The American Plague - Molly Caldwell Crosby [57]
The enlisted men came from all parts of the United States. They were young, many only twenty or twenty-one years old, and made to look even younger by their clean-shaven faces. With the advent of disposable razor blades, the heavy beards of the last century were gone, and facial hair now signaled status. A moustache was an indication of rank in the army. The bigger the moustache, like Teddy Roosevelt’s walrus whiskers, the higher the rank. Most of the officers went for something in between, opting for a pencil moustache or handlebar style. And accordingly, the enlisted men went clean shaven.
For entertainment, the men traveled into Havana, where they saw ball games and bought pastries and snacks like Bermuda onions and Norwegian sardines. Sometimes, they bought brandy.
The Cubans, who were accustomed to the local cocktails, found the drunken, staggering Americans very amusing. There was also the occasional afternoon swim off La Playa one mile away from Camp Columbia. In the evenings, classical music from the camp’s band filled the night sky.
Dr. Albert Truby first arrived at Camp Columbia in 1898, sailing into the Havana harbor, where Spanish soldiers stood along the Cabaña Fortress, and Cuban locals sat along the seawall to see the American ships arrive. It was December, and Truby and his men wore their winter wool uniforms, now damp with sea air and sweat. Under his watch, Truby had 1,000 soldiers—all nonimmunes.
Truby looked like a doctor. He wore small, wire-rimmed spectacles on a round, almost cherubic face. His hairline was receding, and in general, he appeared gentle. Truby had just earned his commission from the medical examination board at the Army Medical Museum in Washington, D.C. As Truby and the applicants stood before the board, he noticed a tall, slender officer. The officer was especially interested in the applicants’ knowledge of malaria. Prepared slides were placed beneath the microscope, and the applicants were asked to identify common bacteria and malarial parasites. The officer was quiet and courteous. He seemed like a teacher, one who knew his subject very well, and he gave Truby a feeling of confidence. When asked about malaria, Truby remarked on the recent work proving that mosquitoes can transmit the fever. The officer seemed momentarily pleased then continued the questioning. Only two of the applicants were accepted that day, and Albert Truby was one of them. He would be recommended to the surgeon general for an appointment in Cuba. Truby thanked the medical examination board and the slender officer who had been so interested in malaria. It was the first time Albert Truby met Walter Reed. The second time they met was in Cuba.
Although he had never seen a case of yellow fever prior to his appointment, it was Truby’s job to field all fever cases. The patients, taken to the mesh-wire receiving ward, had their blood screened for malarial parasites and their urine tested for albumen. There were local doctors, self-described yellow fever experts, but they rarely showed the talent to back up the claim. There were two doctors, however, that Truby and other contract surgeons relied upon for a yellow fever diagnosis. One was Carlos Finlay, and the other was Juan Guitéras; both had been members of the original Yellow Fever Commission in 1879.
The surgeon general sent Walter Reed to Cuba in March of 1900. Reed left the typhoid report, stalled due to a lack of funds, in the capable hands of Victor Vaughan and Edward Shakespeare. Prone to bad bouts of seasickness, Reed, on the advice of a friend, took a dose of bromide before they set sail for Havana. He retired to his stateroom and went to sleep. When he awoke, he was impressed with the medication. He didn’t feel sick at all, until he went up to the deck and realized that the ship had not yet set sail. For the next two days, he spent most of the voyage sick in his cabin.
Reed