I want to start today by asking you to just close
your eyes for a second. Seriously, just try to
imagine you were somewhere very, very specific.
A very high stakes location. Exactly. You are
hundreds of feet beneath the surface of the Pacific
Ocean. And it is 1942. Right in the absolute
height of the Second World War. Yeah. And you
are inside this steel tube. The air is, well,
it's incredibly heavy. It is hot. And it smells
awful, I would imagine. Completely. It smells
like a mix of diesel fuel, hydraulic fluid, and
the body odor of 50 or 60 men who just haven't
showered. in weeks. You are serving in the silent
service. Which is the nickname for the submarine
force. And it is a very fitting name because
silence was literally your only defense out there.
Right. You are deep in enemy territory. You are
hunting Japanese shipping, but you are also actively
being hunted. Because every creak of the hull
could give you away. Exactly. Every drop wrench,
every loud footstep could be picked up by a destroyer
on the surface. So it is this incredibly high
pressure environment in every sense of the word.
You have the physical pressure from the water
outside and the psychological pressure from the
enemy above. Yeah, the tension must have been
unbearable. And now I want you to imagine that
in the middle of all this, where you are miles
and miles from the nearest friendly port, completely
cut off from the outside world, a crisis starts
to unfold. A crisis that has absolutely nothing
to do with the war. Right. At least not directly.
It is a medical crisis. Which is the last thing
you want on a submarine. You have a shipmate,
a young guy just like you, and he starts complaining
of a stomach ache. Which, you know, at first
you might just chalk up to the food. Submarine
food wasn't exactly five -star dining. Right.
You think it's just indigestion. But then he
collapses. He is in absolute agony. He's sweating.
He's feverish. And if you are the medic on board,
you know exactly what this is. You recognize
the signs. It is acute appendicitis. Now, if
you get appendicitis today, it's basically just
a Tuesday. You go to the ER. They knock you out.
They make a few tiny holes. They snip it out.
And you are sitting at home watching Netflix
in recovery a few hours later. Exactly. But on
a submarine in 1942. It is a death sentence.
And I want to be clear that that is not an exaggeration.
If that appendix bursts, bacteria floods the
abdominal cavity. Right. You get peritonitis.
Right. You get sepsis. It is a slow, screaming,
agonizing way to die. And here is the massive
problem. There is no doctor on board. None at
all. There is no operating room. There are no
scalpels. There is no anesthesia machine. What
they have is a 22 -year -old kid. named Wheeler
Lipes, a guy who used to work in a lab, and basically
a drawer full of kitchen utensils. It sounds
like the setup for a bad joke, doesn't it? A
guy walks into a submarine galley with a spoon.
It really does. But what happened next is widely
considered the very first major surgery ever
performed on a submerged submarine. So today
on this deep dive, we are telling the incredible
story of Wheeler Bryson Lipes. The crew called
him Doc. Even though he wasn't a doctor? Right.
We are going to unpack how a high school dropout
with zero surgical training pulled off a literal
medical miracle using bent spoons and a tea strainer.
And perhaps even more surprisingly, we are going
to explore why the Navy didn't celebrate him
for it. Yeah, that part is wild. Instead of a
medal, there was actually serious talk of a court
-martial. Talk about no good deed going unpunished.
It is a fascinating story. Our mission today
is to look at the clash between rigid military
bureaucracy and the kind of desperate, on -the
-fly improvisation that saves lives. It's about
rule -breaking, ingenuity, and a justice that
was delayed for an entire lifetime. So we are
diving deep. Let's just start with the man himself.
Who was Wheeler Lipes? So Wheeler Bryson Lipes,
he was a Virginia boy, born in Newcastle on July
12, 1920. Okay. Now, to really understand Lopes,
you have to understand the era he grew up in.
The Great Depression. Exactly. Opportunities
were incredibly scarce. If you were a young man
in the 1930s, joining the military wasn't just
about patriotic duty. It was a guaranteed job.
It was three square meals and a bed. Right. So
Lopes enlisted in the Navy in 1936. Wait, let
me just do the math on that. Born in 1920, enlisted
in 1936. He was 16. He was 16 years old. Was
that even allowed? Technically, no. But practically
speaking, it happened all the time back then.
Recruiters often just looked the other way or
parents would sign waivers. Or kids would just
lie about their age. Exactly. Lopes was eager.
He just wanted to get out into the world. He
actually served on the USS Texas first. Which
is a battleship, a massive floating city compared
to a sub. Yes. But his destiny was really in
the smaller boats. So on December 10th, 1941.
Which is just three days after the attack on
Pearl Harbor. Exactly. He joined the crew of
the USS Seadragon. The Seadragon. SS -194. That
was a Sargo -class submarine. And his role on
that boat was pharmacist's mate. Right. And we
really need to clarify this term because words
change meaning over time. Yeah. Today, a pharmacist
is the person at the drugstore. Exactly. When
we hear pharmacist, we think of the person counting
pulls behind a counter. But in the 1942 Navy,
a pharmacist's mate was the entire medical department
for a small vessel. But he still wasn't a doctor.
Absolutely not. And that is the most critical
point of this entire story. A pharmacist's mate
is an enlisted rate. A doctor is a commissioned
officer with a medical degree. But he did have
some training, right? He did. He had been a hospital
lab technician for three years. So he knew how
to use a microscope. He could identify blood
types, things like that. He could do all of that.
He could set a broken bone, stitch up a cut,
dispense aspirin. He treated dysentery. And very
commonly in the Navy, he treated venereal diseases.
So he was basically a glorified paramedic and
a nurse rolled into one. Yes. But he had absolutely
zero training in surgery. He had never actually
cut a person open. Never. He had observed surgeries
in the hospital while he was a lab tech. He had
read medical textbooks. He was a very smart guy,
very curious. But watching and doing are two
very different things. Exactly. Watching a surgeon
remove an appendix and doing it yourself is the
difference between watching a pilot fly a jumbo
jet and trying to land it yourself. With no instructor
in the seat next to you. And no landing gear.
Right. So that sets up our protagonist. We have
a 22 -year -old kid who knows the medical theory
but has never done the actual practice. Which
brings us to September 1942, the crisis. So the
Sea Dragon is on its fourth war patrol. They
are deep in the Pacific. The sources specifically
note they were in enemy waters. This likely means
they were patrolling the heavily guarded shipping
lanes near Indochina or the Philippines. Meaning
that Japanese destroyers are just everywhere.
Yes. If they surface during the day, they are
dead. If they use their radio to call for help,
the Japanese can triangulate that signal and
drop depth charges. So they have to remain completely
invisible. They are ghosts. And while they are
creeping along in the dark, one of the crew members,
Daryl Dean Rector, starts feeling sick. He was
a seaman first class, just 19 years old. And
on a submarine, sickness spreads incredibly fast
because of the recycled air in close quarters.
But this wasn't the flu. No. Rector is complaining
of severe abdominal pain, starts around the navel,
which is typical, and then migrates to the lower
right quadrant. He loses his appetite. He has
a fever. Yeah. And his abdominal muscles get
extremely rigid. That's that classic sign called
guarding, right? Exactly. It's the body's involuntary
reflex, trying to protect the inflamed organ
underneath. Lipes examines him. He checks his
white blood cell count. Because he was a lab
tech, he actually had the skills and the microscope
to do that. Yes, and the count comes back sky
high. Which means a massive infection. Massive.
Lipes knows it. The commanding officer, Captain
Farrell, knows it. It is acute appendicitis.
And the clock is just ticking down now. It is.
Once that inflammation really takes hold, you
have a very narrow window, maybe 24 hours, maybe
48 if you are lucky. And after that? The organ
dies, it becomes gangrenous, and then it bursts.
And if it bursts on a submarine with no heavy
antibiotics? There is no coming back from that.
You cannot treat peritonitis with aspirin. Rector
will die. So Lipes goes to Captain Farrell, and
they have to have this completely impossible
conversation. Lipes essentially says, Captain,
He is going to die. And the captain has to say,
we cannot surface. We are thousands of miles
from any kind of real help. It is the ultimate
command decision. Think about the burden on a
captain. Do you risk the entire boat, all 60
men on board, by surfacing and radioing for help?
Or do you let one man die to save the rest of
the crew? The cold utilitarian military calculation
says you let him die. That is brutal. Military
regulations actually explicitly covered this
scenario. In the absence of a qualified surgeon,
the pharmacist is supposed to make the patient
comfortable, administer morphine, and just wait.
Wait for him to die. Yes, that was the official
legal option. But Lifes is only 22. He is looking
at his friend. He is simply not ready to just
sit there and watch him die. And neither is Captain
Farrell, honestly. Farrell asks Lifes, is there
absolutely anything you can do? And Lifes says,
I can operate. Imagine the sheer guts it took
to say those words. I can operate, having never
done it in his life. Lipes was basically saying,
look, I have watched doctors do it. I think I
understand the mechanics of it, but everything
is working against us. So the captain decides
to put the choice to Rector himself. This is
the part that really gets me. They go down to
the sick bay, which is just a tiny little bunk.
And they lay it all out for the patient. They
say, look, Daryl, Doc Lipes says he can try to
cut it out, but he is not a surgeon. If he messes
up, you die on the table. If we do nothing, you
die anyway. It is your call. And Rector says
yes. He told the captain, I trust Doc. Wow. That
bond between shipmates is just something else.
He put his life entirely in the hands of a guy
whose only medical qualification was a certificate
in lab technology. So the decision is made. And
this brings us to the surgery itself. This is
where the story shifts from dramatic to completely
unbelievable. Right. This is the ultimate MacGyver
moment. They have absolutely no operating room.
Submarines are cramped. They're filled with pipes
and machinery. Where do you even put a surgical
patient? They chose the wardroom. Yes. That's
the officer's dining area. It had the only table
big enough for a man to lie on, which was the
dining table. But even that table was too short,
right? They had to slide it out or extend it
somehow. They did. But having a table is just
step one. You need surgical tools. And this is
where Leip's ingenuity and really the whole crew's
ingenuity just shines. They didn't have scalpels.
They didn't have hemostats to clamp bleeding
veins. They didn't have retractors. Let's talk
about the spoons because that is the detail everyone
remembers from this story. Yeah. How do you use
spoons in surgery? Well, in a proper operating
room. After the surgeon slices through the abdominal
muscles, they need to pull those muscles apart
to see inside the cavity. To get to the appendix.
Exactly. use a tool called a retractor. It is
basically a bent piece of rigid stainless steel.
Which they obviously didn't have. But they had
the galley. They went into the kitchen, took
regular tablespoons, and physically bent the
handles back at a 90 -degree angle. So the bowl
of the spoon hooks under the muscle and holds
it back, and the bent handle is what the assistant
holds onto. Yes, an instant improvised retractor.
But what about the cutting part? You cannot use
a butter knife for an appendectomy. No, you need
something razor sharp. They scrounged the boat
for blades. The sources vary slightly here. Some
say they used actual scalpel blades that were
in the ship's first aid kit, but they just didn't
have the handles to hold them properly. And other
sources say they just sharpened the galley knives.
Either way, they used whatever was sharpest.
And then they had to sterilize everything. How
do you even do that? You don't have an autoclave
on a submarine to steam sterilize instruments.
They used boiling water from the galley. And
for chemical sterilization, they used torpedo
alcohol. Torpedo alcohol. Yes. The torpedoes
on the Sargo -class submarines were powered by
engines that burned a highly refined, high -proof
alcohol. It's basically 180 -proof grain alcohol.
The sailors called it torpedo juice. They did.
And sometimes they found ways to drink it, but
in this specific case, it functioned as the perfect
medical disinfectant. So they're scrubbing down
the spoons and knives with torpedo fuel. That
is incredible. But what about the biggest hurdle
of all? You have to knock Rector out. You cannot
perform deep abdominal surgery on a conscious
person. They actually had ether on board, right?
They had ether. Ether is a liquid that easily
turns into a gas. When a patient inhales it,
they lose consciousness. But ether is incredibly
tricky to administer. Because if you give him
too little, he wakes up screaming in the middle
of the procedure. And if you give him too much,
his respiratory system shuts down and he dies.
Plus, you need a way to deliver it to his lungs.
Normally, an anesthesiologist uses a specialized
mask. It looks like a little wire cage that fits
snugly over the nose and mouth. You drip it with
layers of gauze. And then you drip the liquid
ether onto the gauze so it vaporizes and the
patient breathes in the fumes. But they didn't
have that mask. So Leaps looked around the galley
again and he saw a tea strainer. A standard metal
mesh tea strainer. The kind you use for loose
leaf tea. He took that tea strainer, wrapped
it in gauze bandage, and fit it right over Rector's
nose and mouth. That is just brilliant problem
solving. It is engineering at its finest. It
provided the exact perfect structure to hold
the soaked gauze away from the skin, preventing
chemical burns while still allowing decent airflow.
But wait, ether is highly flammable, isn't it?
It is basically explosive. And think about where
they are. A submarine is a metal tube filled
with electrical sparks, running motors, open
switches. If the ether vapor concentration got
too high in the air and someone just flipped
a light switch. The entire boat blows up. They
were terrifyingly aware of this risk. They restricted
all movement in the rest of the boat. No switches
could be thrown. They tried to ventilate the
wardroom as best they could while remaining completely
submerged. So just picture this scene for a moment.
You are in the officer's mess. It's tiny, it's
sweltering. Lipes is wearing, did he even have
surgical scrubs? No scrubs. He wore pajama tops
turned backward to simulate a sterile surgical
gown. And he wore a makeshift mask made of medical
gauze. And his assistant? His assistant was Norvell
G. Ward. He was the communication officer, I
believe. He was drafted to be the anesthesiologist.
He was the guy sitting at Rector's head, carefully
dripping the ether onto the tea strainer. So
Lipes steps up to the table. And he makes the
first incision. He cuts. He goes through the
skin, the fat, the fascia layer. He separates
the muscle fibers. He finally enters the abdominal
cavity. And does he find the appendix right away?
That is the surgeon's nightmare. In the medical
textbooks, the appendix is beautifully drawn,
always right in the same spot. But in reality,
bodies are messy. Intestines move around. Exactly.
The appendix can be tucked behind the cacum.
It can be adhered to the bowel wall from the
inflammation. Leib's had to go hunting for it.
With his fingers? With his gloved fingers. Physically
feeling around inside his friend's gut. Can you
imagine the sweat? The intense heat in that confined
room? And the absolute silence of the boat. The
whole crew was holding their breath. And remember,
they are still underwater. If a Japanese destroyer
happens to pass overhead right at that moment
and drops a death charge. The lights go out,
the boat violently rocks, and the scalpel slips.
It is the highest stakes operation you can possibly
imagine. But finally, Leaps finds it. What condition
was it in? It was incredibly bad. It was black,
gangrenous. It had severe adhesions, meaning
it was stuck to the surrounding tissue. It was
swollen huge. So his diagnosis was completely
right. 100 % right. If they had waited even another
few hours, that appendix would have burst. So
now he actually has to remove it. He clamps it
off. He likely used hemostats from the first
aid kit if they had a few or maybe more improvised
tools. He tightly ties off the base with catgut
sutures. And he cuts the rotting organ free.
But you can't just leave a cut hole in the intestine.
No, you have to cauterize the stump. You have
to perfectly seal the wound so intestinal bacteria
doesn't leak out into the abdomen. He used phenol
for that. Phenol is an extremely harsh chemical.
It burns tissue instantly. He dipped a medical
probe in phenol, applied it to the stump to burn
it shut, and then quickly neutralized the burning
acid with alcohol. And then he has to stitch
it up. He inverted the stump back into the wall
of the intestine, which is classic, proper surgical
technique. And he stitched the outer wall shut
over it. He used a purse string suture, right?
Yes. It works exactly like drawing a drawstring
bag closed. Then he has to close the abdomen
back up, layer by careful layer. The muscle,
then the fascia, and finally the skin. And what
about Rector? They stop, the ether drops, the
anesthesia wears off. And he wakes up. He is
actually alive. He is groggy, he is in a lot
of pain from the incision, but he is alive. And
more importantly, the deadly source of the infection
is completely gone. Lipes really did it. He performed
a major abdominal surgery underwater in enemy
territory with spoons and a tea strainer. It
is nothing short of a miracle. The rest of the
crew must have just gone wild. He was an absolute
hero on that boat. Doc Lipes, the man who cheated
death. The morale boost was massive. But the
Sea Dragon eventually has to end its patrol.
They have to go home to port. And this is exactly
where the story takes a very sharp turn. We move
into the aftermath. You would naturally expect...
A ticker tape parade. You would expect the admiral
to come down to the docks and shake his hand.
You would expect that, yes. But the Navy is a
massive bureaucracy, and bureaucracies run entirely
on rules and regulations. So what was their actual
reaction? The Navy medical establishment was
furious. The Surgeon General of the Navy was
reportedly apoplectic over the whole thing. But
why? He saved a sailor's life. Yes, but think
about how he did it. He broke every single rule
in the book. He performed a major surgery without
a medical license. He risked the life of a sailor
on a massive gamble. But the gamble paid off.
The guy lived. To us looking back, yes. But to
the admiral sitting at desks, it set a terrifying
precedent. They were deeply afraid of what you
might call the cowboy effect. What does that
mean? They thought, if we pin a medal on Lapa's
chest for this, every pharmacist mate in the
entire Pacific fleet is going to start... trying
to do brain surgery with a salad fork. Ah, they
wanted to discourage reckless improvisation.
They needed to maintain strict medical standards.
They argued that Lipes was just incredibly lucky,
not skilled. They said he recklessly endangered
the patient. There was very serious talk of a
court -martial. A court -martial for saving a
man's life. They actually wanted to charge him
with medical malpractice, maybe even assault.
That is just mind -blowing to me. It is the ultimate
clash of cultures. The frontline combat culture
says, do absolutely whatever it takes to survive
today. The rear echelon bureaucratic culture
says, you must follow the established procedure.
So Leibs is standing there, probably expecting
a pat on the back, and instead he is looking
at going to the brig. He was in real trouble.
Yeah. But he had an ace in the hole. Or rather,
the story itself had an ace in the hole. Right,
the secret got out. You cannot keep a story like
that contained. The crew of the Sea Dragon told
everyone they met. And the civilian press got
wind of it. And the press definitely did not
care about Navy regulations. No, they saw a truly
fantastic story. An American boy, using good
old American ingenuity, saving his buddy with
kitchen tools. It was the absolute perfect morale
booster for a country that was weary from war.
A reporter named George Weller ended up writing
the story. Yes. On December 14th, 1942. He published
it in the Chicago Daily News. The headline was
something along the lines of pharmacists mate
performs appendectomy in submarine. And it wasn't
just a small local human interest piece. It went
completely viral. Well, in the 1942 sense of
the word. And get this detail. George Weller
actually won the Pulitzer Prize for reporting
in 1943, specifically for that article. A Pulitzer
Prize. The highest possible honor in print journalism.
So now the Navy is in a massive bind. They really
want to punish Lubbs. But the entire country
is celebrating him as a homegrown hero. If they
court -martial the subject of a Pulitzer Prize
winning story, they look like absolute monsters.
Exactly. The intense positive publicity literally
saved him. They couldn't touch him after that.
And the pop culture phenomenon didn't stop with
the newspaper article either? No, Hollywood jumped
on it almost immediately. In 1943, they released
the movie Destination Tokyo. Starring Cary Grant.
The biggest movie star in the world at the time.
There's a very specific scene in that movie where
a pharmacist's mate performs an appendectomy
on a submarine. It is directly, openly ripped
from Lifes' story. So Lipes is probably sitting
in a movie theater somewhere, watching Cary Grant's
movies, seeing his own life play out on the big
screen. And then there was radio. Cavalcade of
America. This was a hugely popular radio drama
series back then. They did an entire episode
called Pharmacist's Mate First Class. It aired
in May 1943 on the NBC Red Network. And the source
material mentions Lipes actually appeared on
that broadcast? He did. The actor Michael O'Shea
played the character based on him. But at the
very end of the drama, they brought the real
Wheeler Lifes onto the microphone to speak to
the audience. That is just surreal. He is technically
in the doghouse with the highest Navy brass,
but he is out doing celebrity guest spots on
national NBC radio. It perfectly shows the power
of public opinion. The public loved him unconditionally.
The Navy had to begrudgingly let the whole thing
slide. But they still didn't reward him. No,
they've dropped the court -martial talk, but
they absolutely refused to give him a medal or
an official commendation. They just ignored his
achievement entirely. They froze him out. No
recognition. No official well -done. Just total
bureaucratic silence. And yet, even years later,
the story just kept coming back around. In 1958,
there was a television show called The Silent
Service, which focused entirely on submarine
stories. They did an episode called Operation
Sea Dragon. Who played him in that one? Richard
Deacon. Wait, the tall, bald guy from the Dick
Van Dyke show? The very same actor. Before he
was famous for playing Mel Cooley, he was on
screen playing Wheeler Lipes. That is a hilarious
piece of trivia. So Lipes becomes this enduring
pop culture legend. But I want to pivot back
to the patient for a moment. Daryl Dean Rector.
Yes. This brings us to a really tragic twist
in the story. Lipes saves him in September 1942.
Rector recovers from the surgery. He goes back
to his duties. He was a very good sailor. He
continued to fight in the Pacific Theater. He
eventually transferred off the Sea Dragon to
another boat. The USS Tang, SS -306. And the
Tang is a very famous submarine in naval history.
It was the most successful American submarine
of the entire war, commanded by the legendary
Dick O 'Kane. It sank more enemy tonnage than
any other boat. But in October 1944, during a
nighttime surface attack in the Taiwan Strait...
What exactly happened? The Tang fired its very
last torpedo of the patrol. But the torpedo physically
malfunctioned upon leaving the tube. It did what
is called a circular run. Meaning it's steering
jammed. Yes. It turned completely around in the
water, came right back, and struck the Tang.
The sub sank itself with its own weapon. It happens.
It is a completely tragic mechanical failure.
The Tang went down very fast. Most of the crew
died in the explosion or drowned. Including Rector.
Including Daryl Dean Rector. So he died just
two years after the surgery. Almost exactly two
years later. You know, a cynic or maybe those
angry Navy brass might look at that and say,
well, see, it didn't even matter. He died anyway.
I strongly, strongly disagree with that perspective.
I do too. Life's bought that young man two full
years. Two years of life. Two years of seeing
the sun, writing letters to his family, joking
with his shipmates. And when he died, he died
a clean death in combat. Exactly. He didn't die
screaming in a tiny bunk, slowly drowning in
his own bodily infection. He died at his post,
serving his country. That matters immensely.
There's real dignity in that. I agree completely.
The surgery was absolutely worth the risk. It
unequivocally was. So let's follow Lakes' journey.
The war ends. Rector is gone. Lipes is this weird
celebrity who the Navy still formally refuses
to acknowledge. Does he just leave the service
out of frustration? No. And I think this speaks
volumes about his character. He loved the Navy.
He stayed in. Did he stay as an enlisted pharmacist's
mate? He advanced. He proved to the establishment
that he wasn't just a lucky one -hit wonder.
He was an incredibly competent, brilliant...
medical administrator. In 1951, he was officially
commissioned as an officer in the Medical Service
Corps. So he went from enlisted Doc Lipes to
Lieutenant Commander Lipes. He really did. He
served an entire full career until 1962. He saw
the Navy completely transition from those old
diesel boats to the modern nuclear power era.
And what did he do after he finally retired from
the military? He took all that administrative
experience and went into civilian hospital administration.
He eventually became the president of Memorial
Medical Center in Corpus Christi, Texas. He retired
from that in 1991. So the guy who started his
surgical career with bent spoons and a tea strainer
ended up running a major modern hospital. It
validates everything he did, doesn't it? It proves
he wasn't just some reckless kid breaking rules
for fun. He had a genuine, natural gift for medicine
and for leadership. The Navy was very lucky to
keep him. But there was still that glaring hole
in his service record. The missing medal for
the Sea Dragon Patrol. And that takes us to the
final chapter. Justice delayed. Why did it take
so long for them to finally make it right? We
are talking about decades here. It is the ultimate
example of bureaucratic inertia. Once a formal
decision is made at the top, meaning we are not
giving this man a medal, it takes a massive amount
of energy to reverse it. The personnel file just
gets dusty. The people originally involved retire
or they die. It just sits there. For over 60
years. 60 years. Life's lived its whole adult
life without it. He raised a family. He was married
to Myrtle Peterson, who sadly passed away in
1997. She never got to see him recognized by
his country. That is just heartbreaking. He later
remarried a woman named Audrey. But stories like
his, they don't really die. Historians kept writing
articles about the Sea Dragon. Submarine veterans
kept talking about it at reunions. And finally,
in the early 2000s, the pressure mounted. Someone
finally listened to reason. The Navy Secretary,
or the current powers that be, finally looked
at the historical record and said, This is ridiculous.
This man is a hero and we need to fix this. So
in 2005, February 2005, they held a special ceremony
at Camp Lejeune in North Carolina. What was the
scene like? Leaps is 84 years old at this point.
He is frail. He is in a wheelchair. He is surrounded
by his family and current sailors who look up
to his legacy. And the Navy finally gives him
the medal. They awarded him the Navy Commendation
Medal. It is not the Medal of Honor, but it is
a highly respected official recognition. The
citation specifically says it is for heroic achievement.
It must have felt like a massive weight lifting
off his shoulders after all those years. He gave
a very short speech. He was incredibly humble
about the whole thing. He basically told the
crowd, I just did what I had to do to save a
shipmate. But there is a very sad coda to this
timeline. The timing is tragic. Leaps was actively
dying during that ceremony. He had terminal pancreatic
cancer. So he knew this was the end of his life.
He died just two months after receiving the medal,
April 17, 2005. It's almost like he intentionally
held on just to see that wrong -righted. I really
think he did. He wanted that validation, not
for his own ego, but for the principle of the
thing, to have the institution finally admit
that what he did in that wardroom was right.
He is buried at Arlington National Cemetery,
isn't he? Yes. Section 64, resting among the
nation's greatest heroes, exactly where he belongs.
You know, we have spent a long time today talking
about the mechanics of submarines and improvised
spoons and medical bureaucracy. But when you
step back and look at the whole narrative, what
is the big takeaway here for you? For me, it
is entirely about the intense tension between
the rulebook and the real world. Can you unpack
that a bit? Well, the rulebook is there for a
very good reason. You don't want chaos in a military
unit. You don't want untrained people casually
doing surgery. The Navy was right in a broad
general sense to have those strict regulations
in place. Sure, you need structure. But the real
world is incredibly messy. The real world puts
you in extreme situations the rulebook simply
didn't anticipate. There is no page in the manual
for an appendix bursting at 300 feet depth with
enemy ships overhead and no doctor. So when the
manual fails, you have to write your own page.
Exactly. LAPES represents that vital spark of
human agency. The rare ability to look at a regular
soup spoon and see a life -saving medical retractor.
The ability to look at a simple tea strainer
and see an anesthesia mask. It's that ultimate
MacGyver spirit. It is. But beyond the cleverness,
It's about moral courage. It would have been
so incredibly easy for Lipes to just shrug and
say, sorry, Captain, not my job. The regulations
explicitly say I can't do it. And Richter would
have died. And Lipes would have been perfectly
safe from any disciplinary action. He wouldn't
have faced a court -martial. He would have just
followed orders perfectly. But he consciously
chose the hard path. He chose the human path.
He put his friend's life above his own career
safety. And here's the final provocative thought
I want to leave our listeners with today. Leipz
eventually got his medal. Right. But he got it
because he had a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist
writing about him. He had Cary Grant playing
him in a Hollywood blockbuster. He had massive
cultural visibility. But how many others didn't
have that? That is the truly haunting question.
How many sailors or soldiers or nurses or just
regular everyday people broke the rules to do
the morally right thing? But there was no reporter
there to capture it. And instead of becoming
heroes, they just got crushed by the bureaucracy.
How many personnel files are sitting in military
archives right now marked with insubordination
or dereliction of duty that are actually hidden
stories of incredible, desperate heroism that
we just don't understand? It really makes you
wonder. They say history is written by the victors,
but it's also clearly written by the rulemakers.
It certainly is. Wheeler Lipes managed to beat
the rulemakers, but it took him 63 years to do
it. Well, here is to Wheeler Doc. lives and here
is to looking at ordinary things differently
yes you will never look at a tablespoon the same
way again absolutely not well that wraps up our
deep dive for today it has been an incredible
journey through a piece of history I didn't know
much about it was a pleasure to walk through
the details with you to you listening thanks
for staying with us thanks for going deep into
the story keep Questioning the rules, keep looking
for the hidden tea strainers in your own life,
and we will catch you on the next Deep Dive.
Goodbye, everyone.