Tear In Time (4 page)

  As
hypovolemic shock began to develop from the loss of blood, the pain from his
gaping wound became less noticeable. He moved faster and with more
determination. Suddenly, a soldier lay in his path, face down. Corporal
Fletcher grabbed his shoulder to roll him over as he felt the sting of hot lead
graze his forearm and impact the back of the soldier’s head. Instantly, the
soldier’s skull exploded, covering Corporal Fletcher's face with blood, bits of
brain and bone. He jerked away in reflex and cried out in fear, only to feel
the mind-numbing pain of his own injury. As fear enveloped him further, he
quickly crawled around the deceased soldier and continued on his path.

  Up
ahead, several yards away, he spotted a boulder for protection. Fear and
anxiety coursed through his veins as he struggled to stay alive. Desperately,
deliberately, he stretched his hands out in front of him, clawing at anything
he could use to further his escape. As he crawled, the elevation dropped off
slightly, allowing him more protection from the bullets passing above. With
grass and mud embedded in his fingernails, he reached the larger boulder and
pulled himself around it to safety

  Lying
on his stomach, he rolled over and sat up against the smooth granite rock. He
heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off the boulder and deflecting into the
trees around him as he instinctively ducked from the sound. With his adrenaline
pumping, he reached down to his grass- and dirt-stained shirt and ripped off a
strip from its bottom edge. Taking the strip in both hands, he lifted the
hanging flesh and secured it to the bone with the cloth, tying a loose knot to
hold his calf in place as the pain caused him to scream in reflex.

  A
short distance away, a private pulling a horse-drawn ambulance heard the
painful shriek of Corporal Fletcher over the thunder of war. This was his first
pass through as he searched for casualties. Hearing the horrific screams, he
snapped the reins to the team of horses and quickly located the suffering
Corporal, barely conscious but still feeling his agony. He leaped down from the
buckboard and ran to his side with a canteen of cool water. Kneeling, he placed
the canteen to the corporal's lips and slowly poured a few swallows into his
mouth.

  Corporal
Fletcher, in his grave state, choked and coughed as the water entered his
mouth, causing him to cry out in pain once more. Instinctively he pushed the
private’s hand away and opened his eyes.

  In a
weakened voice, he said, “They've killed me. The Rebs have killed me.”

 
Looking down at Corporal Fletcher's blood, which had pooled under his leg, the
private quickly realized the gravity of the situation. As he reached to lift
the fading corporal, he replied, “Nonsense. Doc Morgan will have that leg off
in no time. You'll be good as new in a just a few days.” He smiled as he spoke,
hoping to lift the Corporal's spirits.

  Even
in the Corporal's deteriorated state, he knew the grisly torture that awaited
him once back at the makeshift hospital. He stiffened a moment and looked down
at his maimed appendage. He envisioned the painful procedure, then the
disfigured remnant that would be left as a sad reminder of the reality of war.
Disheartened, he slumped into the arms of the private, who struggled to lift
him into the waiting ambulance. Moments later, laying in one of the hard,
wooden gurneys, he was reminded of his agony as the private snapped the reins,
abruptly jarring the wagon, sending excruciating pain through his gaping wound
and up his spine.

 
“Sorry,” the Private responded sincerely, although there was little he could do
to improve the comfort of the wounded.

 
Moments later, through his own screams of agony, he heard the cries of another
wounded soldier being loaded into the wooden ambulance. He glanced over to see
a young boy of sixteen, thin, with wavy yellow hair, being roughly hauled into
the gurney on the opposite side of the wagon. With the ghastly wound in his
stomach, he didn't have long to live. His blues eyes were sunken and dulled
from the loss of blood, a good deal of which completely saturated his shirt and
pants, as well as his hands, as he had tried in relieve the pain with pressure
to his wound. Lying there in his agony, he cried out to God to end his
suffering. Corporal Fletcher could almost feel the young boy's despair as he
irrationally waited in vain for a higher power to answer his dying prayer. With
the realization that he was all alone, he retreated into the far recesses of his
mind, his last haven for solace. Rolling his head from side to side, he
murmured under his breath, "Mama, mama." At the end of his
consciousness, unable to speak, Corporal Fletcher mustered the last bit of his
strength as he stretched out a weak, shaking hand, and gently laid it upon the
private’s shoulder.

  The
young private’s eyes widened a moment as he quietly spoke in a receiving tone,
"Mama. I love you."

  As the
corporal’s world went black, he slipped into unconsciousness, having brought
some measure of relief to the poor dying boy beside him. It was all he could
do, and it was enough. Shortly after losing consciousness, the young boy
quietly died beside him, passing beyond the horrific end into peace.

--- --- ---
--- ---

  Dr.
Jeb Morgan paced back and forth by the operating wagon, envisioning the dead
and wounded with each report of the Union cannons. With each crack of a twig or
an unusual sound of the wind, he craned his head to listen more intently,
hoping for any advanced warning of the ambulances delivering their wounded. The
minutes felt like hours as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his
Elgin pocket watch. He pressed the tiny button of the gold timepiece and popped
the cover, exposing the hands of time.

  “Huh,
only 10:30,” he said aloud, frustrated at how slow time felt during moments of
anguish.

  He
snapped the cover closed and shoved the watch back into his pants pocket once
more. Returned to his pacing, he gazed through the grove of birch trees, trying
to view the battle at his protected location. Barely visible, columns of smoke
and debris could be seen rising off the valley floor. The sight made him wonder
how the Confederates were faring, and if their own surgeon was also nervously
pacing.

  It
started as a low clicking sound, barely audible. At first Dr. Morgan thought it
might be cannon echoes reverberating off the mountains, but as the sound
persisted, he recognized the distinctive repetitive sound. It was the hooves
from a team of horses as they trotted. He strained his eyes in the direction of
the sound, but still saw nothing. He spun on his heels and ran toward the
operating wagon.

  “Ok,
men; we’re on,” Dr. Morgan called out in a deep authoritative voice. “Fetch my
smock,” he ordered a nearby private, who was sitting on the ground, sunning
himself.

  “Yes
sir,” the private quickly responded, hopping to his feet.

 
Moments later, the screams of pain could be heard as the driver hauled the
wounded over rocks, logs and uneven ground as he made his way through the birch
forest to the makeshift medical camp. He pulled into the clearing and rolled to
the waiting operating wagon.

 
Standing in their clean white smocks stood Dr. Morgan, assistant surgeon George
Fowler, Pvt. Douglas, who had been resting earlier, and Pvt. Cleveland. The
horses came to a halt with the rear of the ambulance just past the operating
wagon. Immediately, Dr. Morgan ran to the wounded and began his assessment.
There were three soldiers lying with their feet toward him. He quickly saw
Corporal Fletcher's leg and the pool of blood that had collected under it. As
he climbed up into the ambulance, the private driving the wagon met him in the
middle.

 
Pointing to the young boy of sixteen, he shook his head sadly and moved his
gaze to the private laying at the bottom of the wagon between the two gurneys.
The young private was still conscious and suffering terribly due to a bullet
that had penetrated his leg just below the knee and smashed through the bone,
leaving a gaping wound and shattered fragments embedded into the raw, mangled
flesh.

 
Assessing the situation, Dr. Morgan quickly pronounced the young boy dead, and
turned his attention to the two men still living. Feeling Corp. Fletcher had
the gravest injury, he motioned to the two privates to carry him to the
operating table. Immediately, the two lifted the gurney out of the ambulance
and over to the other wagon.

  As Dr.
Morgan cut away a portion of the corporal’s pant leg, Asst. George Fowler
prepared the chloroform. Dr. Morgan looked up while cutting and said, abruptly,
“Save it. He's unconscious. I'll have his leg off well before he ever wakes
up.”

  Asst.
Fowler stowed the chloroform and replied, “You think he'll ever regain
consciousness after this?”

  “I
do.” Dr. Morgan replied simply, then added, “Once I tie off those arteries, I
think he'll be ok; that is, if we can control the infection.”

  Asst.
Sgt. Fowler just nodded as he jumped down off the wagon and came around to the
back. He stood for a moment and awaited further orders.

 
Looking at the gruesome sight, Asst. Fowler watched as Dr. Morgan placed the
mechanical tourniquet just above the knee and over the femoral artery. With the
strap wrapping around the leg, he pulled hard to tighten the cloth band around
the skin. He then turned a large lever on the tourniquet to take in the excess
slack. Moments later, the blood that oozed from the wound slowed to a slight
trickle.

  Dr.
Morgan's hands were already covered in blood as he reached for his scalpel.
With his pant leg gone, Corporal Fletcher's right leg was fully exposed.
Starting at the top surface of the leg, Dr. Morgan began the amputation as he
explained the procedure to Asst. Fowler while he operated.

 
“Right, I know this is your first time, so I'll try to explain as much as
practicable. First we determine the point of incision closest to the wound. We
always try to leave as much of the amputated limb as possible. I'd say we could
safely amputate about an inch or so behind the wound,” Dr. Morgan said as he
placed the scalpel on the top of the leg.

 
Looking up at his assistant, then up to Corp. Fletcher to ensure he was
unconscious, he was now ready. “Right then. Start at the top, here,” he said,
pointing with the scalpel. “We pierce through the upper integuments – skin,
that is – cutting through the fascia and just into the muscle. This really
should be quite simple with him unconscious.”

  As he
explained, he pierced through both layers of skin and into the muscle as he
sliced from the top and worked his way around to the bottom, blood and fatty
yellow tissue immediately oozing from the laceration. At the bottom, he reached
around the leg, coming up from underneath on the opposite side and continued to
make his incision up the other side, ending at his first point of incision. The
two incisions were so quick, Asst. Fowler barely had time to comprehend.

  “Ok, I
need you to pull back the first layer as I cut down to the bone. Just be
careful of your fingers though. I'm moving pretty fast here and we don't want
an accidental amputation of any of your digits, ok?” Dr. Morgan asked.

  Asst.
Fowler nervously nodded his head and placed his unwashed fingers into the incision
and began to pull back on the skin, opening it wider for Dr. Morgan. As he did
this, he asked a question. “Sir, why don't we cut right down to the bone on the
first pass? Wouldn't it be faster?”

 
Looking up at his assistant, Dr. Morgan replied, “Good question, lad. We could
do this in one pass, but we lose the precision as we slice deep into the
muscle. The remaining stump usually ends up grossly disfigured, more so than is
acceptable, frequently leaving the appendage quite painful for use. The accepted
practice is the double incision, as we are doing now. We will produce a stump
that will retain more muscle tissue covering the bone, making it a less
painful, as well as a more useful appendage.”

  Asst.
Fowler nodded, then turned his attention to his fingers as he pulled the
incision open.

  Dr.
Morgan reached for a longer bladed scalpel. He inserted it into the bloody
tissue at the top, then angled the blade so that he would be cutting several
inches up and underneath his assistant’s hand, effectively cutting out a cone
shaped piece of muscle down to the bone. The first pass, the doctor sliced
deeply into the flesh, slicing though vein, muscle and tendons, hitting the
bone and increasing blood flow onto the table. As he was instructed, Asst. Fowler
pulled back the freshly sliced muscle as the doctor worked quickly.