Traces of the bitter smell lingered in the still evening air, held there as a bleak reminder of what had occurred this day. The cool autumn wind which earlier had kept these fields free of sight-obscuring smoke had vanished, distancing itself from any responsibility for the carnage. The late October sun seemed to also retreat, moving effortlessly towards the distance horizon, painting the sky with glorious oranges and reds. Sadly, even this natural brilliance did little to recast the horror on which the light from the retreating sun would soon fade.
Having regained consciousness, and uncertain of the location of his regiment, a soldier rose slowly and gazed about at the host of prone, unmoving figures. He gently rubbed his head where something had hit him. No blood. Puzzled but relieved, he began to walk cautiously among the dead without thought to direction. Dry grass and fallen leaves crunched quietly under his feet as he looked at the shattered forms of what used to be men. Somewhat grateful for his mind’s partial numbness, he wondered at the absence of the familiar bobbing lanterns heralding the grim searches for the wounded.
Patches of surrounding brush still burned. The yellowish tint combined with the setting sun’s ebbing light to color the wispy smoke a hellish crimson. The slight tinge of red served to deepen the fiendish taint of the haze that mercifully obscured the full scene of catastrophic battle. Stopping, he took a deep breath. A fetid taste of death sourly permeated the life sustaining air. Touched with a sense of sad resignation, he continued forward, scanning the ground to avoid treading on the detritus of battle, not knowing in which direction he should go.
Elsewhere on the field lay an anonymous form, once vital and energetic, now bleeding more that life could long sustain. Yet the fluid that ebbed from his body did so slowly enough to allow the retention of sensibility. As he held on to precious life, he suffered the agony of a shattered leg and a rifle shot to the chest. Neither wound would allow the mercy of a quick death although the infliction of both ensured that eventual end. He wondered where his comrades had gone, if he would die here alone on ground so far from his home.
Looking up at the sky, he marveled that while God saw fit to take him from this world, He had at least offered him the final gift of a beautiful sunset. He took his breaths slowly, deliberately, to lessen the pain in his chest.
Through the tall grass that rubbed against his face, he noticed a figure moving towards where he lay. The burning smoke in his eyes did not allow him to focus. He could not distinguish the color of the man’s coat. At this point, perhaps that it matched his own blue uniform would not matter so much. He hoped that at least this man may have water to quench his growing, consuming thirst.
As the man moved closer, his vision cleared. Although the nearing figure wore gray, fear of the enemy seemed no longer relevant. "They can’t kill me more than once," he thought. He opened his mouth and, with a struggle, forced himself to call out, "Hello." His only response was the unmistakable taste of blood in his mouth. The raspy, weak utterance did not reach the approaching man’s ears but did add to the pain from the hole in his chest. Wincing, taking a deeper breath, the air drawing into his lungs mixed with the fluid filling them. He tried again. "Hello." This time, the man in gray turned his head, looking for the source of the single friendly word.
"Who?" he asked, puzzled, again rubbing his head. To this point, none of the fallen shapes had spoken to him.
"Here," the northerner gasped, the exhalation bringing more pain.
Glancing about, he saw a man in blue looking back at him from the ground. The Confederate quickly scanned the prostrate form, taking in the wounds that contributed to the glazed look in this beckoning man’s eyes.
"Need help," the Yank said with obvious exertion. "Water?"
After a reflective pause, the southerner reached for his canteen, then moved towards the fallen man. Kneeling slowly beside him as if the blood commanded reverence, he held out the container of water. "Can ya move?" he asked, looking closer at the growing stains on his woolen clothing.
"No" he said. "I’m afraid…I should soon die." Both winced at the anguish in his labored speech.
Moving closer, he tipped his canteen towards the wounded man. The water poured out, some into his mouth, some down the sides of his face. His sudden coughing forced out as much water as he took in, bringing another look of stabbing terrible pain. The agonizing waves swept across his powder stained face as he tried to remain still. He grabbed at the ground with both his hands.
After a moment passed, he again took in air preparing another effort. "Would you," he paused, stopping to take several short difficult breaths, "letters…my pocket." His body, more rigid as he spoke, relaxed once he finished as if just finishing some arduous task. As the southerner found and removed the bundle of letters, a photograph fell to the ground. He rescued the keepsake from the grass and, brushing off tiny bits of soil, looked at the faces. Two young girls and a woman looked back at him.
"Please?" The fallen man pleaded glancing at the picture. A compassionate hand held the photograph about a foot from his face. A different softer pain now overtook him. After several seconds, sorrow closed his eyes.
A few more breaths and he again tried to speak. "Please, could you," he inhaled again, "a note?" Seeing the kneeling man’s questioning look, he responded, "In the bundle." Quickly flipping through, he found a blank piece of paper. Seeing a name repeated on several envelopes, he looked at the man and asked, "Johnny?" The stricken man nodded. The unfortunate irony did not escape either man. He reached into his pack and pulled out a pencil.
With gasps, pauses, and great effort, the Federal uttered a brief letter. "My Darling Wife. I die for my country, but my last thoughts are of you." He took a longer pause to regain some strength and then said more clearly, "We will meet again." Looking up at the man writing, he pleaded, "Send it…please," then weakly gestured with his hand "in the bundle." The other man nodded, knowing he would find what he needed to send this last letter to a soon-to-be grieving family.
A few moments passed. The land continued to darken. The Confederate looked around the field wondering how many others still lived, fated to spend the night alone on the unforgiving ground. He signed deeply and, in seeming response, the other man spoke. "The pain," he panted. "Please. I cannot live." His eyes pleaded in a way his voice no longer could. The other man stood suddenly. "No," he said quickly, looking away as if searching for a place he would rather be.
"I…cannot live," the dying soldier repeated. The man in gray suddenly felt apprehension sweep through him. He glanced around rapidly, peering into the closing night. Hours ago, he fired as quickly as he could at the advancing, attacking blue lines, obeying ever officer’s command. Now, when this enemy wished death, he could not oblige. He looked down at the struggling man who now lay with his eyes closed, his shallow breaths bringing the only movement his body could tolerate. Once again, he heard the word, "Please." Taking his own deep breath, he looked over the cluttered ground, focusing on the numerous bodies lying nearby. Finally, seeing what he had feared he would find, he moved away.
Returning with his sad prize, he knelt over the man, took his hand, and with anxiety ensured all was in working order. Then, after whispering a brief prayer, the soldier in gray released his hand. The man uttered one last word. "Letter." "Yes. I will," was the reply. The Confederate soldier walked away, tucking the bundle of letters and newly written note into his knapsack.
After some time, a single shot broke the stillness of the battlefield. Were he close enough, he would have noticed the faint smell of sulfur, and the slightest hint of what might be a surprisingly peaceful smile. Allowing his thoughts to drift back for a moment, he silently mourned the loss of one more soul. Then, walking just a little faster, he once again sought to locate his regiment.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2005-2007. All Rights Reserved
Showing posts with label Short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Short story. Show all posts
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Sunday, October 29, 2006
Short Story: All Hallows Eve
Dedicated to a friend to whom I promised to write this story.
Happy Halloween CP.
--------------------------------
An unusually biting October wind howled through the near leaf-bare Virginia trees. The northern gusts blew the branches to and fro while the ancient trees fought back against them. The thin upper branches dug their fingers in the deepening autumn sky as if to brace themselves against a coming maelstrom. The cold rushing air seemed to mockingly boast of its victory over the life that had thrived throughout the passing vibrant summer. The dried now fallen leaves scattered along the forest floor, rustling throughout at the whims of the victorious gusts of fall.
He stood at his post in awe of nature’s spectacle. The forceful roar reminded him of the crashing waves near his distant Massachusetts home. The noisy rushing air would make vigilance all the more necessary. Because of it, he would likely see Rebels approaching before he could hear them. Not wishing the enemy to see him, he sat among a dense grouping of scrub oak, propping his musket against the sturdiest of the bunch. The wind continued to toss around the tops of the trees as if God roughly waved his hands through tall fields of grass. He could barely hear the leaves crunching under his shifting weight as he sought a comfortable spot to rest.
Taking advantage of the last few moments of sunlight, he pulled out a small book and pencil. The diary, a gift from his sister, had the familiar outline of his first home stamped into the soft leather cover. He traced the borders of Ireland with his finger, thinking of his birth home, Kathleen, and the rest of his family. He hoped to see them all soon. Glancing disapprovingly at the dull pencil tip, he took out his knife and, with short quick strokes, sharpened the point. Upon re-sheathing his knife, he brushed the shavings off his pant legs, turned to a blank page, and began to write.
"October 31, 1863. We marched only 12 miles today. The days are quickly getting cooler and shorter. We did not see any Rebs today although Andrew says he heard they are near. We don’t expect a fight but are ready if one comes." Gazing around the dimming landscape, he could think of no more to write. This last day of October proved thus far to be typical and unremarkable.
Closing the book, he slipped the small pencil into the gap between the cover and the bound edge of the pages. He placed the diary back into his sack and glanced around his temporary realm. Darkness had begun to stake its hold on the woods. "October 31st" he thought. "All Hallows Eve." A sad smile came to his face as he thought of the celebrations now well underway in Ireland. He could smell the familiar food and picture the army of carved turnips decorating the neighborhood homes. The sculpted vegetables seemed somehow vigilant, knowing of their mission to drive away the lost souls said to prowl the earth this one night. His new country thought this a child’s holiday, nothing to which a grown man should devote any attention.
With a slight sense of defiance, he felt around in his haversack and, making a careful choice, pulled out a small but adequately round turnip he had saved for a meal. Unsheathing his knife, he carefully cut out the neck from where the leaves had grown and severed the thin taproot from underneath. Digging out and eating the inside of the hard fleshy bulb, he carefully left enough of an outer shell for his next task. Racing the fleeting day’s light, he finished the portions he would eat and began carving a small sufficiently sinister looking face. After some time and careful struggle with the solid bulbous root, he finished.
Setting the hollowed bulb on the cool damp ground, hidden behind the large tree against which he sat, he fished out of his sack the small remains of a candle. Trimming the wick to limit its brightness, he placed it with nostalgic reverence inside. Once lit, the lantern along with the carpet of leaves, twisted roots, and the chill air completed the picture. He sat against the back of his tree with his new companion and listened to the night.
After a time, with the air growing still, he heard the sound of leaves under foot. Quickly looking to his small sentinel, he snuffed out the tiny candle, feeling slightly foolish for providing a beacon to his location. He caught a slight whiff of the smoke that he could not see in the near complete darkness. Feeling for his musket, he straightened his back against the tree and listened. In a few moments, he heard it again, the sound of a step or two. He needed his visitor to make a few more sounds to be sure of his approximate location.
He reached for his musket and as quietly as he could, loaded one ball. Another crunch came from the darkness, this time in his front right. "So there could be two", he thought trying to take control of his rising anxiety. "Do the others hear them?" he wondered. Peaking around his tree, looking between two smaller trunks, he peered into the enveloping darkness hoping to glimpse his visitor. As the night’s drifting clouds unveiled the half autumn moon, he began to discern the faint outlines of the trees to his front. Still seated, placing his rifle aside, he waited.
With his back to the tree, the next sound seemed to come from in front of him. "What’s this about?" he questioned silently, feeling his heart beat faster. No one had passed him. Of that, he felt certain. The breeze that had earlier taken its rest, again awoke stirring the leaves on the ground and rustling those still clinging above. A frigid chill possessed the air. He shivered somewhat but paid little attention. His eyes strained to see through the chill darkness, casting about as he turned his head, desperately trying to make out some form or shape.
"There!" The word shouted in his mind. "I see him." He stared at a figure, not too far from him, standing between some trees only about 20 yards in his front. He wanted to call out, command him to halt, ask for the counter sign, but others may be close. To be safe, he would wait.
Several seconds passed, then a minute, then two. His visitor remained silent and unmoving. He thought of reaching for his musket but opted instead for silence. Surely, the bleak darkness hid him from sight. Finally, the figure moved. Starting slowly at first, he seemed to glide among the trees. His heart pounded harder. His eyes widened as he realized that now, he heard no footsteps. Not a sound came from the figure as it approached. As his eyes focused, he could see it moving towards his right. "The others will see him," he thought.
The figured passed by, about 15 feet away, without the slightest hint that he was there except for the outline of his form. He could make out none of the man’s features, neither his face nor his uniform. Strangest of all, he carried no musket. Looking back to where the figure had come, he saw another man, closer, and moving. Peering intently into the blackness, he noticed another faint form with him. They both moved, silently, closer than the other to where he sat against his tree. Telling himself he would demand they halt once they passed, he leaned back, breathing faster through his mouth, chest expanding, trying to stay quiet. Glancing to his left, he saw two more, closer still. His heart pounded so that he thought it would surely give him away. He feared the whole woodland could hear him. He tried to control his breathing. "What is this?" he demanded silently. Looking again he saw more, many more, coming towards their lines, silently all, and without muskets. He could not count them now, nor would he. Panic gripped him as he tried to make sense of figures gliding faster through the night making not a sound. He closed his eyes and, with his free hand, rubbed hard.
Upon opening his eyes, he recoiled back hard against the tree, rigid with fright. A man, no, something else, stood just a few feet in his front glaring at him. The menacing figure exuded a dark unmistakable hatred. Paralyzed, he sat motionless as it slowly yet deliberately reached out to him with both hands and, like a vise, gripped his head in a smothering grasp. He swung feebly at the figure, screamed aloud, but it did not move. Fear raced through him, consumed him, saturated every corner of his soul. He wanted to scream again but could not speak. He wanted to run but could not move. The powerful figure held him, seemed to blend with him, keeping him in place. Fear, anger, and hatred coursed through him as if thousands of tortured souls demanded the use of his body, his voice to wail their unremitting torment. Despite the pulsating vitriolic wrath, he sensed in the figure something else, something feeding the anger. He felt a deep undercurrent of crushing unrelenting sorrow.
Hosts of these figures now filled the dark woods, gliding faster, almost frantically, as if they feared not reaching their sinister destinations in time. None noticed him except his singular malicious tormentor. He gazed up at him and to his horror, saw the moon behind him, realizing he could see it through him. A volcanic rage possessed him, coursing from the figure through him. It gripped harder and leaned in, bringing its head to within inches. He could smell the foul wretched breath, the corrupt stench of death from so many battlefields and soldiers graves. The hideous, sulfurous smell threatened to consume him as its malevolence violated his very being. Yet he could feel them all, the countless souls in agonizing pain.
A voice, no thousands of voices screamed inside his head, unearthly shrieks that he seemed able to see, taste, and smell. The vile chorus howled in searing agony, the frenzied cacophony growing louder and louder still. Able to move his arms, he grabbed his head, tried to crush it between his palms, but the voices raged. He thrashed frantically in the air, yet the screaming grew. Able to speak he added his voice to the symphony of pain, flailing about in the darkness, begging it to stop. His hand hit against something at his side. Instinctively, desperately, he seized it and hurled it at the figure.
Like the sudden rush of air from a room, the woods instantly went silent. Not a sound reached his ears except the rustling of a few dry leaves. A faint autumn breeze softly caressed the slumbering landscape. Slight clouds drifted across a starry night’s sky. The figures had vanished.
On trembling legs, he stood, took up his musket, and peered into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he saw around him only the deep empty woods. An hour passed, then two. Not a sound echoed. Anxiety rose again. This time, he feared the punishment for sleeping at picket. He remained at his post alert and awake until the early November sun rose in the east, painting the tips of the trees with a warming orange light.
He said nothing to his friends, worried they would poke fun at his dream. With the boredom of winter camp looming, he did not wish to be the butt of a season’s worth of jokes.
As he walked through the woods with his comrades returning to camp, one of them stopped and looked towards his feet. Puzzled, the soldier lightly kicked what to him looked like a hollow skinned potato. As it turned over, he saw that it was a turnip, partially smashed as if thrown violently to the ground. He walked away swearing that, on one side, it had a face.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
Happy Halloween CP.
--------------------------------
An unusually biting October wind howled through the near leaf-bare Virginia trees. The northern gusts blew the branches to and fro while the ancient trees fought back against them. The thin upper branches dug their fingers in the deepening autumn sky as if to brace themselves against a coming maelstrom. The cold rushing air seemed to mockingly boast of its victory over the life that had thrived throughout the passing vibrant summer. The dried now fallen leaves scattered along the forest floor, rustling throughout at the whims of the victorious gusts of fall.
He stood at his post in awe of nature’s spectacle. The forceful roar reminded him of the crashing waves near his distant Massachusetts home. The noisy rushing air would make vigilance all the more necessary. Because of it, he would likely see Rebels approaching before he could hear them. Not wishing the enemy to see him, he sat among a dense grouping of scrub oak, propping his musket against the sturdiest of the bunch. The wind continued to toss around the tops of the trees as if God roughly waved his hands through tall fields of grass. He could barely hear the leaves crunching under his shifting weight as he sought a comfortable spot to rest.
Taking advantage of the last few moments of sunlight, he pulled out a small book and pencil. The diary, a gift from his sister, had the familiar outline of his first home stamped into the soft leather cover. He traced the borders of Ireland with his finger, thinking of his birth home, Kathleen, and the rest of his family. He hoped to see them all soon. Glancing disapprovingly at the dull pencil tip, he took out his knife and, with short quick strokes, sharpened the point. Upon re-sheathing his knife, he brushed the shavings off his pant legs, turned to a blank page, and began to write.
"October 31, 1863. We marched only 12 miles today. The days are quickly getting cooler and shorter. We did not see any Rebs today although Andrew says he heard they are near. We don’t expect a fight but are ready if one comes." Gazing around the dimming landscape, he could think of no more to write. This last day of October proved thus far to be typical and unremarkable.
Closing the book, he slipped the small pencil into the gap between the cover and the bound edge of the pages. He placed the diary back into his sack and glanced around his temporary realm. Darkness had begun to stake its hold on the woods. "October 31st" he thought. "All Hallows Eve." A sad smile came to his face as he thought of the celebrations now well underway in Ireland. He could smell the familiar food and picture the army of carved turnips decorating the neighborhood homes. The sculpted vegetables seemed somehow vigilant, knowing of their mission to drive away the lost souls said to prowl the earth this one night. His new country thought this a child’s holiday, nothing to which a grown man should devote any attention.
With a slight sense of defiance, he felt around in his haversack and, making a careful choice, pulled out a small but adequately round turnip he had saved for a meal. Unsheathing his knife, he carefully cut out the neck from where the leaves had grown and severed the thin taproot from underneath. Digging out and eating the inside of the hard fleshy bulb, he carefully left enough of an outer shell for his next task. Racing the fleeting day’s light, he finished the portions he would eat and began carving a small sufficiently sinister looking face. After some time and careful struggle with the solid bulbous root, he finished.
Setting the hollowed bulb on the cool damp ground, hidden behind the large tree against which he sat, he fished out of his sack the small remains of a candle. Trimming the wick to limit its brightness, he placed it with nostalgic reverence inside. Once lit, the lantern along with the carpet of leaves, twisted roots, and the chill air completed the picture. He sat against the back of his tree with his new companion and listened to the night.
After a time, with the air growing still, he heard the sound of leaves under foot. Quickly looking to his small sentinel, he snuffed out the tiny candle, feeling slightly foolish for providing a beacon to his location. He caught a slight whiff of the smoke that he could not see in the near complete darkness. Feeling for his musket, he straightened his back against the tree and listened. In a few moments, he heard it again, the sound of a step or two. He needed his visitor to make a few more sounds to be sure of his approximate location.
He reached for his musket and as quietly as he could, loaded one ball. Another crunch came from the darkness, this time in his front right. "So there could be two", he thought trying to take control of his rising anxiety. "Do the others hear them?" he wondered. Peaking around his tree, looking between two smaller trunks, he peered into the enveloping darkness hoping to glimpse his visitor. As the night’s drifting clouds unveiled the half autumn moon, he began to discern the faint outlines of the trees to his front. Still seated, placing his rifle aside, he waited.
With his back to the tree, the next sound seemed to come from in front of him. "What’s this about?" he questioned silently, feeling his heart beat faster. No one had passed him. Of that, he felt certain. The breeze that had earlier taken its rest, again awoke stirring the leaves on the ground and rustling those still clinging above. A frigid chill possessed the air. He shivered somewhat but paid little attention. His eyes strained to see through the chill darkness, casting about as he turned his head, desperately trying to make out some form or shape.
"There!" The word shouted in his mind. "I see him." He stared at a figure, not too far from him, standing between some trees only about 20 yards in his front. He wanted to call out, command him to halt, ask for the counter sign, but others may be close. To be safe, he would wait.
Several seconds passed, then a minute, then two. His visitor remained silent and unmoving. He thought of reaching for his musket but opted instead for silence. Surely, the bleak darkness hid him from sight. Finally, the figure moved. Starting slowly at first, he seemed to glide among the trees. His heart pounded harder. His eyes widened as he realized that now, he heard no footsteps. Not a sound came from the figure as it approached. As his eyes focused, he could see it moving towards his right. "The others will see him," he thought.
The figured passed by, about 15 feet away, without the slightest hint that he was there except for the outline of his form. He could make out none of the man’s features, neither his face nor his uniform. Strangest of all, he carried no musket. Looking back to where the figure had come, he saw another man, closer, and moving. Peering intently into the blackness, he noticed another faint form with him. They both moved, silently, closer than the other to where he sat against his tree. Telling himself he would demand they halt once they passed, he leaned back, breathing faster through his mouth, chest expanding, trying to stay quiet. Glancing to his left, he saw two more, closer still. His heart pounded so that he thought it would surely give him away. He feared the whole woodland could hear him. He tried to control his breathing. "What is this?" he demanded silently. Looking again he saw more, many more, coming towards their lines, silently all, and without muskets. He could not count them now, nor would he. Panic gripped him as he tried to make sense of figures gliding faster through the night making not a sound. He closed his eyes and, with his free hand, rubbed hard.
Upon opening his eyes, he recoiled back hard against the tree, rigid with fright. A man, no, something else, stood just a few feet in his front glaring at him. The menacing figure exuded a dark unmistakable hatred. Paralyzed, he sat motionless as it slowly yet deliberately reached out to him with both hands and, like a vise, gripped his head in a smothering grasp. He swung feebly at the figure, screamed aloud, but it did not move. Fear raced through him, consumed him, saturated every corner of his soul. He wanted to scream again but could not speak. He wanted to run but could not move. The powerful figure held him, seemed to blend with him, keeping him in place. Fear, anger, and hatred coursed through him as if thousands of tortured souls demanded the use of his body, his voice to wail their unremitting torment. Despite the pulsating vitriolic wrath, he sensed in the figure something else, something feeding the anger. He felt a deep undercurrent of crushing unrelenting sorrow.
Hosts of these figures now filled the dark woods, gliding faster, almost frantically, as if they feared not reaching their sinister destinations in time. None noticed him except his singular malicious tormentor. He gazed up at him and to his horror, saw the moon behind him, realizing he could see it through him. A volcanic rage possessed him, coursing from the figure through him. It gripped harder and leaned in, bringing its head to within inches. He could smell the foul wretched breath, the corrupt stench of death from so many battlefields and soldiers graves. The hideous, sulfurous smell threatened to consume him as its malevolence violated his very being. Yet he could feel them all, the countless souls in agonizing pain.
A voice, no thousands of voices screamed inside his head, unearthly shrieks that he seemed able to see, taste, and smell. The vile chorus howled in searing agony, the frenzied cacophony growing louder and louder still. Able to move his arms, he grabbed his head, tried to crush it between his palms, but the voices raged. He thrashed frantically in the air, yet the screaming grew. Able to speak he added his voice to the symphony of pain, flailing about in the darkness, begging it to stop. His hand hit against something at his side. Instinctively, desperately, he seized it and hurled it at the figure.
Like the sudden rush of air from a room, the woods instantly went silent. Not a sound reached his ears except the rustling of a few dry leaves. A faint autumn breeze softly caressed the slumbering landscape. Slight clouds drifted across a starry night’s sky. The figures had vanished.
On trembling legs, he stood, took up his musket, and peered into the darkness. As his eyes adjusted, he saw around him only the deep empty woods. An hour passed, then two. Not a sound echoed. Anxiety rose again. This time, he feared the punishment for sleeping at picket. He remained at his post alert and awake until the early November sun rose in the east, painting the tips of the trees with a warming orange light.
He said nothing to his friends, worried they would poke fun at his dream. With the boredom of winter camp looming, he did not wish to be the butt of a season’s worth of jokes.
As he walked through the woods with his comrades returning to camp, one of them stopped and looked towards his feet. Puzzled, the soldier lightly kicked what to him looked like a hollow skinned potato. As it turned over, he saw that it was a turnip, partially smashed as if thrown violently to the ground. He walked away swearing that, on one side, it had a face.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
Monday, October 23, 2006
Short Story: A Personal Casualty
Leaning his head back, he sat against the base of a thickly gnarled elm away from the others in camp. The heavy roots jutting up from the cool soil seemed welcoming, as if forming a place of respite just for him. Staring blankly at nothing, he wished he could to draw strength from the stoic old tree, perhaps gaining its secrets on weathering life’s storms. Letting his head roll to the side, he somewhat involuntarily focused on the thick lines of bark, tracing them with his eyes, following the deeps grooves carved in its rough timeworn trunk. Seeing an old wound long since healed, he wondered if he would prove as resilient as this longtime tenant of the deep Virginia wilderness.
Although quite removed from the others, he remained safely within the protective line of their pickets. He was alone yet, to him, not alone enough. Tonight, he found his tent suffocating, the sides seeming to collapse in around him. The normally welcome comradery of the others now simply scratched at his pain. Images only a few hours old played in his mind, dangled in front of him by some malicious, unseen puppeteer. His struggle to slow, if not to altogether bury his thoughts, had thus far proved fruitless. Though he told himself that he knew of the inevitability of this moment, he had not anticipated the unbearable anxiety that now gripped him.
The government’s impassioned calls for men had eventually drawn him in. It seemed to him that the whole town had signed up. If not everyone, then at least most of those with whom he had spent his childhood had committed to fight. Sure, he shared their sense of the Union’s importance. He shared their patriotism. After all, he loved the land of his family’s birth. However, unlike the others who dreamed of adventure and glory, he dreaded what enlisting would eventually mean, what fighting would require of him. He had naively thought that he could anticipate and thus prepare for the trials of battle and that he could cope. He always considered himself an insightful thinker. But he could not have predicted the unexpected intensity of this painfully intolerable burden.
Although only a few hours had passed, it seemed lifetimes ago that his regiment settled in for the approaching spring night, cooking over a sprinkling of fires while talking of the likely events to come. Having spent the entirety of his short army career guarding the Capitol, he had wondered how he might face his first test in the field.
He had pictured orderly lines of battle, led by their Colonel as commanded by their Generals. The army would march, move, stand, and fight as a disciplined unit, advance as needed, and withdraw when compelled. They would follow their officer’s leads and force an end to this secessionist madness. Life could then continue as it had.
This idyllic fantasy surrendered to a grim reality when the men camped to their right came crashing through their ranks in a perfect unexplained panic. Something had gone terribly wrong. Understanding immediately what this portended, their experienced Colonel, in his thick German accent, ordered the men to form ranks, shift to the right, load, and fire. Despite his foreign tongue, his bearing commanded respect. They instantly understood and quickly obeyed. The enemy was almost upon them. This proved however, their last attempt at organized movement that day. Their gallant Colonel, leading his men from in front, fell to the ground the first casualty of the sudden conflict. Others began to fall as minie balls swarmed like hornets in the breezy evening air. After some fretful uncertainty, the men broke in harried unmilitary disarray. A few fired first. Most simply ran.
Although he had initially looked to his right and left to see who might stand with him, he too ran. Dense shrubs and forest debris proved no obstacle in his quest for safer ground. Running with his still loaded musket, a voice inside called him to remember his duty and fight honorably. Crashing through the brush running to save his life, he could hear the Rebels close behind him letting loose their spine chilling demonic screams. Jumping into a slight depression, he turned to gage his distance from his gray clad pursuers. A particularly energetic Johnny raced towards him, some yards in front of even their color bearer. Perhaps now had not been a good time to stop. As the Johnny began to point his musket towards him, instinctively, and for the first time, he lowered his own rifle, aimed at the man in gray, and fired.
As if appalled by this sudden violation, time seemed to suspend its energies on this now execrably christened field. All motion seemed to slow. His southern pursuer stopped suddenly, a look of shocked disbelief and resigned comprehension painfully etched in his young face. His expression bespoke no anger, no resentment, no accusation, just stunned disbelief quickly displaced by a longing, silent plea for help. The eyes of this man, startlingly more human than any into which he had looked before, fell as the gray clad soldier’s body hit the unforgiving ground. The growing stain on his loose cotton shirt spoke of this man’s inevitable fate. Staring transfixed at the man in mystified horror, some sense of self-preservation shocked him back into awareness, reminding him of the present approaching danger. With the now enraged Rebels closing quickly, he threw his musket aside and, lightened of its burden, once again fled.
Time rejoined the drama, seeming to push him on his way as if to make up for its delinquencies of the past few seconds. Filled with the energy of near frightened hysteria, he easily outpaced his yelling pursuers. Branches, twigs, and undergrowth crunched under the steady pounding of his quickly moving feet, blending with the crackling sounds of musketry and the booming thundering accompaniment of dueling artillery. After a time and with perhaps a mile of ground behind him, he joined the reformed blue lines and night mercifully closed on the carnage. Now, he sat near camp, tormented by the lingering images of this terrible day.
He had never killed a man, nor had he seen one die. He could only think of the Johnny as a man, not as a Reb, a traitor, or the enemy. Alone on the cold dead ground, his victim was only a man like him, minus the unique gift of the precious breath of life. His soul ached with the pain that his victim no longer felt. He thought that perhaps an angry God had taken from him the serenity that perhaps both men held earlier today. The admonishment “Thou Shalt Not Kill” broke repeatedly and forcefully into his tortured thoughts. “He would have surely killed me or at least tried,” he feebly argued in defense. He rubbed his rough dirty hands hard over his suddenly older face, trying to erase the pain. He could not bear this. “I did my duty!” his inner voice defiantly shouted in response to the agony that savaged his conscience. “I did what I had to do!”
Perhaps with time he might convince himself that he had violated no moral laws. Perhaps with time, the pain would subside. But for now, although far from that place, the imploring pleading eyes of that man remained with him, staring back at him. He could still see his eyes and, to his horror, could almost see through them. He envisioned the man’s family, perhaps the children who would never again run to him, and the wife he would never hold. He saw his parents, children, and friends, wracked with an intense, bitter grief over a loss they could do nothing to undo, a loss caused by his hand.
The evening winds gently swayed the treetops and, as if to provide a merciful distraction, the old elm dropped a few twigs to the ground nearby. Snatching one within reach, he mindlessly began peeling the bark in short strips. He thought of his father, a hard working farmer who had taught him the craft of slaughtering and butchering livestock. “This is hard for me Papa,” he recalled saying to his father, trying to hold back the tears after he had reluctantly killed his first lamb. The older man’s words rang clearly in his ears, pushing from the fore the eyes which threatened to consume him. “Son, when this becomes easy, you need to stop and look at who you’ve become.”
It was not cold, yet he tossed aside his twig and pulled his blanket tightly around him, wishing for the innocence of the safer childhood he mournfully recalled and for his father’s practical strength. He stared into the darkness, searching for the eyes that he could no longer see, fearing that he would see them again and also that he might not. “What had he become?” he wondered. “What would he do tomorrow?”
Although he laid down a mile away, he felt somehow that he shared the same ground as that where his personal casualty now rested. Though he yet lived, had emerged from the fight physically unscathed, he wondered how he would survive what he had done. “This is what this is all about,” he thought, to a degree chastising himself. “To engage in war you must kill, one person at a time. No matter how the illustrated papers say it, announcing the hundreds or thousands of dead, it happens with one man killing one other, one at a time.”
Wrapped in his blanket, he tossed about on the rough ground as if wrestling with some unseen foe. His mind raced through a haze of images from both this day and his past. The lessons of his parents, his schooling, and his church all danced furiously, colliding violently with today’s incongruous events. For a while, the directionless mental conflagration continued. Then suddenly, the storm passed. His mind cleared. He knew that he could kill no more. That night, he slipped quietly through the picket line, leaving the trappings of war behind, and walked into the darkness away from someone he could not become. As he traveled through the night-shrouded woodland, he gazed upward through the swaying trees towards the stars above and offered an earnest quiet prayer for the man whose life he had taken, asking for peace for them both and for us all.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
Although quite removed from the others, he remained safely within the protective line of their pickets. He was alone yet, to him, not alone enough. Tonight, he found his tent suffocating, the sides seeming to collapse in around him. The normally welcome comradery of the others now simply scratched at his pain. Images only a few hours old played in his mind, dangled in front of him by some malicious, unseen puppeteer. His struggle to slow, if not to altogether bury his thoughts, had thus far proved fruitless. Though he told himself that he knew of the inevitability of this moment, he had not anticipated the unbearable anxiety that now gripped him.
The government’s impassioned calls for men had eventually drawn him in. It seemed to him that the whole town had signed up. If not everyone, then at least most of those with whom he had spent his childhood had committed to fight. Sure, he shared their sense of the Union’s importance. He shared their patriotism. After all, he loved the land of his family’s birth. However, unlike the others who dreamed of adventure and glory, he dreaded what enlisting would eventually mean, what fighting would require of him. He had naively thought that he could anticipate and thus prepare for the trials of battle and that he could cope. He always considered himself an insightful thinker. But he could not have predicted the unexpected intensity of this painfully intolerable burden.
Although only a few hours had passed, it seemed lifetimes ago that his regiment settled in for the approaching spring night, cooking over a sprinkling of fires while talking of the likely events to come. Having spent the entirety of his short army career guarding the Capitol, he had wondered how he might face his first test in the field.
He had pictured orderly lines of battle, led by their Colonel as commanded by their Generals. The army would march, move, stand, and fight as a disciplined unit, advance as needed, and withdraw when compelled. They would follow their officer’s leads and force an end to this secessionist madness. Life could then continue as it had.
This idyllic fantasy surrendered to a grim reality when the men camped to their right came crashing through their ranks in a perfect unexplained panic. Something had gone terribly wrong. Understanding immediately what this portended, their experienced Colonel, in his thick German accent, ordered the men to form ranks, shift to the right, load, and fire. Despite his foreign tongue, his bearing commanded respect. They instantly understood and quickly obeyed. The enemy was almost upon them. This proved however, their last attempt at organized movement that day. Their gallant Colonel, leading his men from in front, fell to the ground the first casualty of the sudden conflict. Others began to fall as minie balls swarmed like hornets in the breezy evening air. After some fretful uncertainty, the men broke in harried unmilitary disarray. A few fired first. Most simply ran.
Although he had initially looked to his right and left to see who might stand with him, he too ran. Dense shrubs and forest debris proved no obstacle in his quest for safer ground. Running with his still loaded musket, a voice inside called him to remember his duty and fight honorably. Crashing through the brush running to save his life, he could hear the Rebels close behind him letting loose their spine chilling demonic screams. Jumping into a slight depression, he turned to gage his distance from his gray clad pursuers. A particularly energetic Johnny raced towards him, some yards in front of even their color bearer. Perhaps now had not been a good time to stop. As the Johnny began to point his musket towards him, instinctively, and for the first time, he lowered his own rifle, aimed at the man in gray, and fired.
As if appalled by this sudden violation, time seemed to suspend its energies on this now execrably christened field. All motion seemed to slow. His southern pursuer stopped suddenly, a look of shocked disbelief and resigned comprehension painfully etched in his young face. His expression bespoke no anger, no resentment, no accusation, just stunned disbelief quickly displaced by a longing, silent plea for help. The eyes of this man, startlingly more human than any into which he had looked before, fell as the gray clad soldier’s body hit the unforgiving ground. The growing stain on his loose cotton shirt spoke of this man’s inevitable fate. Staring transfixed at the man in mystified horror, some sense of self-preservation shocked him back into awareness, reminding him of the present approaching danger. With the now enraged Rebels closing quickly, he threw his musket aside and, lightened of its burden, once again fled.
Time rejoined the drama, seeming to push him on his way as if to make up for its delinquencies of the past few seconds. Filled with the energy of near frightened hysteria, he easily outpaced his yelling pursuers. Branches, twigs, and undergrowth crunched under the steady pounding of his quickly moving feet, blending with the crackling sounds of musketry and the booming thundering accompaniment of dueling artillery. After a time and with perhaps a mile of ground behind him, he joined the reformed blue lines and night mercifully closed on the carnage. Now, he sat near camp, tormented by the lingering images of this terrible day.
He had never killed a man, nor had he seen one die. He could only think of the Johnny as a man, not as a Reb, a traitor, or the enemy. Alone on the cold dead ground, his victim was only a man like him, minus the unique gift of the precious breath of life. His soul ached with the pain that his victim no longer felt. He thought that perhaps an angry God had taken from him the serenity that perhaps both men held earlier today. The admonishment “Thou Shalt Not Kill” broke repeatedly and forcefully into his tortured thoughts. “He would have surely killed me or at least tried,” he feebly argued in defense. He rubbed his rough dirty hands hard over his suddenly older face, trying to erase the pain. He could not bear this. “I did my duty!” his inner voice defiantly shouted in response to the agony that savaged his conscience. “I did what I had to do!”
Perhaps with time he might convince himself that he had violated no moral laws. Perhaps with time, the pain would subside. But for now, although far from that place, the imploring pleading eyes of that man remained with him, staring back at him. He could still see his eyes and, to his horror, could almost see through them. He envisioned the man’s family, perhaps the children who would never again run to him, and the wife he would never hold. He saw his parents, children, and friends, wracked with an intense, bitter grief over a loss they could do nothing to undo, a loss caused by his hand.
The evening winds gently swayed the treetops and, as if to provide a merciful distraction, the old elm dropped a few twigs to the ground nearby. Snatching one within reach, he mindlessly began peeling the bark in short strips. He thought of his father, a hard working farmer who had taught him the craft of slaughtering and butchering livestock. “This is hard for me Papa,” he recalled saying to his father, trying to hold back the tears after he had reluctantly killed his first lamb. The older man’s words rang clearly in his ears, pushing from the fore the eyes which threatened to consume him. “Son, when this becomes easy, you need to stop and look at who you’ve become.”
It was not cold, yet he tossed aside his twig and pulled his blanket tightly around him, wishing for the innocence of the safer childhood he mournfully recalled and for his father’s practical strength. He stared into the darkness, searching for the eyes that he could no longer see, fearing that he would see them again and also that he might not. “What had he become?” he wondered. “What would he do tomorrow?”
Although he laid down a mile away, he felt somehow that he shared the same ground as that where his personal casualty now rested. Though he yet lived, had emerged from the fight physically unscathed, he wondered how he would survive what he had done. “This is what this is all about,” he thought, to a degree chastising himself. “To engage in war you must kill, one person at a time. No matter how the illustrated papers say it, announcing the hundreds or thousands of dead, it happens with one man killing one other, one at a time.”
Wrapped in his blanket, he tossed about on the rough ground as if wrestling with some unseen foe. His mind raced through a haze of images from both this day and his past. The lessons of his parents, his schooling, and his church all danced furiously, colliding violently with today’s incongruous events. For a while, the directionless mental conflagration continued. Then suddenly, the storm passed. His mind cleared. He knew that he could kill no more. That night, he slipped quietly through the picket line, leaving the trappings of war behind, and walked into the darkness away from someone he could not become. As he traveled through the night-shrouded woodland, he gazed upward through the swaying trees towards the stars above and offered an earnest quiet prayer for the man whose life he had taken, asking for peace for them both and for us all.
Sincerely,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Short Story: A Darker Lingering Voice
On the small rough-hewn oaken table, the tiny flame flickered effortlessly. The single glowing light cast disproportionately long dim shadows on the adjacent walls, each swaying to the fanciful whims of the waxy little sprite. The tiny light barely illuminated the textured leather cover of the treasured family bible that rested prominently aside the candle near the table’s center. The cool April air that fluttered the candle’s flame slipped under the slightly opened window and provided an excuse for the chill that the quilted blanket could not allay. Restlessly shifting his weight, he felt his feet move against the sheets as he tried to find comfort without disturbing his sleeping young wife. The fresh breeze whose budding spring fragrance eased away the winter’s musty air did little to sooth his fretful thoughts.
News of the fall of Fort Sumter had come a week past. He and his wife knew that with this dangerous line crossed, fate now dangled before him an inescapable dilemma, one he had discussed with his family. A practical, well-respected man, his father spoke earnestly of honor and the obligation to fight for one’s country. As much as he wished to obey this man’s wishes and remain in the warm light of his father’s pride, he knew of the terrible possibilities that war would hold. His mother felt likewise. The memory of his mother’s words pulled his thoughts to her beloved brother Stephen. He had fought in the Mexican War two decades past, yet the scars of glory won still burned at his soul. Stephen strode off to war on two strong legs, filled with a rousing patriotism and eagerness to prove himself worthy of the old flag. He came home victorious, but lost more than just the lower half of a formerly sturdy leg.
Shaking those thoughts away, he instead gazed at the flickering light that danced across the cover of the family bible. Just inside its familiar worn cover, a sturdy tree held the names of family members long since gone with a line drawn just above the generation who first laid foot on this untamed land. The margins proudly bore several scribbled notations of those who fought in the Revolution, their actions allowing for the formation of the country he loved; the country now apparently destined to tear itself apart. He wondered of his debt to them. Because his ancestors faced the horror of war, he and his family could enjoy the liberties of this young vibrant country. Uncle Stephen’s painful sacrifices purchased for him the chance to raise a family in this beautiful land.
Although looking away from her, he took reassurance from the gentle breathing that spoke to him of his wife’s presence. He thought of their recent wedding and the promises made to each other before the altar of God. What did he owe her? She eagerly anticipated a future filled with many healthy children and spoke with gratified satisfaction of his ambition to provide for them. He had the chance to take over his father’s business should he continue to prove himself the hard worker his father raised him to be. They had a bright future ahead of them, or so he had thought. Now, the decision he must make stood ominously at a fork in the once straight road that had lead directly to their happiness.
A slight anger rose within him as he thought of the brewing conflict. He had no part in creating this. He cared not how the country answered the Negro question that had widened the now unbridgeable chasm between the Northern and Southern States. He alone would work for his family’s future. The sweat of his brow and the strength of his back would bring his young family the security and stability that would allow for the many children his wife wanted and the joyful years he had known awaited them. Yet now he wondered what manner of country would remain after the bitter smoke of battle cleared. The older men in town thump their chests and take their turns swearing that we will win what they insist will be a short, decisive war. They boast of the certain valor of those who, in front of their aging eyes, have grown from playful lads into strong young men. Such men could never fail to gain success when put to the great tasks of defending their honor and protecting their homes and firesides. They spoke of their own wishes to once again embrace youth so they too could shoulder arms and gain the soldierly laurels of glorious battle.
But a darker lingering voice taunted him with another reality. His mother had spoken mournfully of Uncle Stephen’s suffering and his struggles to survive the brutal amputation that severed his shattered left leg below the knee and cost him his sense of self-worth. His intemperate manner, so much in contrast to the warmth of his younger self, had consumed him. He would have no man help him support his family, not even those who loved him. Uncle Stephen’s family often went hungry as they ate primarily from the fruit of the small parcel of land he could till. He drove away many who would have offered help gladly, too proud to let them see his anguish, his pain, his inextinguishable sorrow.
Again trying to keep such thoughts at bay, his eyes focused on the leather cover on the table. What would God desire of him? What did He command? Both sides claimed God’s protection and the advantage of His holy sword. He suspected God would remain distant for a while and, like a wise Father, let the siblings grow tired of the fight to eventually after much acrimony find their own peace.
Rising slightly and leaning forward, he gave a short puff, allowing sudden darkness to envelop the entire room. The intermittent April breeze washed silently over their bed. He wished his mind could go blank, as had the now lightless room. Rolling towards his wife, he searched the darkness for a glimpse of her soft, strong face, wondering where he would find the courage to fight when it came time. Fighting meant standing his ground, risking never seeing her again, touching her cheek, or smelling her long, brown hair. Yet, if he did not go, could he ever again gaze without shame into her eyes? Would she look upon him as she had before? Would she think him a coward if he sought the security of home? Although he could not yet admit as much, somewhere in his mind, he knew that he would go. He knew he would fight. He knew he would defend his home, his honor, and his State. Tomorrow, he would speak to her of going into Charleston. Tomorrow, he would become a Rebel.
Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
News of the fall of Fort Sumter had come a week past. He and his wife knew that with this dangerous line crossed, fate now dangled before him an inescapable dilemma, one he had discussed with his family. A practical, well-respected man, his father spoke earnestly of honor and the obligation to fight for one’s country. As much as he wished to obey this man’s wishes and remain in the warm light of his father’s pride, he knew of the terrible possibilities that war would hold. His mother felt likewise. The memory of his mother’s words pulled his thoughts to her beloved brother Stephen. He had fought in the Mexican War two decades past, yet the scars of glory won still burned at his soul. Stephen strode off to war on two strong legs, filled with a rousing patriotism and eagerness to prove himself worthy of the old flag. He came home victorious, but lost more than just the lower half of a formerly sturdy leg.
Shaking those thoughts away, he instead gazed at the flickering light that danced across the cover of the family bible. Just inside its familiar worn cover, a sturdy tree held the names of family members long since gone with a line drawn just above the generation who first laid foot on this untamed land. The margins proudly bore several scribbled notations of those who fought in the Revolution, their actions allowing for the formation of the country he loved; the country now apparently destined to tear itself apart. He wondered of his debt to them. Because his ancestors faced the horror of war, he and his family could enjoy the liberties of this young vibrant country. Uncle Stephen’s painful sacrifices purchased for him the chance to raise a family in this beautiful land.
Although looking away from her, he took reassurance from the gentle breathing that spoke to him of his wife’s presence. He thought of their recent wedding and the promises made to each other before the altar of God. What did he owe her? She eagerly anticipated a future filled with many healthy children and spoke with gratified satisfaction of his ambition to provide for them. He had the chance to take over his father’s business should he continue to prove himself the hard worker his father raised him to be. They had a bright future ahead of them, or so he had thought. Now, the decision he must make stood ominously at a fork in the once straight road that had lead directly to their happiness.
A slight anger rose within him as he thought of the brewing conflict. He had no part in creating this. He cared not how the country answered the Negro question that had widened the now unbridgeable chasm between the Northern and Southern States. He alone would work for his family’s future. The sweat of his brow and the strength of his back would bring his young family the security and stability that would allow for the many children his wife wanted and the joyful years he had known awaited them. Yet now he wondered what manner of country would remain after the bitter smoke of battle cleared. The older men in town thump their chests and take their turns swearing that we will win what they insist will be a short, decisive war. They boast of the certain valor of those who, in front of their aging eyes, have grown from playful lads into strong young men. Such men could never fail to gain success when put to the great tasks of defending their honor and protecting their homes and firesides. They spoke of their own wishes to once again embrace youth so they too could shoulder arms and gain the soldierly laurels of glorious battle.
But a darker lingering voice taunted him with another reality. His mother had spoken mournfully of Uncle Stephen’s suffering and his struggles to survive the brutal amputation that severed his shattered left leg below the knee and cost him his sense of self-worth. His intemperate manner, so much in contrast to the warmth of his younger self, had consumed him. He would have no man help him support his family, not even those who loved him. Uncle Stephen’s family often went hungry as they ate primarily from the fruit of the small parcel of land he could till. He drove away many who would have offered help gladly, too proud to let them see his anguish, his pain, his inextinguishable sorrow.
Again trying to keep such thoughts at bay, his eyes focused on the leather cover on the table. What would God desire of him? What did He command? Both sides claimed God’s protection and the advantage of His holy sword. He suspected God would remain distant for a while and, like a wise Father, let the siblings grow tired of the fight to eventually after much acrimony find their own peace.
Rising slightly and leaning forward, he gave a short puff, allowing sudden darkness to envelop the entire room. The intermittent April breeze washed silently over their bed. He wished his mind could go blank, as had the now lightless room. Rolling towards his wife, he searched the darkness for a glimpse of her soft, strong face, wondering where he would find the courage to fight when it came time. Fighting meant standing his ground, risking never seeing her again, touching her cheek, or smelling her long, brown hair. Yet, if he did not go, could he ever again gaze without shame into her eyes? Would she look upon him as she had before? Would she think him a coward if he sought the security of home? Although he could not yet admit as much, somewhere in his mind, he knew that he would go. He knew he would fight. He knew he would defend his home, his honor, and his State. Tomorrow, he would speak to her of going into Charleston. Tomorrow, he would become a Rebel.
Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Short Story: The Devil's Malevolent Symphony
Standing shoulder to shoulder with the determined, thinning ranks, he glared forward through the sulfurous haze lingering between the opposing lines. Shots battered his ears from both sides of the seemingly endless gray line. The fiery yellow sun, spotlighting the unfolding tempestuous drama, heated the stuffy humid air which oppressed the original optimism of their earlier advance. Quickly grabbing another cartridge, he tore the end with his teeth and emptied the contents down the simmering musket barrel. Fighting among the thousands, he felt both invincible and vulnerable out on the featureless, shelter-free fields. Picking another target not 80 yards to his front, he cocked the hammer, placed the cap, and aimed towards the blue-clad figures aiming at him. As he lowered his rifle, ominous puffs of smoke appeared almost at the time he felt the jarring shock. Spinning away from the pain, he fell violently, face first into the hot dry ground.
The frenzy continued mocking the apparent insignificance of his sudden removal from the contest. The muskets roared. Officers shouted. The battle raged. A riderless horse galloped past, hurrying away in blind directionless fear. But he could not see it; would not have seen it. A ball had collided with the bone in his lower left leg. The shattered useless limb had accelerated his decent into the unforgiving earth which he now tasted beneath him. Pain held him in its white hot grasp, begging him to reach for its source while instantly punishing any movement made to remedy the searing agony.
Unable to reach his wound, he lay still praying the pain would subside, yet knowing otherwise. The torment danced inside him making each short minute seem like endless, torturous days. He laid face down, chest heaving, leaden balls zipping around laughing at his misery while threatening to bring more. The confusing roar of battle thundered all around him. Hell’s orchestra played on, glorying in its deafening malicious furry with every terrible note.
He wanted to move, to turn towards the lines and see his comrades. He struggled to catch a glimpse of his friends. Like a ravenous demon, pain shrieked aloud with every attempt at shifting his weight, raking his nerves raw with agony. He lay still, hoping the pain would pass, letting his mind go elsewhere. Despite the thousands in their front, he knew they had gotten close. Victory waited just beyond the low stone wall that now scoffed at his feeble inability to advance. “Home” his commander had said, waited on the other side of that low unimposing boundary. The ground shuddered as a lanyard let loose a murderous blast from Union artillery adding a cymbal’s crash to the Devil’s malevolent symphony.
Wincing with pain he glanced down to see bone protruding through the badly frayed skin just below his knee. He needed a tourniquet but his head again fell forward hard onto the soil. He knew what was to come. One side would inevitably submit to the other. If the bluecoats held, they would plan for a counter stroke and march past his irrelevant form as he lay in the dust. If victory instead smiled south, the reserves would follow, focused clearly on the glorious rout of the fleeing enemy. Either way, for now he would lie anonymously on contested ground. Aid would come only with the white flag or a beneficent straggler, if either arrived in time. Then he would most certainly face the saw. But for now, the surgeon could wait. His one overwhelming desire became the growing, all consuming thirst which gripped him harshly by the throat. Each gasping breath intensified the insatiable, unbearable thirst swelling within.
While the sun scorched his prostrate form, no longer trying to think, an unexpected feeling startled him. The soil under his face suddenly felt damp and comparatively cool. On the side of his face, he could feel a pasty mud forming, replacing the dry parched earth which just moments ago caught his fall. He recognized the familiar taste however. He knew that like Christ on the cross, this vinegar would offer no relief. Feebly feeling around his shoulders and neck, his trembling hand returned to his field of vision, covered in blood. The sting on his neck spoke to the source as the fear grew that his waking moments might now be few. The blood from his neck, the increasingly unendurable thirst, and the reality of this day told him clearly he likely had little time left.
He recalled wondering what it would mean to be wounded. So many brave had marched into battle, only to suffer on fields of agony or under the surgeon’s knife. Yet thus far, that cup had passed from him. A kind Providence, he firmly believed, had watched over him, spared him. As the sound of battle faded, he wondered what he had done to offend the God who had until now so graciously kept him from harms eager grasp.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blurry outline of a figure waving something thrust over his head, a hat perhaps, held boldly aloft. The questions of who or why did not come as his thirst and pain subsided. His world drifted into a silent darkness. Just before the light faded entirely, with an increasingly labored and shallow breath, he sought God’s forgiveness then whispered to his family that he loved them.
Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
The frenzy continued mocking the apparent insignificance of his sudden removal from the contest. The muskets roared. Officers shouted. The battle raged. A riderless horse galloped past, hurrying away in blind directionless fear. But he could not see it; would not have seen it. A ball had collided with the bone in his lower left leg. The shattered useless limb had accelerated his decent into the unforgiving earth which he now tasted beneath him. Pain held him in its white hot grasp, begging him to reach for its source while instantly punishing any movement made to remedy the searing agony.
Unable to reach his wound, he lay still praying the pain would subside, yet knowing otherwise. The torment danced inside him making each short minute seem like endless, torturous days. He laid face down, chest heaving, leaden balls zipping around laughing at his misery while threatening to bring more. The confusing roar of battle thundered all around him. Hell’s orchestra played on, glorying in its deafening malicious furry with every terrible note.
He wanted to move, to turn towards the lines and see his comrades. He struggled to catch a glimpse of his friends. Like a ravenous demon, pain shrieked aloud with every attempt at shifting his weight, raking his nerves raw with agony. He lay still, hoping the pain would pass, letting his mind go elsewhere. Despite the thousands in their front, he knew they had gotten close. Victory waited just beyond the low stone wall that now scoffed at his feeble inability to advance. “Home” his commander had said, waited on the other side of that low unimposing boundary. The ground shuddered as a lanyard let loose a murderous blast from Union artillery adding a cymbal’s crash to the Devil’s malevolent symphony.
Wincing with pain he glanced down to see bone protruding through the badly frayed skin just below his knee. He needed a tourniquet but his head again fell forward hard onto the soil. He knew what was to come. One side would inevitably submit to the other. If the bluecoats held, they would plan for a counter stroke and march past his irrelevant form as he lay in the dust. If victory instead smiled south, the reserves would follow, focused clearly on the glorious rout of the fleeing enemy. Either way, for now he would lie anonymously on contested ground. Aid would come only with the white flag or a beneficent straggler, if either arrived in time. Then he would most certainly face the saw. But for now, the surgeon could wait. His one overwhelming desire became the growing, all consuming thirst which gripped him harshly by the throat. Each gasping breath intensified the insatiable, unbearable thirst swelling within.
While the sun scorched his prostrate form, no longer trying to think, an unexpected feeling startled him. The soil under his face suddenly felt damp and comparatively cool. On the side of his face, he could feel a pasty mud forming, replacing the dry parched earth which just moments ago caught his fall. He recognized the familiar taste however. He knew that like Christ on the cross, this vinegar would offer no relief. Feebly feeling around his shoulders and neck, his trembling hand returned to his field of vision, covered in blood. The sting on his neck spoke to the source as the fear grew that his waking moments might now be few. The blood from his neck, the increasingly unendurable thirst, and the reality of this day told him clearly he likely had little time left.
He recalled wondering what it would mean to be wounded. So many brave had marched into battle, only to suffer on fields of agony or under the surgeon’s knife. Yet thus far, that cup had passed from him. A kind Providence, he firmly believed, had watched over him, spared him. As the sound of battle faded, he wondered what he had done to offend the God who had until now so graciously kept him from harms eager grasp.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the blurry outline of a figure waving something thrust over his head, a hat perhaps, held boldly aloft. The questions of who or why did not come as his thirst and pain subsided. His world drifted into a silent darkness. Just before the light faded entirely, with an increasingly labored and shallow breath, he sought God’s forgiveness then whispered to his family that he loved them.
Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com
All original material Copyright © 2006. All Rights Reserved
Sunday, June 04, 2006
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
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
Sunday, December 25, 2005
Short Story: Home Sweet Home
At years end in December of 1862, his grand visions of glorious war had long since withered away, supplanted by the now too familiar scenes of mangled friends and foe lying upon recently contested ground. Passing over the grim visage of a newly christened battlefield, he found that in death, the differences between the casualties of either side somehow seemed less obvious and disturbingly less relevant.
A few short days ago, blue and gray clad soldiers marched away from Perryville Kentucky where in October, the merciless dark angel claimed more than 1,300 men. In happier times, these dead would have embraced each other as countrymen, but instead lost their lives for causes that seemed to him a little more distant than when the passions of war first sparked the now unremitting flames. Of those that survived, more than 5,000 emerged from the battle no longer whole, leaving behind arms, legs, and the deadened portions of their once innocent naive souls. He sometimes judged those at eternal rest as the more fortunate, except for their cold and lonely graves, shallow and quickly dug if they had a grave at all.
At days end as the men of both armies settled in for an uneasy night, the cold winter air lent each man a biting chill matching the lingering trepidation ever-present within. Fellow pickets on either side of him leaned against rocks or trees, tightly wrapped in whatever they had not foolishly discarded during the hot summer marches. The bolder or more desperate among them pulled closer the coats and blankets recently "acquired" from those no longer in need, vainly attempting to elude the cold, heavy rains and clinging mud which sought to leech the warmth from their tired, haggard bodies.
With his adversaries only some 700 yards distant, tonight, he would likely not find the peace of the forbidden yet cherished few moments of much needed sleep. Having learned some time ago the skill of dozing lightly while standing upright at his post, sleep would have offered a welcome respite from the cold misery of the last few weeks. While peering into the endless, surrounding darkness, he wondered what the night would yet hold for him.
As if to sooth the persistent anguish threatening to consume him, an army band mercifully broke the silence. When the initial welcome strains ended, adversaries from across the darkening divide responded in kind with a song of their own.
With each side now taking turn in this instrumental volley, music familiar to both armies danced among the trees stirring the chill winter air. These songs, he mused, once held dear by all, now either inspired thoughts of patriotism or treason depending upon your present chosen or dictated loyalties. Shifting his weight against the tree which held him upright, he wondered if in a strange twist, God had given the fleeting warmth that each note offered as a gift to the men who had in His name shattered so many of those created in His image.
The lyrics as familiar as the faces of his family, he watched his vaporous breath swirl in the frigid air as he joined in the diversion of song. His hoarse voice added to the orchestral tonic caressing the ground so contentiously held by the members of this growing unified chorus. For a moment, some of the pain, if not forgotten, diminished in severity with fraternal memories providing a bittersweet solace.
After several near joyous tunes, the continuing musical challenge abruptly changed tone as one side, he could no longer distinguish which, began the first few strains of Home Sweet Home. Other mournful voices now joined his in the welcome yet sad refrain.
Hours later, when the sun next rose, savage battle began anew, with this soldier and thousands more fated to never again see home except in the dimming light of their dying minds eye.
Very Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
Please feel free to comment on this article by clicking on the word "Comments" below.
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
A few short days ago, blue and gray clad soldiers marched away from Perryville Kentucky where in October, the merciless dark angel claimed more than 1,300 men. In happier times, these dead would have embraced each other as countrymen, but instead lost their lives for causes that seemed to him a little more distant than when the passions of war first sparked the now unremitting flames. Of those that survived, more than 5,000 emerged from the battle no longer whole, leaving behind arms, legs, and the deadened portions of their once innocent naive souls. He sometimes judged those at eternal rest as the more fortunate, except for their cold and lonely graves, shallow and quickly dug if they had a grave at all.
At days end as the men of both armies settled in for an uneasy night, the cold winter air lent each man a biting chill matching the lingering trepidation ever-present within. Fellow pickets on either side of him leaned against rocks or trees, tightly wrapped in whatever they had not foolishly discarded during the hot summer marches. The bolder or more desperate among them pulled closer the coats and blankets recently "acquired" from those no longer in need, vainly attempting to elude the cold, heavy rains and clinging mud which sought to leech the warmth from their tired, haggard bodies.
With his adversaries only some 700 yards distant, tonight, he would likely not find the peace of the forbidden yet cherished few moments of much needed sleep. Having learned some time ago the skill of dozing lightly while standing upright at his post, sleep would have offered a welcome respite from the cold misery of the last few weeks. While peering into the endless, surrounding darkness, he wondered what the night would yet hold for him.
As if to sooth the persistent anguish threatening to consume him, an army band mercifully broke the silence. When the initial welcome strains ended, adversaries from across the darkening divide responded in kind with a song of their own.
With each side now taking turn in this instrumental volley, music familiar to both armies danced among the trees stirring the chill winter air. These songs, he mused, once held dear by all, now either inspired thoughts of patriotism or treason depending upon your present chosen or dictated loyalties. Shifting his weight against the tree which held him upright, he wondered if in a strange twist, God had given the fleeting warmth that each note offered as a gift to the men who had in His name shattered so many of those created in His image.
The lyrics as familiar as the faces of his family, he watched his vaporous breath swirl in the frigid air as he joined in the diversion of song. His hoarse voice added to the orchestral tonic caressing the ground so contentiously held by the members of this growing unified chorus. For a moment, some of the pain, if not forgotten, diminished in severity with fraternal memories providing a bittersweet solace.
After several near joyous tunes, the continuing musical challenge abruptly changed tone as one side, he could no longer distinguish which, began the first few strains of Home Sweet Home. Other mournful voices now joined his in the welcome yet sad refrain.
- I gaze on the moon, as I tread the drear wild
And feel that my mother, Now thinks of her child;
As she looks on that moon, From our own cottage door,
Thro' the woodbine whose fragrance, Shall cheer me no more.
- An exile from home, splendour dazzles in vain
Oh! give me my lowly thatch’d cottage again;
The birds singing gaily, that came at my call;
Give me them, with the peace of mind, dearer than all.
Home, home, sweet sweet home,
There's no place like home,
There's no place like home.
Hours later, when the sun next rose, savage battle began anew, with this soldier and thousands more fated to never again see home except in the dimming light of their dying minds eye.
Very Respectfully,
Randy
Please visit my primary site at www.brotherswar.com.
Please feel free to comment on this article by clicking on the word "Comments" below.
All original material Copyright © 2005. All Rights Reserved
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