Tear In Time

by Petersen, Christopher David

  Glancing nervously over at David, a young private noticed the unusual sight of a superior officer loading a rifle and taking aim upon the enemy. Feeling the private’s eyes boring through him, David turned and looked directly into his eyes.

  “What?” David said abruptly, feeling a bit insecure about the stare from this young stranger.

  “Sir?” The young private answered, startled by David’s question.

  “What are you staring at me for?” David responded.

  “Well, sir, I ain’t never seen a lieutenant firing next to me, is all,” the private answered nervously.

  David smiled slightly and replied, “If you see me doing something wrong, let me know, ok?”

  “Sir?” the private replied in confusion.

  David was about to respond when he caught the sight of the enemy out of the corner of his eye. He turned and quickly took aim at the flood of gray-coated men pouring from the tree line into the open field. Charging into the field, the wounded Union soldiers created a barrier that the enemy now needed to negotiate. Leaping over the wounded, the Confederate soldiers’ progress slowed, as they tripped and stumbled through the men laying in agony.

  David immediately recognized the situation as an opportunity to fire on nearly stationary targets.

  “Fire! Shoot 'em now,” David called out frantically.

  The order to fire barely left David’s lips. Just as he pulled his own trigger, he heard the deafening sound of a hundred rifles discharging in unison. In the distance, he watched as the man he took aim upon dropped to his knees. David had killed his first man in battle. Another time, he might have been consumed by emotion over the taking of another's life, but this was war and he had little time to reload, let alone ponder the impact of the event.

  Quickly, with his weapon reloaded, he took careful aim as Confederates replaced the ones that had fallen. Again he pulled the trigger and hit his mark. All down the line, his fellow soldiers were doing the same with deadly accuracy and efficiency. In seconds, hundreds of Confederate soldiers fell in battle as they emptied into the open field, adding to the already mounting human barrier of death and suffering.

  The sweltering heat under the midday sun produced torrents of sweat that hampered the reloading of the soldiers’ weapons. David wiped his hands on his sweat-soaked pants and continued to reload, powder first, wadding and ball next, then percussion cap. He hauled the heavy fifteen pound rifle up upon the rocks in front of him, took quick aim, and pulled the trigger. Through the heavy cloud of smoke that discharged out the end of the barrel, David watched as the mini-ball hit its mark at the far end of the field.

  Further down the line, the stronger, more able-bodied men reloaded and fired at an incredible five shots per minute. The wounded men that were hauled to the skirmish line, bleeding and in pain, fired at a much lesser rate, some only able to discharge their weapon once every minute: but fire they did.

  As the Union fired upon the Confederates, the Confederates returned their fire from inside the trees. Their hail of bullets concentrated on the Union skirmish line that lay exposed and vulnerable. Within minutes, a hundred Union men lay decimated, easily picked off by the Confederate sharpshooters.

  The sudden advantage gained by this action produced irrational euphoria in the Confederates, and they raced from behind the trees and into the open field, charging down the sights of their opponents’ rifles. Like lemmings to a cliff, others followed behind the leaders. Moments later, all Union rifles concentrated on the suicidal Confederate advance. Under a heavy blanket of lead, the Union line crushed the advance, reducing the once formidable column of fighters to a mound of bleeding flesh and shattered bone.

  As David reloaded and fired, he heard the wind rush by his head. Looking at the trees, he realized that there were no winds at all. It was dead calm. Suddenly it became clear. The wind he was hearing were the bullets passing nearby. A shiver ran down his spine as he began to understand just how close he was to being struck by the deadly nuggets of lead. Fear paralyzed him momentarily as he hid behind the safety of the breastworks.

  Without warning, David heard a bullet hit a rock next to him. Startled, he instinctively moved away from the sound and abruptly slammed into the rocks to his right, sending intense pain through his arm and neck. Somewhere, deep inside, anger replaced his fear. He angrily placed the barrel of the rifle on the pile of rocks in front of him, barely taking the time to aim and pulled the trigger. Far in the distance, a charging man in gray stumbled and fell. David pushed the scene from mind and reloaded.

  As more soldiers stepped out into the open field and took the place of their fallen comrades, others stayed behind and fired from the safety of the trees, not out of cowardice, but to lay down covering fire for the next assault. Underestimating the strength of the Union position, the next volley of Union fire proved too formidable for even the bravest Confederate soldier. Within minutes, the next company of soldiers lay dead, barely crossing the first half of the field. Time and again the process repeated itself, with the same deadly results.

  There were moments when coincidence in reloading created lulls in the Union firing. It was at these times that the Confederates launched their most dangerous assaults. After successfully repelling the Confederate attacks, David recognized the value of sustained firing and quickly called orders to stagger the sequence of reloading. He quickly reorganized the men in his close proximity, separating them into five groups, every group containing ten men. Each group reloaded together and fired together. The various stages of reloading was staggered along the five groups of men so that as group one fired, group two had just finished reloading and was now ready to fire. As group two fired, group three had just finished reloading and was now ready to fire. The effect was an organized volley of lead that appeared continuous and intimidating.

  Confederate command, looking for weakness in the Union lines, avoided David's section and concentrated on more vulnerable positions for attack. As other lieutenants observed David’s successful strategy, they too tried to adopt the organized firing as best they could. Soon, the continuous and rapid discharging of weapons from various sections of the skirmish line eliminated any lull in the Union firing.

  Both camps traded blows that ebbed and flowed in success, but neither was able to rout the other. The superior fighting force of the Confederates may have outnumbered the Union brigade, but the Union brigade held a superior position, making any gain for the Confederates nearly impossible. After two hours of fighting, quiet swept over the open field.

  With the penalty for chasing a fleeing foe so high, Confederate commanders gave the order to abort their pursuit. As quickly as they had appeared, the Confederate forces disappeared into the forest. The battle for Cedar Mountain was over, and the south emerged victorious. There would be little to gain by capturing the remnants of a broken and disheveled Union brigade, yet any further loss of Confederate men and morale would have lingered as an insult to their own victory. They pulled back to the safety of their general masses and joyfully celebrated, while the Union men gathered the remains of the wounded and quietly retreated, sad and, for the moment, defeated.

  David stood for a moment and looked at the faces around him. A sense of relief spread through the line as the last shot became a memory. He watched the men slowly stand and mull around as if in shock, then quickly regain their senses as they rushed to tend to their fallen brothers. Standing with the rifle in his hands, graphic images of the battle flooded his mind. He began to feel nausea, and his body started to shake uncontrollably. As a doctor, he recognized the signs of sensory overload, and quickly reached for his canteen, but only too late. David dropped to his knees and violently vomited on the ground just inches from where he fought.

  “First time, sir?” came a voice above him.

  David glanced up and squinted in the sunshine that silhouetted the man standing in front of him. He wiped his mouth, then shielded his eyes with his still shaking hand. He noticed a toothy smile, then the private’s
insignia on his sweat-soaked uniform.

  “Is this your first time a fight'n, sir?” the private pressed further, in a sympathetic tone.

  David use his rifle to stand, but the private immediately grabbed him under the arm and helped him to his feet. He then, almost instinctively, came to attention in front of David.

  “Thanks. Guess I'm not quite used to all this yet,” David replied, still a bit wobbly.

  “No, sir,” the young private answered. “Would you like a drink of my water, sir?”

  “Yes, thank you,” David said, accepting the canteen more from etiquette than out of necessity. He took a drink, then said, “Wow, that was unbelievable. The noise, the smoke, the friggin' bullets. I had a bullet ricochet off a rock right next to my head,” he said, pointing to the scar on the rock, then handed the canteen back to the young man.

  “Yes sir,” replied the private respectfully. “Sir, are you ok? You ain’t shot or nothing are you?”

  “No, not that I know of,” David replied, looking himself over for a moment.

  “Sir, is that your blood?” the private asked.

  “What blood?” David asked, a bit confused.

  “Lieutenant, your neck is bleedin',” replied the private, pointing to David's neck on the left.

  David rubbed his neck a little, then winced. He drew his hand down and looked at his bloody fingers.

  “What the hell?” he exclaimed in shock.

  He brought his fingers back up to his neck and touched the sore area lightly, trying to gauge the severity of the wound by feel. Realizing he'd been shot, his knees buckled underneath him. As the young private helped him to the ground, David's mind began to race. He knew by the feel of the wound that he wasn't wounded badly: in fact, the wound felt more like an abrasion than anything else. Drawing on his years of training, he forced himself to think rationally and stay in control. He looked up at the young private and forced a smile.

  “Sorry for the overreaction. I know this sounds clichéd but I think it's only a scratch,” David said with an embarrassed smile.

  “Yes, sir, a scratch,” the young private replied, not understanding the 20th Century cliché.

  David stood and poured some water over the wound from his canteen, then said, “That bullet must have ricocheted off the rock and hit my neck. Man, was I ever lucky.”

  The young private replied energetically, “Yes, sir. You surely were lucky.”

  “Not as lucky as some, though,” David replied, looking down the skirmish line. “We'd better attend to the wounded. Have you seen Dr. Morgan?” he asked.

  “No, sir, but I reckon he's tending the wounded fellers way back yonder,” the young private suggested, pointing back behind the farmhouse. “I saw him helpin' the others just before we got to fightin’.”

  “I better go find him. I'm sure he's going to need my help,” David said, trying to force a more confident posture through his anxiety.

  “Yes sir,” the young Private replied in simplicity. “Should I tag along juss' in case, sir?” the young Private continued.

  “No, private. I think these boys need your help. Why don't you try to find your sergeant and lend him a hand, ok?” David asked.

  “Yes sir,” the young private replied politely.

  With a quick nod of his head in respect, the private turned and hurried down the now fragmented and dismantled skirmish line.

  David turned and hurried up the dirt road that led away from the old farmhouse. Passing soldier after soldier in retreat, the saddened looks on their faces fueled the flames of David's despair. Limited rations, restless sleep, and now violent combat left David's mental state on the edge of collapse.

  As he walked, he reflected on happier memories before his time travel. He thought about his family and friends and the happiest moments spent with them, and although their faces were now becoming increasingly more difficult to visualize, his emotional connection with them was growing stronger. He missed them terribly, and the pain of it left a lump in his throat.

  Restraining his tears, he was immediately distracted by the screams of a wounded soldier who was being roughly handled in their haste to retreat. The piercing cries of pain sent shivers down David's spine. He could see the desperation in the poor wounded man's face, and sadness and guilt on his two friends as every move they made sent him further into agony. David could stand the sight no longer. He quickened his pace and focused on the road in front of him, blocking out the carnage as he hurried on by.

  David forced himself to think of the laughs he had with his colleagues at the hospital, and the happier vacations he spent in the Florida Keys. He tried to remember anything that would lift his saddened spirit. In spite of his best efforts, his mental state continued its further decline. From his hot, sticky blue uniform that chafed with every move, to the dusty road, ugly from human wreckage, as well as his constant nagging hunger and thirst, all were too powerful for David to overcome. All at once, a broken dam of emotions flooded David’s senses, overloading his mind, sending him into an irrational and disoriented state. He could take no more. He wanted to escape. He needed to escape. David began to run as tears of sadness streamed down his face, their salty taste inciting further despair.

  Just up ahead, the road split off into a smaller road that hugged the open farmland. Too small to carry the whole of the Union’s Gen. Negley's men, it remained unused and deserted. As he ran, David ignored the strange stares of the men and quickly turned off onto the deserted road. Running as fast as he could, his lungs began to scream for relief as they were being pushed to their limit of endurance. He could feel sweat pouring down from under his hat and his feet pained as they tried to carry the load of David’s heavy frame, unsupported in the old leather boots.

  Running, isolated and alone, David openly cried out loud, his emotions flowing unabated. Months of desperation and hopelessness he had buried inside him were now the life blood that flowed through him. David was now consumed by his despair.

  Behind him, as he ran, David began to hear the sound of hooves. The sound grew louder by the moment. Looking over his shoulder, David saw the familiar white bearded face of Dr. Morgan, determined and focused as he clutched the reins of his horse. Hunched forward in the saddle and kicking his horse’s underbelly with his stirrups, he road purposefully, quickly closing in on David's location.

  Irrational and out of control, David tried to quicken his pace, but physically he had reached his limit of endurance. With his lungs feeling like they were ready to burst, he slowed his pace to a jog. Out of breath and exhausted, David heard the sound of the trotting horse pull up beside him.

  “Son, it's ok. I'm here to help you,” Dr. Morgan called out to David in compassionate tone.

  With his mind racing, David searched for a reply, but could think of none.

  Once again, Dr. Morgan spoke, “David, please, stop. Where are you heading?”

  “I don't know,” David shouted out through labored breathing. “I just can't take it anymore.”

  Dr. Morgan sped up in front of David, then leaped off his horse. As David jogged by, Dr. Morgan jogged beside him.

  “Son, I'm no spring chicken. Would you mind slowing down so we could talk at a rested pace?” Dr. Morgan asked.

  Out of breath, David could jog no further. He honored Dr. Morgan's request and slowed to a walk. Together, the two walked in silence, both collecting their thoughts. With his old friend beside him, David began to regain control of his senses.

  Clearing his throat, Dr. Morgan began, “Son, the intensities of war are something that one never grows accustomed to. It is unnatural and demoralizing as we watch our brothers lay dying in agony. I have no words of comfort other than to say to you that we fight for a noble cause, and this cause, in the end, helps to heal our tortured soul. I have fought in many conflicts and have yet to emerge for one unscathed, yet if asked if I would suffer again the same battle, the same scars, my answer would be a resounding yes, because I know that without my efforts our noble cau
se would succumb to the tyranny of evil men. As difficult as the task might be, we must endeavor to pursue the righteous path.”

  Dr. Morgan paused for a moment, allowing David a chance to digest the depth of his message. As David's facial expression softened a bit, the old sage continued on, “Son, my father was also a physician. He once attended to a man on his deathbed. This man had obtained notoriety for his courage in battle, and before he succumbed to pneumonia, my father complimented him on this very quality – courage, that is. The profound and humble reply of this man should serve as guide for all humanity.”

  As the two negotiated the irregularities in the dirt road, Dr. Morgan continued to speak. “My father commented to the dying gentleman, 'You are the bravest man I have ever met,' and to this the gentleman replied, 'Sir, I am but a common farmer, vulnerable to cowardice like any other. If it were not for my duty, I would surely have given in to weakness and repaired to the safety of my beloved Virginia. Alas, when tragedy was upon me and all seemed lost, I focused on my sense of duty at these darkest moments. It is there that I found the strength that kept me on the righteous path.'”