The Walking Wounded
My name is Sinclair O'Reily. I am a freelance reporter based in Richmond, Va. I've been following various generals from the North during the whole Civil War. Today I visit a Union hospital ward.
I meet a doctor named Roger Flushing. He was born in Vermont, relatively close to my birthplace in Connecticut. We briefly speak of the scenery and the cities of the area.
I follow Dr. Flushing into a tent. Inside are some of the most sickening sights I have ever seen. Men---not men but boys: dead, dying, sick, thirsty. The sick air of death envelops me. I almost speak but Dr. Flushing sees my struggle and says sternly, "This is the critical tent. The worst ones are brought here." He whispers to me, "All these will die soon."
We leave that canvas of doom and enter another tent adjacent to the last. Inside a few pristine beds are set in the corner. Here the sounds of moans and coughs do not invade your ear with vicious swords as in the other tent.
Dr. Flushing tells me this is the stable ward. I peer around and notice a few soldiers are missing limbs. Others have broken bones or large gashes. Dr. Flushing, looking around the room, says to me "These will live; some will even go back to the field."
We retreat from that tent and I notice that two nurses are carrying a bag filled with the wasted lot of a boy soldier. Amidst this death, however, there is a feeling of acceptance. The soldiers in these tents know their fate, and sleep with either the sweet or sour secret buried in their brains.
As I leave Dr. Flushing, I notice he is bleeding. I try to tell him but he melts into a solution of people. I begin to leave when I am startled by a voice behind me. The voice introduces himself as Pilgrim. "Don't bother with titles, " he says. "Makes no difference, right? I'll show you out." I vaguely nod my head in agreement.
As we exit the camp, I say, "Geez, it's awful in there." I don't expect any response. I only say it to fill an awkward void of conversation.
He stares at me through a rough face; however, his eyes do have a softness to them. Not an innocence but an introspectiveness. We cut through a grove of apple trees and there, almost supernaturally, stands a legion of soldiers. Pilgrim leads me toward them.
He says, "These are the so-called lucky ones. You see, Mr. O'Reily, the ones back there, they know they'll die, now or later. Here, on the battleground. it is uncertain. Look at them. What do you see?"
I see five perfect lines, about one-hundred fifty deep, of perfectly still soldiers. Their shoulders strong. Their confidence high. I tell Pilgrim this.
"Let me show you something." We walk to the soldiers. They do not notice us, not even when I bump into a rather burly one.
Pilgrim leads me to one soldier. "See this one?" Pilgrim points to the man's foot. "He has a small cut on his big toe. He will develop gangrene in three weeks and die."
Pilgrim points to the next soldier. "He will develop a mental disorder after the war. He will jump off a bridge in a terrible fit."
We continue down the line and every single one of the men is wounded. Some have infections while the others are already dead on the inside.
"Mr. O'Reily, these are what we call the walking wounded. There are thousands, millions, of them. Most of the walking wounded haven't even been on a battlefield. Their battleground is your town, your school, your churches and your country."
I stop to ponder this for a minute.
"Why don't we heal them?" I ask.
He answers, "The walking wounded conceal their wounds under bandages and clothing and skin."
I want to say more, but Pilgrim cuts my voice with a nod of his head. I walk away, not stopping until I reach the apple grove. I see that the apples, moments ago bright and red, are now brown and decaying. I want to look back but I know no one is there anymore. I slowly walk back to the camp. I'll sleep well tonight.
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