A short work centered around the Battle of Antietam, September 17th, 1862. |
The boots trample as the earth bows beneath each synchronized step. The rifles stand poised, ready, the bayonets reaching towards the gray morning sky. Sabers unsheathed, remain drawn and directing. The officers' faces red, shouting to their legions. The banner unfurled, beckoning to its glorious defenders as they march forward in unison. The snare drums snap a rhythm of duty. The heart races forward, as the stomach sinks into fear. The glorious blue line advances forward into the morning mist, prodded forward by sergeant and courage alike. Towards the end of that field stands a stone formation of gray statues. Steadily the great blue line approaches and waits. A volley echoes, ripping into the young morning air. The dawn mist, encouraged by the smoke of rifles, clouds our sight temporarily. Scores of the blue legion fall along the advancing line. The vanguard halts, our Captain bellows his decrees: "Aim steady lads, we'll break them yet!" The rifle cracks sharply, its fire spewing and cutting the gray morning mist. Scores of the gray statue fall while the remainder retaliate. This pattern of butchery repeated for the entire eternity of that misty morning. Suddenly, the Captain's uniform turns crimson. Once the idol of a mighty blue legion, he lays perfectly still, lifeless, as lifeless as the cornstalks caught in the mutual hail of lead. Now the blue line, uncertain, wavering, begins to stagger, winding sinuously. The banner, punctured by shot and shell, falls, disappearing among the dead. The legion breaks, dropping rifle and saber. Once a single body, now a mindless rabble, fleeing the jaws of battle. The dead are the only victors, for them the din of battle is silent, the screams of comrades and the fire of arms cannot penetrate their deaf ears. No, the suffering belonged to those who would continue to endure the day's harvest. This was only the first of death's harvest on that misty September morning. |