Crashing? Can we still make Atlantic City?, Page 3

Chattanooga, Tennessee,

  June 7, 1862 – 8:30am

  The Tennessee River quietly flowed south and west as it made its way past Missionary Ridge, toward the city of Chattanooga. The April rains were now a month past and the wild and raging torrent that threatened to breech the swollen banks was now a gentle lazy river that quietly meandered its way through the valley. The muddy water that had angrily lapped the river’s banks receded some, leaving heavy, waterlogged brush and debris drying in the morning sunshine.Soft and tranquil, the water trickled past the fallen branches that scraped the surface of the river, catching any unsuspecting object that dared to tempt its grasp.

  Flowing placidly south into the city, the river touched the edge of civilization, then abruptly changed course and headed north, past Signal Mountain. Several miles later, changing course once more, it looped around the mountain and continued its previous direction south, carrying with it the tiny bits and fragments of an industrialized city hard at work.

  Sitting patiently on an elevated boulder, a young boy hung his makeshift fishing pole over the water in an attempt to catch his breakfast. Looking toward the city, he could see the tall smoke stacks that emitted the evidence of men toiling at work. A light, gentle breeze blew across the valley of high plains grasses, carrying with it the fragrance of fresh cut hay and wildflowers. The breeze brushed past his face, filling his tiny nostrils with the scent of nature, and sending warm contentment throughout his body as the sun shined down upon him. He reveled in his independence as he envisioned other boys suffering through school while he enjoyed his day of truancy.

  Further up river, leaving the city limits, a raft made from hastily hewn logs of birch were haphazardly strung together with cord and vine, creating an unstable, yet functional mode of travel. Dirty and bedraggled, the two aged trappers floated downstream, extending into the water, long poles made from pine saplings, skillfully placed to navigate the many bends in the river on the way to their next destination.

  Inside the city limits, at the sharpest bend in the river, a small force of Confederates guarded the main dock and prepared to unload supplies. In the morning sun, under the direction of the regimental captain, the men formed a human chain that led from boat to horse-drawn wagons. Hand over hand, they passed the goods and ammunition from one soldier to the next in sequence, until the final soldier arranged and stacked the supplies neatly in the back of the wagon. At this hour of the day, the sun sat lower in the cloudless sky, warming the temperatures to a comfortable seventy degrees. If it were not for their thankless duty to task, the soldiers would normally have enjoyed the balmy climate. As it was, their heavy labor created torrents of salty sweat that streamed down their faces, and soaked through their cotton shirts and heavy gray uniforms. When the wagon had been completely filled, the driver snapped the reins to the team of horses and started off to their encampment, whereupon the next driver in line took his place for loading.

  Beyond the dock, a local merchant swept off the elevated wooden walkway in front of his General Store. A small cloud of dust rose in the air as he briskly cleared away the caked mud that had collected between the wide spacing of the wooden boards that ran the length of the street. At the rear entrance, a young man helped load heavy sacks and other supplies into a waiting wagon to be delivered to a local resident.

  Further up the boardwalk, the blacksmith and livery were hard at work, attending to the needs of the community as well as those of the Confederate officers that had entrusted their belongings to their care.

  At the center of the industrious town, off the open green, the one room schoolhouse bustled with activity and the sound of children’s voices, as they recited passages pulled from the important authors of the day, such as Twain, Thoreau, Dickens and Blake, each child’s voice as distinctive as the passage they read.

  Beyond the main thoroughfare, on the secondary and tertiary roads, tiny houses dotted the roads leading out of town. Hung on public display, tiny diapers, socks, shirts, dresses and other freshly washed articles of clothing were draped over the makeshift clotheslines and pinned in place with wedges of wood, and allowed to dry in the brilliant sunshine as the matron of the home moved through her chores of the day.

  This day began as any other day: monotonous and routine, men, women and children alike, functioning in their singular importance while contributing to the whole of their society. Unsuspecting and mostly indifferent to the violent world beyond their borders, they went about their lives, contented in their own daily struggles.

  --- --- --- --- ---

  On the opposite side of the river, hidden in the dense thicket and underbrush, several companies of Union sharpshooters lay in wait. Quietly and undetected, they had moved to the river’s edge, sneaking in under the protection of darkness. Perfectly concealed, they laid on their stomachs and waited for their signal. They watched in anxious fascination as the Confederates on the opposite side of the river worked to unload their delivered supplies. With their rifles aimed at their targets, they whiled away the time by calculating windage and elevation. Time seemed to slow as they waited on their signal of death. At two hundred yards away, they were well aware of their ability to hit their mark. Spread out shoulder to shoulder, they presented a menacing sight.

  The wait seemed to go on forever. Shifting their weight from side to side, they tried to alleviate their discomfort. As their arms and legs fell asleep, they shook them out, recirculating the blood through their extremities, gaining the feeling in their hands and feet once again. For an unlucky few, insects presented more of a distraction than the lack of feeling in their limbs. With regularity, ants returning to their nest would find their passage blocked by the hulking mass in blue. Upon investigation, the ants angrily attacked any bare skin, biting and pinching in a futile attempt to drive away the enemy. Their feeble assault was met with equal aggression as the soldier swatted and crushed his irritating attackers.

  Time was their enemy. Waiting quietly in the underbrush, each soldier pondered his own fate. Any attempt to push the morbidity from their minds proved fruitless, as they watched the enemy in their sights, reminding them again of the possibility of their own forthcoming violent death. Searching for solace, they turned to their companions, whispering inquiries about families and future.In return, they received warm reassurance as the sound of their comrade’s whisper helped to sooth their deep worry. Having sat through the bite of cold as they crawled in under darkness, hunger pangs from lack of food, and the contemplation of death, the Union volunteers of the 79th Pennsylvania were ready and determined to complete their task.

  Up in the foothills, away from the edge of the river, the Union artillery waited on their orders from Gen. James Negley. High on his horse, barrel-chested and confident, he posed an impressive figure. He sat pensively and observed the scene below. Lifting his spyglass to his eye, he continued to look for weakness and opportunity. With an authoritative voice, he redirected cannons down the line to specific targets as he developed his impromptu battle plan.

  As the Union soldiers manned their stations of artillery, they looked out over the valley at the Confederate soldiers drilling in formation in an open field far on the opposite side of the river. Several cannons were already directed toward them, but with a quick nod of his head, Gen. Negley ordered additional cannon support on that location. Feeling somewhat detached from the Confederates’ impending doom, they obeyed their orders and indifferently aimed the deadly weapons at the center of the field.

  Standing by their designated cannon, each soldier mentally prepared himself for the battle. At their elevated position, and protected by the river, they all felt relatively safe: that is, safer than their comrades below by the river. They had survived the previous year’s battles, and were well seasoned in their trade. They knew there would be casualties, but felt relatively sure that with the element of surprise, the battle would be fairly one-sided. They looked down at their comrades who had crept up to the river's edge just before dawn. A sense of sadness and an
xiety come over them, knowing they were in harm’s way. Any retaliation by rebel forces would start with them. Well-hidden in the thickets, the Confederate soldiers would have a tough time distinguishing the exact locations of each Union soldier. The Confederates would hear the sound of the Union rifles and fire in that direction. Most of the boys in blue would be lucky, and escape the wild and harried volleys of lead. Some would not.

  The previous day, June 6th, Dr. Jeb Morgan prepared one of the supply wagons as a makeshift operating table in preparation for the impending battle. As a commissioned medical officer in the regular Union army, he held the rank of Captain. Serving in the military for most of his life, he was no stranger to the horrors that warfare could bring. His battlefield experience was extensive, having served in the Mexican-American War of 1846-1848, various Indian campaigns, and now the War Between the States.

  Dr. Morgan was a short, stout, older man of sixty, with a full head of white hair, a long, white, flowing beard, and piercing blue eyes. Having dodged Mexican bullets and fought hand to hand with Indians, he possessed an inner strength and courage, as well as intelligence, that were uncommon for most, distinguishing himself for his skill with a firearm as well as a scalpel. Recognized for his abilities, he had been offered lofty positions at comfortable hospitals of his choosing, yet rejected the honor, preferring instead to remain in the field, saving a greater number of lives; much to his superior’s dismay.

  Far behind the Union front line, the doctor had searched for a suitable location to operate. In a protected grove of birch trees, he found a large flat area with lush green grass. As the principal surgeon for the brigade, it was his job to ensure a site that was far enough from the action to allow for undistracted work, yet close enough to the front lines for quick evacuation and treatment. Ordinarily, Dr. Morgan preferred the protected confines of houses and barns, commandeered from private citizens at the onset of battle. With the battle for Chattanooga started from a location far removed from civilization in order to preserve the element of surprise, the wooded clearing would have to suffice.

  The previous day, while Gen. Negley prepared his battle plan, Dr. Morgan scoured the foothills near Signal Mountain on horseback. As he rode up through the rolling terrain, the trees and vegetation became less dense, allowing him to catch glimpses of the city. Leveling off, he rode through the forest of white birch, weaving a path around the denser areas until he found the clearing.Immediately, he recognized the qualities of the find. He deduced the small field would allow for bright light to operate by, and the trees at the clearing’s edge would provide comfortable shade to the wounded as they recovered. It wasn’t perfect, but he felt he had worked in worse conditions while fighting in the west. This would certainly be more tolerable – as long as the good weather held.

  After locating the medical encampment, Dr. Morgan quickly summoned a wagon to be used as an operating gurney and prepared his instruments. With the canopy removed, he neatly arranged his supplies on the right side, along the length of the wooden side-bracing. Within arm’s reach, he placed his instruments first; a basin and canteen of water next; then cotton batting and other bandages last. At the head of the wagon, he arranged the necessary supplies for the assistant, such as chloroform, bandages, and morphine in powder form, as well as opium as an analgesic. With the preparation for surgeries in place, he rejoined the front lines, offering his assistance where he could, leaving an assistant to watch over their makeshift hospital in his absence.

  The following day, June seventh – the day of the battle – Dr. Morgan woke early after a restful night's sleep under one of the many cannons aimed at the city. He was offered a tent for accommodation, but declined special privilege, electing to ‘rough it’ under a cannon instead of putting others out. A selfless man, he figured the boys that were fighting and dying should at least be granted the small pleasure of the comfort of a tent. After years of adapting to the rigors of warfare, he learned to sleep wherever he laid his head.

  The dawn of the new morning created cool dew that had soaked through the unprotected parts of his body, mainly his legs and boots, producing mild discomfort. By 8:30am, his clothing had dried out completely and he focused on his duties of the day. Filling up on hardtack, a hard, flavorless cracker, and some water, he administered various remedies to the soldiers that had reported for sick call while he ate.

  Of the thirteen men reporting various symptoms, only one was deemed incapacitated.Suffering from acute dysentery, he was given a mixture of quinine and Dover's powder, and sent to the medical encampment for recovery. Dr. Morgan was a compassionate and sympathetic older man, but tough nonetheless. His private philosophy was, "If you can walk, you can fight."

  With his duties accomplished for the moment, Gen. Negley ordered Dr. Morgan to ‘his station’ with a reverent nod. No words were exchanged. They both were seasoned military men who understood each other implicitly. With a respectful salute, the doctor turned and walked past the soldiers readying themselves at their own stations. He could now see the woeful anxiety on their faces as he made his way past, and he flashed them a courteous smile, trying to ease their worry. Locating his horse, a dark brown Canadian Stallion called Bill, named for an old friend that had died at the hands of an Indian ambush years before, he mounted the saddle, adjusted his boots in the stirrups, and with a quick snap of the reins, turned and rode off toward safety.

  --- --- --- --- ---

  “FIRE!”

  With his sword lifted to an exalted position above his head, Gen. Negley roared the order to commence firing. Loud and with great authority, he repeated his simple command over and over as he rode up the line. Instantly, his men responded and lit the fuses to their cannons. Like violent demons, the cannons came to life as they reported with a thunderous roar, shaking the ground under them.

  Instantly, the fresh and clear morning air became a heavy cloud of smoke that stung their eyes and seared their nostrils with the foul stench of sulfur, as the powder quickly burned and discharged through the breech of the cannon.The deafening cacophony of cannon and soldier startled the birds and jarred other wildlife from their morning routine, instinctively sending them scrambling for cover.

  The well-trained soldiers began their work. In groups of three, one loaded the powder and wadding, one loaded the shell or heavy ball, and the third lit the charge. They were as a machine, working in perfect sequence and timing to efficiently deliver unto the enemy, their deadly payload.

  Whistling through the air, the shells and cannonballs picked up particulates of dust and small flying insects as they arced across the valley toward Chattanooga, killing anything in their path before reaching their final destination.

  The valley below became awake. The loud cannon fire from above signaled the sharpshooters below to unleash their own deadly volley of destruction. In reflex, they pulled their triggers and sent the tiny, yet deadly pieces of lead on their individual paths of doom, as they quickly reloaded their weapons with practiced speed.

  They had only a second to think. With a startled jolt, the town and the Confederate soldiers both stood in place as their minds tried to quickly process the disbelief of their forthcoming death. Unable to move, they heard the whistle of air as the projectiles hurled toward them. Those with their backs to the volley waited and listened as the whistle grew quickly louder, into a thunderous rush of air. Those facing the volley watched in disbelief as they quickly trained their eyes on the direction of sound, watching the heavy ball and tiny bullets disrupt the air in front of them just before impact.

  As fate and misfortune collided, so did shell and flesh. In the group of drilling Confederate soldiers, the first volley hit its mark with deadly accuracy. One unlucky private watched in horror as a shell found its mark in the chest of the unlucky companion marching in front of him. The shell tore through his uniform, flesh and ribcage, instantly killing him even before the shell's internal mechanisms sensed the pressure of impact. With a great explosion, the canister fragmented into thousan
ds of tiny projectiles, completely disintegrating the whole of the soldier’s existence. There would be no burial for him, as there was not a remnant left of his body.

  Continuing on their way, the fragments of the now exploded shell found their next victim in the watching soldier. As the hot pieces of metal tore through his body, it severed his extremities, as well as buried molten metal into his own chest. Deflected, yet still deadly, the fragments found other victims all around the location of impact, sending blood, torn limbs and other shredded body parts into their fellow soldiers. For a lucky few who escaped the initial impact, the concussion from the shockwave of the explosion ruptured their eardrums, disorienting them and rendering them useless. As other shells exploded into and around the stunned, helpless soldiers, the same gory results affected the devastating loss of the entire company.

  Along the waterfront, the Confederate soldiers that were unloading supplies met with the same fate as their drilling comrades. Shells fell around them, exploding into thousands of fragments and tearing through their bodies, killing the closest to impact while maiming and impairing others further away from the epicenter. Cries of agony could be heard as they fell.

  As the Union sharpshooters unleashed their hail of shot, balls of lead sailed through the air with an awful shrill, telegraphing their intentions. The bullets found their mark, tearing through gray cloth, violently ripping through flesh and bone, and creating large, gaping wounds for germs and disease to enter the body unrestricted. Collapsing to the ground, many screamed out in agony, clutching their bleeding wounds in a desperate attempt to relieve the pain as death quickly overcame them. Others lay in torment as hypovolemic shock quickly enveloped their bodies from the loss of blood.

  All around the city, that first barrage of munitions inflicted devastating damage. Not only was the Confederate encampment targeted: loading docks on the river, telegraph offices, livery stables and blacksmith shops were also targeted. Anything that could be used to further the Confederates’ cause was targeted in the first volley of Union fire.

  Within seconds of the first discharge from the Union rifles and cannons, another round quickly sounded, followed by a third and fourth volley. The murderous fire seemed unrepulsed at first, but slowly, the Confederate soldiers that had not been wounded, and others that had not been targeted withdrew and regrouped to form a defensive line at various points around the city.

  With determined anger, positioned behind a breastwork of wagons and supplies, a band of Confederates located both sources of gunfire coming from the opposite side of the river and higher up in the foothills, and unleashed their first of many volleys of retaliation and repel.

  As Union soldiers lay on their stomachs and reloaded, they heard the sound of lead crashing through the branches and thickets above them as the Confederates searched for their targets by trial and error. With the next round by the Union sharpshooters, more Confederates lay dead and wounded, but with this volley came a pinpointing of the Unions’ exact positions. With orders to aim low, the Confederates returned fire into the lower banks of the river. Cries of pain and agony testified to the Confederates’ skill, as several Union soldiers now lay dead and permanently maimed, slowly reducing their effective force. Just as with the Confederates, the Union soldiers now were on the defensive, and scrambled for a moment, regrouping into a smaller fighting force.

  Unbeknownst to the Union command, out beyond the city limits, the Confederates loaded several cannons. Tucked away in a grove of tall oaks for protection from the elements, they were easily missed by their opposing force. Quickly, the three-man teams loaded their cannons and took careful aim at the Union battery. With the command to fire at will, the Confederates opened up on the Union forces staged in the foothills of Signal Mountain.

  With visibility drastically reduced by the repeated cannon fire, the Union forces struggled to see targets. By the time the Union artillery brigade saw the heavy smoke from the Confederate volley, it was too late. As the scream of the fragmentation canisters telegraphed their arrival, the Union soldiers could only stand and watch in horror as the tiny projectiles grew larger in their vision, the speed leaving them little else to do but stand and watch their impending death.

  The first of the four canisters roared into camp and impacted the ground between two cannon batteries, immediately exploding into tiny shards of twisted and molten metal. Instantly, the thousands of fragments traveled from the point of impact and found the first of their victims in the two Union soldiers that stood between the two cannons. Within a blink of an eye, their bodies absorbed most of the fragments, nearly obliterating any proof of their existence. Blood and bone splattered the two cannons in a characteristically horrific pattern of death and destruction. As the fragments deflected and ricocheted off objects human and metallic, their destruction was devastating, in all, killing and maiming nine Union soldiers.

  A split second later, two more canisters roared in after the first, these two impacting the bluff just below the Union's cannoning. Although the projectiles embedded in the earth and exploded, their destructive intention would not be denied. The soil heaved and broke apart, sending large amounts of fast-moving granules of dirt and pebbles toward the Union battery, ripping into flesh, maiming several Union men hard at work, the force knocking them to the ground in agonizing pain.

  The last canister rocketed over the heads of the Union soldiers and hit a birch tree high up in its trunk, exploding and instantly amputating its upper half from the lower. The crash of the tree as it hit the ground went unnoticed as the Union forces turned their destructive force onto the cloud of Confederate smoke far out beyond Chattanooga.

  With a wave of his sword, Gen. Negley bellowed the order to silence the cannons at the far edge of town. Quickly, the teams of three jockeyed their cannons toward the fading Confederate smoke, calculated the angle of trajectory, and lit their charges. The repositioned cannons came to life as their muzzles spewed fire, smoke, and metallic death, the recoil sending them reeling backward against their restraints. Seconds later, far out beyond the city proper, primary explosions could be seen as the shells hit their targets, followed by several secondary explosions, signaling the destruction of enemy ammo caches that had ignited as a result of the primary detonation.

  Violently jolted from his lazy stare up river, the young boy sitting on the elevated boulder fishing for his breakfast nearly fell into the water in reflex to the loud explosions. He quickly gathered his things and jumped from rock to rock, desperately fleeing for cover. Still at the bank of the river, he found two large boulders to hide behind, giving him safe cover during the violent exchange.

  Closer to the action, the two bedraggled trappers, upon hearing the deafening explosions that were killing their countrymen, quickly deduced that their only safe escape was to continue their poling down river. Any attempt to make land might expose them as combatants and draw fire from either side. They grabbed their poles even harder and strained to push the tiny raft faster down river. Hand over hand, they pushed on the flimsy poles, nearly breaking them as they rushed to evade harm’s way. Painful blisters formed and quickly broke, leaving fresh blood along the length of the poles as they continued to push for their lives.

  Standing on the left side of the raft, without warning, a single stray bullet whistled through the air and impacted the back of the first trapper’s head. The lead ball mushroomed and shattered his skull, propelling bone, brain and blood down the front of his tattered clothes and into the river. Instantly, he fell overboard and floated downstream.

  In shock from witnessing the death of his companion, the remaining trapper cried out in anguish as he helplessly watched his friend floating away, trailing behind him a path of red water. Reality snapped him back into focus as another bullet embedded into one of the logs of the raft, fracturing it and sending tiny splinters into the water. He looked back at the pelts of beaver and muskrat he and his now deceased friend had toiled over for the previous two months. He hesitated for a moment, then g
rabbed a handful of beaver pelts, his rifle, and a tiny strongbox of money, then quickly jumped into the water. Struggling to stay afloat with the weight of the rifle, he kicked his boots wildly under the water. As his head dipped below the surface, he was about to let go of the rifle when his feet touched bottom. He pushed off the muddy floor of the river and popped his head above the water, took a gasp of air and sunk below the water again. Finding the bottom of the river once more, he launched his waterlogged body above the surface and gasped for another breath of air. As he sank back into the water, his head now was above the water line. He had managed to move close enough to shore to now wade toward land with his handful of belongings safe.

  Spotting a large boulder at the river’s edge, he made his way toward it, keeping his head mostly submerged for cover. At the boulder, he threw his pelts and strongbox onto higher ground and positioned his rifle for defense. With the powder wet and useless, he still aimed his weapon, hoping he would not be called on to bluff.

  Shaking and scared, the young boy huddled close to the rock, having just witnessed the drama of the trappers unfold further upriver. At the tender age of seven, he had never seen a man killed before, and the sight of the old trapper's violent death shook him to his core. His world had changed in an instant, the graphic vision imprinted in his memory forever. He openly wept as he watched the remains of the old man drift slowly downstream past him.

  Union Corporal Amol Fletcher, part of a three-man team assigned to artillery, had been standing at his post when the first of the four Confederate shells exploded. Fighting two cannons away, the blast sent shrapnel through his team, decapitating one private and missing the other, while he himself took a large fragment to his lower leg, nearly severing his calf from the bone. Instantly, he dropped to the ground in agony. As he cried out in pain, he clutched the dangling flesh, irrationally trying to reattach it to the bone. In his delirium, his world seemed to slow. No one noticed him as he lay sprawled on the ground between the cannons. As bullets passed over his head, he heard their whistle, and for a moment forgot about his injury as a sense of self-preservation overtook him. He rolled on his belly and began to crawl. Pulling with his arms and pushing with his uninjured leg, he slowly worked his way through cannon and soldier, dragging a trail of blood behind him.

  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 amputating 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.

  Reaching over the leg once more, the doctor continued his conical-shaped incision from the bottom and worked his way to the top. With his hands saturated in blood, he reached for a long strip of cloth a few inches wide. He worked around the bone, then pulled up on each end of the strip, lightly suspending the leg for a moment. He then pulled the cloth up the leg, which pulled the muscles higher up the bone.

  “Ok, we've pulled the muscles higher up the bone. I'll cut through the bone as close to the cloth as I can without cutting through it – the cloth, that is. When we release the cloth, the muscle will spring back to its original position, covering the bone by a couple of inches, allowing for greater cushioning after healing,” Dr. Morgan elaborated.

  He reached for his saw and placed his thumb on the bone as a guide. Resting the saw against his thumb, he pulled two times toward himself, leaving a small pilot slot to start the cut. He then began to aggressively saw through the bone. In seconds, he was nearly through the bone, as he began to slow. At the end, he only pulled the saw toward himself, insuring that the bone would not splinter. With the last pull of the saw, the lower leg completely detached from the upper leg. At the end of the table, the top-heavy foot rolled to one side under its own weight, and fell from the table into the grass below.

  The blood pooled around the end of the stump as the assistant released the cloth holding the muscle. Quickly reaching for a pre-threaded needle, the doctor began to tie off the various blood vessels, starting with the femoral artery.

  “Right then. See those strands that look like tiny pieces of twine? They are the various blood vessels that supplied the lower leg with blood. Those all need to be tied off or he'll bleed to death,” the doctor said as he worked.

  With the bleeding completely stopped, he slowly released the tourniquet and watched for leaka
ges at the end of the stump. Seeing none, he then began to sew up the exposed wound. He quickly pulled the extra skin over the muscle and began to stitch across them.

  “The ligatures should not be too close, as there needs to be room for drainage of any excess blood and pus while the appendage heals,” the doctor said as he stitched, his assistant looking on in fascination.

  When he was done suturing, he allowed Asst. Fowler to bandage the end while he rinsed off his tools and threw the bloody foot into a basket to be carried away later. Turning to his assistance, he said dryly, “Let's hope there won't be too many of these today.”

  Asst. Fowler just nodded. The whole bloody experience was almost too graphic for him as he tried to process the procedure in his mind.

  “Right, let's have a look at the other fellow, shall we?” the doctor asked rhetorically.

  Bandaging the corporal’s amputated leg, he looked up to see that Dr. Morgan was already cutting away the other soldier’s pant leg, presaging the next operative process. Moments later, the sound of distant gallops could be heard as more teams of horses began to arrive, pulling their wooden ambulances as they rushed the wounded to safety.

  Faster than they could operate, the privates carried more wounded Union soldiers to the operating wagon. The basket of amputated limbs mounded over as the doctor disposed of the useless appendages, throwing them unceremoniously onto the bloody pile of flesh and bone that had already began to rot in the heat of the day. As each mangled limb landed on the bloody mound, swarms of flies darted away, escaping the falling limb, then quickly returned and continued their forage of filth and disease on their newly found real estate.

  As the wounded flowed in, they were helped to the shady edges of the grassy clearing to wait their turn under the knife.Disheartening moans of agony could be heard everywhere as the injured men left one horrific world and entered another. Working quickly to overcome the numbers, Dr. Morgan set up another operating wagon for Asst. Fowler. Working side by side, Dr. Morgan monitored his assistant’s work. At first, the doctor assigned simple amputations to Dr. Fowler, but as the number of wounded mounted and Dr. Fowler began to grow into his newly acquired skills, Dr. Morgan allowed him to take on more complex surgeries. With two doctors working, the basket used to dispose of the limbs had long since disappeared under the carnage.

  The stench of iron hung heavy in the air from the blood that spewed from the wounded. Through blank and pallor faces, some stared out into nothingness as shock deadened reality. Others winced and grimaced with each breath they took, and still others cried out in agony, each time dying a thousand deaths.

  Hearing the suffering of their countrymen only served to stiffen both doctors’ resolve to save more men. Throughout the day and into the night, the two surgeons worked frantically to save the injured and the dying. As their exhaustion set in, and hysteria and despair overwhelmed them, they searched within themselves for the strength to continue. Eventually, their own bodies and minds began to fail them. They had pushed themselves to the limits of human endurance. With the battle not yet complete, they both knew that tomorrow would bring further death and pain. If they were going to be of service to the young men risking their lives for their country, they both would need some much deserved rest.

  With the last flicker of light from the nearly spent oil lamps, the blood soaked surgeons made their way across the other side of the clearing to their two canvas tents. With a quick change of clothing, they laid down on their cots and fell quickly asleep.

  TT: Chapter 3