The Not-So-Boring Letters of Private Nobody

by Matthew Landis

  “You take Korean?” Oliver asked.

  “Tuesday nights.”

  Ella chewed on a nail. “At least you don’t have satellite parents. And I don’t mean NASA satellites that are always communicating with earth; I mean like the moon. Just a rock way out in space that sometimes you can’t even see.”

  Oliver felt that weird tension fill the room again.

  “Right—which is why you’re tanking school,” Kevin said. “I’m gonna be real with you, Ella: That whole thing confuses me. What’s the endgame? Please tell me it doesn’t end with you hitchhiking to California, because I saw this thing on TV about hitchhiking and it looked pretty dangerous.”

  Oliver made a dude—seriously? face.

  “Oh, sorry,” Kevin backtracked. “Not my biz—not my biz.”

  Ella reached for a Cheez-It. “I’m sending a message.”

  “What message?” Oliver asked.

  “That I’m mad at them.”

  “Can’t you just tell them?”

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  She looked at him like that was the dumbest question she’d ever been asked. “I shouldn’t have to. They should just know—they’re adults. They’re smart enough to make tons of money, which they use to buy tons of stupid things, which they barely enjoy because they’re too busy working.”

  Oliver let that sit for a few seconds. “It’s a pretty serious message.”

  “It’s a pretty serious thing.”

  Oliver pretended to be really into the drawing on the front of his Capri Sun.

  “Does any of this have to do with . . . ya know,” Kevin said. “. . . the hair . . . and . . . all that?”

  An elephant of secondhand embarrassment sat on Oliver’s chest; he couldn’t move or breathe. He could only dread Ella’s reaction.

  Her flat stare morphed into a smirk. She tucked a strand of greasy hair behind her ear.

  “Genius,” Kevin said. “Stick it to ’em.”

  Oliver wasn’t really clear on why Ella wouldn’t just tell her parents what the heck was going on, but he didn’t want to stick his nose in this mess. He just nodded and said, “Yeah. The man. Get him.”

  “That’s the plan,” Ella said.

  —CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE—

  THE SUBSTITUTE

  “Hey,” Oliver said to Hal.

  Hal waved. Or maybe he was just putting more M&M’s into his mouth. It was hard to tell. Oliver waved back anyway.

  It was Wednesday and he didn’t really have to be at the historical society. He wanted to be there. He wanted to figure out what that contract was. He needed to figure out why Stone enlisted in a regiment he shouldn’t have.

  “None of this makes sense,” he said.

  Hal spun around slowly in his chair.

  “Sorry,” Oliver said. “Just thinking aloud.”

  Hal downed some more M&M’s.

  Oliver opened up his mom’s giant laptop from a time before laptops were a thing and reviewed his progress.

  Why did Stone join the 68th?

  Theory #3: ???????

  Find that contract thing

  Oliver got the box of Stone documents off the shelf and began leafing through the binder.

  And the first thing he found was two more letters from that H. Weller guy.

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  May 13, 1863

  Mr. Stone,

  I pray my letter comes after Raymond’s, so that he has the pleasure of sharing that our Lord has kept him safe from the carnage at Chancellorsville. If not, know that I have it on good authority that the 68th did not arrive in time to be tossed into the fray of battle. Raymond is alive, as I pray he stays.

  Your humble servant,

  H. Weller

  “Why is this guy so worried about you dying?” Oliver asked Stone quietly.

  Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

  July 18, 1863

  Mr. Stone,

  It was with great sadness that I received your letter regarding the passing of Raymond at Gettysburg. My heart is grieved far more than I dare say to you, his father, for your loss is beyond comparison. But as the man whose place he took in battle, I must say that I am deeply sorry for your loss.

  I shall make arrangements to travel north Friday next to deliver the funds contracted between Raymond and myself.

  Your humble servant,

  H. Weller

  But as the man whose place he took in battle . . .

  Oliver leaned in until the screen was an inch from his face. He was back in the secret cave again, way way up on the mountain. Except instead of a dead end, Oliver could see the outline of a hidden door.

  “A substitute,” he said. “Holy crap.”

  Oliver clapped his hands together in a loud smack.

  “You were a substitute for H. Weller. That’s why you enlisted down in Philly—because he was from Philly. And the contract—he must have owed you money, but since you’re dead it went to your family.”

  Hal turned around, glaring.

  “Sorry,” Oliver said. “Just uh, I figured out that thing I asked you about last week—why Stone enlisted in Philadelphia instead of his hometown. He did it because some rich guy named H. Weller got picked in the draft, and hired Stone to fight in his place.”

  Hal opened another packet of M&M’s.

  Then he said, “No.”

  “What?” Oliver said.

  “The draft was in 1863. Private Raymond Stone enlisted in 1862.”

  Oliver blinked. “Oh. Right. I knew that.”

  Hal raised his eyebrows and spun back around.

  Oliver stared at the letters. This didn’t make sense. H. Weller literally said Stone took his place in battle, and there was all this talk about funds and a contract.

  What.

  The crap.

  Oliver smelled chocolate. He looked up.

  “Jeez.”

  Hal was standing right behind him.

  “Have to lock up in ten minutes,” Hal said.

  “Okay. Let me uh, just text my mom and I’ll put everything back.”

  Hal waddled to the back offices and Oliver stared at his progress. Or lack thereof. He knew H. Weller had paid Stone to fight in his place—which totally knocked Stone down another notch in Oliver’s mind, if that was possible, because real soldiers fight for country, not cash. But he still didn’t understand how that substitution fit into the real history of the Civil War. It was like somebody had cheated and gotten away with something.

  “I’m going to figure this out,” he told Stone, updating his research record. “Because no matter what Ella says, it’s important. Details always are.”

  Theory #3: Stone enlisted in the 68th as a substitute for some guy named H. Weller.

  How to prove:

  Find more letters from H. WellerFigure out who H. Weller was

  —CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO—

  SAWBONES

  “Ewww.” Samantha wrinkled her face and looked away as Mr. Carrow buzzed into the room. “Why are you covered in blood?”

  “Excellent question,” Mr. Carrow said. “A related question might be: Why am I carrying a ten-inch bone saw—also covered in blood?” He swung the tool by Max’s head and the kid ducked. “And what are all these bloody tools on the table? And this chest full of weird medical vials?”

  “You’re a Civil War surgeon,” Oliver almost shouted.

  “For that correct answer, I will not amputate your leg,” Mr. Carrow said. “Let’s go, people: Join me around the center table.”

  Oliver wormed his way next to Ella. “This is gonna be awesome. Let’s get closer.”

  She didn’t budge. “Is he allowed to even do this?”

  “He’s not going to actually amputate someone’s leg.”
r />   “Still.”

  “Do you get queasy?”

  “A little.”

  “Okay. We can stay back here.”

  “Gang, Civil War surgeons get a bad rep,” Mr. Carrow said. “‘Sawbones’ or ‘Butcher’ were common nicknames for doctors like me who had to navigate the carnage of the battlefield. Based on my appearance, you could say that’s fair. But remember this: The Germ Theory wasn’t an accepted thing in 1861. Considering the technology they had, and the number of men these doctors had to work on, you could actually say that Civil War surgeons were pretty advanced.” He set down the saw and wiped his hands on the bloody apron. “I need a volunteer.”

  A bunch of hands shot up, and Mr. Carrow picked Ian. “Lie down here; head at this end, feet down there.”

  Ian’s head rested right near Samantha. “If I die,” he said, “you can have all my stuff.”

  She giggled.

  “The bad news, Ian, is that you’ve been shot in the leg,” Mr. Carrow said. “Because of the giant, soft lead Minié balls fired from these new rifles, your shinbone has fragmented and sent shards up into your knee, along with bits of your super-dirty trousers.” Mr. Carrow leaned down real close to Ian. “I can’t save your knee; but I’m going to try and save your life.”

  “Mommy,” Ian whined. The class snickered—except for Ella. Oliver noticed her face had absolutely zero color.

  “The good news is that I’m a Union surgeon, which means I’ve got better supplies than my Confederate counterparts.” Mr. Carrow opened the wooden chest and took out a vial and cloth. “Ether was the most common form of anesthesia; ‘biting the bullet’ to endure the pain wasn’t really a thing. Doctors would douse the cloth like this,” he said, soaking the rag and placing it over Ian’s mouth, “and the patient would inhale until he passed out.”

  Ian went slack.

  “It’s just water, people,” Mr. Carrow said. More laughs. “Now that he’s under, I need to prep the leg.” He wrapped what looked like a thick leather bracelet around Ian’s thigh and turned a crank knob until it got tight.

  “He’s cutting off blood to the wound,” Oliver told Ella.

  She wasn’t looking. “Uh-huh.”

  “If you actually can’t feel your leg anymore, say something,” Mr. Carrow told Ian.

  Ian saluted.

  “Notice how I’m not washing my hands,” Mr. Carrow said, rinsing the tools in a murky basin of water. “I’ve done a dozen surgeries already and will do a dozen more. Speed is the goal: The longer I take with Ian, the sooner another wounded soldier might die.” He grabbed a pair of large hooknose pliers and began digging around on Ian’s knee. “I’ll pick out any bone fragments and pieces of cloth—the bullet if I’m lucky—before making my mark for amputation. Max, hand me that scalpel. I need to cut a flap of skin on both sides to wrap around the bone after I cut off the leg.”

  Half the class wailed at that. Ella scooched back, totally out of the group.

  “Are you okay?” Oliver asked.

  Her face was on its way to green. “Fine.”

  He got her a chair and she sat. “You want to get a drink or something?”

  “It’s okay, I’m fine. Go watch.”

  “I can see from here.” Oliver stood on a chair.

  “I’m cutting through the skin,” Mr. Carrow said, “and when I reach the bone it’s time to get down to business.” He grabbed the saw. “An experienced surgeon would hack off a limb in about ten minutes. I’m not saying it was pretty, but it was efficient. Ian, pray that I gave you enough ether. Also, you might want to just generally pray. Survival rate is about fifty-fifty at this point.”

  Ian moaned.

  Mr. Carrow did one pass with the saw and the room erupted in terror; Oliver could see he was grinding the saw against a piece of wood, but it sounded like it was actually cutting through bone.

  “This is awesome,” Oliver said.

  Ella put her head on the table.

  “Hey.” Oliver jumped off the chair. “I’m going to tell him you’re feeling sick.”

  “No. It’s fine.”

  “And because I’m in a rush,” Mr. Carrow yelled over the groans, “I’m just going to toss this leg into a pile of other legs underneath the table. Clunk. Bye-bye leg. Oh no—it rolled off the pile of legs. Tara, pick up Ian’s leg, would you?”

  “Let’s at least ask to go in the hall,” Oliver said.

  Ella squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m kind of dizzy. I’ll just wait.”

  “Now, before I sew up the wound, I’ve got to file down the bone so it doesn’t poke through the skin,” Mr. Carrow said. He took a file and rubbed it against the wood fragment. More squeals. “Max, hand me that needle. Okay. The trick is to grab the flaps of skin, take my needle and silk—or in the Confederate Army, boiled horsehair—and stitch it shut. Later in the war surgeons figured out that bromine, a very caustic chemical, killed the bacteria that caused gangrene, so I’d sprinkle some of that on the leg too.”

  Ella let out a soft moan.

  “That’s it,” Oliver said. “I’m telling him—”

  The unmistakable sound of someone puking their guts cut through the noisy room.

  Max, the surgical assistant, had just vomited all over Ian.

  “AHHHHH,” Ian shrieked. “AHHHHHHHHHH!”

  The room went insane. Another student gagged; more screaming. Mr. Carrow ran to the storage cabinet for paper towels and started giving directions.

  “Ian—help Max to the bathroom.”

  “HE JUST PUKED ON ME—”

  “I know, and that’s insanely gross, but you’ll survive. Walk him to the bathroom, clean him up, and then take him to the nurse.”

  Ian looked down at his puke-covered shirt. He looked up at Samantha, who backed away.

  “Listen up, gang,” Mr. Carrow shouted. “We’re going to get some air in the courtyard while I call the janitor. If you feel sick, tell somebody, and have them walk next to you. Last thing we need is a concussion from one of you keeling over.”

  “Can you walk?” Oliver asked Ella.

  “I think so.”

  “Stay here for a second; I’ll grab our stuff.”

  Oliver scampered through the exiting crowd to Ella’s desk and grabbed her binder. His was by the door, so he figured he could get it on the way out. He’d carry both binders in one arm, to keep the other free in case—

  From across the room he saw Ella stand up. She swayed like a ship finding balance on the other side of a giant swell. She righted herself for a second, but then another wave came.

  She was going down.

  Oliver moved faster than he’d ever moved in his life. It was like a movie—everything slowed down. Dropping his binder, he leaped over a chair and shoved past the crowd. Ella was falling fast—too fast for him to stop her.

  He’d have to break the fall.

  Sliding to his knees, Oliver aimed for a spot and stretched out his arms.

  —CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE—

  KEVIN SPEAKS (ABOUT THE PROBLEMS OF DATING PEOPLE YOU WORK WITH)

  “I’m going to have a talk with Mr. Carrow after school,” Mrs. Bilker said. “You’re the third one today. Keep drinking.”

  Ella shifted up a little on the cot and took another sip from the bottle. Oliver thought she looked better, but still pale.

  “And you’re sure she didn’t hit her head?” Mrs. Bilker asked Oliver.

  “Nope.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Positive.”

  “Because concussions are very serious.”

  “Ollie caught her,” said Max from two cots down. He looked better too—less barfy. “Like in the movies. It was pretty awesome.”

  “Caught her?”

  Max put his arms out like a cradle.

  “Good for you, Oliver. Saved Ella som
e potential brain damage and me a week of paperwork.”

  “Friends don’t let friends crack their heads open on school grounds, I guess,” Ella said.

  Oliver’s face burned like a wildfire, but his chest swelled with pride. He’d done something truly awesome—truly heroic.

  So why was he nervous?

  The nurse’s office door swung open and Kevin scuttled in. “Good afternoon, Nurse Bilker.”

  “Like I’ve told you before, Kevin, Mrs. Bilker is fine. The ‘nurse’ is implied.”

  “I consider it a sign of respect to address you by your official title.” He looked around to survey the wounded. “Some crazy stories are flying around the cafeteria. Did Max really barf on Ian?”

  “Affirmative,” Max mumbled.

  “And Ollie dove across a table to keep Ella from dying?”

  “I didn’t dive across a table.”

  “But he jumped over a chair.” Max grimaced and rubbed his stomach. “S’mores Pop-Tarts are kind of ruined for me now.”

  “I think you might have ruined them for some other people too,” Mrs. Bilker said. The phone rang and she picked up. “Nurse’s office. . . . Okay. Thanks, I’ll walk him down.” She hung up. “Your mom’s here, Max.”

  “S’mores was the best flavor.” Max grunted as he shouldered his bag. Oliver smelled a little bit of barf as he walked by. “See ya, guys.”

  “See ya.”

  Kevin plopped onto the rolling stool and wheeled over to Ella’s cot. “It’s pretty cool—this whole saving thing.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Kevin held up a hand. “It’s pretty cool. I’m just warning you: Romance can railroad a group project pretty fast. Lots of emotional carnage.”

  “Uh.” Oliver tried to play it cool and leaned against Mrs. Bilker’s desk. “What?”