Chapter 2: The Cornfield
..."Fix bayonets!" ,Seargent Prescott's voice roared as the men quickly did as ordered. As Thomas looked behind himself for Franklin in the second rank, he flinched as he felt the rumble and concussion of distant artillery fire. Thomas spotted Franklin in the rear rank about a dozen feet to his right and gave him a quick nod. The continued rumble of artillery fire meant that this battle was surely underway to the front of the 23rd Maine. Thomas breathed in deep as Seargent Prescott continued to give orders,
..."Shoulder Arms!" ,Seargent Prescott shouted.
..."Front rank, charge bayonet!" , and with that order, Thomas and the rest of the men in the front rank thrust their muskets in the forward position with bayonets in the front.
..."Forward March!" ,Seargent Prescott's voice ripped through the early morning air like a deadly cannonball, and with that, all 416 men of the 23rd Maine began to march forward in their two ranks across the open field. Seargent Prescott marched before them shouting orders and waving his saber above his head. The color bearer and drummer boy were at his side, the Maine flag wafting in the light breeze and the drum rolling in cadence. Before them, the ground sloped ever so slightly before it tapered off and lead towards a dense cornfield where the rebel army surely awaited them.
The cornfield ahead was blanketed in smoke from the battle already commenced within. As Thomas marched forward, he began to be overwhelmed by the awful noises coming from the cornfield- men screaming and cursing, volleys of musket fire, and the incessant cries and moans of the wounded and dying. Most other men only experienced such things in combat, but Thomas was continuing to gain the realization that he had already experienced sheer terror as a young boy years ago. The memories would surely [pitiful worm!] continue to come forward even as Thomas was fully focused on simply surviving this battle. The men now marched into the rows of corn stalks, their bayonets glinting in the sun like polished silver. As they moved forward deeper into the cornfield, the men began [I am the destroyer of all you love!] to come upon the dead and wounded men from the Union brigade that had already passed through here. The sight was horrible, with bodies strewn in every conceivable position, many with limbs missing. [I will devour your hopes and joy just as I will devour your flesh!] The soil in the cornfield was soaked in blood and strewn around were arms, legs, and heads, in addition to the mangled corpses. It made Thomas feel sick, but in a way he knew that his childhood had contained even more grotesque horror, and he genuinely feared those long-buried memories just as much as this battle.
Suddenly, a rattling boom of musket fire brought Thomas back to the present situation. Seargent Prescott ordered the regiment to halt and take aim. Thomas felt his heart thumping in his chest as he aimed his musket forward. As Seargent Prescott gave the order to fire, Thomas felt his finger squeeze the trigger and his shoulder shudder with the recoil. His ears were ringing with the deafening sound of the musket volley unleashed by the 23rd Maine. Seargent Prescott then gave the order to reload, and as he did so, Thomas could hear in front of him what sounded like a mix between an Indian war whoop and a Banshee squall. A chill ran up his spine as he realized that this was the feared rebel yell that he had heard of from the stories of the more veteran soldiers in the regiment who had been in combat. It somehow frightened Thomas even more that he could not yet see the enemy soldiers due to the smoke that hovered in the cornfield like death's own blanket.
Suddenly another volley sounded in the air, this time from the direction of the enemy, and Thomas heard the whizzing sounds of fired bullets fill the air like angry hornets. He then heard screaming as the bullets began to find their marks and men began to fall. It was ironic in a way thought Thomas, they were in a cornfield, and here he watched as his comrades were falling to the ground much like corn stalks being chopped down by a farmer's scythe. Thomas glanced at Seargent Prescott and saw in horror that he clutched at his throat, which was spraying blood from a mortal wound. And with that, Seargent Prescott slumped to the ground in an eternal sleep from which he would never wake.
The horrible storm of combat was disorienting to Thomas, as was the incredible noise of the combined mixture of musket fire and the moans and cries of dying men. He saw the regiment's drummer, a boy of no more than 12, laying on the ground with half of his head blown off and bits of brain exposed. The regiment's color bearer was sitting cross-legged on the ground holding up the flag by the pole with his right arm, but did not seem to care that his left arm had been shot off just below the elbow. Men lay strewn along the ground with horrible wounds that spurted fresh blood. The air was filled with the scents of smoke, gunpowder, and the unmistakable coppery smell of blood. The smell of blood was nothing [I will hunt you as a predator hunts it's prey, weak child!] new to Thomas, as it was a smell he knew well from his childhood in Derry, but how exactly? He certainly had no time to think of such things right now! But surely soon he would remember...
The men continued to load and fire as best they could, while a few threw down their weapons and ran as fast as they could for the rear. And then came another volley from the enemy and the whizzing of more bullets again filled the air. Thomas suddenly felt a searing pain and forceful blow in his leg that made him feel as if he had been kicked by a mule. He looked down and saw blood gushing down his leg and realized that he had been wounded by a bullet that had struck just above his left knee. He collapsed to the ground and rolled over on his back, staring up at the hazy sky with the sun beaming down stagnant heat. And as the noise of battle around him began to seem farther away and the pain in his leg became more dull, Thomas began to feel sleepy. He felt the memories of his childhood coming forward as from a dream, and the chaos of the cornfield became more distant...
