Tear In Time (27 page)

  During
the night, both armies consolidated their lines. In spite of crippling
casualties, Lee continued to skirmish with McClellan throughout the 18th, while
removing his wounded south of the river. McClellan did not renew the assaults.
After dark, Lee ordered his battered Confederate army to withdraw across the
Potomac into the Shenandoah Valley.

  More
men were killed or wounded at Antietam on September 17, 1862, than on any other
single day of the Civil War. Federal losses were 12,410; Confederate losses
10,700. Despite being outnumbered two-to-one, Lee committed his entire force at
the Battle of Antietam, while McClellan sent in less than three-quarters of his
Federal forces. McClellan’s piecemeal approach to the battle failed to fully
leverage his superior numbers, and allowed Lee to shift forces from threat to
threat, fighting the battle to a draw.

---- 
----  ---- ----

  David
winced as he looked down at his blood-soaked hands. After hours spent in blood,
David's hands had shriveled up like old prunes, becoming deep with wrinkles
that were now hyper-sensitive to the slightest touch. As he reached for his
scalpel, he noticed his hands shaking. David glanced at a clock on the
fireplace mantel: the black painted hands read 12:58 against the white face.
David's mind drifted a bit, then he pulled it back and quickly calculated that
he'd been operating non-stop for thirty hours without sleep. He felt exhaustion
on a level that he had never felt before. His body and mind seemed to be
running in slow motion. David knew the signs of overload, but had ignored them
hours ago. Now his body was screaming for rest. Again, he looked at the clock.
The brass pendulum drummed its steady beat and held David's attention momentarily.

  The
last rifle shot had sounded nearly twenty hours ago, signaling the end of the
battle, yet David could still hear the dull echoing of rifle and artillery fire
ringing in his ears. Staring through the clock now, his mind drifted off. He
began to see pleasant images of his childhood, images of friends and children
at play. As the images came to life, they brought with them a time of peace and
contentment. David watched in fascination, the images of himself and his
friends swinging in his old school yard. He could see the smiles and the
laughter that characterized the carefree mind of young boys of ten. As his mind
drifted deeper, the echoing of gunfire was replaced by the sound of the
children's voices discussing outrageous and humorous topics; topics that
included space travel to distant planets, feats of superhuman strength, their
fathers, and their dislike of the opposite sex. David smiled slightly as he
fell into a euphoric state, his eyes still staring through the brass pendulum.
Suddenly, he heard the schoolyard bell sound, and watched as each child pumped
their legs one last time, then jumped from the swing, landing in the soft sand
in front of them. David's smile continued as he watched the children race
across the playground, the steady ’clang‘ of the bell beckoning them to come
in.

  The
bell rang loud and clear, as if he were there on the playground. With each
‘clang’, the sound grew louder and louder, almost at a painful pitch, and David
began to feel agitated. The sound was becoming deafening to him, ringing in his
ears. Off in the distance, David saw a man standing at the edge of the school,
trying to shout over the sound of the bell. He strained to hear the man, but
could not make out what he was saying.

 
Suddenly, in an instant, the bell stopped. “David,” the man shouted from the
edge of the school. David could hear the man clearly now. Again, the man
shouted out his name: “David!” David's mind fought to make sense of this
strange event. The man in his daydream was calling his name. David tried to
answer, but could not move his lips, nor utter a simple sound.

  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.