How shall I describe the past night?

If I live to the lauded period of man's existence, I can never forget the scenes I have witnessed,

for they are indelibly stamped on my memory.

Lymphs mangled in torn, much suffering and pain.

Oh Lord, it was truly horrible.

About two o'clock last night we were ordered to assist our division's surgeons about

getting the wounded men on board the train bound for Atlanta.

The wounded for the whole corps were scattered about on every side, some in a deserted house,

some under rough shelters of brush, some intense, and others on the cold ground with no covering

but their blankets.

By passing once through the grounds we could find men suffering from all kinds of wounds.

Here on a rough table the surgeons were amputating a leg.

And another one's arm was being taken off, while a score of others just taken from the

ambulances were awaiting their turn with all manner of wounds claiming attention.

In the hospital after the wounds are dressed it is bad enough, but it is no comparison

to the battlefield hospital.

I saw one poor fellow belonging to a Texas regiment who had his leg almost torn off by

a cannonball just above the knee, the bones crushed and torn out, who had been bounced

for nearly six miles in an old wagon of an ambulance, over roads far from being good,

yet he was still alive and perfectly reliable in speech.

In moving the wounded it was really heart-rendering to listen to their grounds and cries.

Several had been shot directly through the bowels and the least movement caused them

...