The Surgeon: A Civil War Story

by Schwartz, Richard Alan

  The Rabbi appeared surprised then asked, “Your thoughts?”

  “Along the lines of…how much horror can one mind endure…whether strong or not.”

  The rabbi smiled, “You’ve been thinking about this.” He nodded and stroked his beard. “This is an area of medicine painfully lacking in solutions.”

  “I try to accumulate information on the environment of soldiers who have lost their mental balance.”

  “Excellent…you’re working on helping them.” The Rabbi nodded with a smile then sighed. “It’s painful you lack respect.”

  “Most assuredly.”

  “My brother will be traveling to the Middle East in a number of weeks to visit the city of Hebron in Palestine. Have you heard of Menucha Rochel Slonim?”

  “No.”

  “She provides warmth, love and Torah wisdom to the women of Hebron. Perhaps you’d like to write her a note asking for a blessing? My brother would be honored to present it to her.”

  “Thoughtful of you Rabbi, but…”

  “What would it hurt? A small note in an envelope. No one sees it but you and her. Besides, I have a feeling she’d enjoy knowing you and what you’re accomplishing.”

  “You’ve met her?”

  “Yes. My wife and I have a sixteen-year-old son whose hips are twisted.” He sighed. “Max was born disabled. He suffers substantial discomfort when walking. During a trip to Hebron some years ago, my wife asked Menucha for a blessing to heal him.”

  “And?”

  “They had a long talk which I wasn’t privy to. When we returned home, my wife stopped acting like she and our son were suffering a punishment. My beloved spouse found new strength to take care of our crippled son and our other children. Suddenly, instead of coddling him, she expected the same good behavior and scholarship as our other three children.”

  “So Menucha didn’t heal him.”

  “As it happens, she realized my wife needed the healing.”

  “Your son?”

  The rabbi smiled with pride. “As his siblings before him, off to college.”

  “I don’t think I need healing.”

  “A little note…perhaps asking for strength or patience when dealing with your detractors…what would it hurt?” He shrugged then leaned toward her and said, “I fear your environment, as you put it, is more painful than you realize…which may lead to a deterioration of your mind”

  * * *

  A number of days and countless surgeries later, Abbey, pen in hand, wrote medical summaries at a small table in her tent. In addition, she put collected tissue samples in alcohol filled containers. They would be shipped to the Washington Medical Museum. Each was labeled with a description and the condition of the soldier. It was early evening. The last of the sun’s rays provided scant illumination. A single oil lantern on the table cast long shadows on the tent walls.

  “Dr. Kaplan,” the chief surgeon called from the opened entrance.

  “Come in, Doctor Fellows.”

  He stood across from her desk, wobbling slightly, obviously intoxicated. “I reviewed your notes from your surgical interventions of the last few weeks.”

  Abbey explained, “In your absence, I complied with the circular-two directive from the Surgeon General’s office concerning reports on each patient.”

  She put the back of her hand up to her nose as he reeked of cigar smoke and bourbon.

  “Yes, Yes. The circulars. I appreciate the effort you put into them but they don’t need so much detail.”

  “Circular-two requires it…we’re responsible to write and forward to the Medical Museum, detailed reports on all our patients.”

  “I know but we have so much to do, we don’t always have time…”

  “Circular-two isn’t a request. It’s a direct order…” She picked up a different document, “as spelled out in circular-five.”

  “Damn you. No one wants you here. You belong at home, raising a family…not pretending to be a man. The soldiers are all grumbling because they don’t want a woman doctor treating them.”

  Abby stood. At six-feet and nearly a head taller, she looked down at Dr. Fellows. With fury in her expression and an angry voice, she declared, “Seeing as the surgical patients are unconscious due to anesthesia, we won’t hear complaints from them.” She gave Doctor Fellows a long glare, raised her hands to her hips and spoke in a sarcastic tone. “Besides, I’m sure the chief surgeon, who holds the rank of major, won’t let resentment I’m female become a problem for his assistant surgeon, however briefly her stay may be.”

  Dr. fellows appeared momentarily flustered by her angry outburst then recovered enough of his own anger to mumble, “Well…don’t bet on that.”

  Dr. Fellows hesitated as if he was contemplating what he would say next. Now visibly trembling, he shouted through liquor scented breath, “Damn it. I’m a major. You don’t argue with me. I’m sure you enjoy knowing your name will appear in the museum’s records…”

  She interrupted. “As it specifies in circular-two, we’re doing it to put American medicine on a scientific basis.”

  Now rage was written in his face and demeanor. “God damn it.” He ripped his hat off and threw it on the ground. He shook a pointed finger in her face. “I’ve been a doctor since long before you were born. You’re doing this to make me look bad.”

  Abbey brought her hands to shoulder height, palms up. “By following the surgeon general’s orders?”

  “I don’t have time for asinine paperwork! Sending preserved samples to Washington is a bunch of crap.” He shook a fist at her then shoved a bunch of her papers off the desk. They fluttered to the ground. “I will not be made a fool.”

  Abbey struggled to maintain her composure. She spoke through gritted teeth. “If I’m the lead surgeon, as I was while you were…indisposed…then I’m responsible for compliance and I will do as ordered.”

  He ignored her response then shook his head. “Another thing. You will not, I repeat, not, open bodies of dead soldiers for any reason.”

  “Autopsies are recommended by Washington to enhance our learning of internal organs and their placement. We also preserve diseased tissue from autopsies for later examination.”

  “You get permission from me before you do any desecrations of soldier’s bodies.”

  Abbey turned away and folded her arms across her chest.

  His eyes widened and he suddenly seemed consumed with righteous anger. The chief surgeon’s entire body shook. “God in heaven. You…fucking…bitch, you’ve already been doing them.”

  Her head spun in his direction. She growled, “Yes. I have. I asked the recovery hospital to notify me of soldiers who died of erysipelas and gangrene plus gut-wounds so I could examine them.”

  The veins in his neck throbbed. “How dare you desecrate soldiers’ bodies!”

  “We can learn from them to help save others. I believe most soldiers would approve.”

  “How do you know? Did you ask them? You have permission from their families?”

  Abbey was filled with fury but spoke slowly and succinctly, “The soldiers’ deaths are tragic but we can learn from an autopsy so we can improve techniques and save other wounded. What better final service for a deceased soldier than to help his fellow soldiers survive their wounds?”

  He raged. “I’ve never needed autopsies to perform my work.”

  “I had little exposure to the inside of a human body during college.”

  “Because autopsy is illegal in most states. The rest of us manage to take care of our patients without it. As will you…Dr. Kaplan.”

  “Doctors who have the money, go to Paris where learning from cadavers is accepted practice. The more I know about the inside of the body, the more effective my surgical technique.” She glared at him and waved a pointed finger in his face. “You could learn from them as well.”

  The neck veins of the red-faced doctor visibly pulsed. He screamed, “You work for me, you fucking bitch! Who the hell do you think you are?”
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  Abbey shouted, “A recent graduate with much to learn and directives to comply with.”

  “While you’re learning, you’ll do what I say and you’ll not work in a way which makes me a…laughing stock.”

  A colonel appeared just outside Abbey’s tent. He shouted, “Major Fellows! Please join me out here.”

  Dr. Fellows, trembling and panting heavily, glared at Abbey for a second, retrieved his hat, jerked it onto his head then angrily spun on his heel and left the tent.

  She heard agitated whispers, the word bitch and the Lord’s name used in vain numerous times, then Dr. Fellows constantly repeating the words, “Yes Sir.”

  Abbey sighed, stared at the stack of papers on her desk and thought, “What am I doing here? I’m leered at, not respected by members of my team…not to mention the chief surgeon…and without a single friend to talk to.”

  She walked to and closed the entrance to her tent. “Isn’t it enough, I take the same risk as anyone else at a field hospital? I’m not respected because I have different genitals?” Abbey stared at the tent walls, slowly shaking her head then thought, “Wonder what Mom would say when gender becomes an issue?” She thought briefly, smiled and then laughed out loud as she heard Myra’s voice telling her, “Ask your detractors, how someone will provide the troops with better medical care because of a difference in their genitalia.”

  The doctor slumped onto her cot, leaned back and closed her eyes. She thought, “My goal in coming here was to learn more medicine. Particularly surgery.” She looked over the stack of reports and directives piled on her desk. “I’m achieving that…but the damned lack of respect is painful…well…I hear you Mom…to hell with the detractors. I’m not going to let it stop me. I came here to learn and that’s what I’ll do until they drag my butt out of here.”

  Abbey took a few more deep breaths, trying to relax then stretched her arm and back muscles. The doctor returned to her desk, adjusted the wick of her oil lamp and continued writing.

  Around midnight, she took out a sheet of paper to write a letter to her mother. Abbey thought for a while then put the paper away. “Mom doesn’t need to know how difficult things are and I certainly have little pleasant news to write about. When I have success to write about, I’ll put pen to paper.”

  Later that night, Abbey stood outside her tent looking at the stars when three soldiers came up to her. They saluted and a corporal said, “I believe you’re Doctor Kaplan?”

  “How can I help?”

  “A member of our squad is talking funny. Sgt. Scharf said we should talk to you.”

  A second man said, “We don’t think he’s getting any sleep.”

  “Is he injured?”

  “No, Ma’am.”

  “I doubt I have a cure for sleep disorders.”

  “If you got time Doc, we’d appreciate you looking at him.”

  Abbey nodded and said, “Lead the way but let me get a notebook from my tent first.”

  Another of the soldiers volunteered while they walked, “He and his brother got separated during a battle a few weeks ago. We walked over this rise and found the brother. He’d been blown in half and his face was all messed up.”

  They stopped in front of a man sitting on a small barrel. He was using a knife with a four-inch blade to whittle a small stick.

  “I’m Doctor Kaplan.”

  He stood, grinned and saluted. “Pvt. Dennis, Ma’am. What can I do for you?”

  She returned his salute. “Please sit down.” One of the soldiers quickly provided a stool so she could sit next to him. “Your friends are concerned about you.”

  “Thank you but I’m fine Ma’am.” He began whittling again.

  “I understand you lost someone.”

  “It’s a war. Loss of family members is going to happen.”

  “Your hand is bleeding.”

  He opened the hand which held the stick revealing a number of lacerations. “Must have been holding it too tight,” he said with a laugh.

  “Come to the medical tent. We’ll bandage your hand.”

  “I’ll be alright Ma’am.” He began whittling again.

  She stood. “Private, this is an order. Put down the knife and stick. One of your friends and I will accompany you to the medical tent.”

  The man dropped the items and jumped to attention. “Yes, Ma’am.”

  Abbey turned to his friends.

  One of them mouthed, “Thanks, Doc.”

  At the medical tent, Abbey cleaned his hand and Cpl. Silver began wrapping it. “How long have you been in combat, Private Dennis?”

  With pride in his voice, he stated, “Since First Bull Run, Ma’am.”

  “Are you having trouble sleeping?”

  “Occasionally. But I’m alright.”

  “Sad about your brother.”

  “He’s fine.”

  Abbey watched his eyes. He seemed to be communicating with someone behind her and Cpl. Silver but no one was there.

  She asked, “What do see?”

  “James. My brother.”

  Abbey hesitated then asked, “Is he talking to you?”

  “Sure. Talks to me all the time.”

  “Private, I’m going to keep you here so you can get a good night’s rest.”

  “No, Ma’am. We might be going into combat and my squad needs me.”

  “You need to sleep.”

  He started fidgeting; not knowing where to put his hands.

  “I won’t. I mean I can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I get this…” The man began to tremble.

  “This what?”

  “James. Tell her why I can’t close my eyes.”

  “Corporal. Listen to me. James is not here. He died.”

  The man laughed. “No…ain’t true. Ma said we must watch out for each other…I promised her. He’s my little brother and I wouldn’t…” he glanced past her. “Tell her, James.”

  “Private, tell me why you can’t sleep.”

  “I’ll see…” His trembling increased and the color drained from his face.

  “What?”

  “Shit. Terrible shit.”

  “Like what?”

  The man’s eye’s went wide as an expression of terror spread across his face. He screamed and leaned back, crossing his arms in front of his face as if trying to ward off a terrifying apparition. Abbey grabbed his wrists and yelled his name. The private abruptly quit trembling, his eyes seemed to glaze over. The soldier’s arms slowly went limp, then dropped to his sides; his expression went blank. He stared straight ahead.

  “Pvt. You’ll see what?”

  She shook his shoulders. “Private Dennis? Talk to me.”

  Abbey thought for a minute then slapped his face. There was no reaction. She tried harder; hard enough to leave red marks on his cheek, but still no reaction from the soldier.

  The doctor turned to his squad mate. “You can head back to your unit. He appears exhausted. We’ll send him to the recovery hospital and see if rest will help.”

  “Speaking of which, you look exhausted yourself, Doc.”

  * * *

  When Abbey arrived in her tent a few weeks later, a letter from Hebron was on her desk.

  “Dearest Doctor Abbey Kaplan, Just enjoyed reading your letter. Your diligence, hard work, and devotion to your patients has strengthened my spirit. People have been telling me to slow down, as now I’m sixty-six. However, having been inspired by the example of your work ethic, I will find the strength to do more for my community.

  I’ve told my friends of your dedication to medicine and specifically surgery. You’ve strengthened our resolve to perform mitzvot. Every Shabbat, we will say a Mi Sheberach for your patients and light an extra candle until the war between the states ends. I hope you find time to light Shabbat candles as well. The world always needs more light. Please know, the women of Hebron are praying for you.

  Remember, Dr. Abbey, even when you seem alone, the Lord is with you. As you are perfor
ming such good works, I know He will send you the appropriate assistance.

  When you have time, I’d love to hear from you again. Love from Hebron, your friend, Menucha.”

  Abbey stared at the letter then leaned back and closed her eyes. She smiled and thought, “How ironic. Women half way around the world are supporting me.”

  * * *

  Four-weeks later Dr. Kaplan was again performing the role of lead surgeon.

  “Only gut-shot patients out there,” Lt. Scharf said, after seven-hours of surgery.

  Abbey finished cleaning her instruments then said, “Bring one in.”

  A soldier was placed on the table with a wound to his lower-right abdomen. Abbey inspected the injury. “I’ll remove the ball, clean the wound of debris and attempt to repair the torn intestine.”

  She worked feverishly for over an hour.

  “Find another gut-shot patient.”

  Lt. Smith asked, “Aren’t gut-wounds always fatal?”

  “NOW!” she shouted.

  Abbey attempted repair of three more abdominal wounds.

  * * *

  At the recovery hospital five-days later, Abbey examined the gut-shot patients. One was near death, one was suffering terrible pain, and both their wounds wept pus. She cleaned the wounds as best she could then asked, “Where’s the third and fourth men?”

  “Down there,” a nurse said. “One’s doing better but the other is in lots of pain and the same as these men.”

  Abbey walked to the man’s side and lifted the sheet covering his injury.

  The man moaned.

  Her jaw dropped. His repaired gut-wound was healing. The area wasn’t warm to the touch nor showed signs of infection. Dr. Kaplan applied gentle pressure on the area above his appendix.

  “Don’t,” the soldier screamed.

  She turned to the nurses. “I need chloroform, alcohol, and my surgical instruments.”

  Two nurses ran from the ward but returned quickly.

  The nurses prepped the man for surgery. Abbey, after cleaning her instruments, removed his appendix.