Now, with more emphasis, the man called his name again: “DAVID!” Suddenly, the schoolyard snapped from his vision. There, standing in front of him on the other side of the operating table, was Dr. Morgan.
“David? Are you ok? You don't look well,” Dr. Morgan said.
Pulling himself out of his daydream, David refocused on the old doctor in front of him. “Sorry, doc. I must have been daydreaming,” David replied.
“Hmm. Lad, you need to get some rest. You've been going at it now for almost two days. I've got a tent set up behind the barn,” Dr. Morgan encouraged.
“Just one more and I'll take a break,” David replied.
“David, you've been saying that for hours,” Dr. Morgan responded.
Just then David and Dr. Morgan overhead a doctor on the other side of the room call out, “I ain't workin' on no Johnny Rebs. Bring me one of our boys”.
The doctor was in heated discussion with the sergeant who delivered the wounded young Confederate to his operating table. David could see the young man laying in agony from a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He knew that the resistant doctor had neither the skill nor the desire to save the dying man.
“I'll take him. Sergeant, bring him over here,” David shouted, having just finished with his own patient.
The angry doctor shot David a disapproving stare, turned and motioned a stretcher bearer to bring a different patient.
Dr. Morgan looked at David with disconcerting demeanor, then nodded in acquiescence. “Last one, son, then get some rest,” he said.
David smiled coyly at Dr. Morgan, then turned his attention to the young Confederate. The young man was suffering in agony. Pale from excessive blood loss and shock, David knew he needed to work quickly.
“What's your name, private?” David asked.
“Starnes, sir. John Starnes. Am I gonna die, sir?” the young Confederate asked, his voice barely audible.
“I'll do my best, John. Your wound looks pretty severe, but I won't be able to tell what we have until I get in there,” David replied truthfully.
The young Confederate closed his eyes and bravely tried to suppress the pain. As the chloroform was applied, David watched a tear stream down the young man’s cheek, the only sign of his intense fear and sadness. David placed his hand on the young man's shoulder and nodded to him in a gesture of reassurance. Moments later, David opened the gaping wound on the left side of the private’s belly and quickly went to work.
--- --- --- --- ---
David woke abruptly to the sound of wagons delivering more wounded. He stretched, then breathed in the foul stench of the mildewed canvas. Getting out of his cot, he crawled to the opening of the small tent and stood up outside. There was a cool breeze that blew in, bringing with it the smell of coffee and salt pork. David pulled out his pocket watch and noticed the time: 7:35.
“Wow, I guess I was tired,” he said to himself under his breath.
David made his way back into the farmhouse, stopping on the way to fill up his tin with coffee. Inside, the stench of blood and rotting wounds were now becoming oppressive, and David placed the coffee under his nose to help dilute the awful odor. He looked around and momentarily observed the action as he searched for Dr. Morgan. Room by room, David looked for the old doctor, but could not find him.
“Sir, are you looking for Doc Morgan?” asked a stretcher bearer of David.
“Yeah, you've seen him?” David asked, still a bit sluggish.
“He's in the infirmary,” the stretcher bearer replied.
“Thanks,” David replied, and quickly darted out of the farmhouse.
The infirmary was nothing more than a barn, devoid of any animals. Soldiers lay in stalls and hay lofts, squished together like sardines in a can, clinging to the hope of recovery, but all too frequently finding complication and tragedy. Nurses were nearly non-existent, and the ones that helped were grossly inept. These were the lucky few who recovered in such deplorable conditions. Others were not so lucky. Those that could not fit into the barn were laid outside on the ground to heal. Subjected to the cold of night, exposure to the elements, and even less post-operative care, most wounds became life or death struggles as they waited to be sent off by rail to distant infirmaries that offered improved attention to care, yet were breeding grounds for life-threatening diseases.
David entered the infirmary and searched each stall for the Dr. Morgan. As he did, he made checks of the wounded, taking their vitals, re-bandaging their wounds, and sometimes just providing idle chat as moral support. Soon the minutes ticked by and David had not heard or seen of his old friend.
He called out, “Doc, you in here?”
“Next stall over, lad,” Dr. Morgan replied.
David looked through the slats in the stall and could just see the familiar white beard that hugged the old doctor's face. David laughed to himself, then stood immediately and walked around to the next stall.
“Good morning, doc. I see you've barely left any for me. You should have woken me earlier. You must be exhausted,” David rattled off quickly.
“Don't worry, lad. There still days of work ahead of us. I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to overexert yourself once more,” Dr. Morgan replied in jest.
The two flashed each other a smile of camaraderie, then David noticed the color of the patient's uniform: gray. The same patient he had treated the day before. Dr. Morgan had just finished cleaning the wound and was now changing the bandage
“Need any help with that?” David asked politely.
“I better handle this one, David. People have a peculiar idea about us treating the enemy. Most don't take too kindly to it. I've been around for a while and people know my ways, so I can get away with it, but they may not grant you that same liberty. Better let me care for him with the ‘occasional’ advice from you when you see the need,” Dr. Morgan said, hoping David understood the inference.
David smiled coyly and replied, “Yes, I concur. Given the ‘circumstances’, I do believe your solution to be most appropriate.”
There was a quiet moment of understanding, then David spoke again. “So how is the patient doing this morning?”
“Well, lad, abdomen wounds are not my specialty, but I believe he is doing quite well under the circumstances. Why don't you have a quick look?” Dr. Morgan replied.
David leaned over and examined the wound, then took the young Confederate’s vital signs. Satisfied with the patient’s condition, he said, “I see some reddening around the wound, and his temperature feels a bit elevated, so I'm guessing he's fighting a bit of infection, not to mention the body’s general reaction to trauma. I see you've done a great job at keeping the wound clean, so there really isn't much more we can do.”
David looked at the young man's face, then back to Dr. Morgan. Concern spread across his face as he contemplated the fate of the young soldier. “Doc, after we fix him up, what will happen to him? Do they just take him out back and shoot or something like that?” David asked, using sarcasm to mask the reality of the situation.
Dr. Morgan answered directly, “He will go straight to a prisoner of war camp, where he will most likely die of complications from his wound.”
David was not expecting this blunt reply, nor was he expecting the grave outcome. In shock, he replied, “Well what the hell are we prolonging his agony for? Why don't we just slit his throat while he's still unconscious? Save him the pain of days, maybe weeks of misery before he dies.”
Calmly, Dr. Morgan replied, “I'm sorry, lad, but this is just the reality of war. We won't expend our resources on treating the enemy when we have limited resources to spend on our own men. On the other hand, he is a human being and we, you and I, won't just callously let him die. Our conscience won't abide by this. We will do our best to heal him in spite of protocol, and hope that he has the internal fortitude to overcome the rigors that lie ahead.”
“Man, this sucks,” David replied, letting his emotions get the better of him.
“Sucks? Wh
at is this term? I don't recall ever hearing it before,” Dr. Morgan asked.
“It's derogatory for 'suck my … whatever you choose',” David explained, having forgotten momentarily that he was using a 20th Century term in the 19th Century. “In short, it just means that you don't like what you are hearing.”
“Hmm, I see,” Dr. Morgan replied. “Between you and me, David, I don't plan on sending this man to an early grave just because he wears a gray uniform. I am a God-fearing man, and I don't believe the good Lord would approve of the technicality that war prescribes. All men are equal in his eyes, whether they wear a gray uniform or blue. In the end, when I meet him, I will have to answer for my actions. Being a man of God and a man of medicine, I will do my best to help all men equally. Therefore -” Dr. Morgan paused, looked around, then continued in a whispered volume, “Therefore, we will place him out of sight and heal him quietly. When he is able we will, of course, have to send him off with the other prisoners of war. This would not be the first time I have had to make the correct choices for those whose judgment is clouded by war.”
“Doc, I hope you don't mind me saying, but you are a good man,” David said, relieved by the outcome.
“Why would I mind you saying that?” Dr. Morgan replied, a bit confused.
“It's just a figure of speech,” David answered.
“Quite right, quite right,” replied Dr. Morgan. “For my records, would you happen to know what this young lad's name is?
“John Starnes. At least, that is what he told me before he went under,” David replied.
Dr. Morgan looked thoughtfully at the young, wounded private as he laid unconscious. Applying the finishing touches to the bandage, he said, “Well, Mister Starnes, I'd say you were a very lucky man. If it were anyone else attending to you, you'd be dead.” Dr. Morgan looked to David and said, “The ingratitude. Not even a thank you.”
David laughed a bit at the comic relief, then added, “Damn Rebs.”
Both men chuckled a bit, then made their way back to the old farmhouse for another long session of operating.
---- ---- ---- ---- ----
The hours turned into days and the days turned into weeks as the teams of medical personnel worked on the thousands of wounded soldiers. Among the Union wounded, many Confederate wounded were treated too, and kept under guard until they were deemed satisfactory for travel to prison camps. With each passing day, more wounded were transported from the crude confines of the old farmhouses and barns to the regular Union military hospitals.
David and Dr. Morgan kept a careful watch over the young John Starnes as his condition improved. Soon he was able to sit up on his own, and was making great strides toward walking. David knew that other Confederates with greater wounds were leaving for the prison camps. Pvt. Starnes' life was no longer in danger, and his health was improving by the day. With so many others with more pressing concerns, John Starnes' time had come. He would be leaving in the morning for prison.
---- ---- ---- ---- ----
The fire started out as a careless ember and was allowed to grow unchecked. Outside, the fire grew from the fire ring that boiled water for surgery, across the open yard and up the front porch of the old farmhouse. As the winds fanned the flames, it quickly grew out of control, carrying with it heavy smoke that signaled the first signs of trouble.
Inside the farmhouse, the oil lamps burned brightly, lighting the tables that held the wounded soldiers. The surgeons worked as they always worked; at a harried pace, racing against time as the effects of chloroform wore off. The stench of disease and rotting flesh hung heavy like a blanket as the doctors tried to concentrate on serious matters. As the smoke wafted into the farmhouse, at first the pleasant aroma of seasoned oak and birch soothed their senses as it masked other offending odors, but quickly, smoke began to fill the rooms, alarming all inside of the pressing danger that crept up the front porch.
In minutes, a call for help rang out, and all inhabitants evacuated the farmhouse. As the fire spread, every available man came to the rescue with buckets of water from the nearby creek. Although they worked feverishly, their efforts were in vain. As they extinguished one area, another raged out of control. Within minutes, the old farmhouse became completely engulfed in flames. One hour later, the farmhouse was reduced to nothing more than a pile of smoldering embers.
The reduction in operating facilities did not reduce the wounded. With many still in great need of medical attention, the doctors operated outside on the cold hard ground as best they could until morning, when they could better address the problem. After several hours, David's knees were too sore to continue. He found a small soft area in the infirmary with the recovering wounded, and laid down for a moment of much needed rest.
---- ---- ---- ---- ----
“Sergeant, search these stalls,” Lt. Decker ordered.
“Yes sir,” Sgt. Ripley replied.
Sgt. Ripley and a few of his men began to check the wounded soldiers of each stall. Many of them lay on their stomachs due to injuries from behind, and the rough searches by the sergeant's men at times produced cries of pain as the wounded were rolled over for identification.
David woke from his sound sleep upon hearing the screams from the stall across from him. He sat up and watched in horror as two soldiers roughly turned over a resting man and demanded his name and rank. Satisfied, they moved onto the next resting soldier. David immediately stood and ran to the aid of the next man in line of rough treatment. Grabbing one of the offending soldiers from behind, David stuck out his foot and hurled the man backward, tripping him over his leg and throwing him to the ground. Quickly, as he turned around, he saw the other soldier in question turn toward him. David looked down at the wounded man that had been roughly handled. He could still see the painful expression on his face from the moments before. Enraged by this injustice, David curled his fist and drove it into the offending soldier’s jaw, knocking him to the ground.
A few stalls away, Lt. Decker and Sgt. Ripley were discussing strategy when they saw two of their men being roughly handled by another soldier. Instinctively the lieutenant drew his pistol and ran toward David with Sgt. Ripley right behind him.
From inside the stall, David heard the rush of footsteps racing toward him. He quickly spun around to defend himself when he heard the lieutenant’s voice.
“Halt where you are, soldier, and present yourself,” Lt. Decker said as he approached David's stall.
Seconds later David and Second Lt. Decker stood face to face. He immediately recognized David as well as the first lieutenant’s bars on David's shoulders. Realizing that David outranked him, he quickly holstered his pistol and tried to address him.
David was in no mood for pleasantries, “What the HELL do you people think you're doing?” David yelled.
The startled lieutenant stammered a moment, trying to find an answer.
“I want an answer and I want it now, God dammit,” David yelled again, now even more inflamed at the lieutenant’s slow response. Before the lieutenant could answer, David continued, “Do you always make it a habit of roughing up the wounded boys who helped to save your sorry asses? These men are badly wounded. They are in pain, and the thanks they get is you morons inflicting further pain and suffering on them. I oughta have you assholes taken out and shot!”
David's red face and piercing dark eyes told the story of his anger. Rarely in his life had he felt such rage and contempt for anyone. He stared into the faces of the two men, now standing firmly at attention. He could see fear in their eyes. Suddenly, David realized his temper was out of control. He took a deep breath, spun around and walked a few paces away from the men. Regaining some composure, he turned back toward them and continued his interrogation.
“Ok, you. Sergeant, what are your men doing here roughing up the wounded?” David demanded, now standing only inches from the man's nose.
In shameful tone, the sergeant cleared his throat and began, “Sir, I am sorry. You are correct in your assessment.
We are indeed morons. We have no right to harm the men that we have fought beside. They deserve better treatment than this. As God watches over me, I will ensure that this never happens again.”
“Very good, sergeant. Way to suck up to the boss. Now, while I'm digging your nose out of my ass, why don't you enlighten me in just what the HELL you're doing here in the first place?” David retorted back acidly.
“Sir, if I may,” Lt. Decker delicately cut in.
David, glared at him for a moment in contempt, then nodded.
“Sir, during the fire last night, a few wounded prisoners escaped. We don't think they have gotten too far, but we need to search the grounds to be sure they're not here hiding amongst the other wounded,” Lt. Decker said. “As for the behavior you've just witnessed, I take full responsibility for the men beneath me. This won't happen again,” he finished in a subtle plea for leniency.
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