I cannot describe it. I remember, I went in the rear of the building,
and there I saw a pile of arms and legs, rotting and decomposing; and,
although I saw thousands of horrifying scenes during the war, yet today
I have no recollection in my whole life, of ever seeing anything that I
remember with more horror than that pile of legs and arms that had been
cut off our soldiers. As John and I went through the hospital, and were
looking at the poor suffering fellows, I heard a weak voice calling, "Sam,
O, Sam." I went to the poor fellow, but did not recognize him at first,
but soon found out that it was James Galbreath, the poor fellow who had
been shot nearly in two on the 22nd of July. I tried to be cheerful,
and said, "Hello, Galbreath, old fellow, I thought you were in heaven
long before this." He laughed a sort of dry, cracking laugh, and asked
me to hand him a drink of water. I handed it to him. He then began to
mumble and tell me something in a rambling and incoherent way, but all
I could catch was for me to write to his family, who were living near
Mt. Pleasant. I asked him if he was badly wounded. He only pulled down
the blanket, that was all. I get sick when I think of it. The lower
part of his body was hanging to the upper part by a shred, and all of his
entrails were lying on the cot with him, the bile and other excrements
exuding from them, and they full of maggots.
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