Tear In Time (20 page)

  “Rat?
Why would they call you Rat? Do you eat a lot of them?” David asked, now
curious.

  “No,
sir. Its account of how many I’ve kilt so far,” the young private answered.

  “I
don’t follow you. Why is that so noteworthy?” David pressed.

  “I’m a
sharpshooter, sir. I’ve kilt off more Rebs in my company than anyone else,”
Pvt. Mitchell replied proudly.

  “I
see. So a rat is a Confederate soldier. What are Union soldiers called?” David
asked.

 
“Squirrels, sir. Johnny Reb calls us squirrels,” Pvt. Mitchell answered.

 
“Interesting. I’ve never heard those terms before. I wonder if historians have
either,” David asked rhetorically. Returning his focus to the young private, he
said, “Anyway, Rat, I’m going to try and save your leg. I need to ask you a
favor though. When I’m finished, I need you to stay off it until it heals and
keep it clean with soap and water. Do you think you can do that?”

  “Why,
yes, sir,” Pvt. Mitchell responded with surprise in his voice. “Sir, what if I
can’t find soap and water?”

  “Then
it will surely become infected and will have to be amputated,” David replied
bluntly, looking back over at the two doctors.

  “I
will find soap directly, after we whoop them Rebs, that is,” Pvt. Mitchell
answered back resolutely.

  “Are
we winning?” David asked. For a short time, he had forgotten his fears, but
with the private’s response, David was once again reminded he was in the middle
of a war.

  “Well,
sir, just before I was rode from the field, we was pushing Johnny Reb further
back toward the mountain. For a spell they had us on the run, but ole Gen.
Banks is a wily one. He sent in a company of regulars around our own right
flank, far into the woods. When they popped out of the woods, they was behind
them Rebs and fired on them directly,” Pvt. Mitchell said proudly, although in
obvious pain. He shifted his leg a bit to find relief and continued, “You
shoulda heard the hollering and a-squealing from them rats as we cut them to
ribbons in a murderous cross fire. Our boys really showed ’em,” he said,
beaming with pride.

 
“Private, our boys were behind enemy lines. Were they able to get away?” David
asked with intensity.

  “I
reckon they did, ’cause we poured on the lead and they ran scared. The Rebs,
that is. I think that’s when I heard the bugler sound our boys’ retreat,” Pvt.
Mitchell replied. Looking forlorn, he continued, “I kinda lost track on account
of a ball tearing across my leg. I must have went out, ‘cause when I woke, our
boys were far ahead, down the field; that is ’cept Gen. Negley’s boys. They had
straggled a bit behind on our left flank, but then I saw a bunch of our boys
running from reserves and push them Rebs back, straighten’n out our whole line,”
Pvt. Mitchell stated.

  He
looked down at his leg again. Worry swept across his face as he spoke, “Doc,
you will be able to save my leg, won’t you?”

  “I'll
do my best, but if I run into complications once I'm inside, I might have to
amputate,” David replied in cautionary tone.

  With a
grim look, Pvt. Mitchell laid his head down and closed his eyes.

  As Dr.
Morgan worked on his wounded patient in one of the other makeshift operating
rooms, David applied chloroform to the nervous private and began his own
preparation for surgery. Instructing his less than enthusiastic students, David
meticulously observed sterilization practices as he explained in detail their
purpose.

  “Germs?
Sir, forgive my insubordination, but do you have proof of these so-called
germs? How are we to believe that these tiny creatures exist? And furthermore,
how are we to believe that they are of greater consequence than the wound
itself? This whole notion seems too fantastic to believe,” Dr. Rogers responded
in disbelief.

 
“Agreed,” Dr. Weiss added, “We may be newly trained doctors, but we are not new
to medicine. In our two years of medical training, we were instructed in the
most advanced techniques presently known. Never has anyone uttered a single
syllable about germs. I am compelled by logic to discount this new idea,” he
finished, arms folded in defiance.

  “Let
me see if I can explain it in terms closer to home,” David replied patiently.
“In farming, blights that kill crops are caused by tiny insects or some form of
fungus. You can see these killing agents with your own eyes, and that is why
you believe in them, but before they grow to a point that you can see them with
your naked eye, they begin in a state so small they are undetectable. Is it
correct to say that because you can't see them, they don't exist?” David asked
rhetorically, then answered the question himself. “Of course not. They do
exist, and their killing affects can be seen as the plants die further in
time.”

  David
poured some alcohol onto a clean rag and began to sterilize the gaping wound.
Occasionally releasing pressure from the tourniquet, he worked quickly to
control the bleeding as well as clean the wound. As he worked, he calmly
continued his instruction. “So, just as a blight kills living plant tissue, so
too germs kill living human tissue.”

  David
paused a moment as he concentrated on the worst areas of the wound, then
continued, “And how do we kill germs? In the simplest form, we can use
alcohol,” he said, holding up the jar of moonshine and the now bloody rag. “The
key word here is cleanliness. If we can keep the instruments and the wounds
clean, we can vastly improve the post-operative results. No germs, no infection.
No infection, no amputation.”

  “And
that is why you and Dr. Morgan believe you can save this young man's leg?” Dr.
Roger asked, now beginning to see some logic in the lesson being taught.

  “Yes,
doctor. Complications from infection can be minimized with simple sterilization
techniques. Oh sure, there will still be some infection during the healing
process for a variety of reasons, but most certainly, if you have done a good
job at controlling germs during the operation, you will dramatically change the
success rate of your surgery,” David answered.

  “But,
Dr. Warner, even if you control the germs in this poor private’s leg, that is a
horrific wound. Half the muscle tissue has been shot away. The wound has
rendered his leg useless. Isn't it better to amputate and leave him with a
stump that can be fitted with a prosthetic limb, then to drag that useless
appendage behind him forever?” Dr. Weiss asked, shaking his head
discontentedly.

  “I
plan on reconstructing the damaged tissue. When I'm done, he won't be able to
run, but he will be able to walk again, albeit with a limp. It will be a better
life limping with his own limb than to walk with a fake one,” David reasoned.

 
“Reconstruct the muscle!?” both doctors cried out in shock.

  “How
in the name of the Lord do you intend on doing that?” Dr. Rogers asked in
astonishment.

  David
chose not to respond. Instead, he pulled the hot scalpel from the boiling water
and began to make his incisions to repair the damaged tissue. As the sounds of
war rang out in the distance, David began cutting away the mangled flesh. He
carefully reconstructed the remaining muscle tissue, working quickly to
minimize exposure to the unsterile air. Having reshaped the tissue, David began
to reconnect veins, arteries and connective tissues as best he could. As he
worked, he explained the concepts of his techniques to the two bewildered
doctors. While he closed and bandaged the wound, he noticed the astonished look
on their faces turn to blank stares as they struggled to comprehend the
operation they just witnessed.

  Dr.
Weiss was the first to speak. “Dr. Warner, I am humbled. Never in my
imagination have I dreamed of something so complex, although I must admit, I
make perfect sense of your procedure. It is quite logical, I think,” he said,
as he looked off into space and pondered his statement.

  “Dr.
Warner, Dr. Morgan was correct in his analysis. You are a brilliant surgeon.
Could you teach me your techniques?” Dr. Rogers asked in an unpretentious tone.

  David
was about to speak when he heard the sound of another wagon arriving. The three
rushed to the open front door of the farmhouse to observe the visitor. The
bedraggled ambulance driver pulled up to the porch and jumped down from the
buckboard, tossing the reins over a worn hitching post.

  The
moans of agony were low and subdued, as the soldiers’ bravery hid the extent of
their wounds. David ran from the door and down to the edge of the wagon to
examine the wounded men. There, in a grisly state, lay three more wounded
soldiers, one whose left leg had been blown off just above the knee, and was
bleeding profusely in spite of his tourniquet.

  “Dr.
Rogers, this man leg needs immediate treatment. He's in shock from blood loss
and trauma. Can you take him first?” David asked in a polite but firm tone.

  “Yes
sir. In the name of expediency, shall I forgo the use of sterilization on this
case? I fear time is slipping away on this one,” Dr. Rogers replied.

 
“Absolutely not, doctor. At all times do we maintain cleanliness. The effort is
well worth the time spent,” David replied resolutely.

  Dr.
Rogers nodded in submission and hurried to prepare his station. David took note
of the remaining two and decided that both could be treated more efficiently if
operated on side by side due to the advanced techniques he alone would need to
administer.

  “Dr.
Weiss, grab a few men and move your operating table next to mine. Both men have
leg wounds that need special care. We can work together and I can guide you through
it, ok?” David ordered.

 
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.