When Phil woke up, he had no idea where he was. He felt no pain and wondered for a moment if this was heaven. His blurred vision cleared as he rubbed his eyes. He felt like his tongue was swollen, and his mouth was as dry as a ball of cotton. He slowly pushed himself up on his elbows and quickly realized he was in a hospital ward.[1]

Suddenly, Phil felt excruciating burning and itching on the bottom of his right foot. He sat up to scratch his right foot, and then his eyes widened in shock.

There was no right foot. There was no right lower leg. A beige elastic bandage was wrapped around a stump. He slowly scooted down and picked up the clipboard hanging from the end of the bed. The description of what happened in the operating room was stark: “Amputation, guillotine type, leg, right, below knee, performed 9 April 1945, sequela to perforating bullet wound of right leg.” Further down the page, his chart read, “Circulation was so poor in the leg that an amputation was performed at a distance of five inches below the knee joint.”

Burning tears streaked down his face as he stared down at what remained of his leg. The word remnant came to mind, followed by vestige, leftover, and scrap.

Is that what I am now? he wondered.

Questions poured through his mind. What will I tell Mom and Dad? Will I ever walk? Will I ever ride a horse again? What am I going to do? Overcome with terror and nausea, Phil began to wretch.

“Here’s a pan,” said a warm, comforting voice. It was as if an angel had appeared in front of him. “Hold this, Captain,” she said softly.

“I’m a lieutenant,” Phil answered, before throwing up into the pan.

“Not anymore,” she answered. “You’ve been promoted, Sir.”

When he finished puking, she laid him down and had him turn to the side so she could give him a shot in the left buttock. “This’ll calm your tummy, Captain.”

Later that day, Phil awoke and was able to sit up with her help. She fluffed the pillows behind his back.

“Hungry?” she asked.

He nodded. “That would be nice.”

She brought him a bowl of chicken broth and a ginger ale. Both tasted heavenly.

“Where am I?”

“10th Field Hospital in Alsbach-Hähnlein. We’re about halfway between Heidelberg and Frankfurt and just over a hundred miles behind the front. At least we were yesterday. The boys on the front are moving so fast, it’s hard to keep up with them. Heard this morning that your unit, the 30th, spearheaded another river crossing—the Main River, a second time. But today, we need to get you bathed, cleaned up, and your dressings changed.”

Her smile was radiant. He lay down and fell back into a deep sleep.

Phil was used to the routine based upon his previous hospitalization. Doctor visits and wound changes twice a day, meals three times a day, penicillin shots every four hours, morphine and smoke breaks as needed.

TO BE CONTINUED.

~~~~~

The entire series:

• April 8, 1945 (Part 1) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 8, 1945 (Part 2) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 8, 1945 (Part 3) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 9, 1945 (Part 4) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 9, 1945 (Part 5) — Phil severely wounded one month before the end of the war
• April 10, 1945 (Part 6) — Phil Larimore the man that bullets could not stop

~~~~~

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[1] Larimore, At First Light, 266.

[2] Larimore, Ibid, 266-267.

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Learn more about my book about my father’s heroics and exploits at Amazon’s First Light page here. You can also read more of my WWII blogs here as well!

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