“But two physicians, like a pair of oars, Waft him over swiftly to the Stygian shores.” David Guthrie’s chosen quote in the McGill yearbook stands in stark contrast to those of his colleagues, revealing a far more cynical or darkly humorous perspective on medicine. From an anonymous epigram of the 17th century, a commentary on medical practice of the time, it carried through years later as Guthrie looked upon the practice with wry skepticism. Many of the other graduates selected quotes that emphasized perseverance, diligence, or intellectual curiosity—Jack Gross cites the necessity of doubt in scientific progress, Anthony Halfhide champions the virtue of working hard, and Richard Hatch speaks to the satisfaction of a job well done.

Guthrie’s epigram, however, is noticeably more fatalistic. While some may have chosen inspirational maxims about medicine’s triumphs, his quote suggests an awareness of the profession’s limitations. The imagery of two physicians hastening a patient to death rather than healing him carries a sardonic weight, implying that medical intervention is not always benevolent or effective.

This choice may reflect a keen intellect tinged with realism, a recognition that medicine is as much about managing the inevitability of death as it is about preserving life. Before Korea, it could have been mere wit or an academic observation; after Korea, it became lived experience. The trenches, the bombardments, and the desperation of the wounded would force him to confront the very truth in the words he had chosen.

At nineteen, a year before the outbreak of war, the English-born Guthrie started his medical career within the corridors of McGill University. He obtained his Bachelor of Science and, after joining the Royal Canadian Army Medical Corps, continued into medicine, earning his Medicinae Doctorem et Chirurgiae Magistrum—the highest degree McGill offered, merging the study of medicine and surgery.

David entered the field of radiology which, in the 1940s and 50s, was an emerging and rapidly evolving field and not the most conventional choice for a young doctor. In those decades, internal medicine, surgery, and general practice dominated medical education and career pathways. Radiology was considered technical rather than clinical. Many physicians viewed it as a diagnostic support role rather than a primary specialty, not as prestigious or established as traditional practices, but it had proven to be quite valuable during World War II and was progressive and intellectually demanding.

Despite volunteering for service in the Pacific theater, he remained in Canada throughout the Second World War. Following his commission and subsequent promotion to captain, he secured a position in 1946 as a medical doctor attached to the Canadian Pulp and Paper Company, intending to balance private practice with industrial medicine. It was guaranteed for over a year after which he intended to take on intern work and apply for training benefits.

<h2>KOREA</h2>

At the edge of the front lines outside of Seoul, the 25th Field Dressing Station supported the Canadian Brigade with a staff of 237 men. It was a critical node in the chain of evacuation through the medical service. Three sections, each with 26 men, were assigned to each of the three infantry regiments, while the headquarters section remained flexible, positioned either behind artillery or wherever the strategic need dictated. Captain Guthrie joined at the end of March 1952, well-practiced in medicine but untested by war. By all professional measures, he was more than prepared for the work ahead, but combat medicine demanded something beyond technical proficiency. There would be no second opinions, no deliberation over best practices. If once he had pondered the limitations of doctors, now he would come to know them intimately.

By mid-June, Guthrie was given responsibility of the forward Field Dressing Station near Uijonbu. Upon arrival, he assisted in setting up hospital tents and a dispensary while working with a limited staff. The evacuation tent was pitched in the morning to serve as both a reception area and a medical inspection room. Despite the hurried preparations, the treatment room was operational by the next day, though personnel were stretched thin, with only a single clerk handling admissions and discharges. The beds quickly filled with fifty to sixty at any time after the forward post was established.

After a visit by Republic of Korea troops, Guthrie received a letter from Lieutenant Kim Seong-su urgently pleading for medical assistance. "We deeply respect your hospital for your dedication to treating patients day and night without rest," read the mix of Korean Hangul and Chinese Hanja characters. "Our unit lacks sufficient medical facilities, and we are unable to provide adequate treatment to our wounded. However, we have been given the opportunity to visit the Canada Field Hospital, and we sincerely request your assistance and guidance." He detailed three Republic of Korea soldiers suffering from illness ranging from infection to possible iron overload, but their lack of facilities left Kim helpless. Whether Guthrie was able to grant the request remains unknown, but he pocketed the letter and it remained with him through the war.

The summer months were marked by monsoon rains that broke the oppressive heat of May and June. The heavy downpours saturated the roads and river crossings, complicating movement and medical evacuations. The nearby Imjin River swelled nearly forty feet above its normal level, causing severe damage to bridges. By mid-August, as the rains subsided, Guthrie’s unit prepared to leave reserve and move closer to the front, but not before he assisted Major Davidson in the forward section’s first abdominal operation - a successful appendectomy.

On September 17th, Guthrie was posted as Regimental Medical Officer to the 1st Battalion, Royal 22e Regiment. Under overcast skies, he departed the Field Dressing Station for the trenches alongside infantrymen. His hardest work often began at nightfall as patrols returned just after dark with their first wave of wounded. Bruises and minor wounds were common, but among them would always be severe injuries.

When a soldier was hit, he was carried - or, if lucky, hobbled - back to the Regimental Aid Post, where the medical officer diagnosed and stabilized wounds before sending them down the line. Field ambulances, manned by a driver and an orderly, waited at the Regimental Aid Post to move the wounded to the Casualty Clearing Post, where plasma, blood transfusions, and emergency surgeries were performed. From there, those able to travel were loaded onto motor ambulances, each capable of holding four stretchers, and taken to the Advanced Dressing Station. The most critical cases continued to Mobile Army Surgical Hospital units, while others were stabilized and flown to Japan for treatment.

The dead and mortally wounded frequently came in without identification, without personal effects, their bodies torn apart by mortar blasts, bullets, and shrapnel wounds that left little to recognize. Some suffered massive trauma to the head and torso, their wounds confirming the indiscriminate destruction of enemy fire. Others bore lacerations and fractures, the concussive force of explosions breaking bodies before they ever saw the enemy.  Those who arrived on a stretcher covered with a blanket or poncho needed only to be examined and recorded before burial. Guthrie was the one who had to verify the remains, document their injuries, and ensure that official record of their passing existed before they were laid to rest.

October was especially unforgiving for the Van Doos, with a string of heavy engagements at Majon-ni and Musan-ni. A particularly brutal enemy mortar attack on Company D positions on Hill 159 sent wounded scrambling back through communication trenches. The bunkers shook as artillery rained down, and it was Guthrie and his few medics who braved the fire in dimly lit dugouts to stabilize and evacuate the worst casualties.  Just as cold injuries became a threat as winter encroached, with men suffering from frostbite and exposure in the frigid Korean terrain, David escaped the heart of the Korean winter with the infantry as he was posted back to the Field Ambulance in early December.  Within a month, rotated through Japan and back to Canada.

The letter from Kim Seong-su remained with him. Long after the war ended, after a career taking him through the rank of Lieutenant Colonel, a tour in Germany, and countless wards and hospital postings, when his uniforms were folded away the letter lay among his papers, a quiet reminder that even in the darkest conflict, a doctor’s oath remained unchanged.