Life of the Wounded in the Rear: The Field Hospital

That night the rebels were retreating and had to cross the creek which they intended to do in the dark, but our men built bonfires on the side of the hills and showered them with shot and shell while they were crossing the bridge.  The roar of those guns seemed to ease the pain and I got a few minutes rest.

Then on the fourth day the rebels were gone and we were hauled four miles over a rough mountain road to a field hospital on the creek.  The tents were pitched with eight cots in each tent but no mattresses.  The rebel cavalry had dashed in behind us and burned a railroad bridge so our train bringing the mattresses had not arrived.

When the old driver saw this, he said: ‘Now I can pay you for helping me care for my horses last winter.’  Then he took the mattress from the ambulance and placed it on my cot so I had a good bed.  There were eight of us, all badly wounded, in that tent.  Just one of the eight was presumed to be worse hurt than I was.  George was placed in the cot beside me and this bad case on the other side.  He soon died.  On the sixth day after I was wounded, May 19th, I sat up and wrote a few lines to mother.  George looked at me and said he ‘couldn’t see how I could do it.’  That evening some of the boys got a copy of the Iowa State Register which gave a list of the killed and wounded in which I was listed as mortally wounded and George was severely wounded.  Poor George had lost so much blood that he could not rally. He wanted to live.  He had everything to live for.  Parents, brothers, sisters, and his fiancé was a good girl, well educated, and I thought George was the best boy I ever saw.  I would have gladly died to save him.  There was nothing for me to live for with both legs gone.  I might be better dead.  These were the thoughts in mind that night as George breathed his last.  As fast as men died others were placed upon the same cot, and of the first eight five died, and in the first twenty-eight days nine men died in this tent.  The doctor examined my right leg but didn’t express any opinion about it until about two weeks after the battle, then he said he believed it would get well; and then the inspector passed through one day looking carefully at everyone.  They spoke pleasantly to me and looked me over carefully, and as they walked on I heard the doctor say, ‘That is the toughest and spunkiest man I ever saw, I thought he was as good as a dead man, but he is going to get well.’  Then I took courage and concluded I wanted to live.

To give some idea of the job of caring for 4,000 wounded men: Most of the wounds were dressed twice daily, the bandages were throw out behind the tents and left all day to attract the flies.  Then a man loaded them with a pitchfork, hauled them up the creek and threw them in the creek.  They floated down to a screen where they were pitched out and washed, a wagon load daily, this got away with the swarm of flies by sending their eggs down the creek.

Next week: Further to the Rear: Dangers of Recovery in Pre-Disinfectant Times

Life of the Wounded in the War Zone

...In a short time the drummer boys came with a stretcher and carried me back over the hill where we met the hospital steward, Whitfield, who cut the boots from my feet, cut off my pant legs at the knees, and wrapped them with bandages.  I saw by the serious look on his face that he considered my case bad.  Then they carried me back to where doctors were working and placed me on the operating table made of an old door set upon stakes driven in the ground.  While they were examining my wounds I heard the young Doctor say: “We will have to amputate both legs, won’t we?”  I spoke up and said: “Doctor, I would rather die than lose both legs.”  Just then the ambulance drove up and the driver called out, “Doctor, here is a man bleeding to death, you must attend to him at once or he is gone.”  I heard him speak and I knew it was George.  I said “George are you badly hurt?”  “Yes, my leg is all shot to pieces.”  “Well,” said I, “My legs are both shot to pieces.”  Then they laid me down on some forest leaves and amputated George’s leg.  Then other wounded men were brought and the doctors worked nearly all night.  The newspaper reporters were on the job, and they knew what it meant when the doctors laid a man aside to die without doing anything for him.  So they telegraphed to the home papers that I was mortally wounded and George was severely wounded.  At night we were carried into an old log house filled with wounded men.  The floor was covered with canvass which did more harm than good as it held the blood and water which dripped, dripped, from the wounds and where I lay on the floor it was the lowest so it was a pool of blood and water.  The only attention we got that night was a drip of water from a sponge on our wounds occasionally.

The roar of our cannon ceased and the swelling of the lacerated flesh made the pain worse.  I thought of those who had been instantly killed and wished that I could have been as fortunate as they, but wishing for death didn’t bring it.  Then I thought of my pocket knife and reached into my pocket to get it but it was gone, and I would be compelled to suffer perhaps several days before death would relieve me.  With those thoughts in mind the long hours of night passed and as soon as daylight came the roar of our cannon shook the old house and made the plaster rattle down from the walls.  This seemed to ease the pain slightly, and I wished they would keep it up constantly.  This the second day of battle passed and when the second night came I went crazy and can remember nothing of that night, but the men told me afterward that it took two men to hold me from rolling over the floor and hurting the other wounded men.  Then on the third day the doctors caught up with their work so they put me on the table and amputated the left leg and I heard Dr. Greenleaf say, “If we must amputate the right leg we can do it later when we have more time.”  Then the boys made a frame two feet by seven feet filled it with forest leaves, spread a blanket over it for a bed, my old bloody clothes were torn off and replaced with a clean shirt and with a liberal dose of morphine, I got a little sleep, the first in three days.

Next week: Life of the Wounded in the Rear: The Field Hospital

James Farley Lambson...Youngest Child 

Of Boaz and Polly Lambson

Much of James’ history is cast against his participation (much too weak a term) in the Civil War (what an oxymoron that term is).  This is the entry, beginning on p.225 of Our Lambson Family:

James Farley Lambson - last child of BOAZ and Polly, born in 1838, entered the Civil War and was engaged in many severe battles in the South, one in which a bullet cut a four inches long crease in his head.  We first learned that James was wounded through a clipping from a Missouri Newspaper, the Liberty Tribune, dated Feb. 22, 1884, which read “By order of the Secretary of the Interior, James F. Lambson, amputated left leg above the knee-$24.00.”  Local papers were ordered to publish the names of pensioners and the amount of government pensions being paid.

We received a written account of James’ Civil War experience from one of his great-granddaughters, Delores Hofferber of Lexington, Nebraska in 1988.  It is written by James and has no date; however he closes saying ‘that he is 80 years old.’  This would date the piece at 1918-the year of his death in Lexington, Nebraska.  He states that his unit was Co.A, Fourth Iowa Infantry.  Following is the article:

“I have read histories of many wars.  They give graphic accounts of the camp, the march, the skirmish, the battles, the prison, etc., but nothing about the experience of the wounded men.

Now I have seen these except the prison, and it is my purpose to give a brief account of some of the wounded in our war of ‘61 to ‘65.  It was in the evening of May 13th, ‘64, near Resaca, Georgia, our division was in front, and being the first to hit the rebels we had a very hard fight until night.  The rebel were all behind trees.  I saw a large tree and made a swift run for it, but it was too close to the rebels and while the ones in the front could not get me, one away to the let got a flank shot which smashed both legs near the knees.

I have often been asked how it feels to be shot.  The answer is, it all depends upon the nature of the wound.  When a bullet cut a crease four inches long on the side of my head it felt like the sudden blow of a club.  When a bullet grazes the skin it feels like the sting of a whip.  When a large shell exploded so close to my head that it scorched my hair, it knocked me down and I felt like my head was bursted for a time but my hearing came back and I was all right in three or four days; and when the bullet smashed both my knees it paralyzed them for a few minutes, and when the feeling came back I was faint and thirsty and grabbed the canteen nearly full of water and drank it all, so I didn’t suffer from thirst as wounded often do.

Next week: Life of the Wounded in the War Zone      

Alfred Boaz ( conclusion)

Westward At Last!

There was great preparation for the Pioneer trip which was to locate the spot for the remaining saints to follow and settle, and they were determined to take me with them and leave my wife helpless in bed.  I would not consider it and got excused, but Melissa being improved I made ready and started with the first company which followed.  I, however, helped fit out President Brigham Young’s company, which set out, and we then fell to preparing those to follow.  There were a number of blacksmiths, and all were busy.  After completing or fitting 665 wagons, all were ready and we moved out as far as the Elk Horn, which was a deep, ugly river, and dangerous to ferry.  Here Elder Weatherby and I were detailed to go back with a demented woman and leave her at Winter Quarters...

We began our journey and had travelled half way when suddenly there stepped before us three Indians armed with rifles, and directly in our path.  I immediately  would have made friendly signs and reasoned with them, but Elder Weatherby lost his head, and jumping out of the wagon, grappled with an Indian.  I, of course, followed on the other side, grappling with the second, taking his gun away.  The third fired at my companion, and he fell, mortally wounded.  I grappled with the slayer of Weatherby, taking hold of his side, and taking a piece out with my hand, for he was naked.  He yelled with pain, and the sick woman seeing her chance, waved her shawl to frighten the wild steers, and away they dashed, wagon, steers, woman and all.  I was left with Elder Weatherby, and the Indians took to their heels...I overtook Bishop Whitney, who returned to the spot and lifted Elder Weatherby into his carriage and then struck out rapidly in search of the woman.  I looked in all directions and finally found the wagon run into a willow thicket, but the woman was not to be seen...finally I saw the top of her bonnet peeping in the tall grass, and then it vanished.  I came to where she was, but she stubbornly refused to get into the wagon.  I picked her up and sat her, a little ungently perhaps, in the wagon.  Finding travelers going toward Winter Quarters, I relinquished the woman, steers and wagon to them with my commission to deliver her safely, if possible, at Winter Quarters.  I then turned single-handed And alone, to retrace my footsteps toward my family and the camp on the Elk Horn...

We now took up our journey to the Salt Lake Valley, receiving a message or two from the pioneers before we reached our destination.

I was the only blacksmith in the company which had sixty five wagons, and I kept them in repair the entire trip, and I never received nor charged a cent for the work.  Besides repairing the wagons, etc., I had the lame cows and oxen to look after, and they gave me little time for sleep...

Alfred finished his story and leaned back in his old armchair, which had been made by his own hands in the early days in the valley.  He seemed lost in thought; his white hair bleached by many winters, lay soft and beautiful about his strong head.  His once sinewy arm rested on the handle of his rocker.  What a world of thought in that glance backward upon a lifetime of work and adventure!  Yes, a lifetime, for the sands were all but run.  Shortly afterward he was called to meet his Maker, and render his account to the Most High for the stewardship he had held.

—-From Our Lambson Family: Barnabas to Boaz, pp.206-210

Next Week: The Youngest Brother...James Farley Lambson, last child of Boaz and Polly