William Forstchen - Gettysburg

There had been strict orders against looting, so now southern Pennsylvania was blanketed with such receipts.

"And try this, sir." In Hazner's other hand was an open tin can.

John took the can, sniffed it "What the hell is it?"

"Milk in a can, sir. Never seen the likes of it before. Think of it. Wonder what Yankee thought of it how many girls he's got squeezing a cow's teat with one hand, holding these little cans underneath with the other."

John laughed, poured half the can into his coffee, and offered it back. He blew on the lip of the cup and took a sip, groaning with delight

"And real sugar in it too."

"Hazner, what the hell did you do this time to be bribing me like this?"

"Well, sir, there is that little game tonight and I was wondering, us not being paid in months…"

John shook his head. "George, I'm as broke as you are. Besides, I don't loan out money for gambling. Bad practice; suppose you lose and then get killed in the next fight where will I be?"

"Without coffee and good grub for starters, sir."

George stepped back to the fire, picked up his own cup, upended the rest of the canned milk into it and then came back to join his major.

John smiled, glorying in the warmth, the sensation of real coffee, the interesting taste of canned milk.

After a year of campaigning in Virginia, this was close to paradise. Yesterday the regimental headquarters had butchered an entire hog, and not just a skinny runt. This one was a fat sow, and John had woken in the morning to the smell of fresh bacon and for dinner had downed a succulent roast lovingly cooked by Cato, the colonel's servant.

He had on new boots and trousers, yet another Hazner find, and would curl up tonight under a blanket "paid for" by the regimental quartermaster from a store in Greencastle.

The land here was rich, orderly, the fields squared off, the orchards properly pruned, the farmhouses as big as mansions, the barns as big as churches. It was a long way from the hills of Carolina and the fought-over ground of Virginia.

"There's a fight coming on," Hazner ventured.

John nodded, looking over at his friend. The two had grown up together, George several years his senior and thus always looked up to as the older brother, replacing the one lost to yellow fever when John was just a boy. George was the son of the town blacksmith and had inherited his father's strength, with broad shoulders, a trim waist, and dark, powerful eyes. Being the son of a judge and the largest property holder in the valley had, of course, destined John to another path. Both had accepted that, but they had held to their friendship in spite of the differences of class. With the coming of the war, George had readily accepted that John would be an officer and he would be a sergeant In front of the men they played their proper roles. In private moments they would let it drop, and John would still look to his friend as he once had, as an older "brother" who would make sure he got through the war alive.

"You think so?" John asked, hiding his anxiety. "I figured we'd have at least a couple of more weeks without any worries."

George nodded sagely, motioning to the darkness that now concealed Lee.

"The old man came out here to think. You go ask your friend Walter about it tomorrow, and he'll tell you that something's up. You could see it in the way the old man rode up here, and the way he left. I tell you, this picnic is about to end, and it's time to pay the bill."

John nodded, saying nothing. He could sense the eagerness in George's voice, the desire to get on with it He sipped his coffee in silence. He was suddenly terrified.

In the times between battles he managed to keep it concealed, but when the realization came that in a day, a week, he would again hear the thunder in the distance, see the coils of dirty yellow smoke drifting on the horizon, the pace of the column quickening, his stomach knotted and blind terror tore into his soul.

He knew that George was aware of that terror, though no word had ever been directly spoken; such things no one ever spoke of, even to a trusted friend. It wasn't just the terror of what was to come, it was the terror as well of failing, of humiliating himself before his men.

Every battle was the same, the sense of dread, the conviction that fate would finally turn the card of death. Even as he contemplated the thought, he realized that his hands were trembling.

He saw George looking at him from the corner of his eye, and John laughed, trying to cover. "Coffee's strong, gives you the jitters." He downed the rest of the cup and lowered his hands.

"It's alright," George whispered. "Everyone feels that way at times." "You don't."

'Too stupid, I guess. Shows you what your book learning got you, sir. Makes you think too much."

Think too much. He could imagine a lot of things at this moment, what it felt like to have a leg blown off by a solid shot, to get a minie ball in the guts, to have your manhood shredded by a canister.

He'd seen that, seen the myriad of wounds, the thousand different nuances of how a man could die in battle, all of it taking place under an uncaring heaven, all of it a madness that he was part of and from which there was no escape. He wondered if Lee, by deciding one way or the other how to fight the next battle, had set in motion a path that would lead to his own death.

"What the hell!" George sighed "Better sooner than later, I say. Let's get it over with now so we can go home."

John nodded. Several men came over, one of them asking George if it really was Bobbie Lee who had just ridden by. George laughed, telling them that Lee had just shaken his hand, and John turned away, walking off into the darkness.

He looked out across the valley, the flickering fires, the moonlight illuminating the hills, and wondered how it would look the day after he was dead.

It would.still be the same, going on, continuing, uncaring. George would survive. He had sensed that from their very first day. George was as strong as an ox and as steadfast as one. He was right, as well. He didn't think, didn't worry; he just did his job.

Why did I have to be cursed so? John wondered.

There was no graceful way out, no honorable way to escape this. I'll have to stand again on that damned firing line, unflinching before the others, shouting commands, doing what is expected of the son of a judge, but inside my guts will turn to water. How is it that the others can do it without fear and I cannot?

He thought of Elizabeth, sweet Elizabeth, wondering what she would say of him if he ever confessed his terror. Southern women were told to not tolerate such things in their men, not in this time of national crisis. They were to be as the Spartans, to send their sons, their brothers, their fiances oft to battle with a promise of love held eternal, urging their menfolk to return either with their shields or upon them.

Fine for the poets, for those who stay behind. All he wanted was to be back there, to have married as he had wanted, to have her curled up by his side and, dare he dream it, filled with passionate ardor.

instead he was here, and he feared that within the week he would be dead.

He walked farmer into the field, knelt down and vomited, retching miserably, sobbing with fear, wishing he were anywhere but here in Pennsylvania, marching to battle with the Army of Northern Virginia.

JUNE 29,1863,11:00 PM

HEADQUARTERS, ARMY OP THE POTOMAC NEAR FREDERICK, MARYLAND

Brig. Gen. Henry Hunt, Chief of Artillery, Army of the Potomac, wearily dismounted, barely acknowledging the salute of the headquarters orderly who took the reins of his horse.. Average in height at five and a half feet, showing the first signs of middle-age stoutness, with a full brown beard streaked with wisps of gray, Henry looked typical of the officers of the much battered Army of the Potomac. The hard week of forced marches from Virginia up to the border of Pennsylvania through debilitating heat, relieved only by the occasional thunderstorm, had left all of them dirty, exhausted, stinking of sweat-soaked wool, horse, and bad rations. Once dapper uniforms were now a universal dingy, mud-streaked blue. There seemed to be an infinite weariness to Henry, a hard-edged cynicism, like that of a barroom pugilist who has seen better days and now fights without hope of glory.