I think I might live.  I was shot in the 
hip in the battle of Lookout Mt. I can't 
rightly remember if it happened the night 
before Thanksgiving or the night after, 
things are a bit fuzzy.  The Doctor says 
I'll probably be all right if infection 
doesn't set in.  To make sure, he cleaned 
out the wound as best he could and then 
burned it with a hot iron.  He didn't even 
have any whiskey fer me to drink to help 
kill the pain.  I thought I would die fer 
sure, but he says if I keep the dressing 
changed and mortifcation doesn't set in, 
I'll live.  I had fever and chills for a 
couple of days after some Yankee shot me, 
but that's pretty well gone.  I remember 
the fightin was fierce!  We fought the 
Yanks on the sides of the mountain where 
it was so steep a goat couldn't climb.  If 
a man slipped and fell, or was shot, he'd 
just keep rollin until he hit a tree or the 
bottom.  

The doctor tells me the war is over for me.  
He says there's too much muscle injured and 
some bone splintered for me to be able to 
march any more.  He thinks if I do get able 
to walk, I'll probably limp.  I feel pretty 
good now, except for being sore.  I ain't 
willing to quit just yet.  I may not be able 
to walk, but in a month or so, I bet I can ride.  
The ball went in high and a little to the front 
of my hip and came out about three inches below
my waist.  When it gets scarred over a bit, I 
think it will do all right. Anyway, this wound 
is my ticket to see my sweet Elizabeth.  

I lost my Enfield in the fracas.  It sure was a 
good gun.  I hope some other Johnny Reb got it 
and not any damn yankee.  Those blue-bellied sons 
of Satan don't have a right to anything I have.  
They tell me we lost the battle to keep our 
positions, but have regrouped and are laying 
seige to the Yank positions.  Capt. Smith came 
to visit.  He says the Company is down to 
seventeen men counting him.  We are taking a lot 
of losses all through the Army, but don't seem 
to get enough men to half-way make them up.  

Supplies are running low at times.  It's getting 
harder and harder to get what we need, but the 
Captain says we'll make out.  He lost his mount 
in the fight. Had it tethered behind the battle 
lines and someone took it.  He doesn't know if 
he'll be able to replace it any time soon, so I 
guess he'll have to walk like the rest of the men.  
I wish him well.  He's growed up a lot in
the last year and is a fine commander.  The war 
ages all of us.  A lot of the men have silver in 
their hair and beards, and they are still young.  
The Captain isn't but twenty-five and he's right 
near grey headed, and looks old.  All of us do.  
The veterans of three major battles and many small
fights have many more years of experiences than 
their years.  It tells on a man.

I have written Elizabeth and told her that I would 
be coming home.  I haven't told her how bad I'm hurt, 
just that I'll be there when I can.  I told her it 
might be four or five months as winter is coming on 
and the roads are hard to travel.  In any event, I'll 
have to find my way past Union troups between here 
and Texas.  I might swing up to the Indian Territory 
and then come south to home.  Right now I just need 
to work on getting well so I can leave.  I hope it 
doesn't take too long.