by Jeff Shaara
He wasn’t completely sure of that, said it to himself again, trying to find strength, to erase the hammering thunder in his chest, the cold, quivering fear of what this formation meant. He kept his eyes on Willis, heard the lieutenant shout out something, the usual clamor for straight lines, no gaps, everyone moving together. He glanced around, realized Owens was right behind him, and Bauer nodded, unsmiling, saw no acknowledgment from Owens. Bauer turned, heard the sergeant yelling out, repeating most of what the lieutenant had already said, his words a harsh bellow that drowned out the drums. The talking was done now, the men silent, the lieutenant facing forward, sword in hand, Willis doing the same, a breathless minute. Bauer stared out to the men in front of them, a hundred-yard gap, horsemen, a flag, a solid blue line. The first line.
From far behind them, back to the left, Bauer heard the hard thump of a cannon, then another, another, six in all. He knew not to look, nothing to see, but there was meaning there, and now, out to the front, a bugle sounded. The men of the 15th began to move, the singular motion of marching legs, pushing out through the grass. Bauer waited for the command, closed his eyes, thought of the bugler, the least popular man in camp, stealer of sleep, messenger of mindless formations. The notes came now, distinct, clear, Willis raising the sword, others down the line doing the same, the lines stretching a half mile to the left, many fewer to the right. The flank. We’re the flank.
The words flowed through him, meaningless distraction, his legs moving now, by themselves, his brain no part of the drill. He moved in perfect unison with the men on either side of him, felt the presence of Owens behind him, could smell the man, too familiar. He stepped to the rhythm of the drums, the bolt of clarity through his brain. That’s why they use drums. It had never occurred to him before, and now, more nonsensical jabber rolled through his thoughts, more distractions. He glanced up, saw a huge bird circling above, and beyond, one wispy cloud, heard now the calls of the young lieutenant, the words every man in these lines had heard before, hoped that when this day was past, they would survive to hear those words again.
The first skirmishers had been swept away well to the front, a few chattering shots that seemed very far away. The men of the 15th had not paused, kept up their advance without firing, no volleys necessary. Bauer marched in the footsteps of those men, trampled grass, scrub brush, the occasional tree. He kept his eyes to the front, but his brain was alive with questions, meaningless talk, the fear inside him swelling into terror, his flickering courage held in place by the sheer bulk of the men around him.
The ground rose slightly, then dropped back down, more trampled footsteps, and Bauer saw the telltale signs of skirmishers, flattened bare ground, logs piled up, brush gathered for disguise. There were cast-aside backpacks, canteens, used cartridge boxes, scraps of a man’s time spent staring out toward the enemy who stared back. Trading tobacco, he thought. Stupid. Never do that. One man decides to make his war personal, and while you carry out your little sack of coffee, all smiles and happy handshakes, he bushwhacks you, cuts your throat. Not me. Just … don’t like those fellows.
He passed a row of shallow entrenchments, dug like an afterthought, no real protection. The same cast-off equipment was there as well, signs of men who were long gone. They skedaddled, he thought. Heard us coming … hell, they saw us coming. No place to hide out here. Don’t need drums to tell nobody nothing. He glanced down, caught his legs in motion with the man beside him, the boy, Hoover. There was no talk, Bauer keeping his thoughts silent, glanced at the boy, thought, You scared? Bet you’re scared to hell. Or maybe you’re too fresh, too dumb. Anybody’s done this before knows exactly why he ought to be running like hell the other way. Can’t do that. Sammie would kill me. Owens would kill me. Worse, they’d hate me for it.
The first artillery shell came overhead now, a harsh whistle that impacted somewhere behind. He focused on the ridgeline, as though seeing it for the first time. Puffs of smoke popped out all across the top, and more, halfway down. He could see the firing from the rebels all down the long ridge, drifting smoke, the faint chatter, and, now, more thunder, blasts of fire from well up the hill, the balls arcing downward, heavy thumps, one shell erupting with a fiery blast between the two formations. More shells fell to the left, where most of the men were advancing, solid shot tumbling past, tossing up the soft earth. The firing blew past him, a sharp zip past his head, more, some impacting the dirt in front of him. The musket balls were mostly spent, but there was death in the sounds, and he saw the line in front staggering. The officers came to life now, shouts and orders, the men keeping their lines tight, the 15th shifting position, closing up the gaps torn through their formation. In seconds he saw the men who had been struck down, blue and red, white faces staring up, men calling out, agony, suffering, and no stopping to help. He kept up the march, heard the whistle and zip again, a volley from far out front, smoke rising well beyond the front lines. The gaps in the lines in front of him were wider now, but still the men of the 15th kept together, pushing forward, Bauer and the men around him following.
He watched as more of the men to the front fell away, the sounds growing, a steady roar of musket fire, smoke rising in a vast cloud all across the ridgeline, smoke everywhere, the crest high above coming alive, as though on fire. The 15th suddenly stopped, more men collapsing, but they answered, firing a volley of their own, then rose up again, still moving forward. Bauer watched with shaking hands, the thunder of his heartbeats, shouts of the officers reaching him, the lieutenant close by, voice like a girl, and he looked out to the side, saw Willis, steady steps, sword high, no stopping, no pause. Bauer passed more wounded, one man shot through his forehead, his eyes wide, staring up with surprise. Bauer had seen that before, couldn’t ignore it, felt the tug of sickness, but Owens was still behind him, the frightening push Bauer felt in his mind, no stopping, no hesitating. The ridgeline seemed alive, thick lines of smoke from muskets up the slope, the hillside bathed in thin fog now, the cannon fire blowing through with fiery bursts. To one side, the ground erupted, a blinding flash, deafening thunder, dirt sprayed over him, men ducking, but no one halted, the sergeants screaming at them, needlessly, the men knowing what to do.
The musket fire was much closer now, and Bauer saw the first line enveloped in smoke, firing their own volleys, and now a horseman rode past, close to Bauer, a hard yell at Willis, the man riding on, orders to more of the officers. Willis turned toward him for the first time, a flash of recognition, and Bauer saw the fire, the look he had seen at Shiloh, at Vicksburg, in every fight Willis could make. His voice broke through the din in front of them.
“To the double-quick! Forward!”
The men responded, other companies down the line doing the same. Bauer ran into a wave of smoke, fought to breathe, was past it now, saw the ridge, steep and tall, saw men scrambling to climb up, some of them shot down. There was a deep earthwork spread out to both sides, a hundred yards or more from the base of the hill, the men of the 15th settling in, seeking some kind of protection. Bauer jumped down, saw men he didn’t know, wide-eyed terror, grim fury, red eyes, tears. The earthworks filled now, heavy with blue, and Willis was there, screaming at them, pointing the sword up the hill. The men responded with their muskets, the men on the hillside tumbling backward, some just collapsing, caught by rocks and rubble and brush. Bauer stared for a long moment, a charge up the great hill, but it was no charge at all. It was escape. The men were rebels.
BASE OF MISSIONARY RIDGE—NOVEMBER 25, 1863
He was deafened by the blasts from the artillery, the rebels on the ridgeline above him dropping shells in a high arc, the only way to impact anyone so close to the ridge. But far out to either side, rebel artillery had the angle, could fire in a flatter trajectory, those shells sweeping close to parallel with the trenches now holding the blue troops.
Around Bauer, the men pulled themselves as low into cover as possible, but the earthworks and log walls had been built to face outward, toward Chattanooga. The parap
ets and ditches that faced the hillside were low, flimsy, and Bauer could see, from his spot in line, that the base of the hill was nearly two hundred yards away. That span was mostly flat, grassy ground that offered little or no cover. Some of the men had dared to rush out that way, seeking the protection of anything they could find, a rock, tree stump, a cluster of brush. But the officers screamed them back, the orders barely heard above the amazing din of the ongoing fire from the heights above them.
Across the way, Federal guns had responded to the barrage of rebel artillery fire, the shells streaking past, impacting with rock-crushing blasts high up on the face of the hill. The rebels responded, but their targets were human, and very close, and so their fire continued downward, the vicious attempt to swat away the vast wave of Federal troops who now filled their own earthworks.
Bauer curled into a ball, his back against the dirt wall, the stacked logs to his front. The smacks of lead seemed aimed into the logs themselves, the rebels high above taking aim at any movement they could find. But the artillery was far worse, the shells overtaking any threat from the muskets. He pulled his head down between his arms, tried to hear more than the blistering screams from canister, sprays of dirt and rock blown over him, more shrapnel whistling past from fiery shells bursting high overhead. He kept his knees in tight, eyes closed against the smoke and splattering dirt, felt numb, the terrifying helplessness of where he was. One shell burst just behind him, hot metal tumbling, bouncing overhead, thick smoke, searing heat. He glanced to the side, saw other men doing just what he was, some of those men carrying wounds, struck by the shrapnel, by bits of metal from the canister or the lucky shot from a rebel musket. There were shouted orders, but no words he could hear, just the roar of the big guns, the shelling in no kind of pattern, no rhythm, the guns seeming to erupt over them from every part of the ridge, more shells coming in from their own guns a mile away. In the works, the men who dared to move at all were crawling, some seeking a deeper hole, but the rebels had dug their trench with care, uniform depth, a good solid stack of logs facing outward. There were transverse trenches, but not many, the defensive line not so well constructed as to hold away a major assault. I guess we were a major assault, he thought. Had to look pretty damn impressive coming at them from way across that open ground. So they ran. Maybe not so many of ’em down here this low. If they’d have been thick in this ditch, they could have busted us up real good. If they’d have had cannon down here, it might have been a whole lot worse. But doesn’t much matter now. Here we are. The question rose up inside of him, the orders Willis had told him about. Take these lines, and then wait to see what happens next. This is all about some other fight, up the other way? Sherman? What’s he doing, anyway? If we’re just out “demonstrating,” what else are we supposed to do? I ain’t demonstrating a damn thing but keeping my head down.
Down to one side, an officer sat curled up as he was, no orders, no attempt to rally the men for anything more than what they were doing, seeking shelter any way they could. He saw other men, lying flat just outside the log wall, more desperation, but the artillery shells were finding them as well, the air blasts spraying hot iron into those men more easily than the men in the trench. A horse rode past, just out from the logs, a surprise, and Bauer wanted to rise up, to see, knew better than to try. More horses thundered past, some of those moving out away from the works, back the way they came, and Bauer could see through the openings in the logs that the horses had no riders. He felt a jab at that, thought, Officers on horses … never seemed very damn smart. Or maybe, they just dismounted, drove the horses away. Damn kind of ’em. Especially if they’re not dead.
Another shell tumbled in heavily to one side, impacting down into the line, ripping through the huddled men, then erupting in a blast of fire and flesh. Bauer closed his eyes again, the thoughts driven away by a sudden wave of panic. He kept his head down, the words coming out in a hard shout few could hear.
“What are we supposed to do? We can’t just stay here!”
Others took up the cry, the men beside him, strangers mostly, one man yelling out, “We gotta get the hell out of this place!”
Hell. Bauer was struck by the word, the place. Yep. This has to be close. He heard splattering against the wood, musket balls ripping close past his head, a volley fired from high above. He looked again through the gaps in the logs, could see across the flat ground they had come from, wondered if another line of troops was moving up in support, that wonderful sense of strength, reinforcements, salvation. Somebody else for the rebels to shoot at. But the ground to their rear was churned up, smoking, few men but the wounded, no stretcher bearers yet with the courage to wander out into wide-open spaces. He felt cramps in his legs, forced himself to roll over, his face pushed against the dirt, and officers were shouting now, an order barely above the sound from a pair of shells coming down close behind him.
“Get up! Get to the hill! Find cover there!”
“To hell with you!”
The words came next to him, echoed in Bauer’s own head, others responding, some picking up the call, the men understanding there was no safety here, no real protection. Another shell tumbled into the trench, a hissing fuse, a man screaming, pushing back with his feet, a desperate scramble to get away. Bauer covered his head with his arms, useless effort, the fuse going silent, the shell not exploding. Another man rolled over, hoisted the shell up, rolled it out past the logs, then dropped back down, and just as suddenly, the shell erupted, logs tossed up on one end, smoke and fire, hard shrieks from the men close by.
Another order came, another officer, a different direction, “Up! Get to the ridge! Climb! Let’s go! Rebs are way up the hill, pulling back!”
Bauer knew Willis’s voice, couldn’t ignore that, had to see, to know what Willis was telling them to do, had to see himself if the rebels had truly gone. He removed his hat, healthy precaution, jabbed his head up a few inches, a quick scan of the ground toward the ridge, saw a handful of bodies, wounded men, others not moving at all, not all of them in blue. He felt a hard grab on his back, surprising, terrifying, heard the words yelled into his ear.
“Get up! Move to the hill! Get up! Find cover!”
It was Willis.
He watched Willis slide past him, grabbing at the men, the shouts continuing, the heavy impact of his voice pulling the men together, muskets drawn up, men preparing to move. The men closest to Bauer were from the 15th, strangers, but Willis affected them as well, a voice of authority everyone seemed to need. Bauer watched him, saw Willis pull his pistol, standing upright in the trench, pointing out toward the hill. He was gone now, a quick climbing leap upward, still shouting, and Bauer rose up, saw Willis running hard, falling now against the slope, heavy brush above him. Others followed, climbing up, some hesitating, others bursting up and away, faster now, more of the men understanding that this cover was no cover at all. Bauer gripped the musket hard, couldn’t watch Willis in the open, wouldn’t see what might happen. But the air ruptured close overhead, the shell blowing straight into the logs, a shattering blast that tore a wide opening, the ground behind him suddenly open, clear. He rolled over, stared that way, back, ignored the wounded, looked out toward small stands of trees, the slight rolling ground, the trampled grass from the feet of a thousand regulars, the men who had taken the enemy’s works, and now suffered for it. He felt the quivering in his chest, the ice in his fingers, searing heat on his face, a fire to one side, the logs starting to burn. He didn’t move, kept his eyes on the open ground, felt suffocated by the raw terror pouring from his brain, no thoughts but one. Run!
He started to move that way, back, out of the earthworks, the convenient hole blown in the logs, saw the tree line far out in the plain, safety, sanctuary. He heard more shouts, a high-pitched yell, saw men down the trench from him rising up, climbing, pawing their way out through the embankments, some crawling, then up, running. But they were moving forward, obeying Willis and their own officers, scrambling out toward the steep slop
e, toward the fire from the enemy. Bauer tried to move, his legs frozen, icy paralysis, his eyes still caught by the ground behind him, farther from the shelling. He fought against the terror in his brain, struggling to move, cursing against his own fears, the word rolling into him now, a voice in his brain, a voice from every fight, the worst curse of all, one part of him turning inward, the single word drilling into him. Coward.
The tears came now, his fingers cramped around the musket, the hard breathing, his heart racing. He watched more of the men crawl up, gone, the trench still holding men who hesitated, who sat frozen as he was, consumed by the fear, the awful terror. He heard orders again, shouts from an officer, saw Captain Haymond, the battalion commander, out behind the logs, trying to rally the men who stayed behind. Bauer curled his knees up tightly again, sobbing now, but the ice broke free in his brain, and he thought of Willis, had a sudden vision, clarity, knew that Willis would die, that Bauer would never see him again. But Willis was out there, had gone … where? I can’t let him know, I can’t let him ever see this. Coward.
He rolled over again, on his knees, pushed the hat down hard on his head, moved the musket out on the dirt, pulled himself up. The flat ground was littered with bodies, bloody stains, torn pieces of men ripped by canister. He climbed up, stood for a long second, the musket balls zipping past, more blasts from artillery coming down behind the trench line. He saw the men in motion now, spots of blue, some pausing, hugging the ground on the hillside, then crawling upward, some of those men running uphill, hunched over, making their way along paths, shoving through brush. He searched for Willis, but there were too many, and he saw now, all across the ridge, out to the left, as far as he could see, a half mile, men doing the same, swarms of blue ants, all of them moving up the hill. He gripped the musket to his chest, looked up toward the top of the ridge, hundreds of feet, the smoke blowing out in a dirty cloud. The artillery was firing steadily, the blasts still aimed downward, sideways, along the hill, the gunners sweeping men away, men too slow to find cover. Bauer stared at that for a long second, heard a musket ball sing past his ear, another, impacting at his feet. He took a deep breath, fought through the paralysis, no thoughts of the ground out behind him, of leaving these men. He moved one leg, then the other, the slope so far away, two hundred endless yards, dirt thrown up, another whistle past him, musket fire from above, and he saw the backs of men, all of them climbing, pushing up into rocks and thickets and he began to run.
