Tear In Time (31 page)

  David
took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to release the stress and anxiety of the
moment. “Where do we go from here?” he asked, more as nervous chatter than as a
direct question.

  “Gettysburg
Pennsylvania,” Dr. Morgan replied. “Jim has ordered us to move out in the
morning.”

  David
stared at the old doctor in shock, his eyes widening with surprise.

  “By
your reaction, David, I'm guessing there is some significance with Gettysburg?”
Dr. Morgan guessed.

  For a
moment, David fell speechless.

 
“David? What will happen at Gettysburg? Is there going to be another big battle
there?” Dr. Morgan said, second guessing his friend.

  “Yes,
doctor. A big one. One of the biggest of the war. Stonewall was to emerge
victorious. It was his brilliant leadership alone that enabled the Confederates
to quickly outsmart and outmaneuver the Union command. It was from this victory
that he became a national legend,” David said ominously. He paused a moment in
thought, then continued, “Heaven only knows what the outcome will look like now
that he's dead.”

 
“Whatever the outcome, David, mankind will overcome and survive,” Dr. Morgan
replied thoughtfully.

TT:
Chapter 9

Gettysburg,
July 1st 1863

  Lt.
Marcellus Jones sat high in his saddle on an elevated bluff and took inventory
of his men. With their rifles loaded and bayonets affixed, they lay on their
stomachs and squinted down their blue steel barrels, aligning their sights with
the imagined enemy one hundred yards away.

 
McPherson Ridge was just one of three ridges that sat nearly three miles to the
west of Gettysburg. Slightly higher than its southern neighbors, Herr and
Seminary Ridge, McPherson Ridge's protection came at a cost. Seated prominently
in front of the Union front lines, any attacks by the enemy would be initiated
through them first.

  Lt.
Jones sensed the somber quiet that telegraphed impending doom. Every man stared
far ahead and contemplated their death. Their limited force would be no match
for the Confederate’s legions of men, who would soon be arriving, and all who
stood watch, pondering if they would still be alive when the order came to
retreat.

  Gettysburg
sat at the epicenter of the battlefield. Circular in shape, the battlefield was
nearly six miles in diameter. In addition to the three ridges to the west,
Barlow's Knoll protected the city to the north. To the south lay a series of
hills, each one located further south from Gettysburg: Cemetery Hill, Culp’s
Hill, Cemetery Ridge, the Peach Orchard, Rose Woods, Wheatfield, Devil’s Den,
Little Round Top and Round Top.

  The
Union army was staged in a semi-circle that started from the western ridges and
swept up and around through the north-east in a two mile radius from
Gettysburg. As the battle unfolded, the Confederate army attacked from a three
mile radius just beyond the Union front line, driving the bulk of the fighting
south of town.

  At
7:30am, the sun's rays bore down on the Union front lines. The temperatures
were already in the high eighties, and Lt. Jones removed his hat to wipe his
brow. Wiping the sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve, he replaced his hat
and returned his gaze to the road ahead of them. Far in the distance, he
noticed the haze that rose from the ground and diffused the land to their
front. At times he struggled to make sense of the shadows, momentarily
mistaking the darker images for the enemy.

  As the
warm, balmy morning breezes blew toward him, Lt. Jones watched the grayish
looking bushes sway back and forth several hundred feet down the road. Once
again he strained his eyes to discern the bushes from the enemy. He turned away
to clear his vision, then returned his gaze once more to the distant bushes.
The bushes kicked up tiny clouds of dust, which spun into dirt devils that
floated across the road.

 
Intrigued by the atmospheric anomaly, he amused himself with their display. As
the wind blew, so came larger clouds of dust, and with them more dirt devils.
The dusty, hazy cloud in the distance all but covered the road and Lt. Jones
squinted his eyes once more.

  Barely
able to see the gray bushes through the dusty cloud, he struggled to make out
the bottom branches as they moved side to side. Over and over in uniform
fashion, the branches moved with repetition. Lt. Jones squinted his eyes until
they hurt. He shook his head to clear his blurred vision, then retrained his
eyes on the gray, moving branches.

  As if
in slow animation, Lt. Jones watched in horror as the repetitive moving
branches slowly transformed into legs - gray pant legs. Mesmerized by the
strange trick his mind had played, he watched as hundreds of men suddenly
materialized before his eyes, their shoes kicking up clouds of dust as they
marched.

  Lt.
Jones felt paralyzed as he watched in disbelief as the column of men poured
over the distant hilltop and continued their march along the dirt road. Slowly,
he reached down for his 1861 Navy Colt revolver. With his hand quivering, he
undid the snap and pulled the sidearm from his flap holster. Drawing a bead on
the men far out in front, he tried to squeeze the trigger, but his muscles
failed him. With his heart pounding and the adrenaline flowing, he quickly
shook out both hands, then took careful aim once more.

  Lt.
Jones heard the loud crack of a firearm. In what amounted to a split second, he
looked around and realized it was he who fired the first shot. At that moment,
like a hive of angry bees, the Confederates came alive.

 
“FIRE!” Lt. Jones yelled at the top of his lungs.

  In an
instant, the wrath and fury of Union rifles was unleashed. Far out on the dusty
road, dozens of Rebel men fell to the ground, dying in agonizing pain.
Instinctively, the Confederates drew their weapons, fired, then ran for cover,
only to feel the next volley of lead hit its mark with random success. As the
mini-balls hurled through the air and missed their intended mark, they found an
equally satisfactory mark in the next. Before the Confederates could find
meaningful protection, nearly a hundred men fell to their death, the victims of
surprise and confusion.

  The
opening volley sounded the start to the battle. Elsewhere, as the sound of
rifle fire could be heard echoing through the valleys, Confederates
instinctively surged forward, attacking the Union lines along the western and
northern sides of town. As the two great armies collided, the carnage grew in
ever increasing proportions.

  Each
side launched attacks, followed by counter-attacks from the opposition. Back
and forth the fighting raged as the Union lines held their ground.

  At
midday, the Union lines were weakening. A misunderstood order caused a brigade
of Union troops to advance, creating a gap in the Union line north of town at
Barlow's Knoll. Confederate command quickly saw the weakness and exploited it
with direct and flanking assaults. As the lines collapsed in the north and
west, the whole of the Union army was ordered to retreat to the south of town
and take up position around Cemetery Hill. With a stronger defensive position
and darkness falling, the Confederates were forced to abandon their next attack
until the following day.

July 2nd
1863

  David
had worked through the night, desperately trying to save as many lives as he
could, as quickly as he could. He had remembered the death toll of the battle
from his history class in school, and knew he had no time to waste. With his
trained staff of surgeons, he was able to stay nearly on top of the wounded as
they arrived from battle. Unfortunately, David knew the numbers of wounded were
going to be far too great for intricate surgery. He would have to perform
amputations in all but the easiest of cases if he were to keep the majority of
them alive.

  As
David sliced through the leg tissues below the private’s knee, he felt a slight
jolt of resistance from his patient.

  “My
God, this man's not fully anesthetized,” David called out. “Doctor, hand me the
chloroform and that cone, quickly,” David said as he pointed to the supplies on
a table next to him.

  “Yes
sir. Do you need any help, sir?” asked the young doctor, handing David a bottle
and cone.

  “I'm
ok; just keep an eye on your technique,” David responded.

  “Yes
sir,” the young doctor replied.

  David
partially filled a paper cone with the chloroform and held it above the wounded
private’s mouth and nose, allowing the fumes and tiny droplets to be ingested.
Moments later, David put down the cone and continued with his surgery.

  Having
cut the muscle to the bone, David then took a long ribbon of cloth and ripped
it down the middle, leaving a small section at the end that left the two strips
still connected. Placing the two strips on each side of the bone, he held the
leg suspended in the air by the cloth, then pulled the muscle tissue back as
far as he could without ripping through the fabric. David called over an
assistant to hold the cloth as he began to saw through the now fully-exposed
bone. In seconds, he sawed through the leg and discarded the damaged limb into
a heaping basket of body parts, sending flies scurrying for cover.

  With
the lower extremity removed, the strips of cloth were released and the loose
muscle slid forward naturally over the stunted bone. David then began to tie
off the exposed and bleeding veins and arteries. With all vessels secured, he
released the tourniquet and checked the ends for leakage. Quickly, he then
sewed the flap of skin over the stump and rinsed off any remaining infectious
matter, sterilizing with alcohol before applying the final field dressing.

 
“That's fine work, lad,” Dr. Morgan said as David finished.

 
“Thanks, doc," David replied.

  A
smile came to David's face as he noticed the old doctor had brought him a tin
cup filled with coffee. Wispy streams of steam floated off the top, stimulating
David's senses and invigorating him once more.  David took the cup and
carefully sipped at the edge.

 
"Wow, that's good," David said, then laughed. "I sound like a
damn coffee commercial."

 
"A commercial? I don't follow, lad," Dr. Morgan replied in confusion.

  "Sorry,
doc. A commercial is just an advertisement, except in motion pictures. You
remember me telling you about motion pictures, don't you?" David asked.

 
"Yes, yes, lad. A marvelous innovation in photography," Dr. Morgan
replied, smiling in amazement.

 
"Yeah, marvelous except for the fact that now, instead of seeing a snake
oil salesman trying to peddle his junk every so often, you have them in your
face every fifteen minutes, wearing tacky clothes and repeating cheap, annoying
slogans that stick in your mind forever, pushing you to the edge of anger and
insanity, completely distracting you from the program you are watching and
degrading the quality of your entertainment and your life," David replied,
his disdain clearly obvious.

 
"Bastards! I detest snake oil salesman," Dr. Morgan replied with
passion. "Tar and feather them, I advise."

  David
looked aloft. His mind drifted a bit, then he replied, "I'd advise worse,
only I am restrained by my oath to medicine."

 
"Quite right, lad, quite right," Dr. Morgan concurred.

  The
two smiled cordially, ending the humor, then discussed more serious matters.

  “So
how are your nerves, lad?” Dr. Morgan inquired.

  “Well
thank goodness for exhaustion, else I would have soiled myself already,” David
replied, his face losing expression. “I think I'm too tired to be scared.”

  Dr.
Morgan leaned in toward David and asked, “David, are you sure that today is the
day the Confederates overrun the Union lines and take Washington?”