Tear In Time

by Petersen, Christopher David

  “Call it,” he mumbled quietly.

  As Nurse Edwards called the time of death, he stood motionless as he watched the lifeless body of the young girl. His mind raced as he stared at the carnage in front of him. He thought about the smiles she must have displayed just a few hours before. He thought about the hugs her mom must have given her that morning, and the pain the parents would be feeling forever. He thought about her violent death and the injustice of it all. Deeply saddened and sickened by the grievous sight, he could stand no more. He turned and walked out the OR doors, oblivious to all, in a state of shock and disbelief. With his gown soaked in blood and his gloves dripping a red path behind him, he made his way down the corridor toward the elevator. In a blurred and confused state, he was unable to hear his name being called as he walked.

  Standing in front of the elevator, he pushed the button. Instantly, the doors sprung open. He looked back up the hallway to Nurse Edwards, who was calling his name, but heard nothing. As if in slow motion, he stepped in and the doors slowly closed behind him.

  “Dr. Warner! Dr. Warner, stop!” Nurse Edwards called as she ran down the corridor toward the elevator.

  Too late. She watched as the doors closed behind him. As she stared at the bloody footprints that seemed to vanish through the elevator doors, she caught a slight movement with her peripheral vision. Looking up, she watched with sadness as a droplet of blood pooled, then slid down from the elevator button. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out a tissue and reverently wiped off the sad remains of the young victim, imprinting in her memory, forever, the pain of the senseless tragedy.

  In a daze, Dr. David Warner stood in the middle elevator and stared through an old photo hanging on the back wall. As the metal doors closed behind him, he felt a small shudder, then a slight drop as he momentarily became weightless as the elevator began to descend. Ignoring the fact that he had not pressed a floor to descend to, he felt any place but the OR was a good place. He just wanted to forget.

  Slowly the elevator descended. As David struggled to free his mind of tragedy, his eyes began to focus on the picture in front of him. Slowly at first, then more detailed as he descended, the photo came into focus. He was no longer staring through the photo, but directly at it. Somehow it helped to soothe the pain that gnawed away at his soul.

  The photo was an antique, a reflection of the past; a unique display of history that showed how Elanger Hospital came to pass. The photo was of a group of civil war doctors standing over a patient after a recent amputation. At its center was the patient, laying on a makeshift gurney built from an old wooden wagon, sedated and bandaged, with his lower right leg, a stump, resting and on display as a testimony to the doctors’ abilities. Standing behind the patient, dressed in uniform with their bloody smocks still fastened to them, several military doctors stood proudly for the photo. Hardened and determined, their faces were devoid of all expression, save for one - pride.

  At the left side of the photo sat an old man on a rickety stool. With his white flowing beard and hair, he looked much older than his more distinguished-looking colleagues. He too wore a bloody smock, and his face also carried the expression of pride. Yet something else shone through in the old man’s eyes – wisdom. While the others looked into the camera, he looked beyond it, as if deep in thought and oblivious to its presence. He appeared somewhat accidental to the photo’s purpose. At the bottom of the photo, David read the inscription: Original site of Elanger Hospital, 1862.

  David gazed upon the doctors in the photo. He looked at the bandage, bulbous and barbaric on the poor soldier’s leg. A feeling of contempt swept over his body.

  “Huh. A hundred and fifty years of progress and we still can’t save ’em,” he shouted out irrationally, his fists clenched in anger and still encased in bloody gloves.

  Then, in a fit of rage, he punched the picture on the wall, the glass shattering and dropping to the floor of the elevator, cracking the cheap plastic frame. The sound of shattering glass and cracking plastic snapped him back to reality. He bent over and picked up the old photo, leaving the broken shards of glass still at the floor of the elevator. He began to replace the picture on the bent hook when he felt his knees begin to buckle slightly as the elevator began to slow to a stop.

  A moment later, David heard the sound of a bell as the elevator settled into its floor. Suddenly, he saw his gloved hands, sticky with drying blood, holding the framed picture held out in front of him. He looked down at his gown and realized he was covered in blood, a fact that had escaped his attention moments before.

  As the mechanized sound of the heavy metal doors signaled their opening, he felt a light balmy breeze brush by his neck. The air suddenly felt dense, as if the relative humidity dramatically increased. A strange yet familiar odor drifted from behind him and penetrated his nostrils. Turning around to investigate, he stiffened and froze in place.

  As his eyes took in the sight before him, his mind struggled to make sense of the scene beyond the doors of the elevator. His heart began to pump wildly and his whole body shook. He felt he was dreaming: but never before had a dream felt so real.

  “Hey, you. Come here. I need you to hold his leg,” David heard just outside the door of the elevator.

  David squinted at first, then rubbed his eyes and refocused on the vision before him. There, several yards away, he watched as a man dressed in a blue military uniform stood over another man laying on a wooden gurney. The man standing looked familiar to him, and he searched his mind to make the connection.

  “Hey, come here. I need your help now. I’m almost finished,” the voice called again from beyond the elevator door.

  David looked around inside the elevator, then over to the control panel. At the bottom of the panel, a circular button labeled “G” was highlighted. He thought it strange that he ended up at the ground floor, as he had not pushed any of the buttons on the panel. He turned back to the scene that was unfolding in front of him. The light, balmy breeze was still blowing in his face, and the strange odor, now foul and offensive, still penetrated his nostrils.

  David watched in fascination as he realized the military man beckoning him was, in fact, a doctor performing crude surgery on the other man laying unconscious on the wooden gurney. Suddenly it dawned on him. The man standing before him was the same man in the picture. David looked at the picture in his hands, then back at the man beyond the elevator. He was indeed the doctor; the older-looking man with a white flowing beard and hair.

  “Wow. This is one strange dream,” David said out loud.

  He felt confused by the vision.

  “Whoa, I’m seeing color in this dream. How is this possible?” he asked of no one in particular.

  “Are you just going to stand there or are you going to help me?” the old doctor called out to David in frustration.

  David thought about answering him, but thought it to be silly. ‘It’s just a dream,’ he thought to himself. Then, reconsidering, he rationalized to himself, ‘What would be the harm?’

  David called to the old man, “What do you want me to do?”

  “Tear that cloth into strips,” the old doctor responded immediately, pointing to a mound of cloth on the grass at the foot of the wagon.

  At first, David hesitated. Something in his gut was telling him not to go. He felt paralyzed with indecision, but then, throwing caution to the wind, he stepped forward. As he passed through the doorway of the elevator and stepped out onto the grass, time seemed to slow for a moment. He heard voices and sounds as if they were being played to him at half speed. He turned and looked back into the elevator, but strangely, he saw only its interior: the hospital he expected to see housing it was not there.

  David turned and took a step onto the grass. Time seemed to resume its normal speed. He suddenly heard the deafening sounds of thunder and recognized the foul stench of rotting flesh. He turned to look back at the elevator, but it was no longer there: only grass and birch trees, which partially obstructed the war th
at raged off in the distant valley.

  “What the hell?” David said out loud, as a wave of fear and confusion spread through his body.

  “Son, I really need your help here,” David heard, as the old voice shouted from behind him.

  David turned and looked at the old doctor, then back at the spot of grass that used to be the elevator. Suddenly, a loud clap of thunder sounded just beyond the birch trees, shaking the ground under his feet. He heard screams of agony and realized that the sounds he’d been hearing were not thunder after all, but were in fact artillery explosions.

  Instinctively, David ran toward the old doctor, frantically searching for cover as he closed the distance. The old doctor, seeing the intense fear in David’s eyes, quickly recognized the developing problem. He pulled away from his patient and moved quickly to intercept David in flight.

  “Whoa, son! Steady. You’re in no danger,” the old doctor called to David as he ran to him and grabbed his arms, reassuring him of his safety.

  “Those are bombs. They’re trying to kill us,” David replied, almost hysterical.

  The doctor casually looked beyond David at the raging war, then back into his eyes, and replied, "Well, I suppose they are, but we're out of range of their artillery."

  He scratched the top of his head with his bloody fingernails and continued, "I guess a wild bullet could accidentally find us up here, but it's not likely,"

  He then took a long look at David's clothes. A confused expression crossed his face as he spoke. "That is quite an unusual uniform you have on. What outfit are you from?"

  "Outfit?" David replied, still in a deep state of shock.

  "Outfit, lad. What outfit are you from? Who's your commanding officer?" the old doc questioned with a bit of suspicion, then added, "Don't tell me you're gray?"

  David was about to speak when another shell hit a bank just beyond the birch trees, startling both he and the old doctor. With a quick look over David's shoulder, then back to his patient on the wooden wagon, the doctor refocused on his duty.

  "This way, lad. We have work to do," the old doctor said, as he extended his hand in the direction of the patient as an invitation for David to follow him.

  Quickly, they walked back to the wagon, with the doctor leading the way. Once at the patient’s side, the old doctor instructed, "I need you to tear those rags into thin strips so I can finish bandaging this poor lad’s stump before he comes to. Lord knows he'll be suffering enough when he wakes without us fidgeting with his bandage, so be quick with your work."

  David pulled off his rubber gloves and tucked them into his pocket. With his mind struggling to make sense of the situation, he reached down and began to tear the cloth into strips in an effort to buy himself time to sort through the complexities of his dream. His mind raced from one topic to the next, never answering his questions as each problem became a Pandora’s Box of other unanswerable questions, distracting and derailing him from solving anything. As he looked around, he could hear the cries of agony, the sounds of war, the smell of death, and suddenly he realized that this was no dream. This was real. He was now existing in another era in time: the Civil War – the 1860s.

  As he tore off each strip of cloth, he handed it to the old doctor, who used it to secure the amputee's bandages in place. As he worked, the old doctor began to interrogate his new assistant.

  "I see you've been in surgery already. I don't recall another medical unit around here. Where did you come from?" the old doctor asked casually as he worked.

  David searched his mind for an answer that would be suitable for the old man. He knew he couldn't say he was from the future. Quickly he devised a cover story until he could make sense of his dilemma.

  "I have medical training and thought I could be of use,” David replied, hoping his answer would suffice.

  “Uh huh, and where did you come from? Allow me to be more direct. Are you gray or blue?” the old doctor asked without breaking his concentration.

  “Doctor, I am neither. I am just a medically trained individual who wants to lend a hand to these poor boys,” David replied.

  “Young man, are you a deserter?” the old doctor asked bluntly.

  “No, sir. I am not in the military,” David responded.

  He knew the questions would keep coming and that he needed to find a better reason for his presence. He then had an idea.

  “Doctor, the truth is I need a job. I’d like to join the military to in order to practice medicine. I am a very skilled practitioner and feel I can be of real use here,” David finished, hoping he hadn’t overplayed his abilities.

  “Hmm, skilled practitioner you say? Where were you trained? Are you a doctor?” the old doctor said, continuing his interrogation.

  “Yes, I am a doctor. I was trained in New England at Harvard University. Have you heard of it?” David asked, unsure if his Ivy League alma mater wouldn’t raise even more suspicion.

  “Harvard you say? Hmm. We are short-staffed here, to be sure. My assistants mean well but are bumbling country boys, if you understand my inference,” the old doctor said as he winked at David.

  “Completely, doctor,” David replied back with a smile of understanding.

  “Well, doctor, do you have a name?” the old doctor asked, now warming to David a bit.

  “Yes sir. My name is Dr. David Warner. May I ask what your name is?” David responded in kind.

  “Certainly. My name is Jebadiah Morgan,” Dr. Morgan replied, his modesty eliminating fancy titles from his name.

  He tied the last bandage and lifted his head. With piercing eyes, he stared directly into David’s. Slowly, he extended his hand in greeting.

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, David. Now, if you will indulge me a while, I’d like to see your abilities. I have a young man waiting amputation I’d like you to attend to. If you prove your skill, I will consult with Gen. Negley regarding employment. Is this accord satisfactory?” Dr. Morgan asked with blunt sincerity.

  “Where's the patient?” David replied, trying to contain his confidence.

  Dr. Morgan signaled to the private to bring up the next patient. As they waited, he showed David to his station, pointing out the instruments he'd be operating with, as well as suturing materials and bandaging. David viewed his crude operating environment with shock. He hadn't thought about it until that moment, but he was trained to operate in a highly technical environment. This was as primitive as he could imagine. He wasn't sure he could do it.

  Dr. Morgan sensed David’s apprehension and said, “Son, are you sure you're up for this?”

  “It's a bit more primitive than I'm used to, but I can manage,” David replied.

  “Son, I don't want you to manage. I want you to perform as a trained operator. These young men deserve more than a butcher or a charlatan. If you are either, please speak the truth,” Dr. Morgan stated boldly and with conviction.

  “Doctor, I can assure you my skills as a surgeon are more than adequate. I just need a moment to acclimate myself to an environment I'm not accustomed to,” David replied with a bold and confident tone, in an effort to reassure Dr. Morgan.

  As the assistants laid the next patient on the wooden wagon, David could see the agony of the young soldier and immediately began his assessment.

  Without the basic equipment to understand the patient’s vital signs, David could only make limited observations. He quickly took the patient’s pulse and determined it to be weaker than normal. Next, he checked pupil dilation and reaction with a match. Satisfied, he then examined the patient's mouth, tongue and skin for dehydration and color. He observed that his skin color was pale and felt clammy. In addition, the young man seemed somewhat withdrawn and lethargic. Trying not to move the traumatized leg too much, he moved it only slightly, cutting away the pant leg. He observed that a large caliber bullet had indeed passed through the calf, but had left a gaping wound upon exiting. David determined that with careful cleaning and repair, the leg could be saved, although without an
tibiotics, the post treatment would be problematic.

  David immediately bent the young man's undamaged leg at the knee, leaving the traumatized leg laying flat. He then moved to the front of the wagon, grabbed a blanket, and draped it over the patient.

  "Dr. Warner, what is your assessment?" Dr. Morgan questioned with concern.

  "The patient is suffering from mild hypovolemic shock. I am making some effort to stabilize him before invasive surgery. The large bore bullet has indeed left a great deal of trauma to the calf, but I believe I can save the leg."

  David recalled from his courses in school that the anesthesia of choice during this period was chloroform.

  He continued, "Do we have the chloroform ready?" David asked.

  "Doctor, I must protest. His leg is too badly damaged. We must remove it before gangrene develops," Dr. Morgan said.

  "I've examined the wound and feel it is relatively clean, thanks to his pant leg protecting the trauma. After a proper cleaning, I can repair the muscle, veins and arteries, but will need a strong cleansing solution and freshly boiled water. I believe he will have some degree of infection, but the chance of gangrene is much lower than you might think," David replied.