by Tony Roberts
“Yes, let’s hope they silence the enemy cannon. Don’t fancy attacking the Yankee lines with those things intact.” Skivenham ducked as another enemy shell came screaming at them and exploded off to the left. A couple of grey-clad men writhed in agony and fell onto their backs, their comrades rushing to their assistance. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this one, Sergeant.”
“You and me both, Captain. I’ll see what I can do to help the boys get through it.” Case turned back, silently wondering what indeed he could do. A mass of men exposed to cannon fire would attract casualties no matter what, and there would be precious little he could do. He pulled on Munz’s sleeve. “Get the boys spread out once we move off. Have them scattered amongst the others, you understand, Corporal?”
“Sure do,” Munz nodded. “So we don’t get hit by the same shot.”
“You got it,” Case grinned, then waited as another shot came whizzing through the air, but this one landed beyond the men, on the hill the Confederate guns were shooting from. The various senior ranked officers were with their men, and it seemed General Kemper would lead the brigade himself. The banners and flags were unfurled and readied, each held by a corporal. These would be targeted for sure. Nothing hit morale more than a flag falling.
Case gritted his teeth and pulled Billy towards him. “Now listen Billy; in a few minutes we’re going to go up that slope into the nastiest hail of fire you’ll have ever witnessed. Stick next to me. No matter what happens, stay next to me, you hear?”
Billy looked as though he was going to throw up, but he nodded nonetheless. His fingers opened and closed on the Minié rifle, and his face was draining of color. Case suddenly had a picture of a small child in a cot, waving his arms in front of him as he lay there, staring up at him. My first sight of Billy, he mused, he can’t have been more’n six months old. He didn’t want that same person blown up by some damned Yankee cannon if he could help it. He clapped Billy on the shoulder and turned to look forward. At least they weren’t going to be right at the front. As ‘J’ company they would come after ‘B’, ‘D’, ‘G’, ‘H’ and ‘I’.
But still, too close to the front for his comfort. In his time he’d been on the receiving end of some nasty stuff, but the newer weapons made killing at longer ranges much more possible, so now you didn’t even have to get close to your enemy to strike. Even only a few decades back anyone over a hundred yards distant was most likely to be unscathed. Not now. Memories of Fredericksburg came back to him. Looks like it’s our turn now!
More Union shot landed amongst the men and cries of the wounded filled the air. Case twisted round but none had landed nearby. They were sitting ducks here, lying flat or crouching in the hot sun. He hoped somebody would make some decision soon. If they were going to be hit, they might as well get hit going at the enemy.
That decision was rapidly coming, for the divisional commander, George Pickett, had just received a message from the artillery commander who had spotted a number of Union guns fleeing from the barrage. Fearing the dwindling ammunition supply would not support the planned attack, he urged Pickett to move before too long. Pickett, standing next to General Longstreet, read it quickly and turned to the silent Corps commander. “Shall I advance?” Pickett was unconcerned about his personal safety, knowing what charging the enemy lines would mean, but he was committed to glory and valor and would follow whatever order Longstreet gave him.
Longstreet, on his part, hated the very idea of sending men up against prepared defenses. He much preferred to receive an attack than make one. He saw the Union positions and had protested to Lee at the planned assault, but to no avail. Longstreet turned to Pickett, a man he liked, and couldn’t bring himself to give an order he felt would cause untold damage, not only to the men of the division, but to his friend’s reputation. Pickett passed him the note and Longstreet studied it for a moment, frowning.
Silently he passed the note back and mounted up onto his horse. “Shall I lead my division forward, sir?” Pickett repeated his question, peering up at the impassive corps commander.
Longstreet’s nod was almost imperceptible, the crushing weight of the command almost too much to bear, and he wheeled away abruptly, hating having given his assent. Pickett leaped into the saddle, saluted Longstreet briefly, and galloped off to the waiting men. Case and his men had moved to a grove of trees for shelter and the regiment watched as Pickett came galloping up, his long swept back hair flying. “Oh, hell,” Case muttered to his men, “this means we’re going ahead with it.”
“Good,” Siddeley said with gusto, “teach these Yankees a damned lesson!”
Llewellyn spat into the dirt. “Any chance of drawing latrine duty now, Sarge?” A few laughed at that, but it was forced. Some of the other men of the company were mixed in with them and they edged closer to Case. In the two years they’d been fighting he had gained some sort of reputation of being a talisman, someone who couldn’t be touched, and the men thought that would spread to those around him. Case noticed it and said nothing; these poor souls would need every assistance, real or imagined, in the next few minutes.
Pickett rode in front of the men from Virginia and turned to face them; the men of Kemper’s brigade in the center, those of Brigadier General Garnett to Kemper’s left, and those of Brigadier General Armistead behind Kemper’s. Pickett filed his lungs and spoke loudly and clearly to the waiting men. “Charge the enemy and remember Old Virginia.” He turned and faced the long slope up towards Cemetery Ridge with its dug-in infantry and waiting cannons. “Forward! Guide center! March!”
And with that the men of his division began their march, silently, as per their orders, out of the woods towards the waiting enemy, Case and his men a few ranks back from the leading men.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The guns to the right and ahead opened up once they passed the Emmitsburg Road, nearly two-thirds of the way there. The Virginians hadn’t been hit too badly up to then, but now the shells and shot began falling amongst them. Case turned his head to the left and checked on Billy, walking like the rest with bayonet fixed, rifle pointed forward and up, his lips set. He looked round for the rest of his platoon, scattered as they were amongst the rest of the company. He saw Munz to the right and had seen Furlong behind him once when he had turned to check on the progress. Siddeley was beyond Munz to the right and Llewellyn level with Case’s left, about ten or twelve feet away.
A shell exploded ten feet off the ground to the front and yells of wounded came to him. Case gripped his rifle tighter and strode on, trampling the grass beneath his feet. A body lay in his path and he stepped over it, glancing briefly at the bloodied and mashed face that once had been a man. He grimaced and stole a glance at Billy but the young man was deliberately not looking. What Case found most unreal was the silence in which the men were advancing. He was used to the ‘Rebel Yell’, a high pitched scream that often un-nerved the enemy. No doubt this was to save breath, for what use was a charging man who had run out of breath?
Another shot, this time a solid ball, plowed through the ranks to the left and three men toppled, screaming in pain. One had a leg hanging off, the trouser leg saturated with blood and hanging at ninety degrees. Case gritted his teeth and began mumbling as he strode on, following the sweat-soaked back in front of him. “Jew,” he said under his breath, “you cursed me, and maybe you had cause to do so, but hear me now. I feel you owe me a favor for all the pain you’ve inflicted on me since the crucifixion. Protect that young man to my left. Keep him alive, do you hear me? Or if not, then to hell with you and be damned like I am.”
The sound of roaring cannon filled the air and grunts of pain and cries of agony came from the Rebel ranks as more and more guns poured fire into the packed ranks of the advancing men. Now the infantry opened up, too, and bullets flew into the Confederate soldiers. Case ducked involuntarily as one whined close to his head; a grunt of pain behind him made him realize it had hit someone. Still they walked on, grimly, eyes fixed ahead on the repeated
flashes of the enemy as they fired and reloaded, fired and reloaded at the Rebels.
A shell blew up to Case’s left and a man span round screaming, one arm cart-wheeling through the air. Billy staggered, blood bright red on his face and jacket. Case leaned over and grabbed the boy. “Are you hit?”
Billy shook his head and wiped the other man’s blood from his face, and Case pulled him on, glancing left and right as more men fell, some to lay still, others thrashing on the now red stained ground. He took a deep breath and strode on, stepping over one still form lying in his path. Poor bastard! he thought, and moved forward. Cannons were blasting at them continuously now, filling the air with their screaming and roaring, together with the sharper crack! of the rifles and muskets ahead. Shells exploded above and in between the marching ranks of men, cutting them down like a scythe before the wheat. Bullets tore through the air and struck their targets, sometimes more than one hitting the same unfortunate.
Case gritted his teeth. This was madness! Still the men marched on, step-step-step, while the guns blew huge gaps in them. Case suddenly recalled a recent poem that had been written in the wake of the Crimean conflict. Guns to the left of them, guns to the right of them, guns in front of them…… Case knew what that was like. Someone had remarked at the time, seeing the charge that had inspired that poem, ‘it’s magnificent, but it’s not war!’ Well, Case thought savagely, stepping over another twisted, broken and bloodied shape, this isn’t magnificent but it damned well is war!
Another shell blew up directly ahead and Case staggered, an arm across his face as the shrapnel and hot blast of air flew past. Two men in front of him sank to their knees, clutching their faces, screaming in agony. Billy ducked and uttered a long, high pitched wail of terror, staring at a man who once could be recognized but now only wore a mask of blood and gore where his face had been. The whole front line had become jammed, stopped by a combination of bullets, shells, shot and bodies.
Case pulled Billy past the nightmare sight of the dying soldier and past another corpse. “C’mon!” he urged, “don’t stand here, you’ll be a sitting target!”
“This is crazy,” Billy yelled, his eyes wild with fear, “we haven’t got a hope!”
Another man grunted as a bullet struck him and he sank to one knee, his rifle still pointing forward. Case glanced at him, recognizing him as Private Yeomans. He’d been wounded at Seven Pines over a year ago. Yeomans, a thickly bearded man with a long nose, screwed his face tight in pain. “Dammit!” he gasped, “shot in the hip!”
“Either get up and go on, or get up and go back!” Case snapped. “If you stay here you’re a dead man.”
Yeomans nodded and hauled himself up, howling in pain. Case had no more time to talk and turned his attention back to the front. Men were milling about in confusion, unable to go on into the teeth of a murderous fire. The advance had stalled and men were easy targets for the Union defenders, frantically reloading and shooting. General Kemper pushed his way past a couple of men and realized he had to do something or his men were all in danger of being shot. He waved his saber at the enemy lines, no more than one or two hundred yards distant and filed his lungs. “Men of Virginia, there are the enemy guns, go get them!”
He brandished his sword and then staggered as a bullet struck him low down. A second one smashed into his leg. As he sank to the ground Case yelled, “at ‘em, boys!”
The men around him suddenly broke into the famous Rebel Yell and it spread along the line and back to those still making their way uphill. Case jumped over another fallen man and roared. “Kill them!” and then ran ahead, aiming for a low wall where six 3-inch rifled cannons were buy blasting away flanked by hundreds of infantrymen. Behind him the men roared and yelled and broke into a run, charging directly for the enemy lines.
Case screamed as he ran, bayonet leveled ahead, slightly to one side of the cannon closest to his line of attack. He saw the gunners frantically reloading with canister and the infantrymen, lined six deep, pouring volleyed fire at the advancing Rebels. Men toppled to either side of him, including a man he knew from ‘A’ squad, Nathaniel Horrocks, his forehead smashed by a bullet. Ignoring the deep sense of anger at another of his platoon cut down, he ran the last few yards as the guns blasted one last time, sending a shower of lead balls and bits of iron out from their muzzles. Men behind him screamed but Case had judged his run to perfection and was unscathed.
He opened his mouth once more and roared a battle cry he’d used long, long ago in a place far away: “ODIN!” and vaulted the wall, landing on the other side straight in front of a loader who was holding the ramrod. He swept it at Case but the Eternal Mercenary blocked it and head-butted him, smashing the gunner’s nose. His comrade, the gunner who had just fired the last shot, came at Case with a handspike scything viciously for his head, but Case lunged forward and the bayonet sank deep into the gunner’s chest.
As the gunner fell at Case’s feet, one of the nearby infantrymen swung round, his gun coming round to point at the Eternal Mercenary’s chest. Case jerked the bayonet out of the dying gunner’s body and ducked. The shot meant for him spat past and Case hurriedly aimed and squeezed the trigger. The soldier, a man in the 71st Pennsylvanian regiment, cried out and clutched his stomach before folding over and slowly sank to the ground.
More men were reaching the wall and battling with the defenders, many of the Confederates leaping over the wall. Suddenly the 71st Pennsylvanian broke and fled, unnerved by the yelling Rebels. Case stood up and stepped away from the cannon, only to be confronted by two men, each intent on cutting him down. One was swinging a saber, the other another handspike. Case faced the swordsman, parrying the first cut and swinging the butt at his opponent. The man dodged by jumping back which allowed the other man to strike while Case was off balance. The handspike, a stout lethal looking bar of iron, smashed into Case’s shoulder, sending shards of agony racing through the heavily muscled man.
Roaring in rage and pain, Case swung his weapon in a vicious half circle at throat height and the gunner stood in a stupefied and frozen manner, not comprehending that his throat had been opened by Case’s bayonet. Spurting blood, the Yankee collapsed, still with a look of amazement on his face that burned itself into the sergeant’s memory. The first man swore in fury. “You’re gonna die for that, Reb!”
“Come on then,” Case snarled, ignoring the pain in his right shoulder. “Get it over with. I’ve no time for playing.”
The Yankee gritted his teeth and swung at Case, intending to open his skull, but the Eternal Mercenary was wise to such moves, having experienced thousands of instances of facing a man with a bladed weapon. Instead of standing his ground, he charged, rifle held above his head, and rammed into the man, head first, sending the Union gunner sprawling at his feet. Not giving him a moment’s chance, Case sent his decaying boot into the man’s face, crushing cartilage and teeth. The man screamed, a muffled, bubbling sound, but Case ignored it and repeated the motion, silencing the man forever. War was merciless.
Billy was grappling with a Yankee from the 69th Pennsylvanian infantry. Some of these soldiers had rushed to meet the Confederate attack, and the battle swayed to and fro across the wall for a few moments. But more Union troops were coming down the hill to reinforce their lines, more Pennsylvanians. Case grabbed the last of the gunners from the cannon crew and tore the ramrod out of his grasp before hammering the unfortunate man’s head against the barrel of the cannon. The gunner slid to the churned up earth, his eyes upturned. Case took one look at the arriving Northern troops and swore. “Here comes trouble!”
Billy gasped with effort in trying to push his opponent off him, while other Confederates around were locked in their own private battles. Case bit off the end of another cartridge and looked round him. There seemed to be too few of his men and too many of the enemy. Joe Siddeley reloaded too, a line of blood trickling down his face, and James Llewellyn was pushing a Yankee off his chest, having just strangled him in a battle to the death.
His rifle was lying against the wall where it had fallen in the struggle.
Case raised his gun to his shoulder. “Here come more of them!” He sighted swiftly, picking out a lieutenant urging his men onwards, and fired. The officer spun round and fell to the ground. Then he was gone, passed by scores of his men. “Oh, shit,” Case said in dismay. The arriving men lined up and raised their rifles. Case turned and saw Billy had impaled his opponent and now was completely exposed to the imminent volley. At a range of fifty yards it seemed impossible that he would be missed.
“Billy!” Case screamed and dived for the young man. Just as Case reached him there came an ear splitting crack and hundreds of bullets tore through the air. Case sent Billy flying and ended up against the wall. He scrambled to his feet, gun still in hand and looked to see where Billy was. The young man was lying on his back, moaning feebly a few yards away. Blood seeped through his jacket in his upper chest. Case grabbed Billy’s gun and dragged the boy up and over the wall. Billy cried out in pain but Case ignored him. The Pennsylvanians were running now towards the wall and unless they got out of there quickly they’d be captured.
Case hauled Billy up and then shoved him onto his back and turned to go. He caught sight of Llewellyn, lying propped against the wall, grinning in pain, blood soaking his trousers. “Damn it, Sarge,” he gasped, “ruined my pants!”