Quiet. Death's quiet.
"What about you, Rhett Butler? You got a girl, don't you?"
"You're drunk again, Harry. God knows I don't care, but you're going to get yourself killed."
"I'm-a get killed anyway, why not get drunk for it? Who's your girl?"
"I haven't got a girl."
"Sure. C'mon, handsome guy like you?"
"I'm telling you, I haven't got a girl. Shut up."
"OK, OK, no need to get up'n arms. Ain't we got the Yankees for that?"
A crack in the distance. Warning shot.
"It ain't like there's anythin' else to do but talk anyway. I already told you 'bout my wife. She's waitin' for me, you know. Only married two months afore the war started, but she's waitin'."
"Yes, I know. You've told me a dozen times at least. I suppose...do you really want to hear about the woman I left behind?"
"Course! I wouldn' go to all this trouble if I didn' wanna hear."
"Well, I don't miss her. She's a pain in the behind. She's cold, calculating, jealous and spiteful. She doesn't love me, and I don't believe I love her."
"Then why you stick aroun'?"
"I was just getting to that part, wasn't I? As I said, I don't believe I love her but I can't leave her alone. She knows what a cad I am, but she can't send me away. I don't think it's because of any affection for me, but I give her expensive things, and she's still rather attached to the kind of life she had before the war."
"She pretty?"
"Do you think I'd bother if she weren't? She's got cat's eyes—green like…well, like the grass used to be before the war, and dark hair that sits just right against her skin. Of course, there are plenty of other, probably prettier girls that I could have much easier than her."
The soldiers march.
"Maybe that's why I like her; she's smart enough to be a challenge. She won't let me kiss her, but I know she loves it when I do."
"You're not married to her, are you?"
"Of course not! I'm not a marrying man. Anyway, she puts on these airs like it offends her, or that she cares about my reputation, but she doesn't. I suppose that's what makes her so intriguing."
"You sure got a lot to say 'bout her, for not wantin' to talk."
"Shut up."
Onto the battlefield. The sounds of death scream through the air and the men's voices join them in agony.
"What was that?"
"That, dear Harold, was the general's order. We're moving."
"The Yanks?"
"Yes, the Yanks."
"We're really gonna die this time, ain't we?"
"I plan on living. You, however…well, you're drunk, and a poor marksman when you've got a clear head. I wish you luck."
"You'll tell my wife, eh, Butler? Tell her I love her?"
"I will, Harry."
Quiet again. Death has come and the South has lost a few more brave young souls.