McGonegal Showed Them

Suddenly, from deep among the generals and admirals milling about with American Legionnaires at a conclave in Washington's Mayflower Hotel last week, General George C. Marshall emerged. He sauntered over to the sidelines and struck up talk with a man in civilian clothes whose sandy hair was greying and who used bright steel claws for hands.

The man, talking in a low voice, told the General his name was Charles McGonegal; and then the General, his eyes never lowering to the man's bright steel hands, asked him what battle he was hurt in, what hit him, what outfit he was with and the name of his regimental commander. Then he walked away.

A few minutes later Marshall came back. This time he brought along Major General Frank Parker, Retired. He said, "Mr. McGonegal, I just wanted to bring your old regimental commander to see you." Unable to shake hands, McGonegal embraced the old soldier. Said McGonegal: "The years just seemed to fall away like a pile of blocks."

In December 1917 Private McGonegal left Hoboken with 12,500 others aboard the Leviathan, seabound on her maiden voyage as a troop transport under the American flag.

So McGonegal, of North Dakota, who had known only prairies, horses, steam engines and a whirl through training camps, went to France. He arrived in the Toul sector on Jan. 19, 1918, where his outfit relieved some Moroccan soldiers near Beaumont. On a clear day the Americans could see the city of Metz. They said to each other that sooner or later they'd knock the damn place down.

McGonegal's one bother was what to do about a diamond ring he wore on his left hand. If he got killed, it should go back to his family. It had been his meal ticket on critical fiscal occasions. McGonegal made a small leather pouch, sewed the ring in it and hung it around his neck against his dog tags. Then he felt better.

On the morning of Feb. 3, 1918, McGonegal went out as a grenadier, opening the way for wiring parties. The Germans signaled back for a barrage. As McGonegal fumbled for another hand grenade, shrapnel struck his head. He sagged down. When he rallied he tried to prop himself on his hands, to rise. But he found his arms were gone just below the elbows.

Later, at Field Hospital No. 13, they found he had eight teeth missing, a bad mouth wound, a fracture of the skull, both knees splintered and 102 other small wounds, cuts and burns.

The doctors gave him the leather pouch with the diamond ring.

When he got out of the hospital, with two artificial arms, he took a business course and started selling insurance. He worked in a lumber yard, drove a truck, did clerical work in Los Angeles, worked for a utilities company. For four years he was postmaster of Bell, Calif. Now he is national field secretary for the American Legion, is married, with a couple of sons, and has a ranch.

Last week he went out to Walter Reed Hospital, in Washington, as he goes around to many hospitals where sit young ex-soldiers without hands, and without much hope. He did a few of the things he is used to doing nearly every day. He did them with ease. He took a box of matches out of his pocket and lit his cigaret. He used a telephone. He wrote a good hand, in pen and pencil. He handled a pack of cards. He showed the goggle-eyed boys how to do these things. He talked to them all.

"But say," said one of the boys, who had lost an arm, "what about when you go to dance with a girl? Do you put a hand like that around her?"

McGonegal's eyes flashed. He called in a nurse and did a few turns around the floor with her. It looked fine.

"You must come to understand," said McGonegal to the boy, "that warmth comes from the heart and not from the hands, anyway."

He will go to six more Army & Navy hospitals between now and April, and spend a week with the boys at each of them. His older son is overseas now.

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