The Surgeon: A Civil War Story

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  Still red-faced, the woman spat out, “I’m not hungry.”

  Another volley of distant cannon fire followed by small-arms-fire echoed across their camp. Abbey nodded in the sound’s direction. “We can expect to begin numerous surgeries within the hour. We may not have time for evening meal until long after dark. You’ll need your strength.”

  An expression of relief flooded Margaret’s face. “Yes, Doctor.”

  The woman filled a mucket and sat opposite her.

  “You’re willing to work as a helper until you learn surgical techniques?” Abbey asked.

  Margaret nodded.

  “Tell me about yourself,”

  “I’m from Toronto.”

  “No you’re not,” Abbey said. “When you were angry, your southern accent became pronounced.”

  “I try to suppress it for obvious reasons.” Margaret’s voice dropped to a near whisper. “I was raised in Vicksburg, Mississippi. My father owns a cotton wholesaling business. When war became imminent, he thought it would be safer for me to attend college up north. In truth, I attended medical college in Toronto.” She ate a few bites then in full voice, continued. “If you don’t mind my asking, how did you decide on a medical career and what college did you attend?”

  “I was ten and watched a doctor sew up a wound. Ever since, my only plans were for medicine and particularly surgery. I attended the Female Medical College of Philadelphia.”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “A great school. It was founded in 1850. I believe it was the first college to train women for the degree of medicine. Philadelphia, also called the City of Medicine, is home to the nation’s first hospital and medical school. The Quakers, who lived in Philly and the surrounding counties, promoted egalitarian causes including women’s rights. They were instrumental in creating the college.”

  “When I was of similar age, my older brother, who was strong as an ox, became weakened over a handful of days. A number of doctors came to the house to examine him but he died.”

  “Poliomyelitis?”

  Margaret nodded. “I’d love to research disease causes and cures.”

  “So your parents sent you to study medicine?”

  The southerner twisted uncomfortably. “They weren’t aware of my plans to attend medical college.”

  Abbey’s eyebrows went up.

  “According to my mother,” Margaret sat up straight, switched to a high-pitched-voice, put her nose in the air, and placed her hands on her hips. “It is quite unacceptable for a genteel lady to enter a career which may require placing her hands on the private areas of a man or woman.”

  Laughter burst forth from Abbey. “What do they think you’re doing?”

  “Studying to become a teacher.”

  Margaret ate a bit then asked, “How did you become a surgeon in the medical corps?”

  “One of my professors at college was related to the man who financed and organized this regiment. She knew of my desire to develop skill as a surgeon. After passing the examination, I was assigned to Dr. Fellows, this regiment’s chief surgeon. Unfortunately, rather than choosing a skilled surgeon to be chief, the regiment chose a political appointee. I suspect he performed little surgery during his civilian practice. The strain of endless casualties caused him to turn to drink. I’ve acquired a surgeon’s skill as a result.”

  Margaret gave her a questioning expression.

  “The more he drinks, the more his hands shake. Initially, I spent my time on camp disease; sutured small lacerations, then removed bullets and shrapnel from shallow wounds. I began closing for him then some months ago, he was shaking so bad I took over in the middle of an amputation. Since then I’ve performed innumerable surgeries without him.”

  “Without an assistant?”

  “Fortunately for the wounded, the regimental band’s lead percussionist has amazing dexterity, a mind which soaks up information like a blotter and has a stomach which doesn’t try to empty itself at the first site of blood.”

  A short, rotund sergeant approached wearing an ill-fitting uniform. His jacket buttons strained to contain his protruding potbelly. “Miss Herzog, I need your assistance immediately.”

  “From now on she’ll be working with me,” Abbey said with a pleasant smile.

  The officious appearing little man clasped his hands behind his back, smirked and rocked onto his toes. “I make her assignments.”

  “Then you’re assigning her to me.”

  “Not hardly,” he said with a grin and a leer at the doctor’s large chest. “I’m a sergeant so I decide.” He glared at Dr. Kaplan.

  No longer smiling, Abbey unfolded to her full six-foot height. She returned his glare and put her hands on her hips. In a slow and succinct voice she said, “I’m Doctor Kaplan, assistant surgeon with this regiment, therefore rank equivalent of lieutenant. I’ve decided I will need her skills.”

  “But…”

  “If the chief surgeon, who holds the rank of major, finds out someone is impeding my ability to give our brave men the best care I’m capable of, he will be most displeased…Sergeant.”

  He held up his hands in an apparent gesture of surrender. “She’s assigned to you, Doctor…er…Lieutenant. I’ll need a written request from the chief surgeon.”

  “You’ll have it before day’s end.”

  He saluted and said, “I’ll arrange the transfer.”

  Abbey returned his salute. “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  The crestfallen little man spun on his heel and hurried away.

  “Dr. Kaplan,” Margaret said, “you should work on your salute. It was kind of sloppy.”

  Both women laughed.

  “You have a good relationship with the chief surgeon?”

  Abbey sat down and grinned. “He hates my guts.” Margaret chuckled.

  “He’s desperately in need of a skilled surgeon so puts up with a woman. I cover for him when he’s indisposed so he quit trying to push me out.”

  Abbey rolled her shoulders.

  “How is your body holding up after numerous long days of surgery?”

  “It hurts. I’m tall and the tables are such that I lean over during most of the surgery. The first few weeks, I was in so much joint and muscle pain, I thought I’d have to quit. But my body adjusted…somewhat. The soreness doesn’t end. Nor does the stream of wounded once a battle begins. Worked over forty-eight-hours straight a few times.”

  “Aren’t you worried about becoming so tired you’ll make mistakes?”

  “Yes but there’s so few of us. Our regiment of twelve-thousand men has one chief surgeon, an assistant surgeon and roughly ten helpers. It will be a blessing if you can learn procedures quickly…but…”

  Abbey waited until she had the woman’s full attention.

  “Please understand, I’m giving you an opportunity without a guarantee. Your success will depend on your having been born with skilled hands. Not everyone who has the requisite book learning has the manual dexterity to perform surgery.”

  Margaret nodded. “I understand.”

  Abbey closed her eyes for a moment then smiled. “My younger brother, who had no interest in medicine or surgery when he was young, used to sew cooked noodles together without tearing them…prior to the age of ten.”

  Miss Herzog’s eyes widened.

  “As an early teen, he was called to the side of a newborn. With the guidance of a community doctor, he used his skilled hands to perform tiny ligations, remove minute shards of glass in the infant’s leg wound and closed it with tiny sutures.” The doctor sighed. “There are certainly days when I wish he was at my side.”

  Margaret ate in silence for a while then leaned forward. “Dr. Kaplan, how do you deal with the strain of seeing so many soldiers with torn bodies? I’ve only been here a few weeks and the more I see, the more depressed I get.”

  “The sight of bloody injuries hasn’t bothered me since childhood.”

  “But the severely wounded…the amputees.” Margaret’s brow
dropped and her eyes narrowed. “Some are little more than children.”

  “The War Department allows child enlistees from nine to seventeen.”

  “Losing limbs, their lives are irreversibly altered. I feel their pain.”

  “I may have at first but now that I’m the one doing the surgeries, I can’t afford the luxury of feeling their pain.”

  “How do you ignore it?”

  “I concentrate on the work in front of me and studying the documents coming from Washington which explain new techniques.”

  “But then afterward…”

  “Except for occasional nightmares and the accompanying loss of sleep…” Abbey looked down then took a slow, deep breath. “Miss Herzog,” she looked in the newcomers’ eyes, “have you ever watched a carpenter build a house?”

  “Of course.”

  “They show no emotion when they work. We must do the same.”

  Margaret twisted on the bench and leaned forward.

  “Carpentry is a mechanical task.”

  “As is surgery.”

  Abbey’s new acquaintance gazed at her dinner. Without looking up, and trying to avoid seeming confrontational, the woman said in a quiet voice, “We’re not working on houses. We work on people.”

  “Perhaps you’d be better off bathing patients and emptying bed pans?”

  Margaret rapidly shook her head and sat up straight. “No, Ma’am. I wish to assist you. And learn, learn, learn.”

  “I live alone in an officer’s tent. You can share it with me and I can direct you to literature I have to further your education.”

  “I’d love to.”

  Abbey smiled. “Miss Herzog, you may become the first friend I’ve managed out here.” She became pensive then added, “You may wish to wear britches.”

  “Never in my life would I consider…but why?”

  “If you have to crawl rapidly across the ground when bullets are flying over your head, you want all the speed you can manage; a skirt slows one down.”

  “Can I assume you’re speaking from experience?”

  “Yes.”

  “I know it will feel odd…but I’ll follow your suggestion.”

  “Also, I’ll introduce you to a washerwoman. I suggest you follow my lead and begin each day with a clean apron.” “Whatever you suggest, Doctor Kaplan.”

  “Call me Abbey.”

  “And please address me as Margaret.” Abbey nodded.

  “Abbey, given any thought to what you’ll do after the war?”

  “A doctor who’s dealing with war weariness, I don’t know what else to call it, asked me to visit him in Boston. The subject intrigues me. Afterward, I’ll return to my family in the Northwest to pursue a lifetime of surgery.”

  “You mentioned war weariness. Please tell me about it.”

  “Another day,” Abbey replied as she watched an ambulance-train rumble into view. The doctor nodded at the two-wheeled wagons. She stood. “Finish eating. Your surgical education will begin shortly.”

  * * *

  Eight-weeks later, Margaret again assisted Abbey while she treated camp disease. A colonel presented himself with a two-inch-long infected lesion just below his knee.

  “Dr. Herzog, would you please lance and clean this?”

  “Yes, Dr. Kaplan.”

  Abbey watched briefly then said, “Good work.” She turned to the waiting soldiers. “Next.”

  Whenever appropriate, she assigned patients to Margaret. When the last patient was treated, Abbey checked her watch. “That’s little more than half the time it usually takes when I’m working alone.”

  “The last eight-weeks have consisted of more doctoring than I’d imagined could be squeezed into such a short time. I appreciate you referring to me as Doctor Herzog.”

  “Most soldiers appreciate being treated by a doctor. Even female. Besides, with the hard work you’re putting in on the study materials plus the work you performed with camp disease and surgery, I think you’re on your way to becoming an excellent doctor.”

  They began walking back to their tent when they heard a soldier calling for Doctor Kaplan. He carried a boy wrapped in a blanket.

  “He was playing near a fire and fell in,” the soldier said. The boy sobbed and quivered while a woman walked next to them.

  “Bring him to the medical tent,” Abbey said. The soldier put the wide-eyed boy on one of the surgical tables.

  “What’s your name?” Margaret asked while she and Abbey began removing his charred clothing.

  “Henry Carmine,” the boy said. “I’m nine.”

  “Henry,” Margaret continued “I’m Doctor Herzog and this is Doctor Kaplan.” She turned to the older woman. “Who are you Ma’am?”

  “His mother.”

  Margaret said, “Come around this side and stand where he can see you, please.”

  “The burns are not too bad,” Abbey said after examining them.

  Margaret smiled at the young patient and said, “Hear that Henry? I know it hurts a lot now but Dr. Kaplan says your burns are not too bad. We’re going to clean and bandage them.”

  With an occasional whimper, the boy was treated. His mother expressed profound thanks to the doctors.

  The two lady medics walked to their tent.

  “Margaret, your conversation with the boy and his mother…”

  “Too much?”

  “No. Not at all. I noted their expressions. The more you talked, the more they relaxed. What a marvelous quality. I limit my conversation to what I need to know for a diagnosis.”

  “Should I limit my conversation?”

  “No. Even during camp disease treatment, you did the same with the soldiers and had them smiling. I admire your ability as I know I’m lacking in that area.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Warshawsky and her daughter approached Abbey and Margaret just before they arrived at their tent.

  “I’m here to thank you,” Talia said.

  “Let me see your lip,” Abbey said. The doctor ran her finger along the repaired tissue. “Properly healed. Only a barely visible scar.”

  “What did you do?” Margret asked.

  “This was a hare lip.”

  “You closed it? I’ve never heard of…”

  Talia interrupted with a shout. “She fixed me.” Her eyes filled with tears. She threw her arms around Abbey and began sobbing.

  “Hey,” Abbey said while embracing the teen. “You’re supposed to be happy; not crying.”

  Talia took a step back and nodded while wiping her eyes with the backs of her hands.

  Her mother put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders and said, “She’s happy. You’ve no idea how happy.”

  * * *

  Abbey and Margaret relaxed in their tent, each sipping a steaming mucket of coffee.

  “Twelve-weeks working together,” Margaret said.

  “I firmly believe you will be passing the medical board exam with ease.”

  “Do I hear a but coming…”

  “You remind me of our family’s doctor back in Seattle. In my mind, Dr. Beckham is the epitome of a community doctor.”

  “But not a surgeon.”

  “Correct. Your hands will allow you to perform limited surgery but…”

  “Lt. Scharf has better hands than I do.”

  Abbey laughed. “Don’t feel bad. Besides my brother William, few people on this planet have Lt. Scharf’s level of manual dexterity…but it doesn’t mean you won’t be a marvelous doctor.”

  “What do I do now?”

  “Keep learning and you’ll take the medical board exam.”

  “Will Doctor Fellows recommend me?”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  “He doesn’t like me and was furious when he realized he’d signed my transfer paperwork while in a drunken stupor.”

  “If I ask him, he’ll do it. He may not like it but he’ll do it.”

  “Why?”

  “Shortly before you joined our team, we received acknowledg
ement for the excellent reports and samples we send the Medical Museum plus the results of our medical efforts. A colonel came from Washington to congratulate us. Since then, Dr. Fellows has done his best to ignore me but given me free reign on most medical and surgical decisions.”

  “Any assignments this afternoon?”

  “Word has spread concerning Talia’s hare lip surgery. I…sorry…we…have seven soldiers, most from other regiments and a number of civilians from the surrounding area, including one adult man, two grown women and a two- month-old baby; all with hare lip. We’ll begin their surgeries at one o’clock.”

  Just before she began the last repair, Dr. Fellows entered the surgical tent.

  He approached Abbey. “I heard you’re repairing hare lip today. Could be useful when I return to civilian practice. May I assist, Dr. Kaplan?”

  Shocked, Abbey replied, “Of course, Dr. Fellows.”

  * * *

  “Abbey,” Margaret said, “I received word on the boy who fell in the fire some days ago. He’s doing fine other than some scar tissue on his right cheek. His mother is a…I believe the polite term is…camp follower.”

  “I suspected such. A number of them trail after us and service the men.”

  They each spooned breakfast from their muckets.

  “The boy’s mother and quite a number of others have diseases we could treat. Lesions on their genitals and the like. We would need supplies.”

  Abbey thought for a while then said, “A woman is here from the Sanitary Commission. We’ll ask for the supplies and let her know we believe it is in the best interest of the soldiers to keep the…camp followers…healthy as possible.”

  An hour later, Abbey and Margaret examined a soldier who died while on picket duty.

  “Carefully examine his eyes,” Abbey said. “See the tiny red dots?”

  “Barely,” Maggie said. She squinted. “Yes, tiny red dots definitely present.”

  “They’re called petechiae. When someone is asphyxiated these appear.”

  “An enemy soldier caused this?”

  “Possibly. Although, soldiers use a garrote or knife to silence a picket. Consider his neck. You can see bruising where thumbs pressed on the front of the man’s windpipe and where fingers dug in toward the rear.”