Soldier's Heart

November 6

The sunset glows red through my office window. Outside these walls, the chaotic sounds of a crowded street. Outside the door, the chaotic sounds of the hospital, but the cacophony is drowned out by the memories of gunfire. The scar on my arm, a lasting reminder of a long-ago battle. Unwrapping the bandage is the easy part. The hard part is wrapping it again one-handed. The bandage unfurls, and i curse under my breath. One would think a Harvard-trained doctor could bandage his own wound without assistance!

A knock at the open door interrupts my thoughts. I look up, expecting to see the auburn-haired head nurse, just like every other evening. Instead a plump blonde stands in the doorway. Miss Irene Barnes, one of the newer nurses brought on last spring after the typhoid outbreak killed half my staff. At first glance, she seems the type to faint at the first sight of blood. There’s little about her appearance to recommend her for a nursing position, aside from her steely gaze.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in one year as head of this hospital, it’s that appearances are deceiving. Miss Barnes’s fragile exterior hides her abilities. The only surviving child of a prominent Baltimore doctor, she does what is demanded of her without question or complaint. Knowledgeable and efficient, yet detached and often taciturn - and mercifully less opinionated than her predecessor. The girl is full of surprises. I dislike surprises.

Those steely eyes size up the injury on my arm and the bandage on the desk. I see her mind working behind her eyes. Something about her gaze feels unsettling. I turn away, pulling my sleeve down to cover the wound. “I asked for Miss Goddard.”

Miss Barnes speaks in her usual dispassionate manner. “I apologize, Major Bryson. Miss Goddard is assisting Dr. Adams, but I can help.”

“Adams undoubtedly needs all the help he can get.” It’s only when I hear an unfamiliar sound that I realize I voiced my thoughts. In the six months I’ve known her, I can hardly recall seeing Miss Barnes smile, let alone laugh.

“I may lack Miss Goddard's rapport with Miss Barton, but this is hardly my first time bandaging a wound.”

Despite my efforts not to react, I scoff at the mention of Miss Goddard. The woman may be an incessant bragger, but at least I know what to expect from her. I have no idea how Miss Barnes will react if I let her tend to me.

I don’t look back at her. Perhaps if I ignore her long enough, she’ll leave… yet I still feel her gaze as I attempt to wrap the bandage myself. “Please, let me help. That's difficult to do yourself…”

She takes hold of the loose end of the bandage as it unravels again. I don’t know what surprises me more, her helping without explicit orders or me letting her help. Her hand is steady, yet kinder than Miss Goddard’s. As she works, I notice a strange look in her eyes. Not quite pity, more concerned. Curious, even.

“You wonder how I got this injury, Miss Barnes.”

She doesn’t reply; she doesn’t have to. I see the question in her eyes. I stare out the window at the darkening sky, unable to bear her questioning eyes.

“It was at Antietam. I was working at a field hospital. There was a young man wounded on the battlefield. I tried to move him for treatment, but…”

I can still see his blank, staring eyes as if he just died in front of me. A sudden pain shoots down my arm. I flinch at Miss Barnes’s touch, gripping the edge of my desk hard to hide the trembling in my hand. Miss Barnes says something, but I can’t hear her over the screams and gunshots echoing in my mind.

“There were more shots fired. The bullet went through him and into me. The surgeon was unable to remove all the fragments. I spent weeks in a hospital. Afterwards, I was pulled from battle and transferred here…”

A long, agonizing pause follows. I don’t trust my voice to remain even if I speak. I don’t trust my face to remain stoic if I look at her. I stand motionless as she fastens the bandage, keeping my gaze fixed on a random point outside the darkened window. Finally her soft sigh breaks the silence.

“That must have been awful for you…” Her tone is as unemotional as ever, but her eyes betray her. My heart quickens as I catch sight of her reflection in the windowpane. I know that look all too well, the look of pity. She’s hardly the first nurse to look at me that way, just the first one under my command.

Another, worse thought occurs to me. Has she noticed my reflection in the glass too? What emotions did I unintentionally reveal if she did? I don’t acknowledge her comment, not with words, not with looks, not even with a nod. Any affirming gesture would only give credence to her pity.

She stands beside me, her hand on my arm. I thought she’d finished fastening my bandage already… So why is she still touching me? I pull away from her touch and start to turn away, but I stop myself just in time. If I move, she’ll see the emotions in my eyes. If I stay, she’ll see them reflected in the glass. No matter what I do, there’s no way to hide my weakness from her.

My heart races. The last time I felt this trapped, there were Confederate guns aimed at me. I inwardly berate myself. Why am I so affected by this little mouse of a woman? I’ve faced much worse!

I stand straighter as I face her, trying to maintain some semblance of authority. “Don’t look at me like that, Miss Barnes. I’m your commanding officer, not your patient.”

She stares at the floor, but her compassionate expression remains unchanged. At least I don’t have to keep looking into those pitying eyes. “Are you quite alright, sir? You look a little… tired.” Her normally dispassionate voice is quiet and small. For once, her tone matches her eyes.

I blink, taken aback by her words in more ways than one. That was not the word I thought she’d use to end that sentence. Nonetheless, something about that question enrages me.

“I’m fine, Miss Barnes. Unless you are too incompetent to fasten a bandage correctly the first time, you are dismissed.”

She stares at me, mouth agape. She looks just as surprised by my harsh words as I feel, though I don’t let her see. I half-expect tears or protests, but she does neither. All compassion in her eyes dies, replaced with cold fire. She acknowledges the order with a curt nod, closing the door behind her as she leaves.

I regret my harsh words the moment they leave my lips, but I did what I had to do. The longer she stays, the more likely she is to guess my darkest secret. If she knows, so eventually will the rest of the hospital staff, and if anyone knows, my life is over. I could be court marshalled - or worse, sent to St. Elizabeth’s! I’ve come too far to rot in an insane asylum! I am their commanding officer, and a proper commanding officer does not falter.

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I wrote this story in honor of Men’s Mental Health Awareness Month and PTSD Awareness Month, both of which occur in June. The mental toll of war is nothing new, but the Civil War marked the first time it was medically studied. Raymond Bryson is a fictionalized stand-in for the many men who suffered in silence. This story did not end as I wanted, but I did the best I could with the time and information I had.