The Last Full Measure

by Jeff Shaara

  He watched his men, thought, Stop this, you're thinking too much again. Those five men... ran away. If they did that in a fight, it could cause a disaster. If the man standing right next to you ran away, it could cost you your own life. I just didn't think... we would have to be reminded of that.

  He was still with the regiment, it had been just three days since Griffin had given him the change of command. He'd given much thought to who would replace him, had made a choice in his mind only this morning, and then the news had come to the camp, Ellis Spear had received a promotion to major. Before the war, Spear had been a schoolteacher, and it was rare for anyone to have something in common with Chamberlain. From the beginning there had been friendship, and Chamberlain discovered that Spear was not only there for good conversation, but had proven himself a good soldier, and a good commander as well. That made it simpler still, for Spear was to be his recommendation to General Griffin.

  The men began to relax now, more were moving about. He heard small voices, conversations. A few were looking at him, and he saw sadness in some, sharp anger in others. He was suddenly very weary, thought, Maybe a short nap, turned for his tent. Then he saw Spear walking toward him and said, "This was not a pleasant day, Major."

  Spear clenched down hard on a small pipe, seemed deep in thought.

  "Colonel, if you don't mind? A word?"

  Chamberlain pointed toward his tent, moved that way, and Spear followed. They ducked inside. Chamberlain sat on the cot, pointed at the small wooden stool. Spear sat down slowly, held the pipe in his hand, stared at it.

  "What is it, Ellis?" Spear thought, looked at the ground.

  "Colonel... I'm not sure.

  This was a difficult day."

  "You're not sure of what?"

  "I'm not sure I could do that to my own men. If that's what it takes to command... I have to tell you that, Colonel." He paused.

  "I don't know if I could order a man to stand there and shoot one of his own. How do you do that?"

  "We have done it before, Ellis. We do it every time we fight."

  "But that's the enemy... it's different."

  "Is it? I was raised to believe that men aren't supposed to kill each other at all. Yet, somehow, we have accepted doing exactly that. We have learned to kill men who we have been taught are our enemy. Men are dying, around us in greater numbers and in ways more horrible than anything mankind has ever experienced. This war has inspired the creative minds of brilliant men to invent extraordinary weapons, new and incredibly efficient killing machines, canister, torpedoes, mines. It's a part of everything around us. The disturbing thing about today... what shocks us is not that we killed men in blue uniforms, but that it was so... easy. The order is given, the muskets are fired, and the army has made its point. If we do not do our duty, it could happen to us."

  "Is that how you saw this today? Was it our duty to shoot those men) Chamberlain looked up, glanced at the dull light of the sunset reflecting through the walls of the tent.

  "Yes, Major. And God help us."

  4. CHAMBERLAIN

  OCTOBER 1863 They MARCHED IN THE DARK, THROUGH THE SAME FAMILIAR mud, the thick glue of the Virginia roads, the brown sludge that had paralyzed this army once before, nine months earlier. It had been late January, and General Burnside, tempted by a brief taste of spring weather, quickly moved the army up along the Rappahannock, away from the great bloody disaster of Fredericksburg. It was a good plan, move up and around Lee's flank, and even Washington had approved. But it had still been winter, and the weather turned, the hard and angry howl of wind and rain softening the roads, swallowing the wagons and the guns. The miserable army had finally been halted, then returned to the camps they never should have left. They now called it the "Mud March," and it had been the last command decision for Ambrose Burnside.

  Chamberlain felt the horse lifting its legs, the effort of each step on the thickness of the road. He shifted in the saddle, straightened his back. There was no rhythm, no gentle rocking of the horse; instead, each step was deliberate and tiring. Behind him he heard low curses, small jokes about generals and mud, one man trying to start a song, drowned out by jeers. He stared out ahead, saw the light of a lantern, men pulling at a wagon, one man with a long pole, prying at a buried wheel, lifting it from the thick ooze. His men began to call out, teasing, and he heard one man say, close behind him, "Just shoot it and put it out of its misery."

  He smiled, turned, could not see the man in the darkness, thought, Yes, even tonight... they are in good spirits, the morale is as high as it has ever been. They want a fight. We need a fight.

  There had not been much fighting since Gettysburg, at least not for these men. The action was in the West, at a place Chamberlain had never heard of. He rolled the word around in his mind: Chickamauga. The Federal army was being commanded there by William Rosecrans, and all Chamberlain knew was that the rebels had driven "Old Rosy" from the field, the papers calling it a bloody disaster, a panicked rout. That Rosecrans's army was not totally destroyed was credited to General George Thomas, who held his ground while the rest of the Federal army escaped into the city of Chattanooga. Now Washington had pulled two corps away from Meade's army, sending them to strengthen Rosecrans.

  Chamberlain began to think about numbers: How many are we now? Eighty thousand? Does it matter? Does it mean we are not as strong? He thought of all the fights, the reports he'd seen. The numbers were always on their side, Lee was always outnumbered. And until Gettysburg, Lee nearly always won. So, it wasn't just numbers. Then... what? Luck? No, he thought, we needed more than luck at Fredericksburg. It was something else, intangible. Commanders.... He pictured Meade in his mind, had seen him several times, mostly before Gettysburg. The army respected him; no one ever said he wasn't a good soldier. But whether he was the right commander... Some had said the job should have gone to Reynolds, but Reynolds was dead. Many wanted Hancock, some wanted Sickles, but both had taken bad wounds at Gettysburg, and neither had yet returned to the army. No, he thought, we will follow George Meade until he either wins the war or makes some awful mistake.

  He moved closer to a cluster of lanterns, saw a row of cannon and men gathered around one broken gun, the barrel pointing up between two crooked wheels. Men were pulling it aside, and there was an officer. Chamberlain moved to the side of the road, halted the horse, said, "May we lend a hand?"

  The man did not look at him, and Chamberlain waited, watched the men straining in silence, lifting and pushing. Suddenly, there was a loud crack, the groan of splitting wood, and the gun carriage collapsed completely, the wheels folding in, the cannon barrel now pointing straight up at Chamberlain. He flinched, stared at the hole, the small round blackness in the dull lamplight, and ducked away, leaned back in the saddle, felt a cold twist in his stomach. The gun was pulled off the roadway, the men still silent, the officer now moving away.

  Chamberlain pulled his horse around, alongside the column, glanced back at the barrel of the big gun, felt embarrassed, thought, Well now, that wasn't such bravery, was it? He still felt the jolt, wondered, How many men get that close, stare right into that hole before... Can you see it? Do you see the blast, the split-second image of death before it takes you away? He moved the horse to the head of the column, fell in alongside the color bearer, a quiet sergeant with a full black beard. Chamberlain nodded, was always polite, and the sergeant glanced at him, said nothing, had ridden beside many commanders. Chamberlain stared ahead, thought of the cannon: Maybe that's the best way; if you have to go, go out in pieces, one big blast. He'd seen too many who went the other way, the men who cried and screamed, who felt every horrible moment of their own death, who fought to hang on.

  He shook his head, brushed away the image, scolded himself: Stop that.

  Focusing ahead, he saw more lanterns, the dark roadway speckled in dull spots of light. He was suddenly hungry. The march had begun before they could eat, and he felt his pockets, pulled out one old piece of hardtack, put it into his mouth with
out looking at it. It was always better that way. He knew not to chew, let the thing get soft first, but he was really hungry now, and so he bit down, felt his mouth fill with dry crumbs. He grabbed at his canteen, put it to his mouth, felt the blessed wetness, swallowed. Now his mouth felt like wet dough, and he drank some more, washed it down. He put the canteen aside, ran his tongue around the stale taste in his mouth, thought, Wonderful, that may be all for tonight. Remember it with a smile.

  It had been this way since Gettysburg, the orders coming down at odd times, a short march or a longer one. Then they would stop, there would be no orders for a while, and they'd spread out into barren fields. Always they expected to see the enemy, and there might be a small skirmish, or nothing at all, and then more orders, and they would march back again, on the same roads. Sometimes the orders were more specific, a hint of urgency from headquarters, and so they would march at night, hurried along by the commanders, the men who knew... something. Tonight they were marching north, so were they being chased? He thought of the numbers again, the missing troops, the men sent to Tennessee. Lee must know... maybe it was a mistake, we are too weak.

  They knew Lee had sent troops to the West as well, Longstreet's corps. Of course it was a secret, but around these armies there were few well-kept secrets. The spies had brought in the Richmond newspapers, and they were amazed to see a full written account of Longstreet's troop movements, even his route of travel. And so headquarters understood that sending Federal troops west would be no secret either.

  Meade was always being pushed by Washington, the impatience of a government that had expected Gettysburg to bring greater results, a quick conclusion. But Meade was still wary, knew that Lee was as dangerous as he had ever been, that Lee's army would wait for him, try to outmaneuver him. When Washington pushed Meade forward, he would only go far enough to probe, seek an opportunity. If the opportunity was not there, if Lee did not leave himself open to attack, Meade would draw away again. For two months the armies stalked each other like two cats, and now Meade was backing away again. By morning the army would reach a small river, Broad Run, and cross to the safety beyond, at the fords around Bristoe Station.

  E WAS ON THE NORTH SIDE OF THE STREAM, AND WATCHED from his horse as the last of the brigade moved across. Below Broad Run he saw a squad of blue cavalry come up out of the far woods, riding hard, moving closer to the rows of troops crossing the stream. Now he saw more cavalry, emerging from the woods farther to the right, and there were scattered shots, musket fire in the woods. His column began to break up, men falling out, trying to see behind them, the sounds rolling across the stream, and the officers began to shout, moving the men back into line.

  Chamberlain watched the distant woods, could see nothing, and he yelled toward his men, "Keep moving, clear away from the water, let the column across!"

  His men pushed forward, and Chamberlain felt a sudden rush of energy, thought, Yes, they are chasing us. Below the stream the cavalry began to dismount, officers yelling orders to form a skirmish line. Chamberlain saw that his men were well above the stream now, saw the last of the First Division crossing, and he rode back to the bank, where Griffin was splashing his horse through the shallow water, coming toward him.

  Griffin pointed back to the line of cavalry, yelled, "Colonel, prepare to receive an attack! Move your column to that rise above the creek. Lee's right on our tail!"

  Chamberlain turned, saw his men moving up on the ridge, said, "Right away, Sir! We're there already. I'll turn them this way." He saluted, spurred the horse, climbed the short rise. The men were turned, the regiments forming a line of battle facing the stream. Chamberlain watched Griffin direct more troops into line toward his flank, and he rode forward, climbed a small knoll and saw them. Below the stream, across a wide field, two thick lines of rebels came out of the woods, advancing toward the last of the men still waiting to cross. Then Griffin was beside him, and Chamberlain watched him staring hard across the field. Griffin said, "It's A. P. Hill... they got up around us. They're trying to cut us off. But it's too late."

  Chamberlain could see the rebel lines moving closer, and now there was a solid line of gray smoke and the sound of the volley. The cavalry line was being overwhelmed, and they rushed back toward the stream, closer to the mass of blue infantry. Then the rebels moved forward again, pressing the attack.

  Griffin said, "Only a division... maybe two brigades. They don't have the strength! What the hell is going on? Where's the rest of them?"

  The rebels moved closer, there was another volley, and along the stream shells began to explode, the booming of rebel guns from far across the field. Chamberlain's chest was pounding now; he heard the whiz of a musket ball over his head, then another, closer. He looked down along the lines of the brigade, saw the faces staring out at the enemy. The musket fire was steady now, and Griffin was saying something, pointing. Chamberlain tried to hear, followed Griffin's gesture. Off to the left, beyond the stream, he saw a bright flash, but it was not cannon, there was no smoke. He leaned forward, tried to see through a row of small trees, realized it was a reflection, the sun glancing off the massed bayonets of many, many men. Griffin was still pointing, said, "It's... the Second Corps... )) Chamberlain saw it all now, the smoke from the fight in front of them clearing away in the breeze. On the far side of the stream there was a railroad cut, and the Second Corps had moved up, twelve thousand men hidden by a high embankment, unseen by the rebels. Now a mass of muskets pointed out over the embankment, and suddenly there was a sharp cracking volley, a flaming blast into the flank of the rebel assault. The smoke flowed across the field, and Chamberlain felt an odd turn in his gut, the shock of the mass of fire, of watching a whole battle line collapse at once. The rebels began to turn what was left of their line, to face the railroad cut, and some moved forward, to charge this new enemy, but there was another volley, and those lines collapsed as well. Then the big Federal guns above the stream began to fire, and Chamberlain felt the ground shake, and Griffin stood up in his stirrups, yelled, "A trap! A perfect trap!"

  Abruptly, Griffin spurred his horse and rode forward, followed by his staff. Chamberlain turned, saw the sergeant behind him, holding the flag, and the man was staring grimly, silently, toward the field. Chamberlain followed the man's eyes, could see the last of the rebels moving away. The musket fire faded, the big guns quieted, and in minutes it was over. Now came the shouts, the wild yells. He looked down the lines of his brigade, and the men were cheering, waving hats, muskets held high. Then the loud voices rang out to the left, across the stream, the men behind the railroad cut. Chamberlain watched the last of the rebels fade back into the far trees, and he thought, This was more than a skirmish. We won... we beat them. It was over so quickly. He tried to feel the excitement of the men around him, but it was held away by his own surprise at what had happened, at how clearly he'd seen it. He looked across the field at the men left behind, a horrifying mass of rebel dead. It was a foolish attack, he thought. There was no strength. And they didn't know the railroad cut was full of infantry. Griffin was right. They walked right into a trap.

  He moved his horse forward, close to the edge of the stream, saw men in blue moving out into the field, tending the wounded rebels. There were men with canteens, men with stretchers. The cheering had stopped, and now the sounds came from the field, faint and high and terrible, and more soldiers moved out to help the men they had shot down. In the distance some of the wounded were still crawling back toward the woods, pulling themselves away from a perfect disaster.

  5. LEE

  OCTOBER 1863 He REACHED THE EDGE OF THE WOODS, STOPPED THE HORSE, stared out beyond the wide field. He could see the stream, the small wood buildings. He looked to the low hills beyond, closed his eyes, waited, then forced himself to look at the ground close by, the wide sweep of open grass covered with the bodies of his men.

  Along the stream he saw cavalry, a squad of Stuart's men. Stuart was already following Meade's trail, the roads north, and the messag
es came back to Lee in a steady flow: Meade was moving away. Lee knew Meade would not stop until he reached the next good ground, would protect himself from any surprises. For a while, at least, there would be no more fighting on this field, along this stream, this place called Bristoe Station.

  Troops began to move up around him, skirmishers, sent into the field to make sure there were no enemy stragglers and no lingering sharpshooters. The men began to look to the bodies, to prod and poke, to search for some sign of life, but the wounded were gone. Those who had not been able to retreat were now carried by the Yankees.

  Hill was beside him, sat quietly, watching Lee, waiting. Lee spurred the horse, moved out into the field. The soldiers moved with him, spread out farther to the front, watching, focused on the far hills across the stream, the tops of trees. There was no calling out, no cheers, nothing to reveal to hidden eyes who this might be, the white-bearded officer on the tall gray horse.