Short Story: "Mess"

If the American Civil War wasn't horrible enough on its own, the Atrocissimus made it even more so by inserting its foul creatures into the nightmarish mix... 

Mess

 

As he sat on a rickety chair, Fletcher Marshall lit his pipe outside the barn that was being used as an impromptu field hospital. He could hear the flames roaring and the collected shrieks as hundreds of wounded were burned alive not a mile away, and he could smell the odor of roasting flesh. Though it was around one o’clock in the morning, the farm on which the II Corps hospital had been arranged was illuminated by an orange glow that made it look like daylight would soon break. The air was clouded with a smoky haze from the fires as the odor of searing flesh mixed freely with that of the burning woods.

If there ever was a hell on earth, Fletcher thought, then surely it was in this horrifying place.

The year prior at Gettysburg, Fletcher had heard similar shrieks of pain and terror coming from wounded men in the Wheatfield during the long night after the second day of battle. There, pigs who hadn’t eaten in days since their owners fled the approaching battle roamed the field after their pens were destroyed, literally peeling flesh off the wounded and feasting on their viscera as the men still lived.

Horrifying as that was, he thought these flames were somehow even worse. The ambulance teams had told him that they’d been able to hear men screaming, begging to be rescued – or even killed – before the flames could reach them. They’d heard men praying, heard men crying out for their mothers. Then they’d heard those screams turn to shrieks of pain as the creeping flames finally reached them, and, unable to move because of their wounds, burned the men alive.

Fletcher had seen and heard some horrifying things in the years he’d been serving in the Army of the Potomac. Although the horrors of a field hospital were entirely different than those of the battlefield, as a hospital steward Fletcher was witness to the shattered bodies of men barely hanging on to life, of the effectiveness of modern warfare, and of amputated limbs being piled as tall as a man could stand. He’d been witness to enough blood and death in those three years to last three lifetimes.

As he puffed on his pipe, trying to relax after another exhausting day, he thought about what fools he and his cohorts were back in ’61. Just three years, but what a long three years they had been. He and all the other eager volunteers were certain they would whip the Confederates after one decisive battle and return by Christmas as the heroes who’d saved the nation. Now here they were stuck in a nightmare that apparently would never end and would consume an entire generation in the process.

He breathed the tobacco smoke deeply, enjoying the tangy flavor. He recalled that it was an early May evening not too dissimilar from this one in which he first asked Mr. Cooke, the druggist for whom he worked as a drug clerk, and from whom he rented a small space in the back of the apothecary shop to live, what his opinion was on joining the army. They were both sitting outside the shop smoking pipes, enjoying the cool Philadelphia evening together.

“You know I respect you like another father, Mr. Cooke,” Fletcher had said, “and since my own isn’t around to ask anymore, I’d like to know your opinion on this matter.”

Mr. Cooke had looked up at the swiftly darkening sky over the city as he smoked his pipe and thought, then after a moment had said, “Fletcher, those damn Secessionists fired on Fort Sumter last month, and I see no reason to think they’ll change their minds about this lunacy simply because we ask nicely. This is going to have to be fought out, one way or another, and there is no way to avoid that now thanks to them. My personal belief is that every man that can join should join in this fight because it’s going to be the fight to save, or utterly destroy, our nation.”

“Alright, then,” Fletcher had responded, nodding solemnly and setting his jaw. “If it’s quite alright with you, sir, first thing tomorrow I’d like to go and volunteer.”

Mr. Cooke had waved his hand then as if trying to slow Fletcher down. “Well, now, just hold on there a moment. Just because you’re joining doesn’t mean you need to carry a rifle or shoot a cannon. No, sir, I do believe that would be a huge waste of your talents, young man. You’ve been working for me…what? Five years now? Six?”

“Five years. I came here when I was fifteen.”

“Ah, yes, of course you did.” Mr. Cooke paused to take several deep breaths on his pipe, the white smoke drifting up from it lazily. “In that time, you’ve become almost as much of a pharmacist as I am. Your expertise with medicinal herbs is profound, your talent at compounding products excellent, and your knowledge of the materia medica is second only to…well, me. If I’m not mistaken, you still intend to study at the college of pharmacy here in the city. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir. I’m just saving up my earnings, but I intend to apply for admittance in as timely a manner as possible.”    

Mr. Cooke had nodded. “Then, in that case, please allow me to suggest you apply for acceptance into the army medical corps as a hospital steward. That is where I believe your talents would most serve the nation, and that’s what matters most at the moment. Brave men who are willing to serve this nation but serve it where their talents are best used. Some men are meant to fight on the front, some to lead, and some to do other vital tasks. And, let us be frank, it is safer than engaging in the fighting. That’s where you are most likely to survive this war and come back to enjoy the bright future that awaits you, my boy.”

As Fletcher sat there, he looked out on the strangely illuminated field to see row after row of shattered men, their bodies ruined, writhing in pain. Some had lost a limb, some two, a wretched few all four of them. Some had their jaws shot off, some were blinded, some had lost their manhood. Some had received gut wounds and would die slowly as there was nothing they could do for that kind of injury. The only thing the field hospital could offer was to keep giving them dose after dose of laudanum, so they felt little of the agonizing pain as they slipped away.

Looking beyond the wounded, Fletcher could see additional neat rows of men, these all with faces covered by their thin wool blankets awaiting a burial detail. When he thought of what the survival chances were for the infantrymen, he realized Mr. Cooke had been correct when he said serving in the hospital corps was the best place for Fletcher to potentially come home from the war.

He looked over as someone else exited the barn and saw it was John Bell, the chief orderly assigned to the unit. For some strange reason, his nickname was Sam, something Fletcher could never quite fathom.

“Evening, Sam,” he said. “How are you tonight?”

“I’m worn, Fletcher. I am worn to the bone.”

Sam sat on the ground next to Fletcher, his back resting against the barn. They both sat in silence trying to ignore the sounds of the flames and the trapped wounded shrieking.

“I am so tired,” Sam said. “So very tired of this damn war. Of all this killing.”

“Yep,” Fletcher answered. “Me too, Sam. Me too.”

Another silence, then Sam asked, “Any idea what’s been gnawing on the limbs?”

For about the past year, it had been noticed when the piles of limbs couldn’t be buried immediately and were allowed to fester for a day or two – which was often, considering the many other things that had to be done at a field hospital during battle – many of the limbs had shown signs of having been eaten. Flesh torn, marrow sucked out, tooth marks on the bones. Because of this, Fletcher had started a practice of having each individual surgeons’ pile of limbs removed often, and the regiment’s total dumped into one large pile that would be buried at the end of the day. Problem is, at a field hospital it was never clear when the day ended.

“No, I still don’t. We don’t ever see anything big enough coming by to eat them like that, but I suppose maybe it could be rats or something.”

“Rats?” Sam said, shuddering. “What a disgusting thought.”

Fletcher finished his pipe and tapped out the ashes. “Yes, well, eating severed, rotting limbs is revolting in and of itself, so the thought rats might be doing it doesn’t make it any more so.”

“No…I reckon not.”

“Well, whatever it is, it offends me deeply. Those limbs represent a shattered life, a life offered for the good of the nation. Even if the men survive, they’ve still given up their lives to us, and it’s horrifying their sacrifice should be treated so. The men from whom they came deserve better than to have parts of them disrespected like that.”

Sam nodded his head. “Indeed,” he said tiredly.

“Have you seen Doctor Mangier? I have the Weekly Report I need to review with him.”

Mangier was one of the surgeons assigned to Fletcher’s own regiment, the 71^st Pennsylvania. He’d arrived around a year ago to replace a surgeon who’d died of pneumonia following the slushy winter fiasco at Fredericksburg. The other two died in their sleep not long after, to be replaced by Doctor du Viande and Doctor Fleischman.

He was always sure to use Mangier’s proper title of “doctor,” though Fletcher often questioned the degree to which he deserved that noble designation. In his position, Fletcher had had the chance to see all the surgeons ply their trade, and unlike all the previous ones to serve in the unit, the only thing Mangier seemed to know how to do was remove limbs. Soldiers often came to the surgeon for regular complaints during those long weeks between battles, and he’d invariably either accuse them of malingering or give them some medicine and send them on their way, making it clear they were not to return.

Plus, Fletcher had noticed Mangier always removed the entire limb regardless of where the soldier had been shot. Whether a man was shot in the forearm, elbow, or bicep, Mangier would remove the entire arm. Same for the leg. Fletcher was no doctor, so he never officially complained about this, but he did question the ethics of it.

Despite that oddity, Fletcher could see Mangier was a master of removing limbs. The man, gaunt, with pale skin, deep-set dark eyes, and looking like he was as ill as the patients in the infirmary, used the implements of limb removal like an artist wielding a brush, or a musician his instrument. After the orderly drugged the patient asleep, Mangier would gracefully slice two deep cuts into the upper arm or leg, then peel back the flesh. As the orderly pulled back the flaps of skin, Mangier would saw through the bone with a speed and strength that his thin, wiry arms belied. Once the limb was removed, he’d stitch back together the flaps of skin, doing the entire surgery in mere minutes.  

Sam yawned, then said, “No, I ain’t seen him since he finished his last amputation.”

“Hmm, alright. I’ll search him out momentarily. Did the pile get buried, do you know?”

“Ummm…” Sam said, rubbing his eyes. “I don’t believe it was. I think du Viande and Fleischman dispatched the work crew elsewhere. Unless they’re at it now.”

Fletcher looked to his left, where he could see in the dim orange glow of the fires a small mountain of severed limbs near some woods. It was so big it was possible there was a burial detail on the far side, but he doubted it.

“Damn it all to hell,” Fletcher growled. “Now there might be damned animals in it.”    

Sam wearily stood up and stretched, then said, “If there ain’t nothing else for us to do tonight, I’m gettin’ some sleep.”

Sam had requisitioned a hay-covered space in one of the outbuildings as his sleeping quarters for the battle while Fletcher took the space opposite him. No need to set up tents when they’d be in them so infrequently. Fletcher still had to find Mangier and wanted to check on the pile of limbs, but he hoped he could get to sleep no later than two o’clock. Fletcher was confident there’d be another attack today and figured the first units should start out at around four, first wounded arriving perhaps at five, maybe a little later. Three or so hours of sleep wasn’t too bad.

“Good night, Sam. I’ll be along in a bit.”

Fletcher watched as Sam shuffled away to the outbuilding, then grabbed a lantern to make his way towards the woods’ edge and the giant pile of limbs. He wanted to make certain the burial detail was not currently taking care of them, though he was confident they were not. In the morning he’d have to gather a few nurses, perhaps even some of the walking wounded, and put them to work getting the limbs buried.

He was considering how to manage this, when he suddenly stopped in his tracks just a few feet from the pile. Though the odor of the rotting flesh was revolting and the swarm of flies that buzzed around it disgusting, he’d grown accustomed to all that by now. What stopped Fletcher was not smell but rather sound: He could hear unmistakable noises of eating coming from the other side of it, sounds of chewing, ripping, slurping, belching, grunting.

It was too late. Something had already gotten into the limbs and was feasting on the putrid flesh.

Fletcher was filled with a sudden rage by this. He felt a sense of personal failure that this had been allowed to occur while he was responsible for it, and that failure angered him. But the sounds also reminded him of that awful night at Gettysburg. He presumed that once again pigs set loose by the fighting were roaming the fields looking for food, and in this pile of limbs would have found an almost endless meal for them to feast on. His failure enraged him, as did the sacrifice of his fellow soldiers being treated so meanly. This entire ridiculous war, the years of needless death and ruin and torment enraged him. Grabbing a nearby stick, Fletcher went to beat those pigs with all the fury he’d had pent up during these long years of war. 

He rushed forward with the stick held high, ready to smash as many of the pigs as he could since he’d never be able to attack the wealthy bastards that had started this war when he again stopped abruptly. Fletcher stood there, stick still held high but now forgotten, eyes wide, mouth agape with shock and horror.

There before him, he saw Doctor Mangier squatting on the ground, the great pile behind him, as he devoured a rancid leg with a lusty hunger. Fletcher watched as, grunting happily, Mangier sunk his teeth deep into a calf, the skin of which had already turned a wretched greenish-gray color, and tore it off the bone like a wild animal eating its prey. Scattered before him were several additional arms and legs that had already had the flesh torn from them.

Fletcher then realized Mangier was not alone there. As his eyes scanned the eerily illuminated scene, he saw Fleischman sat there too, having just snapped open a femur to suck the marrow from it, while du Viande was feasting on the flesh of an arm. Just as thin and gaunt as Mangier, they ate with a frenzy like a wild animal near starvation. They were all surrounded by arms and legs that had been stripped of meat, the white bones peeking out from the stringy remains that clung to them. All of the regimental doctors grunted and drooled like beasts as they devoured the rotten muscle from limbs they themselves had removed.

Fletcher, terrified and disgusted, felt rooted to his spot, unable to move, unable to scream, barely even able to breathe. He felt almost insane with revulsion, his mind struggling to make sense of what was happening and how it could be possible. The stick with which he was going to beat the pigs dropped to the ground when he realized Mangier had stopped eating and was staring at him malevolently, bits of the leg he had been feasting on dangling uneaten from his mouth.

Struck with an unreasonable fear when he saw Mangier’s evil eyes boring into his own, Fletcher dropped the lantern he’d been carrying and ran without thinking like the panicked animals that had fled the burning forest. Fletcher ran to get away from these beasts without thought, and so he sprinted into the nearby woods rather than back to the field hospital. He’d survived three years of war by that time, he’d survived several battles in which he feared the lines were going to shift and he’d die as his position was overrun. That fear paled to insignificance compared to the terror he felt now, so he ran wildly to get away, glancing back as he did.

Fletcher was running in a thick, dark wood, and by looking behind him he was unable to see where he was going. He tripped over the gnarled root of an oak tree not too far into the woods, snapping his ankle as his momentum catapulted him forward through the air. Fletcher landed face-first on some rocks, shattering his jaw and breaking out several teeth when he crashed into them. The arm that he’d extended to brace his landing got caught in the rocks as well, breaking the bones in his lower arm like two dried twigs.

As Fletcher drifted away into unconsciousness from hitting his head on the rocks, he could feel his mouth filling with blood even as he saw the orange glow of an approaching lantern…    

Fletcher awakened some time later, laying on a hard table. Though his mind was fuzzy, and it was difficult for him to open his fluttering eyes, Fletcher realized he was in the field hospital. He was naked except for a small cloth over his privates. A lantern and several nearby candles flickered, casting everything in a soft, orange glow. His entire body was in agony, with his head pounding painfully, his arm and his leg screaming in anguish.

Fletcher tried to open his mouth, which tasted of blood, but discovered he couldn’t. His jaw hurt terribly, and it was tied tightly shut with a soft bandage. He tried then to get up but was unable to, then realized he was tied to the table with thick leather straps. Fletcher attempted to speak, but between the effects of his swimming mind and injured jaw, he could only make grunting noises. 

“Ah, there you are,” said Mangier softly, approaching the table so Fletcher could see him through his fluttering eyelids. “We’re so glad you survived.”

Recalling the scene near the limb pile, Fletcher tried desperately to scream, to get away, but he was as bound by whatever medication the doctors had given him as he was by the leather straps. His body also didn’t move the way he wanted it to due to his injuries.

He was trapped.

“We’ve given you laudanum for the pain,” Mangier whispered to him, leaning in close, “and we’ll keep giving it to you until you and all the other wounded are evacuated back to Washington. You’ll have quite the addiction to it by then. But before we give you chloroform for your next surgery, we need to update you on your condition, Sergeant Marshall.”

Mangier, still so close that Fletcher could smell the odor of the rotten flesh on his breath and clearly see his yellow teeth, began to gently stroke the hospital steward’s hair. “You apparently landed very hard back there, so hard you shattered your jaw in several places. We put that right and have it immobilized so it will heal properly…and, since now you know the secret of our hunger, we had to remove your tongue to silence you. We normally prefer our meat a bit more seasoned, but it did make a lovely snack, I might tell you.”

Fletcher tried to scream, tried to curse these evil men or creatures or beasts or whatever they were, but he was too heavily drugged to manage anything but inarticulate grunts. Instead, he cried tears of rage and desperation.  

Mangier stood back up as du Viande and Fleischman also came into view standing at the table. One held a sharp, long amputation knife used in surgery while the other held a bone saw. Both implements were smeared with still-wet blood. Through the fogginess of his drugged mind, Fletcher became aware they were all wearing their surgery aprons spattered with fresh blood.

“Patient arrived with a shattered fibula near the lateral malleoius, therefore…your leg has been removed,” Mangier said casually, tapping Fletcher’s stump. “Patient also arrived with a break to the radius and ulna, and so your arm has also been removed. This is all for your own well-being, you understand, of course.”

Shocked by Mangier’s unexpected words, Fletcher raised his head to confirm that his left leg was gone, with only a small stump wrapped in bloody bandages remaining. Horrified, Fletcher looked to his right arm, which he saw had also been removed, again leaving only a stump and red-stained bandages. He shrieked through his tightly clamped jaw.

“Now, Sergeant Marshall, as for your remaining uninjured limbs…those we’re going to take to feed on as well, because we have an unending hunger, a gnawing, burning need for flesh, and your limbs will be seasoned in a few days. As for your sweetmeats,” Mangier said, lifting up the small cloth covering Fletcher, “well, Sergeant Marshall, we simply couldn’t pass on such a rare delight, so…I wouldn’t plan on having any children if I were you.”

He then nodded to one of the other doctors, who placed a chloroform-soaked bandage across Fletcher’s nose and forced him to breathe in the powerful chemical. As he drifted off into blackness for his next set of amputations, he heard as Mangier said, “Thank you for your service to your nation, and congratulations on surviving the war…”