Heart Of A Soldier

by Josh Isaacs

  Eleven Ante Meridiem

  The blinding light of the sun, the green of the grass that waved back-and-forth into his field of view, the billowing clouds floating across the bright blue sky—his bright blue sky. If he was to die here, at least he could claim the little that he could see; the blue of the sky, the white of the clouds, the yellow of the sun. These were his. For now. For a short while. Until the end.

  He was able to see these things. And smile. For the last time, perhaps, but he could smile. He could be thankful for these seemingly meaningless signs, but to him they were hope. Hope of light. Hope of comfort. Hope of escape. Hope of life. Not life that he'd known for twenty-three years, but life he'd come to know for much longer. Life away from this death.

  He remembered the times he spent with his best friend, and he was thankful.

  He remembered the endless games of tag with his sister, and he was thankful.

  He remembered his parents' love, and he was thankful.

  An epiphany occurred to him when he claimed what he could see; his life was not his own anymore than the sky was truly his. He couldn't lay claim to what was not his. He couldn't say 'this is unfair' when his very life, no matter how short, was a gift, just as the sun, the clouds, the grass and the sky were. All gifts he'd not asked for, but had been given to him and to everyone else at the expense of so much more. In this time of grief, sorrow, anger and all kinds of emotional and physical pain, he was able to find gratitude inside himself.

  How he'd been shot in the back still escaped him. How he had been drawn into the battle also refused to let itself be known. He didn't care anymore. He didn't care. All he cared about was that he'd served, though unsuccessfully in his terms, he was able to look beyond that point. He had served as well as he could, and that's what mattered to him right now. His weakness was ever-increasing, and he didn't know how he could become weaker than he was in his current state. Still, the weakness escalated.

  The longer he lay there, the less he was regretful of his situation. He was becoming grateful that he were dying in such a manner, for it gave him the opportunity to reflect on his life. If he had been wounded in such a way as to offer a quick, sudden, painless death, he'd have not come to have known the true glory that there was to find in his past. For that, again, he was grateful.

  He was finally able to accept the fact he was dying. He was able to look beyond death and find comfort. Throughout his entire life, he'd often found himself paying excessive attention to what would happen when he died. He'd spent hours lying awake at night, dreading the fact that he would someday die and his existence here would end; what all that entailed had been unknown to him, as it still was. He'd always imagined himself growing old with a spouse and fathering several children, something that would not happen. Countless hours, months' worth of time, he'd obsessed over the idea of an 'end'--consciousness, existence, knowledge, everything he perceived. . . Gone.

  'What would it be like?' he had wondered. He tried remembering the time before his birth as a reference, but it simply 'was not'. There was, to his perception, nothing. After the end, he wondered if there would be something to continue, a part of him to live on in some manner. There was a start to existence, so there would be an end. But like time, if there was a time before it, and a time after it, then the absence created a sort of eternity in which there was nothing and another in which there was everything. His life, he'd compared to his hypothesis but he couldn't know for sure until it came. When it did, he didn't know if he'd be able to know.

  Now the world faded from him, and he knew it would be the last time. . .

  But he didn't care. . .

  Six Ante Meridiem

  His eyes opened. Sweat drenched his face and his clothes. A white canvas stretched out before him. He didn't know if he'd been found or if this was what happened after death. He reached around his back effortlessly, without pain or struggle or fatigue.

  He smiled as he realized he'd awakened from a dream; a nightmare. The worst he'd had. It explained why he didn't know how he'd been shot in his back, or how he'd gotten onto the battlefield. Tears, this time of joy, dripped down his face. He ran to Jeremy who, against all odds, he'd not only met again but was now serving alongside in the same regiment. Odds always have a way of being beaten. He told Jeremy about everything he'd gone through in the dream, and all he'd learned from it.

  The dream had felt too real to him, so waking had been that much more of a release. He'd no longer lie, paralytic on the ground, absolutely helpless in every way.

  Not long after waking, the trumpet sounded. Battle was nigh. They formed ranks, marched onto the foggy field. He was in the third battalion's second company for this battle, one that would last for days. Jeremy had been assigned to the first company of the same battalion.

  Shots rang out all at once. A paused followed. Another simultaneous blast of musket-fire. Another pause. Lucas didn't know if it had been one minute or one hour, but it felt like forever. He clenched his musket as the colonel ordered the next company to advance to the front line. As they marched forward, several men fell, reaching and crying out to the others walking past, ignoring their dying comrades. Lucas' stomach tightened as he forced himself, as he was trained, to ignore those falling around him and had already fallen before. The first line knelt in unison and fired in the pause between the hail of lead from the enemy. They stood again, took a couple more steps and knelt as the line behind them fired from a standing position, the blasts so close to the ears of those in the first line, which included Lucas, was temporarily deafening. The ringing was louder than the blast of his own musket being fired.

  Once they reached the optimum distance, the advance halted and they continued to fire from their positions. This continued several times; it felt like a thousand to Lucas. Emphasizing his mortality was that the men on either side of him had fallen. One died immediately, the other cried out to him, loud enough to be heard over the ringing in his ears.

  He looked at the row of corpses and what would soon be corpses in front of him, the soldiers from the first line that had been felled. Among them, he saw Jeremy. He clenched his eyes shut and began repeating to himself, “No. No. No.”

  He opened his eyes and saw him struggling to claw his way towards the encampment. Without thought, he lunged and ran the couple dozen feet forward, grabbed Jeremy's hand and began dragging him towards their allies. He was counting the yards in rough estimates until they would be safe.

  Thirty yards. Doubt consumed him. He was certain he'd not be able to return to safety. If he did, he'd be reprimanded if not face a court-martial.

  Twenty-five yards. He was closing, though doubt still plagued him.

  Twenty yards. He was going to make it. He was close. Fifteen more steps and they'd be safe. Hope overwhelmed him. Hope that he wouldn't have believed he could have had just seconds ago.

  Before he counted to fifteen, he tripped, falling face first to the ground.

  He reached his hand around his back to feel the wound. His finger entered the wound to the first knuckle as he winced in anticipation of the pain, but the pain didn't come.

  Shrieks of fear escaped from his mouth, filling the air with an ear-piercing pitch. Twenty-three year old Lucas Burkette lie paralyzed on the battlefield, with a half-inch minié ball lodged against his spine.

  How he'd been shot in the back was now painfully clear to him. . .

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