Blues on the Gray Line

He wore a red apron with a little white showing at the edges. One of the orderlies lifted Cletus' head and poured something into his mouth. Whiskey. Hardly a thimble full, but whiskey. The surgeon's helper grabbed Cletus' hand and put it between his legs and held onto his forearm, hard. The saw started before Cletus realized what was happening. "You son-of-a-bitch!" Cletus began, but it came out "Arrrghh!" Then it was done and the surgeon threw Cletus' arm onto a heap, while his helper burned the stump. The orderlies picked up his stretcher and carried him outside. Cletus craned his neck around to try and pick his arm out on the pile, but he couldn't tell. Hell of a thing, he couldn't even tell.

When he came to, he was in a tent, one of those big brigade tents, and it sounded like the Villetoe House, only not as loud. A woman came to him and wiped his brow with her apron. It was white, with a little red around the edges. She gave him some water and said "Blessed sleep", then she went away to the next man.

When he woke again it was bright outside and he could tell it was afternoon. He could hear a bird singing out there somewhere, and through the flap he saw a column of soldiers trudging past. "Give 'em hell, boys!" he shouted. They were headed into Chattanooga, he guessed, to make more piles. Then he realized the war was over. Those fellers'd be making piles for quite a while, he knew, but for him, the war was over. He'd be planting crops next spring. It'd be hard, with only one arm, but they'd get planted somehow. Damn that Yankee gunner, he thought. It'd be a bitch, with only one arm.

Better than Mashburn, though.