Free Abner & Me by Dan Gutman Page B

hand.”
    â€œI’ll do whatever I can to help, Doctor,” Mom said.
    Mom must have been freaking out. At the hospital where she works, they’ve got all kinds of high-tech stuff. MRI machines. Lasers that do all kinds of surgery. Hemostatic bandages. This hospital probably didn’t even have X rays or antibiotics. This doctor had probably never even heard of germs or aspirin. On a table next to the operating table there were bottles filled with stuff like “dandelion root.” A lot of good that would do. But it was the only medicine they had.
    â€œThat’s a nasty wound you’ve got there,” the doctor told the injured man after a short examination. “I’m going to have to take that leg off.”
    â€œNo!” the guy screamed. “Not my leg!”
    â€œIs that really necessary, Doctor?” Mom asked.
    â€œOf course it’s necessary,” he replied. “If the leg gets infected, this man will die.”
    I turned my head away. No way I was going to watch him chop off the guy’s leg. But when I looked in the corner of the tent, there was an even more repulsive sight. There was a huge pile of arms and legs that had already been chopped off. They were just sitting there. Some of the legs still had shoes on them. Flies were buzzing around them. I felt like I might throw up.
    The doctor picked up this big saw and sloshed it around in a pan of dirty water for a few seconds. Then he wiped it on his apron, which was already red with blood.
    â€œAren’t you going to sterilize that, Doctor?” Mom asked, alarmed. “He’ll get gangrene!”
    â€œDon’t be ridiculous,” the doctor replied. “Gangrene is caused by bad air. Didn’t they teach you that in nursing school?”
    The poor guy on the table was screaming and whining and praying and begging to be left alone all at the same time.
    â€œYou’re lucky they hit you in the leg,” the doctor told the guy. “If they’d got you in the gut, there would be nothing I could do.”
    â€œI don’t wanna die!” screamed the guy on the table.
    â€œHold him down!” instructed the doctor. “You’re not going to die, son.”
    I grabbed the soldier’s arms to prevent him from thrashing around.
    â€œDon’t you have any anesthesia?” Mom asked desperately. “Chloroform? Ether? Nitrous oxide?”
    â€œWe ran out weeks ago,” the doctor replied, “and Mr. Lincoln hasn’t sent us more yet.”
    â€œEven opium or morphine would help him bear the pain,” Mom said hopefully.
    â€œGive him some of this,” the doctor said, taking a thin metal flask out of his pocket and handing it to Mom. She poured something into the guy’s mouth. Icould smell the alcohol. Then the doctor took a bullet out of his other pocket.
    â€œThis is going to pinch a little,” he told the soldier as he put the bullet between the man’s teeth. “It won’t hurt so much if you bite on the bullet.”
    I didn’t watch, but I couldn’t block out the horrible sounds—the screaming, the saw cutting through the leg, the thud when the leg hit the ground. The doctor tossed it on the pile with the others.
    â€œNo! No! Nooooooooo!” the poor guy screamed. Mom held his hand.
    The doctor sloshed the saw in the dirty water again and took a deep breath.
    â€œNext!” he called, as he wiped the sweat off his forehead. Two guys came in, put the poor guy on a stretcher, and carried him out.
    â€œAren’t you going to sew up the wound?” Mom asked.
    â€œI’m a surgeon, ma’am,” the doctor said. “They can patch him up outside. Next!”
    Another injured guy was carried in on a stretcher and put onto the bloody table. He was soaking wet, and his shirt was pulled over his face. His arms were flailing around like he was a crazy man. He was shorter than the guy whose leg was