The Surgeon: A Civil War Story

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  * * *

  Not long after sunup, Abbey reported to the medical tent.

  Dr. Fellows and the medical helper staff gathered there.

  The chief surgeon addressed her. “While I’ll have you out of here shortly, help with camp disease for now. Treat that line of men queued up in front of the small desk and chair. I’ve assigned three assistants.”

  Abbey examined a large abrasion on a soldier’s lower leg. “Sgt. Scharf. Please clean this. He’ll need a couple stitches.”

  The tall man washed dirt from the area then dried it. “I’ve spent many hours in my grandfather’s tailor shop so I have experience sewing cloth; if that would be useful.”

  “Which is not the same as suturing,” Abbey said while closing the man’s laceration.

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  Abbey examined a man’s dislocated shoulder. “If we need you to acquire that skill, we’ll setup an arrangement with the cooks.”

  “Cooks?” the sergeant asked.

  She put a fist into the soldier’s armpit then pulled out and down.

  “Ouch,” the man yelled then smiled as he flexed his hand and arm. “Thanks, doc.”

  “Don’t put excessive strain on your shoulder for the next two-weeks and you’ll be fine.”

  Abbey turned to Sgt. Scharf. “Cooks will give you cuts of meat which I can use to simulate the work you may be asked to perform. I learned suturing from that plus joining cooked pasta. They’ll be useful until you’re proficient.”

  In an angry voice, Dr. Fellows shouted, “I’ll decide what training he gets. Enough chit-chat. Concentrate on your patients.”

  Abbey cared for a stream of non-battle injuries ranging from boils, which she lanced and bandaged, to splinting and setting a fractured tibia which resulted from a mule’s kick, plus minor scrapes, rashes and cuts.

  “These are soldiers,” Dr. Fellows growled. “Not delicate flowers. You have to work faster. They don’t need a delicate touch and you have many more in line.”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Abbey said while wondering why the major wasn’t treating some of the men himself…although he appeared to have difficulty standing straight.

  The chief surgeon leaned over to examine the wound Abbey was about to treat. He belched.

  The scent of cheap bourbon assaulted Abbey’s nose. “This early and he’s been drinking?” she thought.

  A deep rasping cough emanating from one of the men in the middle of the line caught her attention.

  “Come up here,” she called to him.

  The watery-eyed sergeant approached, then coughed into a bloody rag while holding an arm against his chest.

  “How long have you been coughing?” Abbey asked. “Over three-weeks, Ma’am.”

  “Coughing up blood?”

  “About four-days.”

  “Night sweats?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “Chest pain?”

  “Terrible when I cough.”

  She turned to Dr. Fellows. “Tuberculosis.”

  In a voice loaded with sarcasm, the chief surgeon said, “Of course it is.” His voice changed to one of sympathy and, putting his hand on the man’s shoulder, he nodded to Lt. Smith. “Follow this man, Sergeant. You’re going to the recovery hospital and he’ll arrange transportation.”

  The soldier hacked loudly and spit blood into the rag.

  “How soon can I return to my men?”

  “When your cough is gone and your lungs have healed. Recovery will take some weeks.”

  The man’s eye’s pleaded with the chief surgeon and his assistant. “Just give me something so I can get back with my men.”

  “If you don’t let us cure you, you’ll die of bleeding lungs.”

  “Major,” he pleaded, “I’m a squad leader and some of my men are new to combat. I have to train them before we hit the shit again.”

  “Someone else will have to do the training. You need rest in order to heal so you will proceed to the recovery hospital. That is a direct order Sergeant.”

  The man said, “Yes Sir,” straightened and respectfully saluted the major who returned his salute. As he walked away, his shoulders slumped and he hung his head.

  The chief surgeon turned to Abbey. His sarcastic tone and sneering facial expression returned. “Why are you watching me? Keep working.”

  Abbey did her best to suppress the anger she felt. She splinted, with Sgt. Scharf’s assistance, a man’s wrist.

  “Keep in mind,” Dr. Fellows lectured, “the men feel a tremendous responsibility to return to the men they serve with. Sometimes against medical advice.”

  “Next,” Abbey shouted.

  “Tried to break up a knife fight, Doc,” A short burley man said. He held a rag up to his lower right-side jaw. “Won’t stop bleeding.”

  Abbey put nine stiches along his jaw line.

  The chief surgeon peered at her over the tops of his glasses. “Miss Kaplan, you mentioned an interest in mental state. Why?”

  “A classmate from college committed suicide without any outward signs she was troubled. We believe she was upset by her inability to keep up with the workload and her grades were barely adequate.”

  Dr. Fellows grinned and turned to the men around him. “You see? A woman kills herself because she has poor grades. A perfect example of and surely the result of, over stimulation.”

  Abbey added, “Her main goal in life was community medicine. I believe that’s laudable.”

  He snorted. “She tried to compete in a profession which requires a man. No surprise it led to suicide.”

  “I believe the reason was more complex.”

  “Teach you that in school, did they? This is the real world, Miss Kaplan. Strong men with strong minds don’t commit suicide. It’s that simple.” He chortled. “Keep going, Miss Kaplan. You’re on your own. I’ll be talking to some of the senior officers at the west end of the camp if you require my assistance.”

  Anger swelled in Abbey. “I would appreciate being referred to as Doctor Kaplan.”

  He didn’t reply immediately but said, “Of course…” Dr. Fellows hesitated as if her title and name were stuck in his throat then rapidly turned and walked away.

  “Problem?” Abbey inquired of the next soldier in line.

  “I ripped open my arm.” The man held a cloth over his bicep. He lifted the cloth.

  “Sit on this bench and don’t move. I’ll have to close this with sutures.”

  “Go ahead. Ah…what kinda’ name is Kaplan.”

  “A Jewish name. I’m sorry but this will be painful.”

  He grinned. “Not as painful as being treated by a woman.” The other soldiers in line snickered so he added, “Is we so worthless, all they can find is some Jew-lady to treat us?”

  Abbey felt a tear form in her eye which she quickly wiped away with her shoulder. She regarded the man’s sarcastic grin. Her sadness quickly turned to anger. “Private, I strongly urge you not to move—and that includes talking—or I might have no choice but to let you bleed to death.”

  The soldier gritted his teeth and stared to the side away from the wound but didn’t move while she sutured the laceration. Sgt. Scharf applied a bandage.

  A lieutenant approached Dr. Kaplan.

  “How may I help?” Abbey asked.

  “Boil on my ass. Burns like hell if I try to sit.”

  She moved to the chair. “Please turn around and drop your britches.”

  “You’re a lady. I can’t just expose myself in front of you. How about the other doctor?”

  “I’m not a lady. I’m a doctor and unless I treat this today, your infection will worsen.”

  “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  In an angry tone, she said, “Who do you think will be here tomorrow? Turn around and drop your britches.”

  The officer’s face reddened while he stared daggers at Abbey. “What is this shit? Treated by a damn woman? And I damn sure…I ain’t takin’ orders…from some…goddamned, cow-tits, Jew-doctor!�
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  Out of the corner of her eye, she noted some of her helpers grinning. Abbey unfolded to her full six-foot height. She slammed a fist into the lieutenant’s jaw. He spun around and pitched onto his belly then moaned. She loosened his suspenders, jerked his britches down, lanced the boil then yelled to her helpers, “Bandage that and get him out of my sight.”

  “Yes Doctor,” the suddenly serious-faced helpers said in unison while quickly moving to comply.

  She yelled, “Next.”

  The next man turned to leave.

  Abbey was dumb-struck but Sgt. Scharf wasn’t. In his deep voice, the big man thundered, “When your limp worsens, and it will, we’ll meet again when your leg requires amputation.” The soldier stopped walking. “Get the fuck over here, Corporal!”

  The soldier turned to the sergeant and shouted, “Yes Sergeant.” He quickly returned, spun around and pulled up one leg of his britches, mumbling, “Ain’t this some shit.”

  A few quick motions, a bandage and Abbey yelled, “Next.”

  Sgt. Scharf commented to Abbey. “Your sutures are neat and equidistant.”

  She shrugged. “I’ve been practicing since childhood…but apparently I’m too slow.”

  “Everyone is at first. Your speed will improve with repetition.”

  In the distance, Abbey heard Dr. Fellows screaming, “But she’s a woman. Damn it. I will not be humiliated. Get me someone else.”

  She muttered, “I may not be here long enough to improve.”

  The Sergeant raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. Abbey glanced at the grinning men around her.

  Sgt. Scharf noticed them as well and yelled, “Next…and wipe the damn grins off those faces or I’ll have the lot of you shoveling horse shit until this fucking war ends.”

  Following the last man’s treatment, red-faced Dr. Fellows returned. In a bitter, angry voice he spat out, “Congratulations, at least for now, you’re my assistant surgeon.” Putting his hands on his hips, he eyed her with contempt. “I don’t know who the hell you knew to get this assignment but don’t get comfortable. If I have any say-so, you’ll be out of here within a matter of days.”

  Abby spoke in a conciliatory tone. “I’ll appreciate any training to advance my career as a doctor and surgeon.”

  In an accusatory voice and through gritted teeth, he said, “No way in hell, women should be doctors let alone surgeons in the medical corps.”

  A distant but furious volley of cannon fire was heard followed by the sound of the shells exploding. All glanced in the direction of the sound.

  Still seething, Dr. Fellows said in a sarcastic voice, “Welcome to your second day in the war. We can expect casualties within the hour. Let’s see how you manage another day of blood and gore.”

  Life as a Surgeon

  “Only five-hours of surgery today,” Sgt. Scharf said as he approached the mess area. “Must have been a skirmish.”

  Abbey returned an expression of confusion. She sat at a mess table, eating lunch from a container all the soldiers carried. It appeared as a cross between a mug and a bucket so the soldiers called it a mucket. In reality, it was an oversized metal cup.

  He continued, “A small battle is considered a skirmish. At times they test the lines to determine where each side’s troops are located to try to get an estimate of strength.”

  She noticed a number of soldiers twenty-yards-distant glancing at her and snickering.

  “May I join you?” Sgt. Scharf asked.

  She nodded and he sat across the table from her. “Not joining your friends over there?”

  He glanced at them. “Not my friends. We just happen to work together. Mostly I find them boorish and crude.”

  Abbey’s eyebrows went up.

  He continued, “Outside of our work we have nothing in common.”

  “Nothing?”

  “They have different backgrounds than I do. Besides, I have to give them orders. I’ve found it’s best not to be friends.”

  They ate in silence for a number of minutes.

  “How are your knees?” Sgt. Scharf asked.

  “Uncomfortable. How did you know?”

  “Happens to most people after their first surgeries. Didn’t think I’d make it when the first series of surgeries I attended ran fourteen-hours. My back was killing me as well. As tall as we are, the damn, pardon me Ma’am, tables are low. It’s rough to work all bent over.”

  “My cutting instruments aren’t nearly sharp enough.”

  “I’ll take care of that as soon as we finish eating,” Sgt. Scharf volunteered. He grinned. “They’ll be sharp enough to shave the hair off a gnat’s…ah…eyebrow.”

  “Thank you, Sgt.”

  Abbey thought, “A man with a pleasant smile and concern for polite conversation. Not many of those in the lower ranks.”

  Sgt. Scharf ate quietly for a bit then cleared his throat. “I don’t want you to feel offended but a number of our team have asked to be transferred to other duty.”

  “Because I’m female?”

  He nodded. “I suspect they feel emasculated because they’re taking orders from a woman.”

  “None of them took orders from their mothers?”

  The sergeant laughed.

  Abbey sighed and shook her head. Without looking at him, she asked, “Are you one of them?”

  “No Ma’am.” They moved and sat leaning against a tree. He glanced down and waved his hand in the grass they were seated on. The tall man closed his eyes and smiled as if reliving a pleasant memory. “I have three, kind and gentle, older sisters plus parents who didn’t put up with crap from any of us.” He laughed. “Been taking orders from multiple women since the day I was born.”

  Abbey laughed. “Perhaps as my skill increases, they’ll learn to respect me.”

  He sighed. “Maybe, maybe not. Skill has little to do with how they feel. For whatever reason, most seem threatened by an educated woman. The fact you’re rank equivalent of a lieutenant may help as they’ll respect the rank if nothing else.”

  “Did Pvt. Wilson ask for a transfer? He constantly watches my hands.”

  “He and I have worked with a number of surgeons since the first battle of the war. I’m sure you realize you have much to learn and you’re slow, but we think you’re going to be a good one…despite what Dr. Fellows thinks.”

  “At least two of them believe in me,” she thought. Abbey thanked him and they ate quietly for a bit.

  “Dr. Fellows told me,” the sergeant said, “he had limited surgical experience before the war.”

  “I wonder how he was chosen to be the regiment’s chief surgeon.”

  He shook his head. “Don’t know for sure but political appointment I’d guess. Lots of those initially but they have exams now. Many of the old-timers and those who don’t want to learn new techniques will get pushed out of the medical corps.”

  “As they should,” Abbey said. She closed her eyes as a warm breeze wafted over them, the leaves in the trees around them rattled. The wind carried an acrid scent which assaulted her nose. She twice sniffed the air then turned to the sergeant.

  “The smell is gunpowder after it’s been fired. You’ll get used to it,” he explained. “I believe your recent education should help as you should have been trained in the latest techniques.”

  “Yes, but as you mentioned, I have much to learn. Prior to my arrival, I’d only treated one gunshot wound. Compared to the surgeries I attended recently, it would be considered a minor injury. However, the thought that my lack of experience could further damage or kill one of these brave soldiers scares me to death. The Medical Board in Washington has provided numerous articles on treatment of battle wounds and camp disease. I’ve been trying to memorize them so I can apply their guidance.”

  His voice now sounded enthusiastic. “If you come across an article which will help me with the wounded, I’d be glad to read it.”

  “Medicine is progressing and the War Department is demanding doctors move our
profession into scientifically-based medicine. The lessons the British learned in the Crimean War will save numerous casualties if we apply them.”

  “How do I learn about those lessons?”

  “I’ll write up a summary and you can review it. Plus I have medical text books you can read.”

  They rinsed their muckets, filled them with coffee then seated themselves at the base of a tall oak tree.

  Abbey examined an acorn then asked, “How did you happen to become a surgical helper?”

  “Dumb luck. When I joined the Army, I volunteered for the band. I thought it would be fun.” He gazed at the ground and slowly shook his head. “I had absolutely no idea what war entailed. Like many of us who enlisted, we thought it would be a short war; a few months at most.”

  “Seems to have been common thinking.”

  “It’s none of my business but as a woman, don’t you miss having a family?”

  “Since childhood, I’ve concentrated on becoming a doctor. Didn’t take a moment to think about anything else.”

  The sergeant became pensive then glanced around to ensure they were away from anyone else’s hearing and said in a quiet voice, “Dr. Kaplan, it’s not my place to give you an order…but…it is imperative you develop your skills as fast as possible…and never…ever…slug anyone again.”

  “He deserved it.”

  “I agree. But you need your hands in good condition.” The sergeant stared at the ground briefly then continued, “If anyone mouths off again, I’ll be in charge of slugging.”

  She giggled then asked, “You said, imperative, I develop quickly; imperative is a strong word. Why would you say that?”

  He sat up straight and glanced around a second time before continuing. “Sooner or later, and I suspect sooner, you’ll have to work in place of Dr. Fellows.”

  Abbey’s eyebrows went up and her jaw dropped. “A frightening thought as I have much to learn. I’ve only seen a fraction of the types of injuries I must learn to surgically repair.”