Jeff Shaara - The Last Full Measure

by The Last Full Measure(Lit)

  "There were men going down, the line was weakening. I sent him in, ordered him to fill a gap in the line. Didn't even think about it... until later. If something had happened to him-"

  "You won the fight." The old man did not look at him, and Chamberlain wanted to say more, to explain.

  "I'm sorry... it would have been hard to tell you that, if he had-"

  "You won the fight." The old man looked at him now, a sharp hard stare.

  "You did what officers are supposed to do. You would have learned that at the Point."

  Chamberlain sagged. He'd heard this before. That he had not gone to West Point, but stayed in Maine to finish his schooling, was something his father had never understood, had never seen the value in. Even when he was young Chamberlain had heard this, great stories of his ancestors. His father believed the military was the only way a man could measure himself, could find the respect, something to carry with you all your life. They did not argue; his father's disappointment was subtle, quiet. But Chamberlain had always known it was there, and after his graduation, when the first teaching appointments came, when Chamberlain accepted the position at Bowdoin, there was little pride from his father.

  His mother had dreamed of the glorious day her oldest son would serve God, seek the ministry, and she still hoped. But his father never spoke of that, the ministry would not bring honor to the family, no matter how devoutly his wife disagreed. When Chamberlain had volunteered for the army, there had been few words between them, but he could feel the quiet attention, that his father was suddenly interested.

  By now the people had learned of Gettysburg. Word had spread all over Maine, through letters and newspaper stories, that Chamberlain had done something truly extraordinary. Fannie had written him that his father had begun to take long walks through Brewer, even went across the river, to Brunswick, the town he never cared to visit, because now he could talk of his boy the soldier, and the people would come to him to hear all they could of this man's son, the hero of Little Round Top.

  The old man stared out again across the yard, said, "This Meade fellow... you expect he's ready to wrap this up?"

  "General Meade is a good commander. He's finding his way, learning what his army can do. He'll be fine."

  "Damned well better be. Gone on long enough. Lee's given all he's got. Time to finish the job."

  Chamberlain said nothing, but thought, Lee is not whipped, not yet.

  The old man glanced at Chamberlain's shoulder strap, the silver eagle.

  "Full colonel. What do you hafta do to be a general?"

  Chamberlain smiled, said, "Not sure... it would take a few more good fights, I suppose."

  The old man said nothing, and Chamberlain watched him, waited. After a minute the old man turned, looked past him toward the front door, moved that way, said, "I better check on those youngsters...." He moved past Chamberlain, then stopped, and Chamberlain waited, felt the old man struggling silently. The old man stared down at the floor, then reached out his hand, touched Chamberlain's arm, still did not look at him, but wrapped his hard fingers around the blue cloth, a tight sharp squeeze. He held it for a brief moment, then moved away, to the door and into the house.

  Chamberlain still felt his father's grasp, smiled, felt something move inside of him, knew it was the first time; that if the words were not there, if the old man did not know how to tell him, Chamberlain knew now the barriers were behind them, that finally he had made his father proud.

  3. CHAMBERLAIN

  AUGUST 1863

  E WOUND HIS WAY AMONG THE CAMPSITES, PAST GROWING fires, the end of a peaceful day, the men relaxing from a slow, easy march. The smells were drifting by him, coffee and bacon, and he felt a rush, the excitement. He was back with the army, back in northern Virginia.

  The return trip had not been too rough, but he felt the weariness, a dull throb in his head. As he moved through the camps, he already felt stronger, the remnants of the illness fading away. Officers noticed him as he passed their units, men Chamberlain had never seen. Some spoke to him, nods, casual greetings. The soldiers ignored him, it was their own private time, and unfamiliar officers did not attract attention. The daylight was nearly gone, but he could see the red Maltese cross in the distance, the flags of the Fifth Corps, and then the flag of the First Division. Near the flag were the larger headquarters tents, and he saw many officers now, sitting in a circle, some standing behind. There was laughter, a brief glimpse, the passing of a bottle. Beyond the big tents he saw the brigade colors, saw finally the Third, moved that way. Now some men began to call out, he was recognized, and he saw a few familiar faces, the cordial greetings, then heard a voice behind him.

  "Colonel Chamberlain..."

  He turned, saw a tall man, lanky, long strides, moving from the cluster of officers, and he stood straight, saluted.

  "General Griffin. I have returned, Sir. I was going to report as soon as I found my men, Sir."

  Griffin returned the salute, briefly patted Chamberlain on the shoulder.

  "No matter, Colonel, no urgency. Might I walk with you?"

  It was an unusual request, generals walked wherever they pleased.

  "Certainly, Sir. I was headed toward the Third Brigade over that way, unless you want to go... elsewhere." He felt awkward, self-conscious, waited for Griffin to move, fell into step beside him.

  "Colonel, I don't believe we've spent much time together. Not since Gettysburg. The men... my staff tells me they hear your name every day."

  "Thank you, Sir."

  "You back for duty? You... fit?

  "Oh yes, Sir. It was a touch of malaria." He made a face. Don't explain, he thought. Never give the generals a reason to doubt you. He looked toward the flags, began to move a bit faster. Where was the regiment? He was beginning to feel the familiar rumble in his gut, thought, Generals do that, they make you think too much.

  Griffin stayed close to him, and men were now standing as they moved past. There were salutes from low-ranking officers, a few voices. Griffin was not often among the men, was rarely sociable, except around his staff and other officers of high rank. Chamberlain had first met him at Fredericksburg, after the long and horrible night on the cold ground, the night spent close to the enemy. Chamberlain would always recall that meeting, Griffin holding out his hand to him, a ragged, exhausted man who had slept behind the cover of the bodies of his own men. Griffin had simply told him, "Good work."

  Chamberlain had not understood that, had not thought there was any good work in that horrible assault, the pure stupidity of marching up against the stone wall, straight into the massed fire of Lee's strength. It had been his first real fight, leading his men forward into the smoke, the first time he heard the screams and the sickening sound of the lead ball cracking the skull of the man beside you. All of that was a fog, a cold blur. He did not try to remember, did not pick out the details. But he did remember Griffin, and his words.

  Chamberlain had always heard that Charles Griffin was not anyone's friend, but a man of great temper, quick to bring down his wrath on the man, private or colonel, who did not do his job. And Griffin demanded more than a good job. Chamberlain did not mind that, had been taught and trained by another manic disciplinarian, Adelbert Ames, knew that no matter how much the men grumbled, the low curses behind the commander's back, the training would save their lives. The men knew it too, were veterans now, had marched into the deafening roar of the fire, felt the lightning flash of fear, that small edge of panic, and they understood that it was that cursed discipline, inside each of them now, that kept the panic away.

  1 Chamberlain saw his own regimental colors, changed course slightly, pointed.

  "The Twentieth Maine... my unit."

  They walked closer to the fires, and now more men rose, and the salutes gave way to shouts, the men gathering, emerging from tents, all moving toward Chamberlain. Chamberlain smiled at the familiar faces, then saw Tom.

  The young man jumped up, ran forward.

  "Law
rence... Colonel, You're back!" Tom moved close, put his hands on Chamberlain's arms, a wide boyish grin on his face. "We been waiting for you... we knew we weren't going nowhere till you got back!"

  Chamberlain had shut off his own smile, stared at his brother with a silent scolding, motioned with his eyes toward Griffin and said stiffly, "Lieutenant Chamberlain, thank you. General Griffin, this is Lieutenant Tom Chamberlain... my brother, Sir."

  Tom's smile vanished and his mouth opened as he looked at Griffin with wide startled eyes. He remembered to salute now, stepped back, snapped his arm in place.

  "Sir!" Griffin returned the salute, did not focus on Tom, said aloud, to the gathering crowd, "Gentlemen, I share your enthusiasm for the return of your colonel. And I am sure he is equally anxious to see you. However, if you will excuse us, we have a matter to discuss. He won't be long."

  There were small murmurs from the men, quiet questions. They rarely saw the division commander, knew something was up. Even the officers traded glances. Chamberlain looked at Griffin, surprised, and suddenly nervous, said, "Certainly, General. Always at your disposal, Sir.

  Griffin turned, moved away from the light of the fires, and Chamberlain followed. They moved down a long hill, a clearing between short pines. Griffin stopped, stared out into the darkening woods.

  "Did you hear about Colonel Rice?"

  Chamberlain had a sudden dark dread; his stomach turned. Jim Rice had replaced Strong Vincent as brigade commander, Chamberlain's immediate superior. Vincent was a popular commander and a very good soldier, the man who had seen the value of the ground and so placed the Twentieth Maine on Little Round Top. Vincent had been badly wounded on that same day, and died a few days later, and it had deeply affected the men. Chamberlain thought, What has happened now, to Rice?

  "Is he... all right? " Griffin heard the hesitation, looked at Chamberlain, laughed.

  "Oh, yes, Colonel, he's quite all right. He's been promoted to brigadier general, they moved him to the First Corps."

  Chamberlain let out a breath.

  "Thank God. That's wonderful... well deserved."

  "Well deserved." Griffin shook his head.

  "The ways of the army... promote a man after you arrest him."

  Chamberlain was confused, did not know what Griffin was talking about.

  "Sir... I had not heard..."

  "Right, you were on leave. When we were on the march chasing after Lee, Rice allowed his men to make camp bedding from a farmer's haystack, let them sleep above the mud instead of in it. Probably saved half the brigade from drowning. But the corps heard about it, some staff officer dusted off the regulations, and General Sykes had him arrested... 'molesting private property. I )) Griffin put his foot up on a stump, leaned on his knee, stared out into the trees.

  "It got straightened out pretty quick. Somebody at Meade's headquarters heard about it, knew the newspapers would have a carnival. We let Lee escape, so we make up for it by arresting our best officers."

  Chamberlain stood, watched Griffin, the nervousness now replaced by something else-curiosity.

  "Well, Sir... General Rice will surely make us proud." He felt awkward again, did not enjoy formal small talk.

  Griffin said, "There's quite a few fellows who think they're the one to fill his vacancy, some of 'em deserving. Tough choice. I picked you." Chamberlain stared, waited for more. Griffin turned toward him, said, "You, Colonel. I want you to command the Third Brigade."

  Chamberlain smiled, tried to suppress it but could not, looked away, embarrassed.

  Griffin did not seem to notice, said, "It's not permanent, there's no promotion in rank, not yet. I did send in my recommendation. That's an issue for Washington. Doesn't really matter anyway. You might run into a bit of resistance from your regimental commanders. Some of them been around a bit longer than you. I've made it clear... they do understand who's in command. It's your brigade, Colonel."

  Chamberlain saluted, still smiled.

  "Thank you, Sir!" Griffin was not smiling, returned the salute.

  "You earned it, Colonel. We still have a job to do, and we need the best men to do it." Griffin looked up the hill, began to move away, glanced back at Chamberlain.

  "You need to pick a successor to take over the regiment. Make a recommendation pretty quick. You know your men. We'll go with anybody you say, most likely. Enjoy your evening, Colonel."

  Griffin climbed the rise, and Chamberlain watched him crest the hill but did not follow. He felt like laughing, remembered a year ago, standing in front of the governor, hearing the words "lieutenant colonel," the same feeling, like a small boy receiving a great Christmas present. Now he was to lead the brigade, the whole brigade. He thought of the men, above him on the hill, the men from Maine. I will have to tell them... something, he thought. He felt a sudden dread, choosing someone else to command them. Who? How would the men respond? It should be someone from within the regiment, of course. But he could not focus, the names did not come, it was too soon. He began to climb the hill, moved in long quick steps back to the fires, to the wonderful smells of the food.

  INCE THE LOSSES AT GETTYSBURG, WASHINGTON HAD MADE great efforts to rebuild the army, and reinforcements were coming in daily. But not all the new troops were men eager for a fight. With the draft now in full force, many of these recruits were men who had avoided the first calls for volunteers; some had even been a part of the violence, the draft riots. But now they faced the reality that they would serve whether they wanted to or not. Others were substitutes, id to take the place of those who could afford to buy their way men pal out of the process. Often these men were motivated only by the gold they received, and when they first experienced the constraints of discipline, or the first brush with the horror of what a fight with the rebels might bring, many simply disappeared. To the fighting units who had won the great glory and honor on the field, these new numbers added S little, except for new problems, problems this army did not need. Meade and his commanders could not afford to be tolerant of this threat to the morale of the men who were still willing to carry the fight, and so, when deserters were caught, the punishment was swift and certain.

  E STOOD IN A LINE, SURROUNDED BY THE ENTIRE FIFTH CORPS. They were lined up by division across a wide field, the men facing each other on three sides of a square. On the fourth side, the open end, he could see the short row of freshly dug graves, and beside each one a simple wooden coffin. Once the troops had completed the formation, the drums began, a slow steady roll, and finally there was motion, across the field. He could see the prisoners being brought forward, the men moving in slow, jerking motions, held to small steps by the chains around their legs. Now each man was placed into position, standing beside his own grave, and then they were sat down, each on the front of his own coffin.

  Around Chamberlain, men began to make small sounds, nervous, faces turning away, some looking down. Chamberlain did not turn away, stared at the five men, felt a low hot sickness in his gut.

  Suddenly the drums were silent, and for a small moment there was no other sound. Now an officer began to read something, the orders, words Chamberlain could not hear. The man finished his duty, moved away, another officer shouted some thin7 and from one side a 93 row of riflemen stepped sharply into position. The officer shouted again, and Chamberlain could hear the metallic sound, the guns snapped to the chests. Then he heard the single word, the hard voice of the officer again: "Aim!" More of the men around Chamberlain turned away now, a small groan flowing through the lines. He blinked hard, felt the sickness again, rising slowly, and he clenched his fists, said to himself, No, do not turn away. Watch this. See it.

  Now the officer raised his sword, and Chamberlain heard the word clearly, the only sound breaking through the deathly calm.

  "Fire!"

  The sound startled them all, a sharp hard rattle, and all around him men shuddered, jumped. He had jumped as well, blind reflex, but he did not turn away, could see the impact of the lead balls in the men, the punch in
their clothes, each man collapsing, falling into a grotesque heap. There was a long quiet moment, and he stared at the bodies, could see the blood now, a dark stain spreading out on the dusty ground. All around him the men began to look at the scene, the horror, and suddenly the drums began, startling them all again. There were new orders, close by, and Chamberlain focused, heard the call to march. The great example was over. A few OF THE MEN, EVEN THE VETERANS FROM THE OLD ARMY, HAD ever watched a firing squad, but today they had seen one, the shocking Spectacle of five men shot down by their own.

  Chamberlain drank a cup of coffee, poured it from reflex, did not taste the awful burn of a pot that had sat on the fire all day, left behind in the haste to fall into line. He put the cup down, looked around the camp, saw men moving Slowly, some sitting now, many just standing alone. It was late in the day, and the food would come soon, but no one spoke of it, no one gathered at the fires. He thought of Ames, of Griffin, the discipline. That was what today was about, of course. They all know that, he thought. But this was something new. Occasionally this had happened before, men were shot or hanged, usually for some hateful crime, murder, the rape of a citizen. But today men were killed because they would not fight. And it had never been made into something so... public. He thought of the pronouncement, the Official Word, read before the executions. Of course, it was official. The army, he knew, was not like any other organization, any business. If you are here, he thought, you fight for your country, and possibly die for your country, and you are not allowed to change your mind. How odd... We are fighting-some of us, anyway-for... freedom? And soldiers are not free.