From CHAPTER TWELVE: BACK IN THE FIRE


From the heights of the railroad, Willie surveyed the battlefield ahead. Just below him a shallow valley cut with gullies stretched for several hundred yards. Puffs of musket smoke rose from these defiles as Rebel skirmishers sniped at the Union lines. Beyond the concealed enemy, the valley rose to a narrow bluff, the top of which Willie estimated was a mere fifty yards wide.
Willie began trembling as the horrors of recent combat replayed in his brain. He had just taken a deep breath to steady himself when the command to advance sent him skating down the hillside toward the Reb snipers. As the wave of blue washed into the valley, the enemy fired one last volley and then fled. Willie’s knuckles were white on his rifle stock while he listened to the cheers rising from the ranks around him.
Now unopposed, Chamberlain’s brigade filed through the valley and took cover behind the crest of the bluff. Peering over the top, Willie saw a long slope leading to a marshy creek. On the other side of the creek was a brushy incline that rose to the Rebel works, two hundred yards farther. The salient itself was impressive. Parapets made of logs and earth seemed impenetrable to the quaking lad. Interspersed at strategic points were stake-lined redoubts and battery emplacements that spewed bright fire.
When Willie’s heartbeat stopped pounding in his ears, he glanced at the stalwart veterans that surrounded him in Chamberlain’s first line of attack. Their stony faces and determined eyes steeled his own resolve. Looking behind him, he also saw the fresh legions of the 187th Pennsylvania waiting to assist them should they falter. The 800 hearty lads had never suffered defeat or been mauled by enemy fire. Their desire to excel could be seen in the way they crouched like sprinters awaiting the signal gun to start a race.
When the command for the attack sounded, Willie leaped up and over the bluff yelling at the top of his lungs. He could hear Asher and Henry add their voices to the thunderous shouts that rose from the Yankee line.
Just then, Colonel Chamberlain and his staff galloped to the front of the column to lead the charge. Each officer rode a snorting steed and waved an unfurled flag. The colonel had only gone a short distance when a round shot slammed into his horse, blowing it nearly in half. Miraculously, Chamberlain was thrown to the ground unharmed. Snatching up his banner, he howled wrathful imprecations at the Rebs and then scrambled forward on foot.
Willie yelled a second time. As he rumbled down the slope, the Rebels cut loose with a horrific fusillade of musket balls and canister. He heard the volley zip overhead and fly over the hillside. He was about to cheer their good fortune when wails of pain and unbelief reached his ears. Whirling, he saw the reeling ranks of the 187th dissolve in a bloody spray. The regiment had just topped the rise when it caught the full force of the errant Reb fire.
Willie groaned when he saw the second line of Chamberlain’s forces cut to ribbons. As the survivors staggered backward behind the protective bluff, he knew he and his friends would now make the charge alone. He felt a knot in his stomach as a second volley blew gaps in the advancing ranks around him.
After crossing the creek the fire became so intense that the soldiers dropped to their hands and knees to escape death. Scurrying on all fours like trench rats, they somehow scrambled into the brush on the uphill slope in front of the enemy salient.
As the Bucktails hugged the ground, Willie saw Colonel Irvin crawl from squad to squad to confer with the remaining officers. Finally, he rose on his elbows and shouted above the din, “Dig in, men. And stay alert!”
Willie dug furiously with his bayonet as bullets whined inches above his head. He heard his brother, Asher, and the professor gouging the ground nearby. Another cluster of Bucktails grew spooked by the proximity of the Reb fire. Leaping up, they sprinted for the shelter of the ravine. They barely reached it when an enfilading cannon blast ripped up the gulch upending the fleeing men like nine pins.
With a stunned gasp, Willie croaked, “Now, what are we gonna do? We can’t charge, an’ we sure can’t retreat.”
“An’ the Rebs ain’t gonna rush us an’ risk our sharpshootin’,” muttered Henry. “Looks like we’re cooked.”
“Cornered, ya mean,” corrected Asher, “an’ that’s only ’til dusk. Keep diggin’!”
The sergeant’s encouragement caused the men to work with renewed vigor. They threw up a protecting wall of dirt and then lay panting from their exertion. As they huddled in the rifle pit waiting for darkness, Henry cracked, “It’s hard ta believe ya took a bath jess two days ago, Willie.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause ya stink worst ’n aged goat cheese.”
“As if you smell any better,” groaned Phillips. “A nervous sweat is every grunt’s cologne.”
Finally, the sun set behind the Rebel works above them. When enemy gunfire stopped, as well, Asher pointed to each member of his squad, raised his finger to his lips to silence them, and then slithered out of the rifle pit on his belly. One-by-one the other Bucktails followed him down the slope between clumps of dead men. Rising cautiously, Asher slipped across the stream and then dropped on his stomach again. Imitating their sergeant, Willie and Phillips also got safely to the other bank.
As Henry rose to step into the creek, he felt a hand grab him by the pant leg. Terrified, he let out a shriek and struggled to free himself. A delirious voice cried, “Help me! Help me!” until the lad drove his rifle butt between two glowing eyes. He whacked and whacked until the hand let go. . .