This short story became rather long. Warning: some scenes are graphic in nature. This is not for the faint of heart.
Installment One
The Soldier
The orders, shouted by company commanders and echoed by captains and sergeants, came rippling down through the ranks as if a stone had been cast into a still pond. “Fix bayonets”, followed by “forward march” and the grey and butternut lines of General George E. Pickett’s Division began moving out from cover of the trees into an open field. Rank upon rank, column by column, light glinting off bared sabers and raised bayonets, they bristled with silent menace as they began their march across the mile long field. Ahead of them, the U.S. Army of the Potomac, commanded by General George Meade, occupied a rise locally known as Cemetery Ridge. Three artillery battalions, positioned atop the ridge, had a commanding view of the battle field, their firing sectors interlocking. Two full divisions of infantry took cover behind a low stone wall that traversed the ridge. An eerie silence filled the air as the curtain rose for the next act in this fiery crucible known as the Battle of Gettysburg.
For three days, under the hot July sun, the two opposing armies had slugged it out in orchards and wheat fields, woods and low hills surrounding the sleepy little town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The first day, General Robert E. Lee’s Confederates had tried to out-flank the Union army on the left, attacking from the west and north, but were held off by New York and Wisconsin infantrymen. The next day, Lee sent Lieutenant General J.E.B. Stuart to the right against the Union left flank which was anchored on a small hill known as Little Round Top. The fighting was fierce and bloody in dense woods and rough, rocky terrain. Again, the southerners were repulsed, this time by a regiment of New Englanders from Maine in a desperate counter-attack that drove the Confederates back with great losses. Now on the afternoon of the third day they would try once again. This time they would go up the middle, against the Union center, in one grand, Napoleonic charge.
Private John E. Silber, of the 5th Virginia Regiment was hot, tired, hungry, and scared. He hadn’t eaten anything since his meager morning rations of hardtack and bacon. He was sweating in the shade, the July afternoon temperatures reaching the upper eighties, his dirty grey woolen uniform scratching and chafing unmercifully. He took a swallow of tepid water from his canteen and looked around him. The company was forming up, waiting for the order that would once again send them against a well emplaced enemy. His messmates were doing the usual bantering braggadocio of, “one southern boy can lick ten Yankees with one hand tied behind his back”, and, “you just watch, when them damn Yanks get a taste of our steel they’ll turn tail and run.” John knew they were just trying to work up their courage before the fight but he was tired of it all. He was tired of the endless marching, the bad food, the nits in his scalp and crotch. He was sick of the killing, the senseless, savagery of battle, the screams, the heat, and the smoke of thousands of men trying to destroy each other in whatever way possible. But most of all, John was weary of the constant fear.
The fear gnawed at his vitals like some tropical parasite. He was not afraid of death. He had seen plenty of it in the past year. The men with a Minié ball to the heart or those vaporized by an explosion were the lucky ones. He was more afraid of being wounded, having to endure the pain of an arm or leg blown off by an exploding shell or a bullet through the torso, tearing flesh and shattering bone as it went. He had seen many men screaming in agony from horrible wounds to the body and its extremities. He had seen boys, younger than himself, crying piteously as they attempted to scoop their slippery, grey entrails back into their bodies. But, more than anything, he was afraid his fellow soldiers would see him for what he was; a coward.
John knew deep within himself that he was not brave like so many of his fellow Virginians. In battle, he was gripped by a paralyzing fear he could not control. He obeyed orders numbly and did what he was forced to do to get by. He did not swagger and boast about what he would do to the hated Yankees. In fact, he did not hate the Yankees. He did not yell out the hoarse, high pitched scream that so many others did when charging an enemy position. He was not cool under fire. When bullets were buzzing through the air like angry hornets, he did not crouch behind a breastworks, or whatever cover was available and aim, fire and reload smoothly. Rather, he would hug the ground, careful not to expose any part of his body, point his rifle in the general direction of the enemy and jerk the trigger. He was the first one to turn and run when the order was given to fall back.
He jumped when a voice spoke behind him, “Come on Johnny Boy, get in line,” said his tent mate, friend, and sometimes nemesis, Corporal Reginald W. Cockrill. “We’re going to go and kill us some Yankees.” He gave a derisive laugh and strode off. John sighed, picked up his rifle and followed him to their place in the ranks.
John and Reggie had grown up together in a small town in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Though the same age, they were very different. Reggie was always able to run faster, throw further, and climb higher. He was happy go lucky, good looking, and well liked by everyone. He teased John unmercifully and constantly played practical jokes on him. By turns, John admired him, envied him, loved him, and hated him. John liked school and read every book he could get his hands on. Reggie liked hunting, fishing, and being outdoors. John liked to talk to girls about books, art, and new ideas. Reggie liked to get girls behind an outbuilding and steal kisses.
As they grew older, talk of secession and war filled the community. Reggie lied about his age and marched and drilled with the local militia. After Fort Sumter fell and war was inevitable, Reggie went to Richmond and joined the grand Army of Northern Virginia. Meanwhile, John had secretly fallen in love with Mary Ann Skinner, the town councilman’s daughter. Then, Reggie came home on leave, dashing in a sharp grey uniform with silver buttons and a rakish kepi hat. John was mortified when his friend asked Councilman Skinner for Mary Ann’s hand and was accepted. He suffered through the wedding as Reggie’s best man, knowing he had lost his beloved forever. No one, including Mary Ann, knew of his torment. The following year, he was conscripted into the army.
To be continued...
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