Touch the Elbow - Blogging the Civil War

Matt Atkinson, whose soft, slow drawl left no doubts as to Southern roots, returned to Gettysburg a few months ago, this time in a full-time position after an assignment at Vicksburg. He considers himself a fortunate man that his wife was also able to land a similar job at the Park, a place that most tugs at their hearts and emotions. A fortunate man, indeed, but one who chose as his topic a discourse on those who fared less well in the three days of fighting and were consigned to Camp Letterman, which existed on "80 acres for 120 days."

Southern roots and Southern heritage is something we Northerners are hard pressed to get a handle on. But that sense of roots and heritage led General George Patton to brag that his grandmother hung pictures of Jesus, Lee, and Jackson above her fireplace. A lot of Southerners understand that, which is why Matt began with the story, which he related in a humorous manner. Me, I joked to myself that Patton’s Granny was probably burning in hell for breaking the Second Commandment.



Camp Letterman established on the outskirts of Gettysburg became the consolidating depot for the wounded from both sides when they were gathered up from the houses, buildings, and barns that had served as temporary hospitals. With the majority of the 51,000 men reported killed, captured, missing, or wounded falling into the latter category, “the scale of humanity that had to be dealt with” was almost beyond comprehension. Even battle hardened veterans, inured to the bloated and mangled bodies of the dead, couldn't, as Atkinson pointed out, “walk by a suffering human without wanting to do something about it.”

Before offering a glimpse at how Camp Letterman came into being, Atkinson looked in the rear view mirror for a backward glance at medical care afforded to the sick and wounded in the beginning stages of the war.

In 1861 "no one felt the need to upgrade the medical system." At First Bull Run the wounded were simply left behind to fend for themselves. Washington, with no military hospitals, was totally unprepared to care for the flood of wounded. The immediate solution was to convert government buildings and churches into makeshift treatment facilities. But the problem remained and only grew proportionately with each successive exchange of massed musket and cannon fire: how to handle the expected casualties on the battlefield. Charles Tripler saw a solution: revamping the ambulance corps. His was a voice in the wilderness as evidenced by the fact that it took more than a week to evacuate the wounded from the Fair Oaks battlefield close to a year later.

Although there was an enormous amount of resistance from the army's medical department, Tripler readily accepted assistance offered by the U.S. Sanitary Commission, then promptly resigned his commission after the Peninsula Campaign, returned to civilian life, and founded hospitals in New York City, Philadelphia, and Baltimore. He was to be succeeded by Jonathan Letterman, who almost single handedly revolutionized medical care throughout the army. Improvements and changes, though accelerated by Letterman's leadership, were still slow in coming. Eleven days after the final shot fired at Second Bull Run, as many as 500 Union wounded had still not been evacuated to hospitals.

By September 17th the lesson had been learned. A newly implemented ambulance corps was in place, which ensured 14,000 Union and Confederate casualties received treatment quickly. That carried over to Fredericksburg where soldiers were evacuated to hospitals within 24 hours.

George Meade was more concerned about ammunition than ambulances during his march toward Gettysburg. He ordered a minimal number to travel with his army, freeing teams of horses and teamsters to convey armaments. That didn't prevent ambulance attendants, though, from performing their duties with previously unimagined efficiency as they succeeded in removing the wounded to designated locations at the close of each day's fighting.

Letterman had 800 surgeons at his disposal during the battle. Convinced, when Meade pulled out from Gettysburg to begin his slow pursuit of Lee, that another major battle was eminent, Letterman ordered 650 of his medical cadre to follow suit. 150 surgeons, now under the command of Dr. Henry James, were left to contend with the misery of 14,193 Union causalities and 6,000 plus Confederate wounded left behind by Bobby Lee.

Camp Letterman was ordered constructed on July 6th in an area then called the Wolf farm, but which now plays host to the Giant Supermarket on Rt. 130. By July 10th, the railroad bridge over Rock Creek, burnt by the retreating Confederates, had been rebuilt, leading to the evacuation of 4,000 Union soldiers on that single day. Over the next two weeks, in an extraordinary achievement, another 15,000 would be expressed to hospitals in Harrisburg, Philadelphia, New York, and other cities. those being deemed in the best condition to travel getting first berth. By July 12th more than 2800 Confederates had been shipped to prisons in New Jersey and Maryland.

The Wolf farm was considered an ideal site to erect what amounted to a gigantic M.A.S.H. unit. Favored with a running stream, supplemental wells, and large stands of trees for shade, it was near enough to the railroad that supplies were easily freighted in. The grounds were covered by 300 tents, each with a capacity of 12 patients. The operation was conducted on a mass scale such that soldiers from both sides intermingled when drawing supplies and ate their meals in common. One such meal, consisting of 1232 dozen eggs, 825 chickens, and 101 gallons of oysters set the government back $111.

Anna Holstein, who had administered to patients at Antietam and Frederick was appointed matron at Letterman. Her no nonsense approach prevented non-authorized personnel from accessing her kitchen. Atkinson shared that attendants for the Confederate wounded had access to the same medical supplies as their Union counterparts and were allowed visitors, including many sympathizers from Baltimore who assisted with nursing and "possibly to plan escapes." Escape may have been the most distance thought in the minds of those surviving Confederates. In fact, according to Atkinson, most were not aware they were P.O.W.s until they arrived in Baltimore.

Dr. James would utilize his time of Camp Letterman to conduct a pioneering study of fractures and amputations. He'd have plenty to study as there were 345 cases involving gunshot fractures of the femur alone. The Letterman hospital, as it reduced in population, became a holding facility for only the most grievously wounded. Conversely, those remaining had an extraordinarily high mortality rate after undergoing amputations. James, who stood on the speaker's platform during the dedication of Gettysburg National Cemetery, would publish his findings after the war.

Camp Letterman finally rolled up its tents, packed up its pots, pans, bandages, and surgical equipment in late November 1863. One nurse, perhaps watching while the camp was being dismantled, was overheard to remark, "I think war is a hellish way of settling a dispute."