Camp Al Tactical

         The grey wool clad Confederates halted in the field before the woods. Captain Laiche took account of his men, seven were present including himself. They were stripped of all but the essentials: canteen, cartridges, and caps. Everything else was left in camp. They had followed a path through the tall grass, surely made by a troop of Yankees.
         “From here on out, we use whispers and hand signals,” he paused. “Load!”
         Retrieving the freshly wrapped paper cartridge from the box on my right, I bring it to my mouth and yank at the folded part with my teeth. It tears and some powder is left on my lips. Nothing like a snack of powder. Yum. I pour it down the barrel and tap the butt on the ground. From my cap box, I withdraw a percussion cap with some difficulty amidst the sheep wool, which is a deterrent for caps wishing to be free from the constraints of the small leather box.
         I am ready to engage the Yanks.
         “Private Pratt and Corporal Bassford, scout ahead. At the route step, march.”
         Sergeant Stubbins leads the way. I follow second in line and we descend the hill. Though we attempt a quiet approach, it is quite impossible to remain silent stepping on the dry leaves and dead sticks littering the landscape. To create more of a racket, my canteen ceaselessly finds a way in front of me, knocking into nearby trees. I throw it behind me, continuing the trek downhill. About half way, Captain Laiche calls a halt. Private Pratt returns with the Corporal. Pratt points to a stump twenty yards away; he then makes reference to his eyes and the woods beyond us on the left. Keep watch on the flanks, youngin’.
         While the six of them confer on a plan, I scan the dozens of hiding spots for Yankees. The snaps of twigs and shuffle of leaves in the distance attract my alert eyes, but I see nothing. I allow a split second here and there to take pleasure in the moment, the adrenalin, the comradery, and the beauty before me. The Yankees outnumber us, but that has always been the situation. The quick meeting concludes with Captain Laiche deciding upon an attempt to find the flank of the Yankees and roll it up.
         Drinking from our canteens, we prepare to move out again. I let my comrades head out ahead of me before I follow, keeping an eye out on our rear with Pratt. While he hid in the bushes, invisible to me, I moved forward to a tree, constantly making sure I hadn’t lost the cap on the rifle’s nipple. I would cover and Pratt would move ahead. Turning to check the rear, I heard it: the first ignition of blackpowder. I couldn’t see the smoke, but Pratt and I were at least forty yards from the rest of the men. Pratt leapt behind a low stonewall. I saw the blue amid the green and browns now. Yankees! They were spread out in a long line, certainly beyond either of our sides.
         The movement of one blue garbed man attracted my rifle and I settled the sights on him, pulling the hammer back, checking one last time that a cap is on the nipple. I fired. Immediately, I drew the gun back, as smoke blew out of the barrel, and initiated the movements to load the rifle. Pratt fired.
         “Mike,” I hollered to him, “I’m moving to your left. They’re moving on our flank!”
         “Come up on my left along this stone wall!” He replied.
         In a small hole, I looked around for the best way out without drawing too much fire, but I knew any way was an invitation for intensity. Tumbling over a stump, bounding a fallen tree, and darting between two dead oaks, I found my way to Mike’s side. I slid my rifle on a huge knocked over tree. I had cover on my left, front, and the right. The glint off my barrel must have had some appeal, but I focused on the issue at hand. From the Federal line, I heard their captain say: “Move out 75 yards and advance.”
         Relaying this to Mike, I wondered where the rest of our boys were. Ahead of me, I watched a gathering of five blue dressed men begin descending a small ridge. They were moving on my left. My left. I am the left. Aided by adrenalin, I swiftly loaded rounds and fired at the flanking combatants. Yet, they did not falter or halt and drop. Alas, they continued to make their way around me, firing.
         “Mike, I can’t take much more. I got five right here.”
         The Captain must of heard me because I soon heard, for the first time, to retreat.
         “Go ahead, Nick. I’ll cover you,” Mike said.
         I loaded another round as I crouched to make it up the hill we had just traversed down. I met up with Captain Laiche, Corporal Bassford, and Private Schnabel. From behind us, I heard Mike cry out. I wasn’t sure where the others were: Sergeant Stubbins or Private Leissner. Was Mike still alive? No. He wouldn’t allow himself to be captured by the Yanks.
         And the Federals advanced on us. Captain Laiche ordered stops to engage before another move up the hill. Sweat was pouring off my forehead as much as the fire poured out of both contingents of troops. My breathing quickened, as my feet tried to keep from slipping on the leaves. The rifle fire behind me offered inspiration to run. When we were near the edge of the field we had entered from, Captain Laiche halted us. This was it. We would take as many Yanks down until we died. We became lucky, as they clumped together. Corporal Bassford and I fired continuously into the group of blue.
         “Do they have to wait for the order to die or something?” Bassford asked.
         “Captain Laiche,” it was Leissner, “It’s Dave. They captured me.”
         Damn! But where’s Robbie Stubbins?
         It appeared though, that as much as I was ready to slaughter the Yanks, they had had enough. Marching Dave back with them, we found ourselves alone. The hill was ours; our lives were ours! Motion down below attracted our eyes. Sergeant Stubbins was coming up, red faced and sweat dripping from his forehead. His beard was nearly drenched- a slight exaggeration.
And we were done. Neither side had won.