The War Diet Squad

Abstract

World War I ended 100 years ago this year. As we remember this historic event, the poem below reminds us of some of the sacrifices that people on the home front made to further our understanding of the long-term effects of a restricted diet that would be one result of the war in Europe. These experiments performed by Francis Gano Benedict and his colleagues ((1)) as well as this poem about them give us a moment to be thankful for the volunteers who make metabolic research like this, and like the Minnesota Experiment 30 years later ((2)), possible; for the investigators who conduct these important studies; and for the people who have the wisdom to fund them. The poem below was found when examining my collection of books dealing with the work of Atwater and Benedict. Lying loose inside the front cover of one book was the poem that I transcribed below. It was on a piece of carbon paper folded in thirds and a bit browned after 100 years in this volume. After transcription, the poem was returned to the book from which it came. Elected to the diet squad They have us on the mat, For with unholy ecstasy They sacrifice our fat. Though volunteers we surely were We met our surprise With every kind of instrument That science could devise. No beauty sleep for us again We break our morning rest With rubber hose beneath our nose And chains across our chest Our pulse is taken as we sat Our weight recorded every morn, Our photograph taken twice In all the raiment we were born. The “Foxey” man devised our food While Emmes the bran alone Dr. Roth is over both And is our chaperon. Now Benedict comes in from town To keep us all in trim, The man has never yet been born That puts one over him. With differential calculus They estimate our pie, So when the light falls on it right We see with one eye. Pedometers now register How many miles we go, Prof. Miles and Cupid Hills Determine what we know. With mechanisms intricate They test our ears and eyes, One can’t make good on all of them No matter how he tries. Prof. Johnson has the last device A most ingenious plan. A stationary bicycle To help break down a man. Doc Goodall has a nifty touch With stunning perspicacity Determines where each organ lays And its exact capacity. He “mauls”, massages, and tickles us And marks how we grow thinner Can even feel and then reveal The bran we had for dinner. We now expend our odd week ends In a most distinguished town For churls and girls and brains and beans Has won a large renown. Hermetically sealed within A very real sarcophagus Without a peep, we sweetly sleep With angels watching over us. Emaciated, hollow, thin, We simply are a sight You never saw a billy-goat With such an appetite Miss Hendry is an antidote A joy, a glad surprise The one bright ray across the gloom A feast for all our eyes. All this fuss and this expense Is done to find the limit To which they can reduce our skin And keep our bones within it. R.W. Peckham October 27, 1917