"Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me"
Psalm 51:5
Gettysburg PA,
2nd July, 1863
2nd Maine Reg.
Night Time
The taste of fear is such an odd sensation. It started at the back of the throat before it inexorably covering the tongue and the whole mouth was contaminated. Hardly recognizing the horrid taste when it began, it stayed with me, a grim reminder of the conflict I barely survived. Staring into the fire I methodically chewed a plug of tobacco long devoid of flavor. The fire danced, a beautiful display of destruction, rendering once fibrant branches into ash. Ashes to ashes, all is smoke, mabe the preacher was onto something. But in its destruction it brought light to my world, light to my darkness of body and mind. Nights between the days. Sleep between battles. It was a double edged sword. Night brought welcome reprieve, but it also allowed the mind to wander, to think, to remember. This was not welcome, but it came on, mental thrashing of a stricken soul desperate to expunge sense in a whirling nightmare.
Today had been an nightmare, a horrifying, never ending, exhilarating nightmare. The preacher would have been pleased, all was smoke today. Unable to be caught or felt it was seen nonetheless, a stark contrast to the bullets which were unseen until they caught in flesh and were felt. The morning had been so clear, the sun had been shining, war seemed a long way off. But we could see a long way off, could see them. We could see those johnny rebs up until battle shattered the peace in a billow of smoke and roar of guns. And so blind, deaf, and utterly numb I tasted fear and fought a cloud. It was maddening, firing in impetus into an indifferent enemy. We knew they were there, just beyond the grey, we knew they would materialize slowly as ghostly silhouettes giving solidity to their disembodied cry. Perhaps at our own peril, we allowed them to close in, to draw them in, to see a human enemy; anything but that cloud. A man cannot fight a cloud.
Tasting the spent tobacco plug, I spat and came back to the world, saw faces all illuminated by our friendly little fire, smoking but friendly. Our fire was missing two. In their empty silence, the vacant seats gave me stark reminders of bloody, smoking bodies. One had died, found with an empty rifle in his lap. The other, a boy not sixteen years old was bound to get his arm sawn off in the morning. He had been an excellent fiddler, we felt a third abscess as we realized even if he survived we would never hear him play again. We talked briefly on it, not wishing to remember, but feeling obligated.
"Did anyone see the boy in the hospital?" Tom spoke. He was tall with a dark mustache and flowing dark hair tucked under his greasy hat.
The freckled face Nick responded "Talked with the surgeon that's supposed to go and cut him up, said they're gonna wait and see what his arm does tonight, whatever the hell that's suppose to mean."
There was silence again. I had been a part of the old Maine regiment, among those who signed three year papers instead of two. Those first two years had been a long, bloody blurr. All my friends had died, I made new friends and they too died and I didn't make new ones. They were just faces who came and went, most never to be seen twice. The end of the second year came, the old Maine was disbanded but I didn't go home. With the others, sick of death and war, I and mutinied. Only a few days ago we were placed under Chamberlain, only a few days ago did he rally us with words of hope. The Battle of the day was my first engagement with these men, and my first battle under Colonel Chamberlain. "That Colonel is something." I said finally said around my plug. The others looked up. " Thought he was crazy, ordering that charge." There was silence again.
"Felt good to see em close up, the rebs" Nick said. "I was outta ammo anyway, sorta relieved I guess to be doing something. Just remember being angry. too angry to be scared I guess. Wanted them to quit comin." I nodded.
Tom twisted his mustache. "I was terrified. Never charged the enemy like that before. Heard about charges like that of course, trained for them, even seen one when we were out of action at Chambersburg." he paused, poking the fire so sparks flew, "but yes, Chamberlain is a rare thing in this army. An officer with a level head."
"I was right behind him" I said. " Running behind him I seen him going at a reb officer. The officer raised his pistol just like this" I raised my hand pointing into the distance. "Thought he was dead for sure. I was getting ready jump the officer myself. Don't know if the reb hesitated or what but next thing I know, the Colonel has his saber at the mans throat. Thought he was gonna kill him, I would've. But calm as a could be he reached for the gun and took him prisoner. Never saw an officer like him."
There was silence again, but it was companionable silence. The dark mood had lifted. "Think they'll come again?" I asked.
"If they do, we'll be done for. Got nothin to shoot em with." Tom said sulkily. "Let's hope we bloodied them enough today for them to try elsewhere."
After the charge, after we had run our bayonets through that dreadful cloud and into our enemy, there was a sense of finality. It was not in the war, or the battle, or even the day, only in our ability to fight. It was a last push, a last shudder of our will to kill. I knew, should they come again, our little rocky hill would be a confederate rocky hill. What a shame that would be. I felt the dark settling in, reaching back to reclaim our little fire. Throwing more wood on the blaze, watching flames set to relentlessly, I pushed back against that thought. No sense in worrying, tomorrow would come, all we could to is wait. Might as well enjoy the wait. I spat out the tobacco and stood. "Tomorrow will come, I'm going to sleep."