowing."
http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/c/a/2007/12/17/MNJQTOFC2.DTL
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