A Day in the Field

A Story by AxoJam214

A short story based on a journal entry prompt. It deals with war, back in the time of the Civil War, as well as medicine and surgery. This story has themes relating to blood, gunshots, etc.

Prompt: Predict what it might be like to be a wounded soldier during the Civil War. Describe the day. How did you get hurt? What was the surgery like? What are the conditions like? Who did you meet? How do you feel? Are you scared of anything?

I thought I was going to die. My men and I were on the battlefield running. We lost five men, and nobody wanted anymore gone. I was leading them back to a safe space, far enough away from the line of fire from their guns. As my men and I ran, gunshots echoed through the night sky. Don’t hit. Don’t hit. Don’t hit. That’s all that was going through my mind. I prayed that none of my men would get hit. Soon, we managed to make it back to base. We were safe. Only then, once I was sure that all of my men were safe and resting did I notice the looks on their faces. Every one of them looked at me like they’d seen a ghost. What was going on? As I tried to understand what was happening, my adrenaline slowly started wearing off. Then it hit me. Searing pain shot through my left calf and it went through my whole body, causing me to collapse to the ground. I’d been shot. The rest of the night was a blur. My men were clamoring, trying to help me, trying to make sure I was okay. But I couldn’t understand a word that they were saying. Eventually I lost consciousness, too much blood had been lost. I shouldn’t have been running while my leg was bleeding like that, but I didn’t even know I had been shot. My adrenaline was running too much, I was too worried about getting my men to safety.

An hour later I woke up in the med tent. Once the doctors were sure that I was coming around and could understand them, they explained that they needed to do surgery on me. They said that my men were able to temporarily stop the blood loss by tying their rags around my leg tightly, but they still needed to get the bullet out and fix the wound so it wouldn’t bleed more or get worse than it already was. I knew the risks and I knew the pain I would have to endure, but I agreed anyway. I couldn’t be on the sidelines, injured and feeling sorry for myself. I needed to be side by side with my men in battle, fighting for what was right. I looked back to the doctors and gave them my consent to start the surgery.

The doctors laid me down on the bed and started preparing their tools for the surgery. I was so nervous and so scared. Others I knew had been through surgery before and they told me oftentimes it hurt worse than getting the wound itself. I knew that it would be the same for me. I didn’t even feel myself get shot, didn’t feel the pain until later. Soon they were done getting everything together and asked me if I was ready. It was probably a bad idea, but I agreed.

The rest of the surgery was a blur. The pain that I felt, the blood coming from my wound, the feeling of tools inside of my leg. It was all horrible, I couldn’t begin to explain the feeling of it all. I was yelling out in pain, tears came from my eyes and rolled down my face without me wanting them to come. The doctors had to call my men in to hold me down so I wouldn’t move too much. So that they wouldn’t make a mistake.

Finally, after what felt like hours and hours from how slow time seemed to be moving (although honestly it may have only been an hour), the operation was over. The doctors informed me to stay off the leg for a couple days before going back into the field. Reluctantly, I agreed and made the promise that I would let myself heal at least a little bit. But I couldn’t stay away for long. My men needed me, and I needed them.

After all was said and done, I made myself a promise. Never agree to a surgery again. It was more worth it to have an open wound than to go through that level of pain again.