The American Plague - Molly Caldwell Crosby [84]
One day, Dr. Roger P. Ames, a contract surgeon, approached Moran. He knew of Moran’s financial situation and had even suggested Moran consider his own alma mater, Tulane, once he had enough money saved. Ames brought up the subject casually—did Moran know that Major Reed was offering a bonus for men willing to volunteer for his new experiments? The $500 reward could certainly go a long way toward medical school, and he’d be doing Walter Reed a favor. “All right, Doc, I will sleep over it and let you know tomorrow.”
“Neither of us,” Moran later wrote, “gave very much thought to a possible death lurking in the background.”
That night, Moran talked it over with his roommate, Private John R. Kissinger. Moran decided not only to volunteer but to do so without monetary compensation. His mind was made up. Kissinger tried to dissuade Moran from forfeiting the money— especially since he needed it so badly for medical school. They continued to discuss it all through the night until the early hours of morning, when they decided to tell Reed that they would both volunteer. They wanted to tell him as soon as possible, before doubt weakened their resolve, but they thought it best to wait until Reed had dressed for the day and taken breakfast. Then, they made the short walk across camp toward the smell of coffee wafting from the officer’s quarters. Reed met the two men on his porch, “Good morning. What can I do for you?”
In the tense silence, Reed looked at the two strangers—one a private, one dressed in civilian clothes—and waited for the tongue-tied men to speak. When they finally explained the reason for the visit, Moran wrote, “The Major’s surprise was complete and so reflected in his countenance. He never expected such rapid-fire action as confronted him, there and then, in the persons of two human guinea pigs.”
Reed rubbed his palms, one over the other, and was about to answer the men when Kissinger blurted, “That is not all, Sir. We are volunteering without the bonus or money award which we understand you are offering.” Reed looked confused, even concerned.
“That is correct, Major,” added Moran. “We are doing it for medical science.”
Reed quietly told the men that he would gladly accept them for his experiments, and it was later famously recorded that Major Walter Reed touched his cap and said, “I take my hat off to you, gentlemen.” In another version, it was said that Reed remarked, “I salute you.” Both Moran and Kissinger denied that an officer would have said as much to enlisted men, but when Reed’s son, Lawrence, was asked about it years later, he said that it sounded exactly like something his father would have said. Actually, General Lawrence Reed added, “He would have said, ‘Gentlemen, I salute you.’ ”
Reed would describe the moral courage displayed by Kissinger as unsurpassed in the annals of the army of the United States. And in a written recommendation for Moran, Reed would write, “A man who volunteered, as he did, without hope of any pecuniary reward, but solely in the interests of humanity and medical science, to enter a building purposely infected with yellow fever . . . should need no word of recommendation from any one.”
Other volunteers for the experiments were acquired by less noble means. Agramonte, the only board member who could speak Spanish, was sent to the Immigration Station across the Bay of Havana for recruits. He hired roughly ten newly arrived immigrants at a time to work as day laborers at Camp Lazear. Straight off the boats, the immigrants were delighted to find easy work picking up stones in a field. They were given bountiful meals and tents to sleep in. Surely, they even observed with appreciation the folds of mosquito netting placed