Gettysburg Creative Writing
“Come here!” I urged “I can’t!” He sobbed, holding his wound. He slid to the ground, groaning. I clumsily loped my way over to him and grabbed his ankles. I turned and started dragging him to the tent, digging my feet into the ground. A lioness’s strength poured through me. Adrenaline surged through my blood, giving me the power I needed to carry a 180 pound man (with gear on). I reached the tent, a mere 20 or so feet away. I bent down and lifted him slowly onto a low table, about two feet off the ground. He grunted in pain. I whiled around to grab my supplies. “What do I have, what do I have.” I muttered to myself. I pulled drawers randomly on makeshift bureau. Towel. Wrappings. Scalpel. Tweezers. Needle and thread. Would he need stitches?
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Might as well keep it on standby, I thought. I need disinfectant, I thought. I grabbed a bottle of clear liquid from the desk. I sniffed it: isopropyl alcohol. Good enough. I twirled around again, to the makeshift bed. I pressed my fingers against his bloodstained torso. I shrugged his coat off of his shoulders. I grabbed a knife from the table behind me and cut his shirt down the middle, throwing it aside. Bracing over him with my forearm, he looked up at me with worried eyes.
“Sorry,” I poured the alcohol over his stomach area “This is gonna sting.”
“Argh!!” He moaned. His back arched, his middle lifting off the stretcher by a few inches.
“Sorry!” I wiped blood away from the gunshot wound. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
He screamed through his teeth. His eyes were squeezed shut and his fists clenched. Veins on his armed struggled to break through his skin.
I pulled out my scalpel, hands quivering. “I need to pull it out. The bullet’s stuck in your body.”
His eyes popped open. “No. No no no no no no.” His head shook profusely. He raised his hands weakly. “You can’t!”
I looked into his scared eyes. “I have to.” I whispered.
He grabbed my arm with his clammy hand, shaking his head. His grip was surprisingly strong for a person who had just been shot.
“I’m sorry! I have to do this!” I spoke as clearly as I could. I pulled my arm back and slammed my fist into his waxen face. He was out instantly.
“I’m so sorry.” I breathed.
Let’s get to work, I thought. I wiped as much of the blood as I could from where the bullet entered. Using a hook to pull flesh apart, I could see the Minie Ball, flattened from impact. Splinters of rib bones were buried in muscle, shattered like glass. I drenched the bloody mess in more alcohol. I pulled the skin to the side and began tediously picking out bone fragments and the bullet. An hour and a half later, it was done. I had placed the foreign objects in a small tin I had found.
I began wrapping his torso in bandages. Damn. I thought. No neosporin in the Civil War, huh?
What could I use as an antibiotic?
Garlic maybe?
That kills bacteria, right?
I think so.
I guess it can’t hurt.
How would I find it?
It’ll get infected.
It occurred to me.
The town.
Gettysburg.
I finished up the wrappings quickly and ducked out of the tent.
Looking around at the battlefield, it was like it was straight out of a history textbook. Blue and gray clad men dotted the fields. Cannons stood on the top of rolling hills, periodically spitting out rounds. The tangy odor of sulfur coated the atmosphere. Thundering gunshots echoed through the land… I could feel the explosions in my body.
I paused to take it all in for several moments. Then, I ran. I rounded the battlefield, clinging to the edge of the forest, praying to be ignored by any potential bullets fired my way. I dashed behind Confederate lines, trying to stay out of sight. The town, the town. I thought.
What side was he on? I thought. The soldier? It was near-impossible to tell - his uniform had been too bloodied, and the adrenaline of the current situation had kept me from the little details. The coat color - it could determine a lot. Union or Confederate? I certainly hoped for the former, of course. I would not want to aid the side that was all gung ho for slavery and racism.
Focus. I thought. A paved dirt road led the way to a small row of brick houses. Bullets flew behind me like bats swooping on prey. I rounded a corner and flew up the porch of a brick
house.
“Help!” I banged on the door. “Let me in!”
The door opened a crack, and I squeezed in. The air inside smelled of must and fear. A trembling figure stood in front of me, a slender girl who couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven years old. I must’ve looked ridiculous to her - and older kid covered in blood, with matted hair and wild eyes.
“Do you have any garlic?” I asked her.
“W- what?” Her voice trembled.
“I need garlic!” I insisted. “Do you have any?”
“Uh, ye- yes.” She stood rooted in her spot.
“Go!” I barked. The order came out harsher than I had intended it to. She gave a start and led me through a tight hallway and kitchen with rough-hewn floors. She ushered me over to a small wooden door in the wall, clinging to the brick. It swung open with a creak. Narrow stairsteps led into the darkness below to what I assumed was a cellar. She descended the stairs, with me hot on her tail. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t be entering the home of a stranger. They could be dangerous- kidnappers or something. Whatever. I thought. No time. The girl reached the bottom of the stairs. The floor and walls had been dug out of the ground. An earthy odor filled the cramped space - somehow smelling clean and like dirt at the same time. A candle illuminated the room, revealing fruits and vegetables strung up for storage. She fumbled with a net of white objects, which I realized were little bulbs of garlic. She pulled down the net and dumped its contents into a rough-looking basket. “Here.” She said in a small voice, handing it to me. “Thank you.” I replied, out of breath.
I clutched the basket to my chest and flew up the stairs.
“By the way,” I turned around at the top of the steps. “What’s your name?”
“Alice.” She looked up at me with big, round eyes.
I smiled a little bit. “Thank you, Alice. You have just might have saved a man’s life by aiding me today.” A man’s life… Why am I saving him, exactly?
I stepped up onto the ground-level floor when her voice called out to me.
“What’dya need the garlic for?” Her tone was significantly stronger than it had been.
“Disinfectant.” I called over my shoulder.
“What’s that?” She cried. I could hear her little feet pounding on the steps.
“It kills bacteria!” I began to stride through the hall.
“What’s a bacteria?” She followed me.
I was getting impatient. “You know - like germs and stuff! Now I have to go.” I reached the door, and was about to grab the handle when she asked another question.
“What’re germs?”
I hesitated. Contemplating whether I should return to my wounded soldier or enlighten this poor girl, who obviously had not received a sound education. I bent down to her eye level.
“Germs are like, these really small creatures that try to get into your body and make you sick. They’re so small that you can’t even see them without a microscope.”
She crossed her skinny arms over her chest. “That ain’t true. Pa says there’s no such thing as tiny things like that. An’ the only thing that makes you sick is bad luck, and the Devil’s magic. An’ what’s a microscope?”
What world has this child been living in? I thought to myself, and then I remembered. Civil War. 1860s. No modern science. This girl isn’t dumb, she’s just not in the right time period.
“You know what?” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Just- just forget everything I’ve said, okay? Bacteria will be discovered soon enough, and microscopes aren’t a thing in America yet, so - so just forget I told you anything.” She shook my hand off. “What are you talkin’ about? Ain’t no way you can tell the future. Unless you’re a… I know what you are! You’re one of them witches! A Devil’s witch!” She backed away from me. I stood there, shocked. “Well, bye then!” “PA!” She screamed. “THERE’S A WITCH HERE!” A deep male voice called from somewhere further in the house. “WHAT’RE YOU HOLLERIN’ ABOUT NOW, ALICE? THIS BETTER NOT BE ONE OF THEM DAMN MICE AGAIN!”
I heard heavy footsteps thundering from inside.
“PA! GET YOUR GUN!” She screeched.
I didn’t need an invitation to leave. I bolted, clutching the basket tightly to my chest. I lept over ditches and small hills in the terrain, feeling faster than any bullet fired at me. I heard gunshots behind me, deflecting randomly from neighboring houses on the sleepy town’s street. The mysterious “pa” must not have been a very good shot.
I made a wide arc around the battlefield, keen to not be shot. I dogged several medical tents until I found the correct one. Nervously, I slipped inside to find my GI.
Might as well keep it on standby, I thought. I need disinfectant, I thought. I grabbed a bottle of clear liquid from the desk. I sniffed it: isopropyl alcohol. Good enough. I twirled around again, to the makeshift bed. I pressed my fingers against his bloodstained torso. I shrugged his coat off of his shoulders. I grabbed a knife from the table behind me and cut his shirt down the middle, throwing it aside. Bracing over him with my forearm, he looked up at me with worried eyes.
“Sorry,” I poured the alcohol over his stomach area “This is gonna sting.”
“Argh!!” He moaned. His back arched, his middle lifting off the stretcher by a few inches.
“Sorry!” I wiped blood away from the gunshot wound. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”
He screamed through his teeth. His eyes were squeezed shut and his fists clenched. Veins on his armed struggled to break through his skin.
I pulled out my scalpel, hands quivering. “I need to pull it out. The bullet’s stuck in your body.”
His eyes popped open. “No. No no no no no no.” His head shook profusely. He raised his hands weakly. “You can’t!”
I looked into his scared eyes. “I have to.” I whispered.
He grabbed my arm with his clammy hand, shaking his head. His grip was surprisingly strong for a person who had just been shot.
“I’m sorry! I have to do this!” I spoke as clearly as I could. I pulled my arm back and slammed my fist into his waxen face. He was out instantly.
“I’m so sorry.” I breathed.
Let’s get to work, I thought. I wiped as much of the blood as I could from where the bullet entered. Using a hook to pull flesh apart, I could see the Minie Ball, flattened from impact. Splinters of rib bones were buried in muscle, shattered like glass. I drenched the bloody mess in more alcohol. I pulled the skin to the side and began tediously picking out bone fragments and the bullet. An hour and a half later, it was done. I had placed the foreign objects in a small tin I had found.
I began wrapping his torso in bandages. Damn. I thought. No neosporin in the Civil War, huh?
What could I use as an antibiotic?
Garlic maybe?
That kills bacteria, right?
I think so.
I guess it can’t hurt.
How would I find it?
It’ll get infected.
It occurred to me.
The town.
Gettysburg.
I finished up the wrappings quickly and ducked out of the tent.
Looking around at the battlefield, it was like it was straight out of a history textbook. Blue and gray clad men dotted the fields. Cannons stood on the top of rolling hills, periodically spitting out rounds. The tangy odor of sulfur coated the atmosphere. Thundering gunshots echoed through the land… I could feel the explosions in my body.
I paused to take it all in for several moments. Then, I ran. I rounded the battlefield, clinging to the edge of the forest, praying to be ignored by any potential bullets fired my way. I dashed behind Confederate lines, trying to stay out of sight. The town, the town. I thought.
What side was he on? I thought. The soldier? It was near-impossible to tell - his uniform had been too bloodied, and the adrenaline of the current situation had kept me from the little details. The coat color - it could determine a lot. Union or Confederate? I certainly hoped for the former, of course. I would not want to aid the side that was all gung ho for slavery and racism.
Focus. I thought. A paved dirt road led the way to a small row of brick houses. Bullets flew behind me like bats swooping on prey. I rounded a corner and flew up the porch of a brick
house.
“Help!” I banged on the door. “Let me in!”
The door opened a crack, and I squeezed in. The air inside smelled of must and fear. A trembling figure stood in front of me, a slender girl who couldn’t have been older than ten or eleven years old. I must’ve looked ridiculous to her - and older kid covered in blood, with matted hair and wild eyes.
“Do you have any garlic?” I asked her.
“W- what?” Her voice trembled.
“I need garlic!” I insisted. “Do you have any?”
“Uh, ye- yes.” She stood rooted in her spot.
“Go!” I barked. The order came out harsher than I had intended it to. She gave a start and led me through a tight hallway and kitchen with rough-hewn floors. She ushered me over to a small wooden door in the wall, clinging to the brick. It swung open with a creak. Narrow stairsteps led into the darkness below to what I assumed was a cellar. She descended the stairs, with me hot on her tail. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I shouldn’t be entering the home of a stranger. They could be dangerous- kidnappers or something. Whatever. I thought. No time. The girl reached the bottom of the stairs. The floor and walls had been dug out of the ground. An earthy odor filled the cramped space - somehow smelling clean and like dirt at the same time. A candle illuminated the room, revealing fruits and vegetables strung up for storage. She fumbled with a net of white objects, which I realized were little bulbs of garlic. She pulled down the net and dumped its contents into a rough-looking basket. “Here.” She said in a small voice, handing it to me. “Thank you.” I replied, out of breath.
I clutched the basket to my chest and flew up the stairs.
“By the way,” I turned around at the top of the steps. “What’s your name?”
“Alice.” She looked up at me with big, round eyes.
I smiled a little bit. “Thank you, Alice. You have just might have saved a man’s life by aiding me today.” A man’s life… Why am I saving him, exactly?
I stepped up onto the ground-level floor when her voice called out to me.
“What’dya need the garlic for?” Her tone was significantly stronger than it had been.
“Disinfectant.” I called over my shoulder.
“What’s that?” She cried. I could hear her little feet pounding on the steps.
“It kills bacteria!” I began to stride through the hall.
“What’s a bacteria?” She followed me.
I was getting impatient. “You know - like germs and stuff! Now I have to go.” I reached the door, and was about to grab the handle when she asked another question.
“What’re germs?”
I hesitated. Contemplating whether I should return to my wounded soldier or enlighten this poor girl, who obviously had not received a sound education. I bent down to her eye level.
“Germs are like, these really small creatures that try to get into your body and make you sick. They’re so small that you can’t even see them without a microscope.”
She crossed her skinny arms over her chest. “That ain’t true. Pa says there’s no such thing as tiny things like that. An’ the only thing that makes you sick is bad luck, and the Devil’s magic. An’ what’s a microscope?”
What world has this child been living in? I thought to myself, and then I remembered. Civil War. 1860s. No modern science. This girl isn’t dumb, she’s just not in the right time period.
“You know what?” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “Just- just forget everything I’ve said, okay? Bacteria will be discovered soon enough, and microscopes aren’t a thing in America yet, so - so just forget I told you anything.” She shook my hand off. “What are you talkin’ about? Ain’t no way you can tell the future. Unless you’re a… I know what you are! You’re one of them witches! A Devil’s witch!” She backed away from me. I stood there, shocked. “Well, bye then!” “PA!” She screamed. “THERE’S A WITCH HERE!” A deep male voice called from somewhere further in the house. “WHAT’RE YOU HOLLERIN’ ABOUT NOW, ALICE? THIS BETTER NOT BE ONE OF THEM DAMN MICE AGAIN!”
I heard heavy footsteps thundering from inside.
“PA! GET YOUR GUN!” She screeched.
I didn’t need an invitation to leave. I bolted, clutching the basket tightly to my chest. I lept over ditches and small hills in the terrain, feeling faster than any bullet fired at me. I heard gunshots behind me, deflecting randomly from neighboring houses on the sleepy town’s street. The mysterious “pa” must not have been a very good shot.
I made a wide arc around the battlefield, keen to not be shot. I dogged several medical tents until I found the correct one. Nervously, I slipped inside to find my GI.