Short Story: Coward

Last nights few hours sleep did not lift the burdensome cloud of fatigue. Neither did the rain that now pelted anything unlucky enough to be out in this weather. Moving forward to his assigned position, he sloshed through growing streams of muddy runoff swelling in the streets and then over the soggy fields past town.

Trudging on, he thought that their battles always seemed to end like this as if nature wished to separate herself from the deeds of men by washing the stains of war from her soil. He wondered if perhaps God commanded a drenching, belated baptism to save the numerous dead. He walked on. The rain, normally a nuisance, provided some welcome relief from the past days sweltering heat. The downpour cleansed his clothing, skin, and hair of the thick dust and acrid smell of sulfur. That it soaked everything he wore seemed a necessary price to pay.

Taking his place on the picket line, he sat on a rock, his thoughts wandering as his eyes panned the open spaces to his front. He wondered if a similar man in gray looked back at him, rifle at hand. They would soon move in pursuit, he supposed, but for now, the three days of hell had ended. Their adversaries had silently withdrawn during the night, leaving the good townspeople to eagerly encourage them back onto the streets through which they had retreated just a few days earlier.

Gazing around him, he thought that perhaps the cooling rain would slow the bloating of the thousands of poor souls who now lay dead on the recently contested ground. "May it also soothe those", he prayed to himself, "who among them still held to life." Battle was an old acquaintance, a familiar but unwelcome guest who always returns, invited or not. But the scale of these fights continued to grow. He had seen battle before, but not like this. Just three days ago, they had proudly marched through town in orderly, disciplined columns, determined to erase the taint on their name that seeped deeper than the chill from this pelting rain. Two months prior, the foe put them to flight, an inglorious, unmistakable rout. They had failed at their primary task to secure the right flank of the Union Army. Thankfully, the townspeople either did not know about or had forgiven their lapse. The local citizens had welcomed them on Wednesday as they strode for the fields north of town.

That they continued to be called cowards seemed unjust and stoked a simmering anger that he fought to keep hidden. But even this downpour could not entirely extinguish the flames of resentment which that name, that insult fanned. They had not been so well led if you asked him. He certainly could not have changed their disposition on that Saturday in May. With thousands of screaming men in butternut and gray bursting upon them from the dense woods, leaden messengers of death whistling by, swarming like angry hornets, what could he have done? He had tried to fight. He stood his ground. But despite his determination, the crushing numbers compelled him to leave. At least he had not blindly run through friendly into enemy lines as some others had. Nor had many of those who tried to stand with him. Yet, he now had the humiliating brand of coward, as yellow as newly churned butter. Without thought, he griped his musket tighter, pulling it closer to him. Water continued to drip unnoticed down his back.

Did his army comrades look upon the dead of his Corps as cowards? Did collision with a bullet save the fallen from that taint? What of his once boyhood friend who, during the battles in the Valley, had pulled him to safer ground after a ball pierced his thigh? Three days ago, on these fields, he had watched his friend collapse in agony to the ground, shot to the stomach, and could not help him. The man who had saved his life lay nearby writhing in pain. Yet he continued to load and fire as ordered. When they fell back, he knew that leaving his friend doomed him to the slow agonizing death typical of those gut shot. Did the bullet or the suffering remove his friend’s stain of cowardice?

And what of the wounded? Could anyone justly call men cowardly who now missed a hand, arm, or leg? Did those who survived the butchery of the surgeon’s tent rightly deserve such aspersions? What of the long marches, 20 or more miles a day, at times without water or food? He recalled the thirst and the layers of dust on his teeth as they endured these forces marches, as blind to their destinations as to the trials to be asked of them. The rain now would have been very welcome then.

Just a few days ago, this place offered the chance to earn anew the privilege of holding their heads high. After the fight to come, no longer would others call any member of his Corps yellow dogs. Thoughts drifted to his family. How he missed them. As much as he loved them, since May, he could barely stand the thought of writing to them as he had done so faithfully since he enlisted. He recalled the decision to fight for his adopted country to earn their acceptance, along with the needed $13 a month in pay. One year ago, he thought to fight to shed himself and his family of the tag "immigrant". Now, he would fight to erase the name "coward" as well. He sadly remembered the letters from home that he had so eagerly sought with each mail delivery. Now they scared him. What if they too thought him a coward, not quite a man, lacking in honor?

Eager to rid his mind of these torments, he forced himself to look up and out over the rain battered fields. Could any of the small nameless shapes scattered about the muddy, wet ground yet hold life? How much better off than they was he? Glancing back down at his shoes, the troubling words crashed back into consciousness. Yet now, defiance swelled in his breast. Damn it, he was not a coward. Their Corps had fought Stonewall Jackson in the Valley. They saw over 1,600 of their own fall at 2nd Bull Run and more than 1,500 at Chancellorsville. No. These were good men.

This battle could have brought them salvation. This battle could have made things right. But, despite their losses, no one granted them the laurels given the rest of the army. How could they be so deprived of the honor they deserved, the honor they earned? On the first day, their commander ordered them to take position to the right of Reynolds’ Corps in an open field void of protection. Resolutely, they marched into those fields. But, the artillery fire on that blasted hill kept them from joining with their comrades to their left. That left a gap, dangerously exposing their left and right flanks. When the assault came, nothing but clear space stood between them and the surging force he had known waited beyond the trees in their front.

Men in gray and butternut waved flags and shrieked as they always did, the sound penetrating as solidly as the balls. The dull thuds of bullets hitting flesh sounded as numerous then as the rain that now fell. He grimaced as he recalled the slashing shards of exploding shells that gashed and tore men’s flesh. The agonizing cries. The pleas for help. The blank empty eyes that stared skyward. The irreparable sorrow enfolding another family, now without a father, brother, or son.

The deadly battle re-appeared to him as if he again held his musket towards the onrushing gray lines. Their own blue ranks stretched thin, they could not hold their ground. With southerners again coming on their right, surging in their front, and moving on their left, they gave way, some fighting, others running through the town on whose streets they had so proudly marched just a short time ago. He again felt the stain growing, the name ringing in his head. Coward. He had not heard the numbers but he knew that they had lost in both killed and wounded more that they had in any other battle. He knew from the ominous silence that came in response to the names called at roll. So many now gone. If these men were cowards, then with pride he would call himself one of them.

He pulled his hat down over his face. The saturating rain continued. Next time, he would show them all that he was worthy of the uniform, of the 11 Corps’ insignia, and of being a United States Volunteer. He was no coward.

Respectfully,

Randy

Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com

All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved

Such is War

20th Connecticut Monument on Culp's Hill
Gettysburg National Military Park
After the fighting ended on July 3, 1863, the grim task of caring for the wounded and of burying the dead occupied the time of the soldiers until ordered to move from the battlefield. Corporal Horatio Chapman, 20th Connecticut, described it thus.

"We built fires all over the battle field and the dead of the blue and gray were being buried all night, and the wounded carried to the hospital. We made no distinction between our own and the confederate wounded, but treated them both alike, and although we had been engaged in fierce and deadly combat all day and weary and all begrimed with smoke and powder and dust, many of us went around among the wounded and gave cooling water or hot coffee to drink. The confederates were surprised and so expressed themselves that they received such kind treatment at our hands, and some of the slightly wounded were glad they were wounded and our prisoners. But in front of our breastworks, where the confederates were massed in large numbers, the sight was truly awful and appalling. The shells from our batteries had told with fearful and terrible effect upon them and the dead in some places were piled upon each other, and the groans and moans of the wounded were truly saddening to hear. Some were just alive and gasping, but unconscious. Others were mortally wounded and were conscious of the f act that they could not live long; and there were others wounded, how bad they could not tell, whether mortal or otherwise, and so it was they would linger on some longer and some for a shorter time-without the sight or consolation of wife, mother, sister or friend.

I saw a letter sticking out of the breast pocket of one of the confederate dead, a young man apparently about twenty-four. Curiosity prompted me to read it. It was from his young wife away down in the state of Louisiana. She was hoping and longing that this cruel war would end and he could come home, and she says, "Our little boy gets into my lap and says, `Now, Mama, I will give you a kiss for Papa.' But oh how I wish you could come home and kiss me for yourself." But this is only one in a thousand. But such is war and we are getting used to it and can look on scenes of war, carnage and suffering with but very little feeling and without a shudder."

Respectfully,

Randy

Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com

All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved

More of this quote and further information on the 20th Connecticut can be found at 20th Connecticut Infantry Volunteers

Vandals Still Sought

The article below is reprinted from the York Daily Record. For more information, please refer to this earlier blog entry (The Sad Damage & Needed Assistance)

Search Continues for Gettysburg Statue Vandals
In two cases, repairs prove difficult.
By ANGIE MASON
Daily Record/Sunday News

May 21, 2006 — Gettysburg park officials hope information about civil war monuments vandalized three months ago will turn up but have researched options to repair two of the statues if missing pieces aren't recovered.

Gettysburg National Military Park officials have taken leads since three monuments - honoring the 114th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry, the 11th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry and the 4th New York Battery - were the targets of vandals Feb. 16, but are still looking for information to help lead them to the responsible party.

The Pennsylvania statue was fixed and returned to its base in March, and repairs to the historic cast iron fence around it are more than half finished, said Katie Lawhon, spokeswoman for the park.

Figuring out how to repair the other monuments has taken a little more investigation.

Internet research led to a monument in New Hampshire that contains an artilleryman identical to the one depicted in the New York monument at Gettysburg, where the statue's head and rammer were stolen, Lawhon said.

Although they hope the parts will be recovered, park officials could make a mold from the New Hampshire statue and cast new bronze parts, she said.

Repairing the Massachusetts monument, a carved granite arm holding a sword, is proving more challenging. The arm was shattered and parts, including the sword, stolen.

The park already had a pattern for the bronze sword, which had been stolen before. However, the arm is harder to replace.

"Sculpting the new granite arm will be very difficult without a model," Lawhon said, noting that the park has even tracked down descendents of the original granite company that made the statue but couldn't find a useful model.

"We're sort of still hoping something will come to light on that," she said.

A $36,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the vandals is still being offered.

"We're still hearing from people anxious to see justice served," said Dru Anne Neil, spokeswoman for Friends of the National Parks at Gettysburg, which contributed $30,000 to the reward fund. "We just hope somewhere somebody knows something."

Tourists can still visit the monuments. The Pennsylvania monument has a little red caution tape around the broken fence, Lawhon said, but otherwise looks "pretty darn good."

At the other two monuments, visitors can still read the inscriptions on the granite pedestals that once supported the statues, she said.

"There may be some visitors who aren't aware a figure is missing," she said.

Seeking tips

Anyone with information about vandalism to monuments at Gettysburg National Military Park can call the park at (717) 334-0909 or Adams County Crime Stoppers at 800-869-8057.

Respectfully,

Randy

Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com

All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved

A Soldier's Grim Remembrance

Oft times, the glory of war fades when confronted with a soldier's grim reality.

"The hoarse and indistinguishable orders of commanding officers, the screaming and bursting of shells, canister and shrapnel as they tore through the struggling masses of humanity, the death screams of wounded animals, the groans of their human companions, wounded and dying and trampled underfoot by hurrying batteries, riderless horses and the moving lines of battle-a perfect Hell on earth, never, perhaps to be equaled, certainly not to be surpassed, nor ever to be forgotten in a man's lifetime. It has never been effaced from my memory, day or night, for fifty years."

Reminiscences of the Rebellion - William Archibald Waugh

Sincerely,

Randy

Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com

All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved

The Yankees are Coming

Before proceeding, I must apologize for the lack of a noted source for this article. Only to my apparent carelessness can I attribute not writing down the source of this excerpt when first obtained. If anyone knows of this article's origins, please let me know and I will give the proper credit.

Still, I hope a few will find this interesting, especially those curious about civilian life during the war.

"In the fall of 1863 we were very much menaced by General Rosecrans' army up about Dalton and Resaca, and every little while we would have an alarm that a raid was coming. A raid was a very amusing thing, or rather, it is amusing to think of now. We would wake up out of our sleep and every- body would spring out of bed saying, "The Yankees are coming; they are only 10 miles out of town; they are coming with a sword in one hand and a torch in the other." That was the watchword. Then we would all try to think what we had that was valuable, although at that time we didn't have much except the family silver and furniture, which were rapidly wearing out. The supply of bed linen was also getting small. The blankets had been all sent to the soldiers long before. Very few housekeepers had blankets as late as 1863. On these occasions the ladies would put on three or four dresses and tie around under the dresses everything that could be suspended and hidden in that way. Hams would be jerked out of the smoke-house, and holes would be dug and every- thing thrown in pell mell. Then we would begin to imagine that because we knew where those things were, the first Yankee that appeared would know, too, and often we would go and take them all up from there and dig another hole and put them in that; so that our yards came to look like graveyards. It is very funny to think of now, but it wasn't funny then-to be flying around in the middle of the night that way. Then, to add to the confusion, the children would wake up and would stare around with a vacant look, and begin saying, "What is the matter? What is the matter?" And then we would tell them "The Yankees are coming."...

The ideas of the children about the Yankees was very funny. As soon as they heard the Yankees were coming they would jump up and get under the bed, or run out of the house. In fact they would have no idea of what they ought to do to preserve themselves. If you told them the house was on fire of course their first impulse would have been to get out of the house, but when you told them the Yankees were coming they didn't know what to do or which way to turn-whether to run out of the house or to get under the bed or go up the chimney.

I remember one night-all these things come up to me now so vividly-1 remember just such a night as I have been describing, when all the children jumped up and got under the bed. We asked what was the matter. Well, "the Yankees were coming." There was one little girl who was terribly frightened. She had no idea whether the Yankees were men, or horses, or what kind of animals they were. She just knew that they were something dreadful. That business went on through the whole of that night; we would hear that the Yankees were six miles off; that they were two miles off, and every sound we heard, whether it was the baker's cart, or anything else, we would think it was the Yankees; that they were actually in town.

On these occasions, after we had secured the things, as we thought, there would be consultations as to which of the servants would be the most trustworthy to do the manual labor -which ones we could take into our confidence, for of course it was necessary to have a Negro man around to lift things. We were obliged to take them into our confidence, and yet we mistrusted them on such occasions, because this was in 1863, and by that time there had been a great many stories told among us of the disloyalty of servants in such emergencies.

On the night I am now speaking of this excitement continued until morning came. Everybody had been up all night, and it would have been a relief to us to have known that the Yankees had come; but after awhile we ascertained that it was an unmistakable demonstration; that the Yankees were really down here about Gadsden, and that the report brought to Rome had come from a very reliable man, who had traveled all night to carry the news. The first alarm came from somebody who had heard of the matter but was not able to report the entire truth. That night and the next morning all was suspense...

Just as we were all expecting the Yankees to come in, and expecting that we were just literally going to be butchered- in fact I don't know what we did think-a courier came rushing into town with the news that Forrest had captured the Yankees and was bringing them in with him as captives. Then there was a reaction, and the excitement was worse than any camp-meeting you ever saw. Everybody was flying from one end of the town to the other. Suppers that were just ready to be cooked were never cooked or eaten; there was a general jollification. Everybody in town felt relieved from a terrible pressure. Forrest came into town and every lady insisted on going up and speaking to the general and shaking hands with him and his forces. My daughter Minnie was a baby at the time, and I took her with me and went up and spoke to him and he took her and kissed her. He told us that his prisoners were coming into town, and he wanted them to eat at once. Everybody went home and there was just a regular wholesale cooking of hams and shoulders and all sorts of provisions that we had, and everything was sent down to the respective camps. We were quite willing to feed the Yankees when they had no guns.

-Testimony of Mrs. Mary A. Ward”

Sincerely,

Randy

Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com

All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved

History's Familiar Ring

Occasionally, I receive a strange look or awkward glance when I mention my passion for the American Civil War. The inevitable question soon follows concerning the relevance of events some 140 years past. That history forgotten repeats itself may appear too trite a response. Yet, consider this comment by Frank Haskell, an Army of the Potomac veteran and soldier at the Battle of Gettysburg. His sentiments possess a very familiar ring.



Cemetery Ridge south of the Copse of Trees,
part of the ground Lt. Frank Haskell helped to defend.
"But men there are who think that nothing was gained or done well in this battle, because some other general did not have the command, or because any portion of the army of the enemy was permitted to escape capture or destruction. As if one army of a hundred thousand men could encounter another of the same number of as good troops and annihilate it! Military men do not claim or expect this; but the McClellan destroyers do, the doughty knights of purchasable newspaper quills; the formidable warriors from the brothels of politics, men of much warlike experience against honesty and honor, of profound attainments in ignorance, who have the maxims of Napoleon, whose spirit they as little understand as they most things, to quote, to prove all things; but who, unfortunately, have much influence in the country and with the Government, and so over the army. It is very pleasant for these people, no doubt, at safe distances from guns, in the enjoyment of a lucrative office, or of a fraudulently obtained government contract, surrounded by the luxuries of their own firesides, where mud and flooding storms, and utter weariness never penetrate, to discourse of battles and how campaigns should be conducted and armies of the enemy destroyed. But it should be enough, perhaps, to say that men here, or elsewhere, who have knowledge enough of military affairs to entitle them to express an opinion on such matters, and accurate information enough to realize the nature and the means of this desired destruction of Lee's army before it crossed the Potomac into Virginia, will be most likely to vindicate the Pennsylvania campaign of Gen. Meade, and to see that he accomplished all that could have been reasonably expected of any general of any army."

Sincerely,

Randy

Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com

All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved