Even before the first of the constantly growing streams of wounded began to trickle home from France, it was recognized by the Medical Department that a system must be devised and put into operation whereby these men, instead of being mended and turned loose to shift for themselves as best they could, must be carried along, receiving treatment and pay, until they had attained the maximum degree of physical and functional restoration. For a quarter of a century after the close of the Civil War the streets of American cities were filled with disabled men who eked out their scanty pensions by selling shoe-laces, pencils, novelties, or by begging, because no intelligent measures had been taken to refit them for their former occupations or to fit them for new ones. It was determined that this condition must not occur again. The plan for physical reconstruction of the soldiers, as ultimately adopted, was simple, direct, and effective. It involved primarily the establishment of an administrative organization known as the Division of Physical Reconstruction, divided into departments of physiotherapy and education. Certain subdepartments were also made necessary by the special requirements of those soldiers who had lost their speech, their hearing, or their sight. The sympathy and interest aroused by this work throughout the country quickly drew into it as officers or advisers many men eminent in those walks of life which best fitted them for the exacting duties demanded by this service. The work of physical reconstruction has been eminently successful in its effect upon the disabled soldier, bringing him to a realization that, however great and disheartening his impairment, he might hope for usefulness, happiness, and self-support in the future, and in many cases leading to the adoption of a new and better vocation and a better standing in life. I knew one man who had had both legs blown off by a shell at Château-Thierry. He was a young, fine-looking, exceptionally intelligent fellow, but, with the prospect of spending the rest of his days in a wheel-chair staring him in the face, he had sunk to the depths of misery and discouragement. But one day one of the experts of the reconstruction service sat down beside his bed, offered him a cigarette, and started a conversation. “What did you do before you went into the army?” the reconstructionist inquired. “I was a carpenter,” the man answered. “Made good money, too. But I guess the only thing I’ll be good for in the future will be peddling shoe-laces,” he added bitterly. “No one wants a legless man.” “Ever have any other occupation?” “No. I always wanted to be an architect, but my people didn’t have the money to send me to college, so I went to work after I finished high school.” “Would you like to take up architecture now if you could get the training?” the reconstruction expert asked.