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