The Surgeon: A Civil War Story

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  “Our former assistant surgeon asked me to convey something to his replacement,” he glanced around again, “but I’d get my butt burned if anyone found out I told you this.”

  Abbey briefly studied the broad-shouldered man whose discomfort was written in his furrowed brow. “Sgt., tell me what?”

  He spoke in a near whisper. “I’ve worked with Dr. Fellows since just after First Bull Run. He’s saved many hundreds of soldiers. I respect the hell out of him but his drinking…”

  “I smelled it. Cheap liquor.”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I’ve seen no ill effects.”

  “Watch close and you’ll see his hands shake. My uncle was a real boozer and his tremors got so bad he couldn’t pick up a spoon.”

  “Hopefully, Dr. Fellows won’t reach that point.”

  “Also, when our former assistant surgeon became proficient, Dr. Fellows seemed not to worry about his drinking as his assistant could perform in his place.”

  A shudder went down Abbey’s spine. “I’m a long way from proficient.”

  He pleaded, “Dr. Kaplan, I’d appreciate if you could keep this between us?”

  “Of course, but why hasn’t anyone reported his drinking?”

  “This is the military. You learn early on not to make waves. If he was a political appointee, that means someone powerful got him the post and would likely destroy anyone who complained about him.” He hesitated then continued, “You understand?”

  “A person with influence got me this post, so I understand completely.”

  The sergeant appeared relieved. In the distance, a tremendous fusillade of cannon fire plus the sound of small arms erupted.

  “Likely the sound of the main battle starting,” Sgt. Scharf said, scrambling to his feet. “I should get back to the medical tent, assemble the men and verify things are prepared for surgery. You’ll be needed shortly, Doctor.” He helped Abbey to her feet.

  He smiled at her. “I’ll pray Pvt. Wilson is right about you.”

  “Concerning?”

  “He believes you’ve got golden hands. We watched close during the surgical interventions. You use an economy of motion and precision any surgeon would envy.”

  She shook her head as she suddenly wore a worried expression. “I need months of learning and experience before I’m anywhere near the…golden hands…level.”

  “For the sake of the wounded, I’ll pray you get there quickly.”

  She stared at the sergeant briefly. He stood straight, saluted and left after she returned his salute.

  Within the hour, a trickle of wounded turned into a torrent.

  Abbey primarily handled light injuries, bandaged and set broken bones plus occasionally closed for Dr. Fellows.

  As the next to last wounded combatant was placed on the operating table. In a sarcastic voice, Dr. Fellows said to Abbey, “Go ahead, Doctor. This one’s yours.”

  The patient, unconscious from the chloroform anesthesia, was missing his right hand, torn off slightly above his wrist. Abbey ligated numerous blood vessels then smoothed the ends of the sawed-off bones so they wouldn’t be sharp and therefore pierce the tissue she’d use to cover them. She pulled the flap of skin from his forearm over the ends of the bones then neatly sutured the wound closed.

  Dr. Fellows growled. “If you always work this slow to make sure your work is pretty, half the men will die waiting for treatment.”

  Abbey kept her eyes on her work and said, “Yes, Doctor.” When she glanced up she noticed many of the team members grinning…until they encountered Sgt. Scharf’s glare.

  Doctor Fellows said to the hospital attendant and head of the helpers, Lt. Smith, “Next patient.” The doctor turned to Abbey. “Have you read the directive about hygiene?”

  “I have.”

  “Keep it in mind but remember time is of the essence at the field hospital. Prompt treatment and rapidly moving the wounded to a nearby recovery hospital is what will save them.” Dr. Fellows wiped his scalpel on his blood and pus- stained apron then used it to slice into the muscle of a man’s thigh.

  * * *

  The following morning and having just completed fifteen- hours of surgery, Drs. Kaplan and Fellows checked on the soldiers waiting for transport to the recovery hospital. He lectured her on elements of triage.

  One soldier, lying on a cot, tugged on Abbey’s skirt. “Can I help you?”

  “I was told your name is Kaplan.”

  “I’m Doctor Kaplan.”

  “Kaplan is usually a Jewish name.”

  “I’m Jewish.”

  “I know I got a bad wound but could you do something for me?”

  He closed his eyes and his entire body shuddered momentarily; as if a wave of pain coursed through him.

  Abbey dropped to her knees, opened his blanket and lifted the bandages covering his abdomen. He’d been shot there; an untreatable and fatal wound.

  “Gut-shot?” the soldier asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Thought so.” He closed his eyes and pursed his lips.

  “Damn.”

  Abbey waited until he opened his eyes again then said,

  “Something I can do?”

  “If I die, there won’t be a minyan to say Kaddish for me. You know. Ten men are needed to say the prayer.”

  Abbey nodded toward the rows of fresh grave markers in a nearby cemetery. “If you don’t make it, I guarantee there will be enough holy souls to constitute a minyan.”

  He pleaded. “But who’s gonna recite it?”

  “I know I don’t count for a minyan…but I will.”

  His face evidenced great relief. “God bless you, Doc.”

  “Hang in there Mushy,” a soldier on a nearby cot called out.

  “Thanks Tilden. You too,” the solider replied in a weak voice.

  “Mushy?” Abbey asked.

  The man smiled. “My name is Moshe but since we started training, the guys call me Mushy. I don’t mind. I’m the only Jew in this outfit and they all treat me good.” He thought for a bit then added, “Good, like a brother.” He winced then closed his eyes and held his breath for a number of seconds. He peered into her eyes, took a deep breath then continued, “I know this is a lot to ask but would you mind holding my hand?”

  She gripped his hand and glanced around at the other wounded. A number gazed at her. Abbey smiled at each of them; most returned her smile. The doctor felt the hand she was holding briefly tighten then go limp. She checked for a pulse and found none. Tilden raised himself on one elbow. Abbey slowly shook her head. Tilden closed his eyes and laid flat.

  As a tear rolled down her cheek, Abbey pulled the blanket over Moshe’s face and began reciting the Jewish mourner’s prayer. “V’yit g’dal…”

  Dr. Fellows waited until she’d finished the prayer then growled, “Get something to eat then take care of the men lined up for camp disease treatment. I’ll be in my tent.”

  * * *

  A line of soldiers stood before the medical tent for camp medicine treatment. Abbey, with two helpers, busied herself with their care; suturing or closing minor lacerations, lancing and bandaging boils and blisters, plus applying a Sulphur compound for rashes.

  Dr. Fellows approached and addressed the medical team. “I’ve just finished a meeting with senior staff. We may have a battle in the next few days.” He turned to his new assistant. “Abbey, when you’re finished here, verify our surgical supplies are ready and cutting instruments sharpened.” She didn’t respond but continued to work on a soldier. “Abbey,” he repeated. Apparently incensed at her lack of response, he shouted. “ABBEY!”

  She gritted her teeth, stood up, spun in his direction and with fury in her eyes, shouted, “YES, ALPHONSE?”

  His eyes widened and his cheeks reddened. The doctor whipped his head left and right to see if any of his friends had heard Abbey voice his first name. “Don’t you every call me by my first name…” He prepared to shout again but apparently realized his mistake. He cl
eared his throat then in a more reserved but still agitated voice, said, “Dr. Kaplan, please verify our surgical gear is ready.”

  “Yes, Dr. Fellows,” she replied while continuing to glare at him.

  She proceeded to the surgical tent then examined a table where her instruments were laid out. “All cleaned and sharpened?” she asked Lieutenant Smith.

  “Yes, Doctor, but we’re running low on rubbing alcohol.”

  “In a pinch, you can use wine. White, hopefully.”

  Dr. Fellows entered the medical tent. A corporal approached, saluted, and handed each of the doctors a document. Abbey reviewed hers and then announced, “Orders are we move out at first light in three days. The regiment will be on the march for a number of weeks.” She handed the document to Dr. Fellows.

  Abbey turned to their hospital orderly. “Lieutenant…”

  He interrupted, “We’ll begin breaking down the field hospital and readying it for transport, Doctor Kaplan.”

  She said, “Another thing Lieutenant Smith. I’d appreciate a clean apron to begin each day.”

  The lieutenant seemed surprised but said, “I’ll arrange it.” Gazing past the lieutenant, Abbey saw Dr. Fellows raise his eyebrows, then snort at her request. She ignored his mocking gaze.

  She turned to Sgt. Scharf who said, “I’ll have your instruments sharpened and packed within the hour, Doctor.”

  After reviewing his own document, Dr. Fellows said to Abbey, “You and I are being sent to the recovery hospital until the move is complete. This will be an opportunity for you to learn additional skills.” He sneered. “There’s less pressure over there so you’re snail’s pace surgical technique likely won’t kill anyone.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “Pack your belongings for a four-day stay at the recovery hospital. The team will move the balance of your gear. We leave in two-hours.”

  * * *

  When Abbey arrived at her tent, she found a short, somewhat pudgy, middle-aged woman, standing in front of it calling her name.

  “I’m Doctor Kaplan.”

  The woman did a double take then said, “Sorry…I didn’t realize who you were. I’m Martha Warshawsky. Lieutenant Smith sent me. He said you have laundry work for me. He gave me extra aprons which I will keep clean for you plus I pick up laundry every Monday, Wednesday and Friday then return it the next day.” The woman held out her hand with a glowing smile. “It’s an honor to meet a lady doctor.”

  Abbey said under her breath. “It would be nice if everyone thought that.” In full voice she continued, “Maybe I should wear a sign so there’s no confusion.”

  “I don’t understand. A sign?”

  “So people know I’m a doctor. Just joking. Do you live locally?”

  The woman laughed. “My daughter and I live in my wagon and follow the regiment.”

  “A pleasure to meet you. Please come in. I have a pile of clothing you can wash for me plus an item that needs mending.”

  Abbey noted the woman’s uneven gait as she entered the tent.

  “Why are you limping?”

  “It’s nothing. A small irritation on the bottom of my foot.”

  “Sit on the chair.”

  “Doctor…”

  Abbey raised her voice and pointed. “Sit!”

  The woman grimaced while her boot was removed. A laceration beneath her heel was weeping pus.

  “I have to drain and bandage this. Don’t move.”

  “You don’t have to bother with me.”

  Abbey smiled. “Mrs. Warshawsky, you’ll be my first civilian patient.”

  The woman squirmed on the chair but remained seated.

  Abbey cleaned out the wound, closed it with two sutures and wrapped it. “Any chance you can stay off this for a week?”

  She laughed. “Oh no, Doctor. I have to work.”

  “Keep it clean and try not to put pressure on your heel. I want you to find me each time my laundry is delivered. I’ll have a nurse put on a clean bandage and make certain you’re healing.”

  “How much I owe you?”

  “Nothing. Just take care of your foot.”

  Mrs. Warshawsky stuffed Abbey’s laundry in a large cloth bag. “I never met a lady doctor before.” Martha stopped moving, stared at Abbey briefly, then said, “Um…would you mind if I bring my daughter to meet you. I want Talia to see a lady doctor. I don’t want her to end up like me. You know, washing clothes.”

  “I’d love to meet her.”

  The woman smiled broadly. “You clothes going to be real clean and in good repair…and you gonna see when I bring them back, people will know you’re the doctor.” She stuffed the balance of Abbey’s laundry into a large cloth bag and limped away.

  Sgt. Scharf stood outside the tent and asked permission to enter. Abbey invited him in and returned his salute. “You said you had documents for me?”

  “Here,” she said, handing him a number of pages. “Details on suturing technique and lessons from the Crimean War. Get down to the mess area. Get a section of pork belly. Use a scalpel to create lacerations like you’ve seen then practice closing them. When the meat is full of stiches, bring it here and I’ll make some cuts and observe you closing them.”

  “Dr. Fellows is okay with this?”

  “He is if you don’t tell him.”

  More Wounded

  “I’m a farmer. Name’s Tom Martin. From just west of Brookline, Mass.” said a trembling, pale soldier who was lying on a stretcher in front of the field hospital following their latest move. Blood soaked bandages wrapped both his lower legs.

  “I heard we’d be treating soldiers from another Massachusetts regiment. You men ran into a large force,” Abbey said. She’d been walking among the wounded performing triage. The doctor opened his bandages and examined his wounds.

  “Whatever you do, please remember I’m a farmer and I need my legs.”

  “I’m Dr. Kaplan. We’ll take the best care of you we can.” She turned to Sgt. Scharf who trailed her. “The soldier from Brookline is first.”

  The sergeant turned his back to the soldier and whispered, “Double Amputation?”

  Abbey nodded then entered the medical tent and assisted Dr. Fellows.

  The following morning, Abbey walked among the post- surgery patients who were on beds at the recovery hospital. She observed one soldier, with his arm folded across his eyes. The doctor recognized the farmer from Massachusetts. He whimpered quietly.

  Abby smiled and said, “Farmer from Brookline, if I remember.”

  He uncovered his eyes. “Farmer no longer.”

  “We did our best to save you. The next step is up to you.”

  “I won’t be taking any damn steps.”

  Abbey took a deep breath. “Can you see the men working beyond the stand of cottonwood trees?”

  He lifted his head sufficiently to glance out a window.

  “Yes.”

  “Those men are digging hundreds of graves. You survived.”

  “A legless farmer isn’t my idea of surviving.”

  Her voice becoming agitated, she insisted, “The Lord has given you an opportunity those men don’t have.”

  Continuing in a bitter tone, he said, “The Lord took my legs. I’m angry as hell at Him.”

  “He must have other plans for you.” “Like what?”

  “It’s your responsibility to discover your future.”

  He shook his head in apparent disbelief. “Something must be wrong with your thinking. You really believe, He has plans for a legless farmer?”

  Abbey leaned down and put a hand on his shoulder. “You still have your mind and two good hands.”

  He brusquely shoved her hand away. “For what?”

  She stood straight and said in a motherly tone, “You have a number of week’s recovery ahead of you. Ask one of the nurses for books. They may provide ideas for a new occupation.”

  He turned away then folded an arm across his eyes.

  Her voice pleaded, “Investigate careers which ut
ilize brain instead of brawn.”

  He spun his head back to Abbey and glared at her. The legless farmer opened his mouth as if to reply but remained silent.

  As she moved to the next patient, he found his voice and shouted. “You’re fucking crazy, Doc.”

  * * *

  Two weeks later, Dr. Kaplan approached the field hospital. The three large medical tents were surrounded by a grove of tall maples. The red flag hung limply in the hot, humid air.

  “How appropriate,” she thought while shaking her head. “The indicator of the medical-aid tent is the color of blood.”

  The acrid smell of gun powder wafted through the air while the sound of distant battle portended a stream of casualties.

  “Dr. Fellows told me, it would be quiet for another week or so,” Abbey said.

  “I guess someone forgot to tell the Confederates,” Lt. Smith said. She giggled.

  When the wounded were carried from the two-wheeled-ambulances, some moaned, a few yelled, and some were silent. By now, Abbey knew the men who had strength to yell could wait but the quiet one’s needed immediate care. A few of the men pleaded with anyone nearby to have their limbs repaired rather than removed. She didn’t see Dr. Fellows so she began triage.

  “In this order,” the doctor said then pointed, “One, two, three, four, five, six…”

  A light rain fell causing a rhythm on the medical tent’s top and sides. Abbey entered and walked to the surgical table.

  “Dr. Fellows?” she asked.

  “Indisposed,” Sgt. Scharf said.

  “What? For how long?”

  He mimed a man drinking, then said, “Dr. Fellows was blind drunk last night. His request for your replacement was denied again. The doctor also carried on like a jilted lover concerning the humiliation of having a female assistant surgeon.”

  “The bastard,” Abbey thought.

  The Sergeant barked orders at the team to prep for surgery and bring in the first patient. The men quickly complied.