A radio show called Life to the Front, broadcast weekly over WEEI, the Columbia Broadcasting System’s New England network outlet in Boston, helped keep alive the connection between the home front and the fighting fronts to encourage blood donations. Each week the broadcast was dedicated “To all the men of the armed forces of the United States … who – on every fighting front in the world – daily risk their lives in the service of their country … that they might live.”

The program was co-produced by Anastasia Kirby of the Boston Blood Donor center and Lt. Henry Lundquist of the First Naval District. On June 11, 1944, they were married.

She tells her story in a new book, Out for Blood: The Pursuit of Life for the Wounded on the Fighting Fronts of World War II, available on Amazon, a portion of which is excerpted here.

Much has been written about the greatest generation, but not about its greatest gift. While the people at home contributed to war bond drives, raised victory gardens, and collected scrap metal for the war effort, the most intimate gift all, a person’s own blood, was often the gift of life for many a casualty. These gifts were given through the wartime American Red Cross Blood Donor Service for the exclusive use of the surgeons general of the Army and Navy wherever needed.

Out for Blood, by Anastasia Kirby Lundquist. Photo courtesy of the author

The majority of the blood taken was sent to a laboratory for processing into plasma, then shipped wherever the Army and Navy directed. Eventually, the blood of many type O donors was flown as whole blood directly to Europe by the Army’s Air Transport Command and, after V-E Day [victory in Europe], to the Pacific by Naval Air Transport Service – or NATS – planes. From the beginning, plasma – and later whole blood – was credited by the surgeons general of the Army and Navy as being the greatest lifesaver of World War II.

The generosity of these donors can be traced for generations into the future. They were indeed part of a great romance, and their children are, too, because many of these children are alive today because the life of a father or grandfather was saved by the blood of one of these donors.

Much has been written about the greatest generation, but not about its greatest gift. While the people at home contributed to war bond drives, raised victory gardens, and collected scrap metal for the war effort, the most intimate gift all, a person’s own blood, was often the gift of life for many a casualty.

Sixteen million Americans served in uniform in World War II. The death toll was just over four hundred thousand, of which nearly three hundred thousand were battle fatalities. Chief of Naval Operations Fleet Adm. Ernest J. King was stoic about this grim statistic when he wrote from the Pacific, “The Pacific War, though thousands of miles away from the shores of the United States, is daily brought directly into many American homes by formal notification of the injury or supreme sacrifice of a member of the family. There is nothing that anyone can do to prevent altogether the tremendous cost of war.”

The survival rate among those who were not killed outright, however, was far greater than anyone might have thought possible. It was estimated that ninety-six survived out of every one hundred wounded. Maj. Gen. Norman T. Kirk, surgeon general of the Army, presented three reasons for this when he addressed the American Medical Association [AMA] House of Delegates in Chicago on June 7, 1943.

“The foremost lifesaver,” the general declared, “is plasma, the dried blood extract which millions of Americans have been giving the Red Cross for nearly two years. Plasma saved shock and bleeding, and without that many men would have died before they could have reached medical care. Second in lifesaving was surgery, which cleaned up the wounds to reduce risk of infection. In third place were the sulfa drugs, aiding to minimize infection.”

The AMA had always received good press coverage of its meetings. After all, it was the foremost authority on matters medical, so something of significance was expected when they met. Announcement of their speaker for that June event brought greater interest than ever. With the war raging throughout the world and Kirk just back from the African front, the media turned out in record numbers. They were so impressed that many of them carried the general’s speech in its entirety.

The Nov. 17, 1943, report of the Office of War Information contained further evidence of the value of plasma and therefore the importance of our donors. This was their first comprehensive survey of the care of war wounded. It was filled with facts and figures. Among the variety of impressive statistics was the following:

“The main reason for saving wounded was:

Use of blood plasma to combat shock and hemorrhage.

Use of sulfa drugs to combat infection.

Quality of medical services which insure prompt treatment.”

The survey explained, “Faster treatments and improved Army-Navy Methods for attending the wounded are playing a major role in reducing the number of deaths from wounds.”

They further noted, “In the last war, we brought the wounded to the hospital; in this war, we are bringing the hospitals to the wounded.”

Sometimes the hospital brought to the front would be nothing more than a tarp thrown over the trees. Ernie Pyle, the noted war correspondent who wrote for the Scripps-Howard newspapers – with a readership of more than 122 million in 310 cities – followed the war. The folks at home eagerly awaited his columns.

“The doctors asked me at least a dozen times to write about plasma,” said Pyle. “They say that plasma is absolutely magical. ‘Write lots about it, go clear overboard for it, say that plasma is the outstanding medical discovery of the war.’”

Pyle was hospitalized for a while, but never stopped working. From his cot in the corner, he wrote about what he saw and what he heard.

“The doctors asked me at least a dozen times to write about plasma,” said Pyle. “They say that plasma is absolutely magical. ‘Write lots about it, go clear overboard for it, say that plasma is the outstanding medical discovery of the war.’”

Radio became a way for the public to meet and hear those who had been on the front lines, receiving or watching our donors’ blood at work. Listeners heard a frontline story from someone who was there, and it seemed personal. They felt they knew the person, and they were deeply moved – in many cases, moved to become blood donors.

Our radio program, Life to the Front, became a powerful way to tell those stories – like this story, that starts a half a world away from Boston.

On Dec. 1, 1942, two men in the U.S. Navy met for the first time in a Higgins boat on the sea off Lunga Point in the Solomon Islands. One was a lieutenant in the Chaplain Corps; the other was a boatswain’s mate second class. They had just left their respective ships, the heavy cruisers Minneapolis and Northampton. The two men and their ships had taken part in an important event, the Battle of Tassafaronga, named for a point on the coast of Guadalcanal.

The two were among others on their way to the island of Tulagi. The boatswain’s mate went there to get first aid and dry clothes, having just been picked up out of the water after the sinking of the Northampton. The chaplain was being put ashore to die.

The Minneapolis, like the Northampton, had been hit by a Japanese Long Lance torpedo. Although not sunk, the Minneapolis was severely damaged, its bow blown off back to its forward gun turret, the ship engulfed in flames and smoke. The chaplain had been caught in the fire and critically burned. He was helped into sick bay and immediately given a unit of blood plasma … but little hope of survival.

The medics decided to get him off the ship to the nearby island of Tulagi where a medical evacuation center had been set up. They wrapped him in yards and yards of gauze bandage and lowered him over the side of the Minneapolis into a Higgins boat for the trip ashore. He went alone, because no corpsman could be spared to accompany him. There were too many casualties aboard in need of critical care.

On the way, the boat crew came upon the boatswain’s mate clinging to a powder can. They picked him up and took him along with them. When they landed, they hurried the chaplain into the emergency unit, where he was immediately given another unit of plasma.

The boatswain’s mate watched and listened. The man he saw on the Higgins boat lying on a cot was wrapped in his bandages like a mummy, with still another plasma tube running down into his arm and the doctors shaking their heads. The sailor knew he would never forget the chaplain, but he was also sure he would never see him again.

The chaplain had been caught in the fire and critically burned. He was helped into sick bay and immediately given a unit of blood plasma … but little hope of survival.

Eight months later and eight thousand miles from the Solomons, Chaplain Arthur F. McQuaid and Boatswain’s Mate Second Class Julius R. Mays sat around the microphone in the studio of the Columbia Broadcasting System’s New England outlet, WEEI in Boston, for the opening program of the new radio series, Life to the Front, that would begin on July 15, 1943, and run the length of the war.

As I introduced my two guests to the radio audience and described their trip to Tulagi, Julius Mays was shaking his head: “I can’t believe you’re here, Padre. I can’t believe it’s you. It seems like a miracle. Where did you go from Tulagi?” Mays asked the chaplain.

“They evacuated me to a hospital in Auckland, New Zealand, and I was there for quite a while. I was blind for two weeks; I couldn’t walk for two months.”

“But I see that our boatswain’s mate here is wearing a Silver Star ribbon,” McQuaid said. “You don’t get that for perfect attendance.”

A copy of the citation for his medal had been given to me for the interview.

“After his ship had been badly damaged by a torpedo hit and set on fire, Mays, although menaced by terrific heat and bursting ammunition from the boat deck, twice climbed the flame-enveloped structure of the main mast and assisted in evacuating wounded personnel who had been injured by an explosion and blinded by oil and smoke. His heroic conduct was in keeping with the highest traditions of the United States Navy. Signed, Frank Knox, Secretary of the Navy.”

“Can you fill in the details, Mays?” asked the chaplain.

“Well, my battle station was battle telephone talker in the damage control party. After we got hit, we were so badly off, there wasn’t much a damage control party could do. So when a call came to get some morphine up to some wounded men on the main mast, I ran and got it and went up and gave it to the fellows who needed it most. One had both legs broken by the concussion, and he was hurting so much that he would rather stay where he was than be moved after I brought him down.”

“And then what?” asked the Padre.

“Well, I tied a couple of lifebelts around him and pulled him to where the water would float him off when the ship rolled over.”

“Did it work?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am, it worked. When the Northampton rolled over, the wounded man floated clear.”

“And that’s not all, according to my information,” I added.

“Well, we brought two other wounded down from the mast … at least they say I did. I don’t remember coming down from the second trip, but I must have, because I had gotten a powder can from somewhere and was floating around on it. Then I was picked up by the same boat that had taken the chaplain here off his ship, and it took us both to Tulagi.”

“What a wonderful sense of satisfaction that must be for you, Mays,” said the chaplain.

“It is, sir. But what a wonderful satisfaction it must be for blood donors in Boston to see you back home alive because of plasma.”

“What a small world,” I noted, “when you think of blood going out from the United States all the way to the Pacific and coming back to Boston in the chaplain’s veins.”

Life to the Front was off to a great start, and the chaplain returned to active duty soon after.

McQuaid had another “small world” experience on New Year’s Day 1944, when he was about to say mass in a little chapel on the base at Lakehurt, New Jersey. He needed an altar boy, so he asked for a volunteer from his congregation. A young Marine came forward and served.

After mass, as the priest was removing his vestments, his altar boy said, “You weren’t here last New Year’s Day, were you, Father?”

“What a small world,” I noted, “when you think of blood going out from the United States all the way to the Pacific and coming back to Boston in the chaplain’s veins.”

“No,” said the Padre, “I wasn’t.”

“I bet you a dollar I know where you were.”

“All right,” replied the priest, pulling out a dollar bill and laying it on the table. “Where?”

“You were in the hospital in Auckland, New Zealand.”

“How did you know?”

“You were in the bed next to mine.”

The chaplain pushed the dollar bill toward the Marine.

This story was originally published on Jan 7, 2015