The Soldier

                                                              The Soldier

         The orders, shouted by company commanders and echoed by captains and sergeants, came rippling down through the ranks as if a stone had been cast into a still pond. “Fix bayonets”, followed by “forward march” and the grey and butternut lines of General George E. Pickett’s Division began moving out from cover of the trees into an open field. Rank upon rank, column by column, light glinting off bared sabers and raised bayonets, they bristled with silent menace as they began their march across the mile long field. Ahead of them, the U.S. Army of the Potomac, commanded by General George Meade, occupied a rise locally known as Cemetery Ridge. Three artillery battalions, positioned atop the ridge, had a commanding view of the battle field, their firing sectors interlocking. Two full divisions of infantry took cover behind a low stone wall that traversed the ridge. An eerie silence filled the air as the curtain rose for the next act in this fiery crucible known as the Battle of Gettysburg.
         For three days, under the hot July sun, the two opposing armies had slugged it out in orchards and wheat fields, woods and low hills surrounding the sleepy little town of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The first day, General Robert E. Lee’s Confederates had tried to out-flank the Union army on the left, attacking from the west and north, but were held off by New York and Wisconsin infantrymen. The next day, Lee sent Lieutenant General J.E.B. Stuart to the right against the Union left flank which was anchored on a small hill known as Little Round Top. The fighting was fierce and bloody in dense woods and rough, rocky terrain. Again, the southerners were repulsed, this time by a regiment of New Englanders from Maine in a desperate counter-attack that drove the Confederates back with great losses. Now on the afternoon of the third day they would try once again. This time they would go up the middle, against the Union center, in one grand, Napoleonic charge.

         Private John E. Silber, of the 5th Virginia Regiment was hot, tired, hungry, and scared. He hadn’t eaten anything since his meager morning rations of hardtack and bacon. He was sweating in the shade, the July afternoon temperatures reaching the upper eighties, his dirty grey woolen uniform scratching and chafing unmercifully. He took a swallow of tepid water from his canteen and looked around him. The company was forming up, waiting for the order that would once again send them against a well emplaced enemy. His messmates were doing the usual bantering braggadocio of, “one southern boy can lick ten Yankees with one hand tied behind his back”, and, “you just watch, when them damn Yanks get a taste of our steel they’ll turn tail and run.” John knew they were just trying to work up their courage before the fight but he was tired of it all. He was tired of the endless marching, the bad food, the nits in his scalp and crotch. He was sick of the killing, the senseless, savagery of battle, the screams, the heat, and the smoke of thousands of men trying to destroy each other in whatever way possible. But most of all, John was weary of the constant fear.
         The fear gnawed at his vitals like some tropical parasite. He was not afraid of death. He had seen plenty of it in the past year. The men with a Minié ball to the heart or those vaporized by an explosion were the lucky ones. He was more afraid of being wounded, having to endure the pain of an arm or leg blown off by an exploding shell or a bullet through the torso, tearing flesh and shattering bone as it went. He had seen many men screaming in agony from horrible wounds to the body and its extremities. He had seen boys, younger than himself, crying piteously as they attempted to scoop their slippery, grey entrails back into their bodies. But, more than anything, he was afraid his fellow soldiers would see him for what he was; a coward.
         John knew deep within himself that he was not brave like so many of his fellow Virginians. In battle, he was gripped by a paralyzing fear he could not control. He obeyed orders numbly and did what he was forced to do to get by. He did not swagger and boast about what he would do to the hated Yankees. In fact, he did not hate the Yankees. He did not yell out the hoarse, high pitched scream that so many others did when charging an enemy position. He was not cool under fire. When bullets were buzzing through the air like angry hornets, he did not crouch behind a breastworks, or whatever cover was available and aim, fire and reload smoothly. Rather, he would hug the ground, careful not to expose any part of his body, point his rifle in the general direction of the enemy and jerk the trigger. He was the first one to turn and run when the order was given to fall back.
         He jumped when a voice spoke behind him, “Come on Johnny Boy, get in line,” said his tent mate, friend, and sometimes nemesis, Corporal Reginald W. Cockrill. “We’re going to go and kill us some Yankees.” He gave a derisive laugh and strode off. John sighed, picked up his rifle and followed him to their place in the ranks.
         John and Reggie had grown up together in a small town in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Though the same age, they were very different. Reggie was always able to run faster, throw further, and climb higher. He was happy go lucky, good looking, and well liked by everyone. He teased John unmercifully and constantly played practical jokes on him. By turns, John admired him, envied him, loved him, and hated him. John liked school and read every book he could get his hands on. Reggie liked hunting, fishing, and being outdoors. John liked to talk to girls about books, art, and new ideas. Reggie liked to get girls behind an outbuilding and steal kisses.
         As they grew older, talk of secession and war filled the community. Reggie lied about his age and marched and drilled with the local militia. After Fort Sumter fell and war was inevitable, Reggie went to Richmond and joined the grand Army of Northern Virginia. Meanwhile, John had secretly fallen in love with Mary Ann Skinner, the town councilman’s daughter. Then, Reggie came home on leave, dashing in a sharp grey uniform with silver buttons and a rakish kepi hat. John was mortified when his friend asked Councilman Skinner for Mary Ann’s hand and was accepted. He suffered through the wedding as Reggie’s best man, knowing he had lost his beloved forever. No one, including Mary Ann, knew of his torment. The following year, he was conscripted into the army.

         The sun’s brazen rays and suffocating humidity fell on the men of Pickett’s Division as they left the shade of the trees. The far ridge was almost obscured by haze and smoke from the two hour long bombardment the Confederate artillery had lain down prior to the infantry’s advance. The men started off at a brisk march, the captains and lieutenants exhorting them to dress the lines. At first, all was quiet. The men could only hear the buzzing of insects, the swish of the calf-high grass, and their own ragged breathing. Then, one of the guns on Cemetery Ridge boomed and others followed, their reports blending into a thunderous roar.
         The 12 pound cannon balls came whistling down on the men, striking the ground and bounding along like huge marbles flung from the hand of a giant. Where ever they struck flesh, men went down screaming, torn limb from limb and crushed by the heavy iron. At the halfway point in the march, the Union gunners switched to exploding shells. These hollow iron balls, packed with powder and a burning fuse, would detonate above the target, spraying hot metal shards over a wide area. The shells cut down huge swaths of men in the ranks, one shell killing or maiming as many as ten men.
         The din of battle had now crescendoed into a full-throated howl. The boom of cannons, the sharp crack of airbursts, the snare drum rattle of rifle fire, with an undertone of screams from wounded men and horses, combined into a devil’s symphony of noise. The 5th Virginia kept marching forward. When an exploding shell opened up gaps in the line, the survivors on either side would close ranks and doggedly push forward, stepping over, and sometimes on, the dead and wounded.
         John was in the grip of the familiar terror. As he marched, he was half crying, half praying a childish chant in time with his steps. “Please God, please, please, please, please.”  At times they would pass through a low swale in the field that offered a little cover. John wanted to throw himself down in one of these sheltered places, curl into a ball and not moved until the hellish noise ceased. However, he knew the sergeants kept a sharp eye out for any stragglers and a soldier falling behind received a whack on the buttocks with the flat of a saber. So, John reached deep inside and found the strength to place one foot in front of the other.
         Then, a bellowing, red noise and a giant hand picked him up and slammed him face-first into the dirt. Time stood still as he lay there stunned. With a groan, he rolled over and began to take inventory of his body. Miraculously, he was unhurt other than a few cuts on the backs of his legs. He looked around at the men marching past, their mouths wide open in bearded faces, but totally silent. He realized he was deafened from the blast, for he heard nothing but a faint ringing, like distant church bells, in his ears. His next thought was that he liked it that way. It was strangely peaceful. 
         He looked at the bodies lying around him, and saw the one on his left moving. He recognized the bloody lump of rags. It was Reggie Cockrill. He was lying on his back, his right leg gone, the lower right side of his body a mush of mangled flesh, blood, and shattered bone. John saw his friend was still alive, and conscience. Reggie’s eyes were open, staring at him, his lips moving. John picked up his canteen and crawled over to Reggie. His hearing was slowly returning, and he heard the booming cannons once more. He offered his canteen to Reggie, and then saw a gash in the side of it where shrapnel had sliced through. The canteen was empty.          
         Reggie reached up, and with unexpected strength, grabbed John’s uniform front and pulled him down until his lips were at John’s ear. “Kill me,” he said in a breathy whisper, “kill me.”
         John looked at Reggie in shock, his mind reeling. “No,” he cried. “I’ll get help. Just hold on, I’ll get you to a surgeon.”
         “Look at me’, said Reggie, his voice a groan, tight with pain. “I’m going to die anyway.” Gasping now, his face twisted with the effort, he went on. “I can’t go back to Mary Ann as half a man. Just shoot me and end this now.” His voice trailed off in a sob.
         “No, no, no,” John stammered, stumbling to his feet. He looked around wildly, spotted his rifle and picked it up. The bayonet was gone, but it seemed to be serviceable. “I’ll go get help,” he said to Reggie, “I’ll be back.”
         Reggie reached up again, grabbed the rifle barrel and pulled it down to the center of his chest. “Damn you for a yellow dog, Johnny Silber”, he snarled through clenched teeth, “Will you for once in your worthless life be a man and do the right thing?”
         At that moment, a burly sergeant from another regiment whacked John across the shoulders with the flat of his saber. “Move your ass, soldier,” he roared.
         Startled, John’s finger reflexively pulled the trigger. The rifle fired and the .58 caliber Minié ball, moving at a velocity of 950 feet per second, exploded Reggie’s heart. He died instantly.
         John recoiled in horror at what he had done. “No”, he screamed. “No, no, no, Reggie, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” Reggie just lay there, dead, with a quiet, peaceful look on his face. John knelt beside the body, sobbing like a child. His mind was screaming, “No, no, no.”
         Then, all the suppressed anxiety of the war, the concealed adolescent fears, the ache of secret love, and the trauma of his quiet desperation coalesced into a bright pinpoint of light, expanded under tremendous pressure, then exploded in a blinding, white flash of heat that seared his emotions, his psyche; even his very soul.
         John was outside himself, looking down and watching, a dispassionate observer at this mini-drama unfolding on the greater stage of the battle. He watched as he stood and began running, reloading his rifle as he went. He saw the instincts of endless training and drilling take over as he searched for targets behind the stone wall, aimed, fired, and reloaded, all the while running forward. He saw his mouth open, but could not hear the demented howling he knew must be issuing from the red, wet, hole in his dirty, powder stained face.  He was a detached spectator, watching his feet drive forward, stumbling over discarded equipment and gory body parts, slipping in puddles of oozing blood, climbing over heaps of dead and wounded, but always forward toward the stone wall where thousands of rifles spat death and destruction.
         The Virginians reached the stone wall where it turned at a right angle and meandered upslope. The fighting had become hand-to-hand, men shooting, hacking, and clubbing each other with pistols, bayonets, rifle butts, even fists, determined to kill their adversary before he killed them. A hand full of the grey-clad soldiers managed to climb over the wall before being swiftly cut down or taken prisoner.
                Then, it was over. The charge lost its momentum as it washed up against the Union wall of lead, steel, shot, and shell. Half of the men that had begun the charge were either killed, wounded or missing. The survivors, John among them, straggled back to the trees unmolested.
         “Gather your Division,” General Lee is reported to have said to General Pickett. “I have no Division left, sir,” was the sober reply.

         For two more long years, the war ground on. The Union army, now under General Ulysses S. Grant, hounded Lee’s Confederates through out the State of Virginia in one horrific battle after another, with huge casualty figures on both sides.  The constant marching and bad food turned Lee’s veterans into gaunt, scarecrow like, caricatures of their former selves. Finally, at Appomattox, surrounded and on the verge of annihilation, Lee surrendered.
         John Silber survived the war, went back to his hometown, married the widow Mary Ann Cockrill, raised five children, and lived to a ripe, old age. He was never afraid again.          

                                                                  ©
                                                          OriginalSinnick
                                                                  2008