In God We Trust

In God We Trust

By: Bikerider

Looking down from their artillery positions on Barlow's Knoll, Union troops saw the western sky turn crimson. They could still see the clouds of smoke rolling over the low ridges to the west of Gettysburg. The ridges were defended by Gen. John Buford's cavalry, and skirmishes had been taking place there all day. The troops situated around Gettysburg on June 31, 1863 had no way of knowing this battle would be called the turning point of the Civil War, or that over the next three days fifty-one-thousand men would die fighting on the lush fields that surrounded them.

The Battle of Gettysburg was about to commence.

"Lee's men have been advancing for weeks now," Lt. Bayard Wilkeson said to his father, a correspondent for the New York Times, "they want to press their successes at Fredricksburg a year ago, and Chancellorsville last May. Lee wants to take the war to this side of the Potomac, and he has marched his Northern Virginia Army through the Shenandoah Valley to meet here, on this field of battle. It is left to us to stop him here, in Gettysburg. "

"His army consists of seventy-five-thousand men," Samuel Wilkeson replied, "and Union forces are not even sure why they are fighting."

"Lincoln said it was to preserve the Union," Bayard said, "It's the paramount objective, he told us in his last speech."

"Yes, and before that he said it was to free the slaves," Samuel retorted. "If he expects men to fight and die he should be specific about the reason."

"It's no wonder Lincoln calls the correspondents reporting on this war The Bohemian Brigade." Both men began to laugh. Bayard said, "Father, you will have to leave soon, I have preparations to see to, let's eat together before our duties separate us."

And so Samuel Wilkeson and his son, Bayard, sat down for supper together near the top of Barlow's Knoll. With tin plates resting on their laps, they looked around the camp. Everywhere they looked they saw the small campfires, men sitting on the dusty ground eating. Many of the Confederate troops were already busy preparing for the coming battle. Within the fenced knoll, artillery pieces were being placed for the best advantage against the expected charging troops. They sat together, father and son, newspaper correspondant and Union officer, and as they ate, the knoll came alive with activity. Groups of men pushed heavy cannons into place along the ridge as officer's shouted orders at men who, a short time ago, were farmers, merchants, or laborers. The tired soldiers responded with quiet vulgarities.

After supper, Samuel Wilkeson hugged his son and tried not to show his worry. Grabbing his horse's reins he paused, looked around the darkening battlefield, then turned to his son. "Bayard, you must promise that you will be careful." Samuel looked hard into his son's brown eyes—eyes that seemed to be filled with purpose.

"I am obligated to fulfill my duty as an officer in the Union army," he said in a confident voice. "But I will be careful as I fulfill those duties."

"Then I will pray for your safety," the concerned father said. "And I will try to be mindful that we rely on God to help those who are right. In God we trust."

Samuel Wilkeson rode north from the knoll and disappeared into the dark hillside without looking back. As he contemplated the coming battle he wondered if he would ever see his son alive again.

*****

Dawn of July 1, 1863 broke clear and warm. The eastern sky radiated a purple hue, then became grey, and finally a deep blue. Layers of acrid smoke from smoldering cook fires wafted across the fields between the Union army and the Confederates. The Union soldiers, commanded by Gen. George G. Meade, prepared to repel the poised Confederate troops. Cannon were positioned on Barlow's Knoll, the shot and powder supplied to the troops rested behind each artillery piece, waiting to be used. Men who had seen other battle's began to pray.

The fighting began early that morning. Gen. Lee concentrated his forces along the low ridges defended by Union cavalry. He hoped to rout the Union forces positioned there. They were successful. The Union lines quickly collapsed, the soldiers retreating into the streets of Gettysburg and into the hills just to the south. Many of the Union soldiers were captured. As the Union forces gave way to the advancing Confederate troops, Lt. Wilkeson was ordered to fire his ordinance into the low ridges to the west.

"Fire at will," Lt. Wilkeson ordered, "reload quickly." As the cannon bellowed across the field, Wilkeson could see the results. Explosions erupted along the ridges as Confederate troops were blown to bits in the clouds of smoke and dirt thrown into the morning air. The clouds of smoke belching from the cannons obscured the landscape momentarily, and then lifted, like the curtain at a theater, to reveal a low hillside covered in broken bodies.

"Keep up the bombardment, men," Wilkeson shouted into the smoky gun position. "the Confederates cannot be allowed to establish lines on those ridges."

For most of the afternoon, the bombardment continued from Barlow's Knoll, raining death down on the troops advancing onto the ridges. As nightfall approached, the order to cease fire was received by the commander of the field artillery unit, the order was then passed to Lt. Wilkeson.

"Cease fire," he shouted, "cease fire immediately." Wilkeson walked the artillery line with both arms raised into the air. Emerging from a cloud of smoke he heard the familiar whoosh of a flying ball. It hit the ground with a deafening explosion close in front of him. Lt. Bayard Wilkeson was thrown backward and hit the barren ground hard. Clumps of dirt fell over him, his eyes clogged with smoke and dust, he could hear nothing. Men of the artillery unit ran to him.

"Sir," a private said as his looked at his officer's leg, "we'll get you medical help forthwith." Then he gave a knowing look to another private who had come to the aid of the fallen officer.

"Medic, medic," they shouted loudly, "Lieutenant Wilkeson is down."

Wilkeson lay on the ground, confused and only half conscious. He felt no pain. He did not yet realize his lower leg was only partially attached to his body. Once the pain set in he passed out as men applied a tournaquit just above where his knee had once been.



Dawn on the second day of battle approached slowly. No ardent purple streaked the sky; the blue of yesterday's morning was now pale, and brought with it the fear of death. In the early morning sky, the sun, when it finally rose, was obscured by the clouds of smoke and gun powder that swirled in the warm, moist air. Within the morning breeze the smell of death was unmistakable. Most of the men had slept little during the night, and now, standing in the long shadows of trees, they drank coffee, their conversation was about the battles that lay ahead—and about dying. As the battle began the Confederate troops began their slow, relentless march across the bloody field, a slow but determined charge. Union soldiers looked at each other with confusion in their eyes, confusion that changed to an eerie calm.

"Is that music I hear?" a Union soldier asked his Captain.

"As strange as it may be, I believe it is," responded the Captain. A Confederate band had begun to play music—Polkas and Waltzes—which sounded very strange since it was accompanied by the hissing and bursting of shells.

"Lt. Wilkeson," the medic said softly, "we must apply a new tourniquet on your leg. The cloth used yesterday is shredded and allowing blood to leak..If we don't do something, you'll bleed to death."

The medic, a young man of eighteen, a year ago attending Boston College, looked around the littered knoll, but saw nothing of use among the shattered and broken equipment. Stopping a young Union soldier moving through the knoll hurriedly, he inquired if he could have the boy's shirt.

"You there, private," the medic called, "your tunic...would you rip a strip of material off for me to use as a tourniquet? It's for our lieutenant."

The young private stopped and stared at the Lt.'s bloody leg. His eyes were frozen on the sight of the older man's wound. Walking slowly toward Bayard he began to stammer.

"Of c-course, sir," he fell to his knees at the Lt.'s side. "His eyes widened as he asked the medic. "My God, will he be alright?"

"He won't be if you lollygag for too long...the tunic, please, I need your help."

"Yes, of course." And the private began to rip a strip of cloth from his tunic. Handing the ragged cloth to the medic, the private got to his feet and ran off.

"I don't think the boy ever saw my face," Bayard said to the medic. Bayard watched as the boy disappeared into the mist of battle.

A shout pierced the smoke and noise of the battle, someone yelled that a Major had fallen, a medic was needed. Bayard looked at the medic whose attention was now directed at the voice coming from the haze.

"Go, take care of the major. I'm okay and I can do this without your aid. Go and save the major. We need officers to direct this battle." The medic hesitated, then stood and ran off.



Lt. Wilkeson pulled himself into a sitting position, he back against the stump of a battered tree. He began to wind the piece of cloth around his thigh, lashing a short limb to the outside of the leg. It was the first time he was able to see the wound clearly. Slumping back against the base of the tree Bayard thought that maybe he was better off dead. The bark of the tree bit into his back and brought him back to reality. When he was done he had fixed a tight tourniquet around his lower thigh and had attached a crutch so that he could walk.

Rising to his feet, the pain shook Bayard's entire body, and looking down he saw that from just above his knee, his leg dangled like a piece of meat hanging from a hook. He was unable to walk. Looking around the knoll he saw broken artillery pieces, broken bodies were strewn everywhere. His thoughts swirled like the smoke that surrounded the knoll.

How will I maintain command over my men, the artillery battery must be prepared for orders. He was furious with himself for getting in the way of the Confederate shell, the one that took him down, and may well yet take his life. There was but one thing to do—he must remove the lower portion of his leg, and because there was no medic available, he must do it himself if he wanted a chance at survival. He reached into his pants pocket and felt for his pocket knife, finding it, he began to pray for strength. Before he finished his prayer he opened the dull grey of the steel blade. He lowered his gaze to his useless leg. He looked up to the heavens and finished his prayer.

"Lord, there are men dying all around me, many of us are confronted with our own deaths, but in all of this, we must trust in you." He gritted his teeth and moved the knife to his leg and said, "In God we trust." Wide eyed and surpressing a scream, he bent to his tortuous task.



Day 3, July 3, 1863

The climax of the bloody battle came in the late morning of the third day, when Gen. Lee ordered an assault into the center of the Union lines that had amassed on Cemetery Hill. An artillery bombardment began and the massive guns exchanged fire in a thundering duel. The end came when General George E. Pickett, in a desperate attempt to recapture partial success of the preceding day, spearheaded one of the most incredible efforts in military history. Pickett ordered a massive infantry assault of fifteen-thousand Confederate troops across the open field into the center of the Union forces on Cemetery Ridge.

One mile they marched, all the while being pounded by artillery and rifle fire. Pickett's men reached, but failed to break, the Union line, and the effort ended in disaster. The tide of the Confederacy had risen to its crest, paused, and then receded. In fifty minutes, ten-thousand men in the assault had become casualties. The attack became forever known as Pickett's charge.



At the end of the third day, after the battle ended, and Gen. Robert E. Lee had withdrawn his forces, Samuel Wilkeson made his way to Barlow's Knoll, in search of his son. Asking about Lt. Wilkeson, Samuel was directed to a large tree that looked as if it had not been touched by the battle. The correspondent found his son lying in the dappled shade of the tree...dead. Samuel Wilkeson struggled to maintain his journalist's composure as he wrote the story of the Battle of Gettysburg. His fourteen-column report was printed in the New York Times several days later. He wrote that with the failure of Pickett's Charge, the battle was over. Lee's retreat left behind over fifty-one-thousand casualties.

An artillery Captain found Samuel Wilkeson writing his report while seated on the ground next to his son's body. He asked the correspondent a question.

"Is this war, even this battle, worth the lives that were taken here? How do we move on in such circumstances?"

"With all due respect," Samuel answered, "we have no choice, sir." He paused, looked up into the clearing sky and added. "It is because we trust in God that we move forward with the hope that we are in the right. "In God We Trust, Captain. That is the only way we can carry on."



All who had been at the battle, either as witnesses or participants, would long remember the Battle of Gettysburg.

*****

Entered in the July American Civil War contest.

W/C 1993