Fighting Doctor

Just about everybody seemed to be in favor of sweeping with a wide broom through the nation's military hospitals. Defense Secretary Louis Johnson was sure that he could save more than $25 million by closing down five of them and reducing the staff of 13 other military and naval hospitals. He had behind him the documented findings of the Hoover Commission, which were studded with instances where one branch of the service reared up costly hospitals in areas where another service had long wards of empty beds. Who was blocking these reforms? Last week the finger pointed in a surprising direction: at Rear Admiral Joel Thompson Boone, a veteran of 36 years in the medical corps who spoke with one of the Navy's most respected voices.

Ribbons. His record, if not his arguments, certainly entitled him to a hearing. Appearing last week before the House Armed Services Committee, he was a distinguished grey figure in service blue. His chest was asplash with ribbons. In World War I, he had gone to France with the Sixth Marines and stuck with them through some of the bloodiest fighting of the war--Verdun, Belleau Wood, St. Mihiel, the Meuse-Argonne. He earned six battle clasps for his Victory Medal, the Army's Distinguished Service Cross, three Purple Hearts, five Silver Stars. He had also won the Congressional Medal of Honor for twice dashing through an open, mustard-drenched field under "extreme enemy fire" to tend wounded marines.

After the war, Boone became one of President Warren Harding's White House physicians, was at the President's bedside in San Francisco when Harding died. Florence Harding had so much faith in him that she was sure Boone could save the President if anyone could. Leaning over the bed in San Francisco's Palace Hotel and listening for Harding's heartbeat, Boone said quietly: "Nobody can save him, Mrs. Harding."

Responsibilities. Calvin Coolidge asked Boone to stay on in the White House, and insisted that he be on hand every morning promptly at 8 o'clock to test the presidential pulse. Herbert Hoover gave him a new title: "Physician to the White House." Worried about Hoover's 194 lbs., Boone invented the "medicine-ball Cabinet." Hoover was reluctant at first: "Nobody would want to get up and come over here and toss a medicine ball with me at 7 o'clock in the morning." But soon there were enough aspiring, perspiring Republicans to form two medicine-ball squads on the White House lawn every morning, tossing a 5-lb. ball over a 9ft. net. Among them: Mark Sullivan, Pat Hurley, Ray Lyman Wilbur, Harlan Stone.

During most of World War II, Boone ran a taut, efficient ship as head of the big naval hospital at Seattle. But he got to sea again in time to represent the medical corps at the surrender ceremony aboard the Missouri. He became a top medical officer in the Defense Department and toured the country as part of the Hoover Commission task force on medical service.

Relief. Last week Admiral Boone explained why he could not go along with the commission's findings. He argued that Louis Johnson's economies in the medical service would turn out to be false savings in the long run. He did not deny waste and duplication, but insisted that the services needed some leeway: "We can't tell how close war is, and war means terrific expansion." In view of all the facts of overlapping facilities, the committeemen were not overly impressed with the argument.

What impressed them more was the fact that 60-year-old Admiral Boone had been relieved of his job the week before because of his unwillingness to go along with his superiors. Committee Chairman Carl Vinson asked Louis Johnson to hold the ax until a subcommittee could go out and see for itself.

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