A poem donated by our good friend IllinosCW
Co. B - 95th Illinois
I truly donít know which was worse
For my sensibilities.
Feeling the rip of the flesh
On my shattered leg.
Tasting the blood in my mouth
As I bit through my lower lip.
Sensing the pressure of hands
Grabbing at my person.
Smelling the putrid odor
Of my burned lower limb.
Hearing the harsh rasp of the surgeonís saw
Cutting through my bone.
Tasting the sweat, tears and black powder
When my parched tongue licked my mouth.
Smelling the foulings of the wounded
With me under the tent fly.
Feeling the forceps as they pulled
At my destroyed arteries.
Or simply knowing that there was no way
I would survive the amputation.
Written by FRANK CRAWFORD