Jassy Melson
10-02-2011, 12:21 PM
Petersburg, Virginia
April 1, 1865
Two soldiers stood five feet apart in a trench, their muskets lying on the earthworks in front of them. They gazed ahead at the trench that lay in the distance. It was near sunset.
One of the soldiers was in his mid-twenties. His dirty unkempt blond hair was past his ears and a peach-like fuzz covered his cheeks. He was of medium height and weight. The other soldier was in his mid-forties. He was grizzled and gaunt and had a gray month-old beard. The uniforms the soldiers wore were faded and ragged.
“How far exactly you think it is over there?” the younger soldier asked.
“Four or five hundred yards, I''d say,” the older soldier replied. “Close enough to see 'em move but too far away to shoot 'em.”
“How come some of them shoot then?” the younger one asked. “And us too?”
“For the hell of it, to break the monotony,” the older one said. “And every once in a while they get a lucky shot. They get one of us, we get one of them. But it's all accidental. Actually, you can hear the whine of their bullets coming when they shoot. Gives you a half-second to duck. Same with their artillery.”
The younger soldier who was named Jack wagged his head. “Wonder how long this is going to go on?”
The older soldier who was named Pete shifted the quid in his mouth and spat. “Not too much longer. The way I figure it is that one of two things will happen. The heads of both sides will finally figure that it's a stalemate, and a truce or armistice will be called, or a breakthrough will happen somewhere along the line and the siege and trenches will be abandoned, and the thing will be fought in the open. Either way, it ain't going to last much longer.”
Jack sighed. “I don't know. We've been here almost six months, and the siege and the trenches and all were here before then. This thing's gone on for over nine months. It wouldn't surprise me if it went on for another year. I don't think either side is going to give in.”
A wasp floated down the trench and when Pete saw it approaching him his reaction was immediate. He cried out “Hi uh” and jerked, and took off his slouch hat and swatted at the wasp.
“Dad damn waspers!” he exclaimed. “Can't stand the things.” He shuddered and then swatted at the wasp again, and after he saw it float away he looked sheepishly at Jack. “I got an aversion against waspers. The things drive me crazy. I'm scared of 'em. Shouldn't be, but I am.”
“They do give a bad sting,” Jack said, half-grinning.
Both soldiers grew silent and looked out over the breastworks toward the bare brown muddy field that
stretched to the other side's trench.
“Gonna rain,” Pete suddenly announced, nodding up toward the nickle-colored sky.
“More than likely,” Jack replied. “It's rained every day for the past week. I wouldn't mind it raining every once and awhile, but I would like to get dry before it rains again.”
“Hey Pete,” a soldier five feet away called out. “Spare a chew?”
“Sure,” Pete answered. He took out a pouch and tossed it to the soldier, who opened it and pinched off a little piece and tossed the pouch back. “Thank you kindly.”
A whining whirred through the air and all the soldiers ducked. A bullet sped overhead.
“You're right,” Jack said. “About a half second.”
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a cob pipe and a small cloth bag. He filled the pipe up and slid down to sit on his rump on the boards which were laid at the bottom of the trench. He lit the pipe and puffed and sighed in satisfaction. “At least we ain't got guard tonight. Maybe I can get some sleep—and dry out a little bit.”
“If it rains, you won't,” Pete said, grinning.
“You're right,” Jack grinned back. “There just ain't no way to get dry.” He puffed on the pipe, and then said softly “You know, I've been thinking about our outfit—our regiment. I wonder why it was that after Knoxville we was sent here rather than down to Georgia.”
“I don't know,” Pete replied. “I guess they figured they needed us more up here than in Georgia.”
“You know, of all the ones in our unit, we're the only ones left,” Jack said.
“Yep, you're right,” Pete answered. “Thompson got shot last week. It's just you and me left.”
“We've been through a lot,” Jack said. “Since coming up from Chickamauga. That's been over a year and a half. I wonder how many battles or skirmishes we been through.”
“I'd say at least a dozen skirmishes,” Pete said. “Now battles—major ones—maybe four or five.”
“We've been lucky, I guess,” Jack said. “Neither one of us has been wounded--hurt or anything.”
“Yeah, I guess we have been lucky,” Pete replied. “In this situation, luck plays a big part—probably the most important part.”
Jack stood and puffed on his pipe. “What are you going to do after all this is over, Pete? Go back to Kentucky?”
“Yep,” Pete replied. “I got near sixty acres 'ere in Hopkinsville. I'll farm a little, but mainly I'll grow to-
bacco on it. I can make a good living just from growing and selling tobacco.”
A file of soldiers appeared walking down the trench toward them.
“Well, here's our relief,” Pete said. “Time for us to go get a little chow.”
“And get some sleep,” Jack added.
They walked along the trench till they came to another one at a ninety-degree angle. They followed it for a hundred yards till they came out into the open behind a hill down in a dip. A large tent was set up and numerous campfires were going. Soldiers sat around the fires or sprawled on oilskins and blankets.
Pete and Jack entered the tent and got their supper—fatback, cornbread and molasses, along with coffee. They found a spot near a fire, spread their oilskins, and sat and ate.
Humming could be heard in the distance, and soft singing. The faint sound of a harmonica drifted toward them.
It was twilight, and Pete and Jack didn't talk much. They were too tired. They wrapped their blankets around themselves, and then lay on the oilskins. They were asleep in a matter of minutes.
Sometime during the night it started raining. Both awoke at the same time and wrapped their oilskins around themselves and their muskets and especially their gunpowder. Keeping their powder dry was the most important thing.
In the dawn before sunrise rumblings and faint cracking and popping sounds came drifting from the west.
Most of the soldiers were awake by sunrise. The rumbling and faint booming and popping cracking sounds continued.
“There's a battle going on,” Pete said. “Judging from the sound, I'd say it's a couple of miles west of here. Sounds like a big one too. It's been going on for awhile—started about dawn.”
The soldiers got their breakfast—hard bread, bacon and coffee, and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. It would be ten hours or more before they ate again.
Pete and Jack made their way back to the trench, trudging along, knowing they would be in the trench all day, and then standing guard through the coming night.
They set their muskets against the wall of the trench, and Pete bit off a chew of tobacco and Jack lit his pipe.
“That's a hell of a fight over there,” Pete said. “It ain't stopped yet—been going on since dawn.”
Jack saw the wasp before Pete did, drifting toward them. “Hey, Pete, don't look now, but here comes your worst enemy.”
Pete turned and saw the wasp. “Hunh!” he hollered and took off his hat and swatted, and then stood upright and backed away.
A whining sound whirred a half second before a bullet struck Pete on the back of his head. He didn't make a sound. He was dead before he fell and hit the ground.
Jack stood dumbfounded for a few seconds, and then his face and body seemed to cave in. “Pete!” he cried. He stumbled and fell next to Pete's body. He got on his knees, breathing hard, his mouth gaping. “No—no--no no no,” he began saying over and over.
A soldier leaning five feet away on the trench wall came over and knelt beside Jack. He touched Pete, parting the hair on the back of his head, and he grimaced. “Old Pete,” he murmured.
He opened Pete's knapsack and pulled out his oilskin and spread it out next to the body. Jack and he pushed and pulled Pete onto the oilskin. They placed his musket and knapsack beside him.
“You take the front end, I'll take the back,” he said to Jack. “Don't forget your musket.”
Jack got his gun and knapsack and placed them on the oilskin next to Pete's body, and they started out—back to the mess tent.
It was a slow cumbersome trip, and it took them a good fifteen minutes to reach the mess area.
They slowly lowered the oilskin down on the ground.
“You have any paper and a pencil?” Jack asked.
“Yeah,” the soldier replied.
Jack wrote the following on the paper: Cpl. Pete Howard—Hopkinsville, Kentucky—Dec. 1819--Apr. 2, '65--3rd Battalion, 32nd Regiment.
He tucked the paper between Pete's belt and pants.
For the first time Jack noticed the hubbub around him. An officer riding a big gray horse trotted by and hollered to them: “Move on out. Head out west there. There's been a breakthrough. We're leaving the trenches.”
“Who broke through—us or them?” Jack hollered. But the officer had galloped on and didn't answer him.
Jack got his musket and knapsack and stood and looked down at Pete for a moment. Then he started
walking west. It began to rain.
April 1, 1865
Two soldiers stood five feet apart in a trench, their muskets lying on the earthworks in front of them. They gazed ahead at the trench that lay in the distance. It was near sunset.
One of the soldiers was in his mid-twenties. His dirty unkempt blond hair was past his ears and a peach-like fuzz covered his cheeks. He was of medium height and weight. The other soldier was in his mid-forties. He was grizzled and gaunt and had a gray month-old beard. The uniforms the soldiers wore were faded and ragged.
“How far exactly you think it is over there?” the younger soldier asked.
“Four or five hundred yards, I''d say,” the older soldier replied. “Close enough to see 'em move but too far away to shoot 'em.”
“How come some of them shoot then?” the younger one asked. “And us too?”
“For the hell of it, to break the monotony,” the older one said. “And every once in a while they get a lucky shot. They get one of us, we get one of them. But it's all accidental. Actually, you can hear the whine of their bullets coming when they shoot. Gives you a half-second to duck. Same with their artillery.”
The younger soldier who was named Jack wagged his head. “Wonder how long this is going to go on?”
The older soldier who was named Pete shifted the quid in his mouth and spat. “Not too much longer. The way I figure it is that one of two things will happen. The heads of both sides will finally figure that it's a stalemate, and a truce or armistice will be called, or a breakthrough will happen somewhere along the line and the siege and trenches will be abandoned, and the thing will be fought in the open. Either way, it ain't going to last much longer.”
Jack sighed. “I don't know. We've been here almost six months, and the siege and the trenches and all were here before then. This thing's gone on for over nine months. It wouldn't surprise me if it went on for another year. I don't think either side is going to give in.”
A wasp floated down the trench and when Pete saw it approaching him his reaction was immediate. He cried out “Hi uh” and jerked, and took off his slouch hat and swatted at the wasp.
“Dad damn waspers!” he exclaimed. “Can't stand the things.” He shuddered and then swatted at the wasp again, and after he saw it float away he looked sheepishly at Jack. “I got an aversion against waspers. The things drive me crazy. I'm scared of 'em. Shouldn't be, but I am.”
“They do give a bad sting,” Jack said, half-grinning.
Both soldiers grew silent and looked out over the breastworks toward the bare brown muddy field that
stretched to the other side's trench.
“Gonna rain,” Pete suddenly announced, nodding up toward the nickle-colored sky.
“More than likely,” Jack replied. “It's rained every day for the past week. I wouldn't mind it raining every once and awhile, but I would like to get dry before it rains again.”
“Hey Pete,” a soldier five feet away called out. “Spare a chew?”
“Sure,” Pete answered. He took out a pouch and tossed it to the soldier, who opened it and pinched off a little piece and tossed the pouch back. “Thank you kindly.”
A whining whirred through the air and all the soldiers ducked. A bullet sped overhead.
“You're right,” Jack said. “About a half second.”
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out a cob pipe and a small cloth bag. He filled the pipe up and slid down to sit on his rump on the boards which were laid at the bottom of the trench. He lit the pipe and puffed and sighed in satisfaction. “At least we ain't got guard tonight. Maybe I can get some sleep—and dry out a little bit.”
“If it rains, you won't,” Pete said, grinning.
“You're right,” Jack grinned back. “There just ain't no way to get dry.” He puffed on the pipe, and then said softly “You know, I've been thinking about our outfit—our regiment. I wonder why it was that after Knoxville we was sent here rather than down to Georgia.”
“I don't know,” Pete replied. “I guess they figured they needed us more up here than in Georgia.”
“You know, of all the ones in our unit, we're the only ones left,” Jack said.
“Yep, you're right,” Pete answered. “Thompson got shot last week. It's just you and me left.”
“We've been through a lot,” Jack said. “Since coming up from Chickamauga. That's been over a year and a half. I wonder how many battles or skirmishes we been through.”
“I'd say at least a dozen skirmishes,” Pete said. “Now battles—major ones—maybe four or five.”
“We've been lucky, I guess,” Jack said. “Neither one of us has been wounded--hurt or anything.”
“Yeah, I guess we have been lucky,” Pete replied. “In this situation, luck plays a big part—probably the most important part.”
Jack stood and puffed on his pipe. “What are you going to do after all this is over, Pete? Go back to Kentucky?”
“Yep,” Pete replied. “I got near sixty acres 'ere in Hopkinsville. I'll farm a little, but mainly I'll grow to-
bacco on it. I can make a good living just from growing and selling tobacco.”
A file of soldiers appeared walking down the trench toward them.
“Well, here's our relief,” Pete said. “Time for us to go get a little chow.”
“And get some sleep,” Jack added.
They walked along the trench till they came to another one at a ninety-degree angle. They followed it for a hundred yards till they came out into the open behind a hill down in a dip. A large tent was set up and numerous campfires were going. Soldiers sat around the fires or sprawled on oilskins and blankets.
Pete and Jack entered the tent and got their supper—fatback, cornbread and molasses, along with coffee. They found a spot near a fire, spread their oilskins, and sat and ate.
Humming could be heard in the distance, and soft singing. The faint sound of a harmonica drifted toward them.
It was twilight, and Pete and Jack didn't talk much. They were too tired. They wrapped their blankets around themselves, and then lay on the oilskins. They were asleep in a matter of minutes.
Sometime during the night it started raining. Both awoke at the same time and wrapped their oilskins around themselves and their muskets and especially their gunpowder. Keeping their powder dry was the most important thing.
In the dawn before sunrise rumblings and faint cracking and popping sounds came drifting from the west.
Most of the soldiers were awake by sunrise. The rumbling and faint booming and popping cracking sounds continued.
“There's a battle going on,” Pete said. “Judging from the sound, I'd say it's a couple of miles west of here. Sounds like a big one too. It's been going on for awhile—started about dawn.”
The soldiers got their breakfast—hard bread, bacon and coffee, and chewed slowly and thoughtfully. It would be ten hours or more before they ate again.
Pete and Jack made their way back to the trench, trudging along, knowing they would be in the trench all day, and then standing guard through the coming night.
They set their muskets against the wall of the trench, and Pete bit off a chew of tobacco and Jack lit his pipe.
“That's a hell of a fight over there,” Pete said. “It ain't stopped yet—been going on since dawn.”
Jack saw the wasp before Pete did, drifting toward them. “Hey, Pete, don't look now, but here comes your worst enemy.”
Pete turned and saw the wasp. “Hunh!” he hollered and took off his hat and swatted, and then stood upright and backed away.
A whining sound whirred a half second before a bullet struck Pete on the back of his head. He didn't make a sound. He was dead before he fell and hit the ground.
Jack stood dumbfounded for a few seconds, and then his face and body seemed to cave in. “Pete!” he cried. He stumbled and fell next to Pete's body. He got on his knees, breathing hard, his mouth gaping. “No—no--no no no,” he began saying over and over.
A soldier leaning five feet away on the trench wall came over and knelt beside Jack. He touched Pete, parting the hair on the back of his head, and he grimaced. “Old Pete,” he murmured.
He opened Pete's knapsack and pulled out his oilskin and spread it out next to the body. Jack and he pushed and pulled Pete onto the oilskin. They placed his musket and knapsack beside him.
“You take the front end, I'll take the back,” he said to Jack. “Don't forget your musket.”
Jack got his gun and knapsack and placed them on the oilskin next to Pete's body, and they started out—back to the mess tent.
It was a slow cumbersome trip, and it took them a good fifteen minutes to reach the mess area.
They slowly lowered the oilskin down on the ground.
“You have any paper and a pencil?” Jack asked.
“Yeah,” the soldier replied.
Jack wrote the following on the paper: Cpl. Pete Howard—Hopkinsville, Kentucky—Dec. 1819--Apr. 2, '65--3rd Battalion, 32nd Regiment.
He tucked the paper between Pete's belt and pants.
For the first time Jack noticed the hubbub around him. An officer riding a big gray horse trotted by and hollered to them: “Move on out. Head out west there. There's been a breakthrough. We're leaving the trenches.”
“Who broke through—us or them?” Jack hollered. But the officer had galloped on and didn't answer him.
Jack got his musket and knapsack and stood and looked down at Pete for a moment. Then he started
walking west. It began to rain.