Tear In Time

by Petersen, Christopher David

  Beaming with anticipation, Dr. Weiss replied a simple, “Yes sir.” Moments later, the sound of moving tables could be heard from within the farmhouse.

  David quickly noted the vital signs of the two and directed the stretcher bearers to help him load the patients onto the operating tables. In minutes, David had cut away their pant legs and prepped their wounds, as Dr. Weiss scrubbed in for surgery with soap and sterilized water.

  Looking down at his patient, David noted his age: about sixteen years old. With straight brown hair and a gaunt-looking face, David deduced his emaciated state would be a factor in his survival, compared with the older, brawnier, blond-haired private lying to his left.

  “Doc, does it look bad?” asked the brown-haired private, his voice scared and weak.

  “You'll survive, private,” David replied as he continued his prep work, then added, “And with both your legs.”

  “Both my legs? Doc, you ain’t cuttin’ this one off?” he asked, pointing to the wounded limb in disbelief.

  “Not unless you want me to,” David replied, trying to bring levity to the tense and morose atmosphere.

  “Well HELL no, doc. Why would I wanna do that? Pardon my profanity,” he asked, not catching David's sarcasm.

  “He's only fooling you, Jimmy,” the blond-haired private cut in with a pained tone in his voice. “Besides, we need to get back there and whoop them Rebs.”

  “Are we still winning?” David asked.

  “I'd say we was. Tell ’em, Johnny,” replied Pvt. Jimmy proudly, as he tried not to show his agony.

  “The name’s John,” the blond-haired private corrected.

  “Sorry, John,” Pvt. Jimmy apologized, then turned to David and said, “He don't want to be called Johnny no more, on account of the closeness to Johnny Reb.”

  “You realized that Stonewall Jackson's middle name is Jonathan don't you?” David said, trying to bring stature to the name John.

  “An unfortunate coincidence is all,” Pvt. John replied respectfully.

  “You may not like him because he's the enemy, but you have to respect his military genius,” David offered.

  “Genius you say, doc? I don't see any genius today,” Pvt. John replied in a slight mocking tone.

  David thought for a moment. Suddenly, it dawned on him, “You don't mean...”

  “Oh yes, doc, I do mean Stonewall Jackson. We're whoopin’ him good today, I tell yuh,” Pvt. John said, cutting off David in mid-sentence. “He don't look much like a genius on the run. Looks more like a scared rat, if I dare say so.”

  David thought to himself for a moment. In his time period, Thomas Jonathan 'Stonewall' Jackson was regarded as great a president as George Washington. Effigies of his likeness were plastered everywhere, including the money in his pocket. He had often wondered what it would be like to go back in time and watch the historic figures in their times of greatness. He knew that he probably would not be able to observe him in battle, but he could see him vicariously through the eyes of the men Stonewall was responsible for wounding and David was responsible for treating.

  As David thought about the opportunity to witness history, he repeated under his breath, “President Stonewall Jackson, President Stonewall Jackson,” over and over as he internalized the significance of the discovery.

  “Sir, I believe you have his rank incorrect. He ain’t no president; he's a general,” Pvt. Jimmy offered.

  Startled by the realization that he was overheard, David quickly covered his knowledge of the future, “Sorry, boys. I'm kind of new to the army. You are absolutely correct. He is a general... and... you have him on the run. Amazing, boys, tell me more,” David asked, forgetting for a moment the serious condition of his patients.

  With an interested audience, the two young wounded men forget their injuries and pain for a moment and proudly related the details of their participation in the battle.

  “Well, to start, there sure are a whole lot of them Rebs: almost twice as many as us. Wouldn't you say so, John?” asked Pvt. Jimmy.

  “I'd say at least that much, Jimmy, but they ain’t as hard as we are. Even with twice as many as our boys, we still pushed them back across the field. Their artillery was scattered a bit, missing far behind us. Gen. Banks and Gen. Negley must have the best damned artillery in the whole of the Union, because they would fire on the Reb's front line, just ahead of us, pause as we pushed them back further, then fire on the front lines again as we moved up. Our boys had great timing and accuracy. I don't believe one of us was affected by any of that artillery," Pvt. John offered.

  "Wow, twice as many. That's got to be scary. How far away were they?" David asked.

  "Close enough to smell them filthy skunks," Pvt. Jimmy replied.

  As Pvt Jimmy answered the question, Pvt. John thought about it for a moment. Sensing something peculiar about the line of questions from the doctor, he became inquisitive.

  "Sir, pardon my insinuation, but have you been in battle before?" Pvt. John asked delicately, trying to avoid an act of insubordination.

  David realized immediately his questions gave away his lack of experience. Feeling a bit embarrassed, he replied honestly, "Well, private, to be honest, no I haven't. I arrived at the end of the battle of Chattanooga. Up until that time, I only read about war in a few books. Now that I'm here, I'm trying to educate myself in case I'm ever called upon to fight.”

  Pvt. John winced a bit as he suppressed his pain. Looking up at David, he smiled slightly and nodded, then turned to Pvt Jimmy and said, “They was close alright, close enough to feel the wrath of our bayonets. I must have stuck at least a dozen before they turned tail and ran.”

  In pain, Pvt. Jimmy nodded and laid his head down to relieve his discomfort, as Pvt. John continued.

  “For a while, I found a good location to fire from. It was a hollow in the middle of the field. I must have charged too hard ’cause I was out in front, about fifty paces or so before I knew what was happening. Well, those damn Rats took a fix on me and let the ball fly. I could hear the lead as it whizzed past my head a few times. I could see the discharge of smoke from the ends of their rifles up ahead of me and knew I was outnumbered, so I jumped down in that tiny hollow and began to pick them off one by one. They still had a fix on me ’cause I could see the eruptions of grass around me as their bullets cut into the ground,” Pvt John said, humor now gone from his face and replaced by intensity.

  He looked over at Pvt. Jimmy who was listening intently, then back to David. “So there I lay, waiting for the rest of the boys to show while I reloaded and fired my rifle. Looking down my sights, I could see bars on this one Rat. He being an officer and all, I decided to give him a proper burial. I figger’d his distance at about two hundred yards away, so I adjusted my sights for windage and his elevation, and released my hammer," Pvt. John said.

  "Did you kill this officer?" David asked, a little embarrassed by his morbid interest.

  "Well, sir, I had to wait a moment for the smoke to clear, but when it did, there he was, closer than ever and charging like he had a mess of hornets in his britches," Pvt. John replied.

  "What did you do?" David asked, now with even more curiosity.

  "I reloaded and fired again, but that dammed Rat was luckier than a cat with nine lives. I placed my sights at the center of his bright red shirt, and once again, I missed," Pvt. John said with disgust. "As I was reloading, an artillery round landed between me and them Rats. I held my fire until the smoke cleared and, sure enough, there he was, that damned red shirted skunk STILL charging forward. The artillery round killed some of the boys around him but missed him."

  "That's incredible. Did anybody stop him?" David asked anxiously.

  "Funny thing happened just then. As I lined up on him one more time, I heard the roar of a rifle above my head. Damn near scared the tar out of me," Pvt. John said as he clutched his heart for a moment. "I rolled over to fire at the loud noise, purely out of instinct, I assure you, and saw Patrick Fuller smiling at me,
and behind him was the rest of our boys. While I was fiddling with that Reb, they must have snuck up behind me. Patrick then said to me 'I figger’d you was needin’ help'."

  Pvt. John scratched the top of his head in thought and continued, "In any case, I smiled back at Patrick, then looked to see about that damned Reb. There he was, face down in the grass: ole Patrick gave him a good whoopin’ all right."

  Pvt. John looked solemnly down at his wounded leg. He bit his lower lip as he held back his emotion. All expression left his face as he looked back into David's eyes.

  "John, what's wrong? Are you ok?" David asked, sensing the young private’s emotional pain.

  "While I was looking at that dead Reb officer, blood splattered across my hands like I had the smallpox or something. When I looked over my shoulder, there on the ground behind me was poor ole Patrick. Those damned Rebs shot a big ole hole in the side of his head, spattering his blood all over me," Pvt. John said, in obvious emotional pain.

  In shock, David exclaimed, "Oh my god, that's horrible. The poor guy." He placed his hand on Pvt. John's arm and said with deep sympathy, "John, I'm sorry."

  "Thank you, sir, but those damned Rebs was sorrier that old Patrick after I got done with them," Pvt. John said, now seething with anger and vengeance. "I stood up and charged them sons-a-bitches with both my rifle and Patrick's, pardon my profanity."

  As David nodded, Pvt John continued, "The other boys must have been just as riled as I was, ’cause they charged them Rebs too. I cut down a few of them rats when they was only a few feet away from me. We all then used our bayonets and rifle butts to take care of business, seeing how Johnny Reb was mixing with us all general now."

  "Hand to hand combat? Oh my God. You must have been scared out of your mind," David said, openly showing his own fear.

  Pvt John shook his head as he replied, "Scared? I was madder than an angry hornet with two stingers. We gave them a good whooping for what they done to Patrick: at least, I did. Pretty soon, them Rebs turned and ran like the cowards they was, only we didn't let them get away."

  "You kept chasing them?" David asked.

  "Uh huh. We chased them for a short stretch, then stopped and fired," Pvt. John replied proudly.

  For a moment, there was silence. Suddenly, David realized this was the moment in the battle that Pvt. John had been wounded, his pride preventing him from ending the tail negatively.

  "John, was that when you were wounded?" David asked delicately.

  "Sorry, sir. I tried to fight with a bad leg, but I couldn't stand no more. I did fire on them while I was on the ground, but then the stretcher boys arrived and pulled me off the field," Pvt John replied apologetically.

  "John, you've done a remarkable job. You don't have to apologize to anyone," David said with determination. "If anyone deserves a medal, you would be the first in line."

  Smiling through his pain, Pvt. John replied, "Sir, my leg. It hurts something terrible. You can save it, can't you?"

  "If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to save this leg," David said boldly, his emotions getting the best of him.

  Pvt. John laid his head down and closed his eyes as he listened to the distant sounds of war. Moments later, Dr. Weiss administered chloroform to both patients until they bravely drifted off into unconsciousness. David then began the difficult operation to save the proud private’s leg. After sterilizing and cleaning the severely damaged thigh with alcohol, he reached into the pot of boiling water and retrieved his scalpel. Working quickly, he began to restructure the remaining muscle, cutting away the mangled tissue, while saving as much of the thigh as possible. Satisfied with the results, he began the arduous task of reconnecting veins, arteries and ligaments, as well as suturing together muscle and the various layers of skin.

  As he worked, Dr. Weiss listened and watched in astonishment as David explained the complicated techniques on Pvt. John’s badly wounded thigh. Adding to the complexity of his task, step by step David patiently mentored Dr. Weiss in the delicate, yet simpler procedure to save Pvt. Jimmy’s leg. Quickly and efficiently, the two operated while racing against the clock, before the effects of the chloroform wore off.

  Nearly complete, David craned his head toward the window as he heard the far-off sounds of galloping horses. The violence of the battle became more evident as he noticed not one, but three ambulances hurrying to the front of the farmhouse. He quickly instructed Dr. Weiss in the proper form of bandaging wounds, taking care to emphasize the importance of not infecting the wounds as he worked, then ran out to meet the arriving wounded soldiers.

  David quickly assessed the men and separated the most severely wounded from those who held the greatest chance of recovery; a common practice for that time period. For a brief moment, he reflected on this practice, and how in his time period, conversely, modern medicine allowed for the most severely wounded to be treated first, thereby saving a much greater number of injured. David realized sadly that the men he singled out as severely wounded were, in effect, given a death sentence. Without the time or resources, there was practically nothing he could do to save them.

  With the wounded piling up on the front porch, he quickly directed Dr. Rogers to join he and Dr. Weiss in the main room, hoping to create an assembly line type of operating atmosphere, where Dr. Rogers would sterilize and prep the wounds, David would perform the main operation, and Dr. Weiss would close and bandage the wounds. With both doctors working on either side of him, he felt he could mentor and operate at the same time. David theorized that the rate of treating the wounded would be only slightly slower than if they all worked independently, but the quality of treatment would be far superior overall, with the added benefit that he could train both doctors at the same time. He hoped that within a short time, with what limited knowledge they had of anatomy and medicine, he could teach them the skills to treat specific wounds.

  As the hours ticked by and the wounded flooded the front porch and surrounding grounds, the three-man team began to work quickly and efficiently. Patience and practice were paying off. The numbers of wounded were not yet decreasing, but they were not increasing either. David’s plan had stemmed the tide of the overflow and had retrained two new doctors.

  Through their pain and anguish, the wounded proudly related the progress of the battle. With each report, the three doctors felt relief and exhilaration that the north was winning the battle, and the poor dead and wounded had not suffered in vain. With morale high, spirited cheers could be heard above the groans of the men as they boasted of bravery and nerve.

  While observing the doctors in action, Pvt. Albert Sullivan sat in the corner of the makeshift operating room and waited his turn in the surgical assembly line. He watched in silence as Dr. Rogers administered chloroform to his patient and began the bloody task of cleaning and prepping the wound. As he worked, Dr. Rogers began to sense the eyes of Pvt. Albert.

  "Where are you wounded, private?" Dr. Rogers asked, turning to the Pvt. Albert for a moment.

  "It's my arm, sir," Pvt. Albert replied, wincing as he slowly raised his right arm. "Damn Rebs overran our lines. Got me through the meat, just below the elbow."

  "Doesn't look too bad, private. We can have that off in a minute," Dr. Rogers replied callously.

  Pvt. Albert nodded grimly as he resigned himself to his fate. With tears welling up in his eyes, he rubbed his wounded arm, not from pain but more a symbolic gesture - Pvt. Albert was quietly saying goodbye to his arm.

  Overhearing the brief exchange on his right between Dr. Rogers and Pvt Sullivan, David glanced back at the sorrowful private as he clutched his wounded limb.

  "What's your name, private?" David asked sympathetically.

  "Albert Sullivan, sir," Pvt. Albert replied, quickly swallowing his emotions in pride.

  "If you're able, could you come around to the front of my table?" David asked, pointing out in front of him.

  Pvt. Albert stood and slowly walked to the front of David's makeshift operating table as directed, ho
lding his wounded arm delicately as he moved. As he neared, David glanced at his open wound while he operated on the leg of his patient.

  "Would you mind holding up your arm so I can see it?" David asked, still working diligently to save the limb of his current patient.

  Holding up his arm, David glanced at it quickly and asked the young private to rotate the limb so he could get a better look. David stopped what he was doing for a moment, and smiled at young Pvt. Albert.

  "How old are you, private?" David asked.

  "I'll turn seventeen next month, sir," Pvt. Albert replied.

  "Well, I know your arm looks bad, private, but I'm quite certain we can save it," David said with an encouraging smile.

  "Sir, are you sure? That's an awfully large hole. I'm worried he'll have gangrene by nightfall," Dr. Rogers asked, stopping for a moment.