wasn’t really in hit because we couldn’t git to her in time. And after Donelson that spring, in April, thar was Shiloh. Well—all that I can tell you is, we was thar on time at Shiloh. Oh Lord, I reckon that we was! Perhaps we had been country boys before, perhaps some of us still made a joke of hit before—but after Shiloh we wasn’t country boys no longer. We didn’t make a joke about hit after Shiloh. They wiped the smile off of our faces at Shiloh. And after Shiloh we was boys no longer: we was vet’ran men.
From then on hit was fightin’ to the end. That’s where we learned what hit was like—at Shiloh. From then on we knowed what hit would be until the end.
Jim got wounded thar at Shiloh. Hit wasn’t bad—not bad enough to suit him anyways—fer he wanted to go home fer good. Hit was a flesh wound in the leg, but hit was some time before they could git to him, and he was layin’ out thar on the field and I reckon that he lost some blood. Anyways, he was unconscious when they picked him up. They carried him back and dressed his wound right thar upon the field. They cleaned hit out, I reckon, and they bandaged hit—thar was so many of ’em they couldn’t do much more than that. Oh, I tell you what, in those days thar wasn’t much that they could do. I’ve seed the surgeons workin’ underneath an open shed with meatsaws, choppin’ off the arms and legs and throwin’ ’em out thar in a pile like they was sticks of wood, sometimes without no chloroform ornothin’, and the screamin’ and the hollerin’ of the men was enough to make your head turn gray. And that was as much as anyone could do. Hit was live or die and take your chance—and thar was so many of ’em wounded so much worse than Jim that I reckon he was lucky they did anything fer him at all.
I heared ’em tell about hit later, how he came to, a-lyin’ stretched out thar on an old dirty blanket on the bare floor, and an army surgeon seed him lookin’ at his leg all bandaged up and I reckon thought he’d cheer him up and said: “Oh, that ain’t nothin’—you’ll be up and fightin’ Yanks again in two weeks’ time.”
Well, with that, they said, Jim got to cursin’ and a-takin’ on something terrible. They said the language he used was enough to make your hair stand up on end. They said he screamed and raved and reached down thar and jerked that bandage off and said—“Like hell I will!” They said the blood spouted up thar like a fountain, and they said that army doctor was so mad he throwed Jim down upon his back and sat on him and he took that bandage, all bloody as hit was, and he tied hit back around his leg again and he said: “Goddam you, if you pull that bandage off again, I’ll let you bleed to death.”
And Jim, they said, came ragin’ back at him until you could have heared him fer a mile, and said: “Well, by God, I don’t care if I do; I’d rather die than stay here any longer.”
They say they had hit back and forth thar until Jim got so weak he couldn’t talk no more. I know that when I come to see him a day or two later he was settin’ up and I asked him: “Jim, how is your leg? Are you hurt bad?”
And he answered: “Not bad enough. They can take the whole damn leg off,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned,and bury hit here at Shiloh if they’ll only let me go back home and not come back again. Me and Martha will git along somehow,” he said. “I’d rather be a cripple the rest of my life than have to come back and fight in this damn war.”
Well, I knowed he meant hit too. I looked at him and seed how much he meant hit, and I knowed thar wasn’t anything that I could do. When a man begins to talk that way, thar hain’t much you can say to him. Well, sure enough, in a week or two, they let him go upon a two months’ furlough and he went limpin’ away upon a crutch. He was the happiest man I ever seed. “They gave me two months’ leave,” he said, “but if they jest let me
From then on hit was fightin’ to the end. That’s where we learned what hit was like—at Shiloh. From then on we knowed what hit would be until the end.
Jim got wounded thar at Shiloh. Hit wasn’t bad—not bad enough to suit him anyways—fer he wanted to go home fer good. Hit was a flesh wound in the leg, but hit was some time before they could git to him, and he was layin’ out thar on the field and I reckon that he lost some blood. Anyways, he was unconscious when they picked him up. They carried him back and dressed his wound right thar upon the field. They cleaned hit out, I reckon, and they bandaged hit—thar was so many of ’em they couldn’t do much more than that. Oh, I tell you what, in those days thar wasn’t much that they could do. I’ve seed the surgeons workin’ underneath an open shed with meatsaws, choppin’ off the arms and legs and throwin’ ’em out thar in a pile like they was sticks of wood, sometimes without no chloroform ornothin’, and the screamin’ and the hollerin’ of the men was enough to make your head turn gray. And that was as much as anyone could do. Hit was live or die and take your chance—and thar was so many of ’em wounded so much worse than Jim that I reckon he was lucky they did anything fer him at all.
I heared ’em tell about hit later, how he came to, a-lyin’ stretched out thar on an old dirty blanket on the bare floor, and an army surgeon seed him lookin’ at his leg all bandaged up and I reckon thought he’d cheer him up and said: “Oh, that ain’t nothin’—you’ll be up and fightin’ Yanks again in two weeks’ time.”
Well, with that, they said, Jim got to cursin’ and a-takin’ on something terrible. They said the language he used was enough to make your hair stand up on end. They said he screamed and raved and reached down thar and jerked that bandage off and said—“Like hell I will!” They said the blood spouted up thar like a fountain, and they said that army doctor was so mad he throwed Jim down upon his back and sat on him and he took that bandage, all bloody as hit was, and he tied hit back around his leg again and he said: “Goddam you, if you pull that bandage off again, I’ll let you bleed to death.”
And Jim, they said, came ragin’ back at him until you could have heared him fer a mile, and said: “Well, by God, I don’t care if I do; I’d rather die than stay here any longer.”
They say they had hit back and forth thar until Jim got so weak he couldn’t talk no more. I know that when I come to see him a day or two later he was settin’ up and I asked him: “Jim, how is your leg? Are you hurt bad?”
And he answered: “Not bad enough. They can take the whole damn leg off,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned,and bury hit here at Shiloh if they’ll only let me go back home and not come back again. Me and Martha will git along somehow,” he said. “I’d rather be a cripple the rest of my life than have to come back and fight in this damn war.”
Well, I knowed he meant hit too. I looked at him and seed how much he meant hit, and I knowed thar wasn’t anything that I could do. When a man begins to talk that way, thar hain’t much you can say to him. Well, sure enough, in a week or two, they let him go upon a two months’ furlough and he went limpin’ away upon a crutch. He was the happiest man I ever seed. “They gave me two months’ leave,” he said, “but if they jest let me
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