Writing.Com: The Elephant

William Edwards brought his meager cache of wood to a small fire that was already surrounded by his fellow soldiers. He added his contribution slowly, careful not to disturb the thin pieces of meat hanging from an improvised rack or the pot of stew that the group had started. He pulled out a couple strips of his own dried meat, cut it into bite sized pieces and added it to the stew before sitting cross-legged near the fire to warm his calloused hands.

He was new to this army. Technically, he had volunteered. In reality, his neighbors were not kind to those who remained safely behind to tend their farms and families while others of like physical abilities were fighting and dying for their nation. He had thought he would be able to avoid getting embroiled in this mess, but in the end, the needs of his family were secondary to the needs of his country. At least that’s how the vast majority of his neighbors had seen it. When the mercantile stopped offering him credit, but offered to extend it to the women in his household if their head-of-household were off fighting, he had no recourse but to join the army.

He didn’t believe in the rhetoric. He didn’t really believe in the war. Fanatics started this war and the whole nation was now paying for it, one human life at a time.

Will looked up as a man with filthy hands placed a bowl full of stew into his hands. “Thanks.”

The man grunted and sat down next to Will. Will smelled the dirt and sweat of the last days march on the older man. He’d seen the veteran around, but had never spoken to him. If Will were honest with himself he would have to admit that he was scared of the man. As Will ate a bit of the shared stew he tried to build up his nerve to speak to the man sitting next to him.

Finally Will said, “I sure could use some advice about…you know…whatever we’re about to face tomorrow.”

Oldwarrior - Disabled Veteran

“They call it “meeting the elephant,’ the grizzled old sergeant replied, slurping his coffee from a fire blackened metal cup. He was a veteran of scores of battles, from Manassas to Fredricksburg, from the Peninsula to Antietam… and more. He could tell from the sheen of sweat on Will’s brow that he was just another bounty man or at worst a plowboy down on his luck.

The old sergent had already eaten his share of the skillygalee stew the men were cooking and was now munching on a piece of half cooked salt pork. “ What for did you sign up?” he asked Will, not particularly interested in the answer.

“Mostly for the income,” Will cautiously replied. “Times are hard on the farm and 12 dollars a month will go a long way to help feed my family and pay off our debts.”

“That’s if the Sesh don’t plug your gut in the first fight,” another lanky soldier said, lighting his pipe with a burning twig from the fire. “They’s going to be a big one tomorrow, ain’t there sarge?”

“Reckon there might be, not tomorrow but maybe the day after,” the old sergeant replied. “Heard tell the entire Reb army’s been plundering over them mountains yonder near Harrisburg. That’s why we’ve been eatin’ dust since before sunup this morning. General Reynolds is got the lead on us and he’ll likely hit the Rebs first.”

“Yeah, but the 20th Maine gonna kick some Sesh butt, ain’t we sarge?” the lanky soldier blurted. He had been in a few scraps but no real standup knockdown battles.

The grizzled sergeant threw him a ‘get lost look’ and turned back to Will. “Just remember your training soldier,” he stated. “Most of these so called veterans you see around you here probably ain’t never kilt a Reb close up like. After you fire your piece they’s so damn much smoke you can’t see if you done hit anyone anyway. Just keep loading and firing and you’ll be all right.”
Will was intrigued by the man. He had never met a professional soldier before and knew next to nothing about the life they lived. His sole knowledge of soldiering, besides what he’d learned in the thirty-day training camp the Regiment put him through, was from books he’d borrowed from his friend Jeremy, the son of a wealthy businessman.

“Have you been in the military for a while sir,” he courageously asked the tough old sergeant. “I mean, I guess it takes time to earn those stripes and all.”

“Fought with Jeff Davis in Mexico,” the man replied. “Been with the Army since, mostly out on the frontier playing tag with the natives. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“The officers tell us that if we beat the Southerners here in Pennsylvania, the war will be over,” Will stated, more in a quest for information than a statement of fact. What do you think sir?”

Meeple

"I can't tell you how often it's been said that the next battle will be our last. There are always them who's flapping their gums about how quickly this war will be over. Well, we've been at it for about three years now and I don't expect that this battle will be remembered any more than all the others I've witnessed. What's special about this plot of land? Not much. It's a little berg in the middle of no-where."

Will cleaned the last of his stew from his bowl with as little scraping as he could manage. Now that he had the old man talking, Will was afraid to interrupt him. When the veteran stopped talking, Will stopped moving, waiting for the man to continue as he watched the gnarled hands pull a pipe out of his haversack pack it with tobacco that William was sure hadn't been obtained through means quite legal.

Eyes which had seen more than any man should have to see surveyed the ground around them, left to right, top to bottom, before finally continuing, "You know what I see? I see the dangers. Those hills there," he motioned to a series of hills just north of the town, "that's where the toughest fighting will be. Those hills are like a beacon to the Generals on both sides. They’ll all want to be the ones to claim the high ground. Problem here is, there's a lot of high ground. Even if we capture this bit here, I remember seeing that there's another series of hills to the south.”

He looked sideways at the green recruit, eyes searching. Will let his eyes slide away. “You want to run and hide once the fighting starts, those bit of trees over there will be your best chance of getting lost tomorrow. You don't want to find yourself over by those trees by the creek beds. Water always causes all sorts of confusion and there’s water in those trees. You can see the way the gullies form little pockets of hiding places? You would think that they might hide you until the battle’s over, but you don’t want to go down there. There’s nowhere to run once all the other yellow and green soldiers have the same idea. Both sides have their share of yellow and I have to admit to enjoying it immensely when yellows from opposing sides find ther’selves staring at each other. You don’t want to be down there when that happens. Do you boy?” He puffed on his pipe, waiting for an answer from the younger man.

Oldwarrior - Disabled Veteran

“I wasn’t thinking about runnin’, Will sputtered, looking around him for support from the other soldiers quietly listening in on their conversation. Before he could come up with a good response the grisly old sergeant said, “It’s not what you’re thinkin’ it’s the look in your eyes that done gave you away. You ain’t the first greenhorn to wonder what he’ll do when the action starts, and you shore won’t be the last. I remember back at that pass in Buena Vista Mexico I was a wonderin’ the same thing. An old Sergeant Major from the war again the Brits told us he’d shoot the first man that ran from the Mex.” The Sergeant cut off suddenly and started digging in his haversack.

Will was too frightened to ask the old Sergeant what happened. The man was obviously talking about his own first time under enemy fire. Well, he was sitting here with them, so the tough old goat couldn’t have ran. He decided to wait patiently for the rest of the story.

“Will’s a waitin” for your answer Sarge,” a tow headed soldier said from the other side of the fire. “How many of them thar Mexicans did you kill?”

The old Sergeant finally found what he was digging for and pulled it from his bag. It was his sewing kit, commonly called a ‘wife’ by soldiers on both sides. It was one of the few priceless possessions that even two legged scavengers usually left alone.

“We ran like old Satan hisself was a chasing us,” he finally answered with a lopsided grin. “We got caught with our pants down and flanked by the Mex. Old Bobby Lee pulled us back just in time before we were massacred.”

“You fought with Robert E. Lee?” Will sputtered, his mouth open in awe.

“Naw, Robert E. Lee fought with me,” the old Sergeant casually replied, spitting a stream of spittle into the fire. “Bobby was a greenhorn too back then. Turned out to be a pretty good officer though, If I might say.”

Oh my God! Will thought. This man fought along side the famous Robert E. Lee. What was he doing fighting for the Union? He asked himself. Why wasn’t he with Lee on the other side of the mountains? The man was obviously from the southern states for his drawl and lackadaisical manner begged a tag that said Mississippi or Texas.

“Old Sarge here is our official turncoat,” Lieutenant Peterson said, walking up to the group. The Lieutenant was well liked by the men in the company because he was not only smart but a just and even tempered man who held his own in line of battle. No one jumped to attention as the manual said they should. That wasn’t something usually done in so casual a setting. “Sergeant Major Steihl was born in the South but there’s one thing he can’t stomach, and that’s slavery. While most of us been fightin’ for state’s rights and to preserve the Union and such, the old Sergeant Major here been fightin’ to free the slaves from the git go. Ain’t that right Sergeant Major?’” the Lieutenant finished.

The score of shining eyes around the fire turned towards Sergeant Major Steihl.

Meeple

“Well now, Lieutenant, you might even know this story better that I do. Why don’t you join the circle and tell it to the boys?”

“I’ve come to the opinion that Southerners make some of the best story tellers around, and you’re no exception, Sergeant. No matter how many times I hear your tale, it always manages to keep my interest. Besides, it’s your life and no one should tell it but you.”

“Least-wise till I’m in the ground, I suppose?”

“In that sad event, I’d be honored to share your tale with any who ask for it.”

“Might-oblige, Sir.”

That the warrior used the title, sir, however loosely, was not lost on the younger soldier. Respect was hard to earn in this God-forsaken place. If William weren’t so interested in the story Sergeant Major Steihl was about to tell, he might have asked how these two soldiers had become friends. As it was he waited like every other man around the fire to hear what the Sergeant had to say.

Knowing that he had his audiences’ full attention Steihl began as he usually did, at the beginning.

“When I was a boy down in Missi’pi, I had a friend, name of Charles. We did ever’thing together. We was pretty evenly matched in most things, but of course I was the better looking one.” He knew he had won over his audience already when every one of the soldiers around the fire laughed with him. “Charles and I were a team in all we did. We hunted together, fished together and flirted with anything resemblin’ a female in our parish. Most people thought we were brothers, but of course we weren’t. He’d moved to the county from New Orleans when I was seven. His family was better off than mine, but my folk had history.

“Well, we’ll skip over several years and jump right to the meat of it. Charles wanted to marry when we turned eighteen and his father approved the match, so they approached the lady through her father, as was proper. It all seemed to be going well for Charles until the lady’s family took a trip to New Orleans, supposedly on business, but we knew better. They went to check on Charles family. Found somethin’, too.

Charles hadn’t known it himself, but he had a dark ancestor, a grandparent, or great-grand-parent, or somethin’ from way back. He looked as white as any of you sitt’n here, maybe even lighter than a couple of you, but once word spread that he had a drop of black blood, it was all over for him and his family.”

Steihl stopped for breath and one of the men filled the silence with an obvious question, “What did he do?”

“What any darkie does who needs to escape. He fled up north.” Steihl said with disgust, “He and his family were able to get safely out of the south, change their name and start over.”

“They were lucky, then,” said the same soldier with relief.

“Luckier than some, but who here’d count themselves lucky to be on the run for the rest of their days? Afraid that someone might recognize you? Afraid that there’s a bounty on you? What about your children? What do you tell your children?“

The soldiers were quiet, only William had the courage to speak, “So, you’re still in touch with him?”

“Of course I am. He’s my best friend. Always has been, always will be and any man who tried to tell me that he ain’t as human’s you or me, well he’s going to have a fight on his hands.” Steihl clenched his fists and sat in silence, no doubt waiting for someone to step into that fight.

Oldwarrior - Disabled Veteran

Oldwarrior

No one took him up on his offer. All the men knew that it’d be suicide to even try to take on the legendary Sergeant Major.

“Charles is in the Army now,” Steihl continued. “His family moved to Boston and he joined the Union Army when the war broke out. He’s mighty proud of being an officer because he started as a private and the men elected him to lead them. He’s with that new Negro Regiment that Colonel Shaw formed, the 54th Massachusetts.”

“You mean they gonna let nigras fight in this here war?” Will asked, surprised at the news. He’d never met a negro before and knew little about them. They were rare up in the backwoods of Maine.

The old Sergeant Major didn’t answer him but pointed at a soldier standing near a tree. “Hansen, run over to C Company and get that John Henry, make it quick.” Hansen took off like a rabbit being chased by a bobcat.

“Who’s John Henry?” Will asked, wondering why the Sergeant Major was sending for him. “Ain’t who John Henry is, it’s what,” a chubby fellow next to him replied. “We call runaway slaves John Henry’s, the Southern boys refer to them as contrabands. They’s lots of names for them floating around.”

“You wanted to know why I’m fightin’ against my Southern people I’ll show you,” Stiehl continued, preparing his pipe for another smoke. “First off I gotta say I ain’t fightin’ against my people, I’m fighting against a tumor that’s destroying our way of life. Them men over yonder on the other side of those mountains are not bad people. Heck, most of them never owned a slave before, most don’t even want to own one. The leaders over there are good men for the most part, I fought along side old Pete Longstreet, and with George Pickett, and Lou Armisted, and even that damn Yankee Grant down in Vicksburg, and I can tell you no finer men ever roamed the earth or stood in a battle line.”

The Sergeant Major halted as Hansen walked back into the campsite with the runaway slave. Will could see that he was a very young man, possibly 17 or 18, and a very handsome figure. His skin wasn’t as dark as Will thought it should be because his imagination kept picturing a very black man. He was more of a light chocolate color with short cropped hair and unusually white teeth.

“This here is Marcus Brutus,” Stiehl stated, pointing at the young negro who seemed to be in high spirits. “Take your jersey off Marcus,” Still ordered, “and let these here bounty boys see your back.” Marcus quickly stripped from his jersey and turned so the firelight could reflect off his scarred back.

A chorus of awe’s and whispers came from the soldier’s sitting and standing around the fire. A few even turned their head in disgust at the horrible scars lacing the otherwise fine smooth skin of the young boy’s back and lower waist.

“Thank you Marcus,” Stiehl said, indicating he could put his jersey back on. As Marcus replaced his shirt and eagerly headed back to where he was fetched from, Stiehl silently turned back to the group and took his time lighting his new filled pipe. The group around the campfire had grown until half the company was anxiously awaiting the rest of the old Sergeant Majors’ story.

“What you done seen is only part of what happened to Marcus,” Stiehl continued. “Seems like Marcus was caught kissin’ the plantation owner’s daughter. You can see he’s a real nice looker. Seems like the daughter was the one a kissin’ on Marcus, not the other way around. He was what they call a house slave on account of his momma was the head cook. He tried to get away from the adventurous girl but she wasn’t having any of it. The old man caught them cold and flew into a furious rage.”

He stopped to tamp down his pipe a little more and to spit a piece of loose tobacco into the fire. He could see that he had the men under a spell. They were mesmerized and eager to learn the rest. His old Indian grandmother would be proud of him for his story telling powers.

“The plantation owner didn’t even want to hear Marcus’ side of the story,” he continued. “Didn’t matter anyhow cause he done caught his daughter making out with a slave. He sold Marcus’ momma to an owner in Louisiana and his daddy to another owner in Alabama. The owner forced Marcus to watch as his sister was gang raped by a bunch of hillbilly low-life scum until she died, then Marcus suffered the worse thing that could happen to a man. They cut off his manhood!”

The greenhorn soldiers around the fire let out a collective groan of awe at this last bit of information. Each of them silently touching their private parts in a reflective bit of protective safety. The very thought of such a thing made them squirm.

“They decided to make sport out of him after that,” Stiehl continued. “So they gave him a three hour head start to freedom. Their plan was to hunt him down like the Brits do their fox hunt, Thing is though, Marcus won. He out smarted the blasted hunters and made his way to Cincinnati and freedom. Been with me ever since. He’s my boy now, not my slave, my son and a free man.”

“As long as there are people like that living in my homeland I will fight them,” he continued. “They are not worthy of the name human and they are a tumor that needs to be cut out and destroyed. Now do you see why I’m fightin’ this here war? Not for my rights or for glory or just for the fun of it. People like Marcus is what I’m fightin’ for.”
A sudden lump started to form in Will’s throat as the grizzly old soldier turned his head so the troopers couldn’t see the sheen of tears clouding his eyes. Will was shocked to his core. He could never imagine such a thing happening, it sounded inhumane, ugly, bestial, and ungodly.

Suddenly, a new insight on this war begin to form in his mind.

Meeple

The angry welts and bitter scars were replaced as William tenderly pictured his wife, seated in the rocking chair he'd made for her when their first child was due. As he stared into the fire, Will let the image of his wife sooth his tensions away. She always had her favorite quilt over the back of the rocker, the one her grandmother had given her on her wedding day. What if Shelly told me she had a black sheep in her family? I wouldn't love her any less. Perhaps I'd try to protect her even more than I have in the past. The image of his son popped into his mind, sitting on Shelly's lap as she sat in the same rocking chair. And there's no way I'd let anyone ever hurt Matthew. I don't care what he's done, or who his ancestors are.

"We can't pick our ansestors," William said reflectively.

"Sure are right about that," agreed Steihl.

"Marcus didn't pick the color of his skin," Will said, coming more aware of the present as he let the pictures fade from his mind.

"Nope, that he did not," Steihl agreed again, letting the younger men work their own conclusions from the conversation. It became quiet around the fire, each man engrossed in their own thoughts. No one seemed willing to speak aloud about where ever their thoughts took them, instead after a few minutes of silence around the fire first one man, then another stood, picked up their supplies and headed to their tents.

When only three men sat around the fire William looked at Lieutenant Peterson, then at Sergeant Major Stiehl, "I don't want to die," he said in a small voice, "but I won't let you down tomorrow. Just tell me what I need to do, you can count on me."

Oldwarrior - Disabled Veteran

Sergeant Major Stiehl reached over and refilled his battered coffee mug from the strong coffee left in the bottom of the hissing pot. He then offered it to Lieutenant Peterson and to Will, both of whom declined.

"None of the boys will let us down," Stiehl replied. "Of course they all have doubts, wouldn’t be human otherwise. Each of them are asking themselves if they’re gonna be the one to run or try to hide or to pretend they’re helping a wounded friend back to the rear. No one likes the prospect of being killed or mutilated or blinded."

He halted to add more coffee grounds and water to the eternal coffeepot. He was addicted to the stuff, that and tobacco and fatback and the teeth dullers the commissary called hardtack; old soldiers’ vices.

"When you get into that line tomorrow and start advancing towards the enemy, the first thought on your mind will be to turn and run like hell. But you won’t, and you know why? Because every man to your right and left is thinking the same damn thing. Another thing they’re thinking is, ‘I can’t let the others down.’ And that thought will keep you going. It will keep you going because that is what men do. They’d rather face the awesome prospect of death than let their brothers down. It ain’t a matter of courage; it’s a matter of guilt. And when it’s all over, when the smoke clears and you fall to your knees from exhaustion, you’ll start looking around to see how many of your friends didn’t make it. The next thing you’ll to is check your britches to see if you done messed up your pants."

Will listened closely to the wise words of the old Sergeant Major. He knew what the man was saying came from experience. Experience on a hundred battlefields and from a thousand skirmishes. He also knew that he would take his stand in that long blue line. He also realized that he had a new perspective on his role in the war. He’d had doubts before about the reason and need for men to kill each other over philosophical and political differences. He still had doubts about that, but he now had two good reasons to stand up and meet the elephant. The divine spark he had seen in the eyes of the John Henry was proof that he was just as human as anyone and no one had the right to treat another human being that way or to keep them in bondage. Also, his brothers from Maine would be with him tomorrow, they will face the same dangers, the same terrors, and he will not let them down.

A cavalryman pulling into the camp interrupted his thoughts. "Lieutenant Peterson," the courier stated, remaining in his saddle. "The mutiny boys from the 2nd Maine have decided to join us. Colonel Chamberlain want’s you to break them up and spread them among the other companies."

Lieutenant Peterson stood and put his kepi on his head. "I assume the Colonel is still over yonder by those trees?" he casually asked the cavalryman.

"Yes sir," was the reply. "Word has it the Fifth Corps is moving out tonight for a forced march and the 20th Main is to be posted on a hill called Little Round Top. That’s on the far left of the Union Line."

As Lieutenant Peterson and the cavalryman left, Will turned to the old Sergeant Major with a questioning look on his face.

"The 2nd Maine boys are good men," Stiehl answered his unasked question. "They foolishly signed the wrong papers that’s all and still got a year left on their enlistment. They will be a boone to us on account of they’ve seen a lot of action."

"What about this Little Round Top? Will asked, "and being at the end of the entire line?"

"Could be a blessing, could be hell," Stiehl replied, standing up and stretching his sore legs. "Reckon we’re gonna have to roust the boys soon and couter-up, sounds like we might have a night march ahead of us."

Meeple

Steihl took his hat off as he stretched himself, giving a low growl of animalistic pleasure as his joints crackled, “Mmmm. I’m ready now.” He reached up, put his hat back on and assumed an air of authority as if he were putting on a comfortable shirt.

“Private, here’s your first order. Go through this line of tents, and then the next. Wake every soldier, kick them who are ignoring the drums, and tell them to form up over there. Then, get yerself ready and join them in ranks. I’ll be taking command of anyone whose there in fifteen minutes. Understood?”

William jumped to his feet and gave his best salute, “Yes, sir!”

The two separated and went about their business. In fifteen minutes about a hundred men waited for Sergeant Major Stiehl. He stepped to the front and said, “Alright, men. Date’s July 2nd. If we can wup them reb’s today we might all be having a real Fourth of July party in a couple days. But for here and now, I have a few orders and I intend to follow them through. You know me, and I know you. Together, we’ll get through.” So saying, he motioned to his subordinate who shouted orders that allowed the soldiers of the 20th Maine regiment followed in Sergeant Major Stiehl’s wake.

They marched through camp and saw many other units getting ready or already on the march. It seemed chaotic to Will, but he set his trust in Sergeant Major Stiehl and marched where he was ordered.

It seemed like a long march, but all too soon Will heard the sounds of the confederate’s making their preparations on the other side of the hills. The soldiers were positioned in a double line, and then told to ready weapons and hold their positions. His heart pounded in anticipation, but after a while, the inaction caused his heart to still, then turn to stone as he had time to think about what was ahead - what was just over the hill. He heard men around him start to pray, and he decided to join them. After he’d run through every prayer he knew, and named every person he cared about he looked up to see that the Sergeant Major had taken out his pipe. It was then that William knew they were in for a long wait.

Men were placed all around them each with their own commander. And once in place there was nothing to do but wait…and wait…and wait…
The fighting didn’t start until the sun was reaching the far horizon, not until 4:00 in the evening. Those that thought the waiting before the battle was excruciating had no idea that the battle would last much, much, longer than they expected.

Oldwarrior - Disabled Veteran

Within minutes their beloved commander, Colonel Joshua Chamberlain marched quickly out in front of the Regiment. “We’ve been ordered to that hill over there,” he yelled to the anxious men. He was pointing to a small rocky hill to their left just below a taller hill. “Sergeant Major, prepare the men for march!”

Will watched as Sergeant Major Stiehl addressed the knot of company commanders. Will was a member of F Company and his commander, Lieutenant Melcher, hastily ran back to the regimental lines. “We’re first in order of march,” Melcher yelled, “follow me.”

F Company did a left face and marched off at a fast pace towards the little rocky hill. Will could hear the sounds of a monstrous battle to his right and on the other side of the hill. He wished that the old Sergeant Major was with him, but he knew that his place was with the Colonel. He also knew the Regiment was short on men. From the authorized strength of 1,000, the Regiment was down to 385 soldiers.

They marched in single file through the rough terrain and Lieutenant Melcher finally halted them in a deeply wooded section and gave them the order to face down hill and spread out. He posted the sharpshooters on the hillside above them.

Will immediately heard rustling in the thick trees beneath their position. The men were charging their rifles, biting off the bitter tasting powder packs and quickly pouring powder, lead and wadding into the maw of their weapons and ramming it home with their ramrods.

Before he could think, hundreds of men clad in butternut started appearing in the openings in the trees below, like a surging ocean of gray and brown. Then the firing and yelling started.

For what seemed like hours, but was in reality only minutes, Will fired and loaded, fired and loaded, over and over again. Just like the Sergeant Major had said, he couldn’t see what he was firing at because the gray green smoke was so thick it was like pea soup. He didn’t know if he hit anyone or not, but the screams of the men around him told him that his friends were being struck by enemy fire.

Running low on ammunition, he risked a quick glance to his right then his left. Men were laying everywhere; most were wounded, some obviously dead. The majority had head and shoulder wounds because the rocks they had piled up helped to protect their lower bodies. The men still fighting looked like a pack of John Henrys as their faces and hands were black from the salty tasting gunpowder.

He heard yells for ammo as he fired his last round. Will didn’t realize that it was he who had yelled. The men were ransacking the packs of the dead and wounded to find more ammunition to continue the fight. One youngster started throwing rocks down hill at the Rebel swarm that seemed to continue on and on without letup.

Finally, Lieutenant Melcher ran back to where they were fighting. He had been in a hasty meeting with Colonel Chamberlain in the center of the line. “Fix bayonets,” Melcher yelled over the screaming and firing. “The Regiment is out of ammo and the Colonel is about to order a bayonet charge down hill.”

Without thinking, reacting only to the training he had received Will fixed his long bayonet to the bore of his rifle. He looked at the faces of the men around him. They looked fanatical, charged up, and anxious to tear into the men in gray who would not go away.

They heard the command from the Colonel: BAYONETS! The order caught like fire and swept through their ranks. Will never heard the command to advance, the men around him simply started moving in a ragged line down the hill, rifles with sharp bayonets to the fore, a grim determined look on their faces.

Will advanced down hill as if he was in a dream. Men all around him were slashing with their bayonets, swinging their rifle butts, and yelling like demons from hell. The faces of the Rebs looked shocked and disoriented. They were throwing down their rifles and getting down on their knees, whispering prayers to God and begging not to be killed. Will pointed his rifle at a group of Rebs and ordered them to stand their ground.

Will watched as Colonel Chamberlain confronted the commander of the Rebel unit. The Confederate officer tried to shoot the Colonel but his weapon was empty. The Colonel then placed the point of his saber to the Confederate’s neck and ordered him to surrender.

It was over. His first battle was over. Had he killed anyone? He honestly didn’t know. He knew that he had not used his bayonet and the smoke had hidden the results of his firing. He felt exhausted and thirsty. The salty gunpowder almost made his mouth numb. A Rebel soldier offered him a canteen with a dribble of water left in it. Will took a heavy swig, enjoying it with relish then handed it back to the man.

Looking to his left he saw the old Sergeant Major leaning against a tree packing his pipe for a smoke. Stiehl nodded his head at him as if to say…well done soldier. In a reflexive afterthought, He casually glanced down at his trousers to make sure he hadn’t spoiled his britches.

He had lived to see another day. He had seen the elephant and around the camp tonight he could raise his head with pride. But, inside he knew that most of his thoughts would be on the men of the company who would set around another campfire, on fame’s eternal camping ground.

Meeple

The End!

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