TO SEE A MAN ABOUT A LEG

Korero (AEWS), Volume 3, Issue 6, 23 April 1945, Page 13

TO SEE A MAN ABOUT A LEG

By

cc yvrTELL, so long,” I Said. Goodwk bye. I’ll be seeing you.” “ Don’t forget to write and tell us all about it,” they said. “ You will now, won’t you ? ” “ Yep,” I said. “ Good-bye.” The Pension Department’s ticket took me in Newman’s service car to Nelson, but I had to pay the 255. boat-fare across Cook Strait. Once they reach Wellington, most amputees go to “ Mowai ” lied Cross Home, up in Hobson Street. But I wasn’t quite fit enough yet, so a Red Cross car took me to Ward 11, Hutt Hospital. It was pretty good there. Nice and clean and new and cheerful. They know how to look after and, most important, understand a returned soldier.

So the days passed happily, until one day Sister Richardson came to me and said : “ I’ve just got a ring from the Limb Factory. You’re to report there tomorrow morning for your leg.” Oh boy, oh boy, won’t that be greatto walk again put one foot in front of the other chuck the crutches away in a cornerto unpin, forever, that left trouser-leg, for so many months empty and tucked up —to wear a pair of shoes That night, I felt like a kid on Christmas Eve. * A month ago I had gone to the Limb Factory to see about the building-up process — post - battle reconstruction.

First of all the dimensions of my remaining leg were recorded, so that the artificial limb would resemble it closely. Next, the length of the amount missing was measured. A plaster cast of the stump followed, after which Charlie Lander, Supervisor of artificial limbs, gave me a social security chit to buy a pair of shoes, cost not to exceed 355. “ Bring back the shoes,” said Charlie (a “ limbie ” digger of the last war), “so we can shape the footwillow-wood and rubber—correctly. Then hop off home for a month. And when you come back, don’t forget to bring a pair of socks with you.”

So the great day was here at last. With a pair of socks in my pocket and a couple of crutches under my armpits, I stepped out at the Limb Factory— Disabled Servicemen’s Training Centre, Lloyd Street. In through the swing doors. Turn to the right. Sit down in one of the three cubicles. Lean your crutches against a wall. Wait. “ Here’s your leg, soldier.” A - white-coated man holding Lord, is this the thing you have to cart around with, you for the rest of your life ? A sudden twinge of dismay within you. It looks grimly metallic, horribly cumbersome, and for a moment your thoughts are bitter. But the white-coated man is asking you for your socks : “ Often chaps forget to bring ’em, you know.” He returns the 355. shoes (rubber heels have been fitted) ordered a month ago, and puts a sock, then a shoe on to the artificial leg. I change into the remaining sock and shoe. “ Now, off with your pants. Okay. Now fit this on.” He gives me a white woollen sock, 18 in. in length, which I pull over the “ stump ” —the remainder of my left leg. “ Now leave it to me.” Deftly, he fits the white-clad stump into the metallic socket, fastens, from its pivot at the top of the leg, a belt around the waist, and finally clips on an elastic strap, running from the back of the belt over the shoulder and down to a button on the front of the belt.

“ The belt is to hold the leg firmly into your side, and that elastic strap over your shoulder, well that’s to stop it from slipping down, of course,” he explains. “ This strap down here over the knee is to swing the leg forward from the bent position.” I take in my right hand a black bamboo cane, and suddenly I realize I am standing on two feet again ! I grin at him, delighted. I daren’t move, though. “ Which foot do I put forward ? ” “ Kick the artificial leg forward. Don’t try to walk. Swing it. Land on the heel. Keep it stiff. That’s right. Now plenty of weight on the stick. Careful. Bring your good leg forward. Slow-l’ee. That’s the stuff. Good, good—you’ve taken your first step, soldier.” ' * Thirty minutes’ trial for the first day, an hour next morning, the days of practice-walking pass swiftly. Up and down the “ race-track ” — a rectangular room with large mirrors at each end, and a hand-rail down the centre. Grasping the rail firmly, kicking out the leg, leaning heavily on the stick, watching your reflection in the mirrors. If you’re not careful the leg will buckle up unexpectedly beneath you. Soon you grow confident and let go of the hand-rail. You feel a foot taller. It’s wonderful to have your hands free, yet for a while they feel awkward. The leg pinches, chafes, makes sudden creaks and clicks. The man in the white coat (by now you’re not calling him Mr. Bennett, he’s “ Doug.”) is expecting this. Usually at a glance he can spot the trouble, and hammers the inside of the leg with an implement shaped like a question-mark. “ Now try it again. That should be better.” Trial and error. One day it’s working “ like a poem —next morning : “ like kneeling on bees.” Every Monday morning Lieutenant-Colonel J. K. Elliott, orthopaedic specialist just back from studying the manufacture of artificial limbs in England and the U.S.A., calls you in for a chat and an examination. Yarns to other amputees put you wise : “ Never overdo it. Remember you’re learning to walk over again.”

“ Methylated spirits hardens the stump up good-oh.” “ Change your stumpsocks every day, and make sure there’s no wrinkles in 'em.” “ Once you get the hang of it you’ll be right.” You learn of the War Amputees Association, Druids Chambers, Wellington, a little society of “ limbies ” and “ wingies ” banded together, helping one another, giving advice and assistance, holding meetings and publishing a quarterly news bulletin.

Over tea and scones in the cafeteria upstairs in this two-year-old, £50,000 building you meet other returned Kiwis learning new —furniture-making, fashioning ornaments from paua shell and silver, basket-weaving, cobbling. They say : “ We’re getting a fair enough spin. No, we’re not mucked about much.” Everyone, in spite of his disability, hopes one day to have a little shop of his —and independence. Of course you make a point of meeting the man who built your leg. He starts off with strips of “ Alclad,” duralumin coated with aluminium stuff they make bombers out of. It’s imported from Canada and the U.S.A, at 3s. a pound. When fully fashioned, a leg costs the Government from £2O to £4s there are twenty-four separate fittings in the knee machanism alone. The legs are hollow. B.K. (below knee) legs weigh 61b., but the A.K.’s (above knee) are 21b. heavier. Artificial legs can’t be too light— only blow backwards in a Wellington breeze. Not all are made of ” Alclad ” one school of thought favours willow wood : says it’s not only more comfortable, but cooler. And there’s a lot of speculation on the possibilities of plastic legs. You notice most limbies have lost the left leg. (Despatch-riders are the exception—-usually their right legs go west.) With arms, the right seems seldom the one which is left. So you ask Mr. Lander for figures.

“To the end of March, we have fitted up 228 amputees in this war,” he says. “Of the 286 leg amputees, 174 lost the left leg, 101 the right, and 11 both. With arms,” going to another set of papers, “ 57 lost their right arm, 46 the left. Two have no arms at all. And, by the way, amputations are half the number of the last war.”

After a week of plodding around the “race-track,” clad in shirt and underpants, you find the leg becoming less and less cumbersome, and forget all about the straps. You’re beginning to walk automatically. Then you say to the man in the white coat :

“ I think I’ll give her a go in the street, now, Doug.” That’s the stuff,” says Doug., but take it easy. You’ll find the streets rough to walk on after this floor. And be careful going over tram tracks. Don’t hurry things. If you keep on as you’re doing, we’ll finish it off at the end of the month, paint it flesh-coloured, and you’ll be right for civvy life again.” You pull on your trousers, properly, for the first public appearance. The creases hang down on both sides and it looks good, really good. You reach for your stick. “And have one for me at the Cambridge ” (the nearest pub), grins Doug. You say, “ Sure, sure.” You go down the street, carefully, proudly. The crutches are gone. That soobvious gap has gone. No longer kind old ladies will say “God Bless You.” Just ahead, people are getting into a tram. Carefully, as Doug, advised, you begin to cross in front of it. ‘‘Clang” goes the bell, impatiently. “ Hey,” yells the tram-driver, “ get a move on, darn you! Step on it brother! I ain't got all night.” You smile to yourself. You feel very, very happy,