John Sayles - A Moment in the Sun

“Company halt!”

To the east, in a jumble of masts and stacks and flagpoles, is the mongrel fleet of coastal packets and converted yachts that word has it will take them to fight the Spanish. Some of them. The men are winded from keeping up with Sergeant Jacks, but stand as steady as they can at right-shoulder arms, waiting. Royal casts a glance at the surrounding dunes, deep pockets of shadow forming among them as the sun begins to creep over the horizon, and wishes there had been something to eat.

“Form by platoon — march!”

They separate into their two platoons. The lieutenant hasn’t come along. Drill is shorter when he comes — he gets hot or bored and pulls out his pocket watch which Sergeant Jacks somehow senses without looking and wraps things up. Without the lieutenant it could be a long morning.

“First platoon, deploy as skirmishers, on the flank — march!”

Royal pivots around Corporal Pickney and the rest follow, stepping off their two paces from the next man, each squad spread out fifteen paces from the other. It seems a waste, now that they’ve gotten the hang of it, of the manual of arms, of close and extended-order marching and maneuver, now that they’ve learned to stack and take arms, to clean, repair, and fire their weapons, to adjust sights and judge distances, to respond correctly and with dispatch to vocal, whistle, or bugle commands, to make and break camp and dig entrenchments and all of the thousand daily duties of the Regular Army soldier, a waste for their Company L to be the one left behind in Tampa to look after equipment and maintain a base of operations. But that is the order, straight from the Colonel.

“Second platoon, in support, as skirmishers — march.”

The rest of the company spreads out behind them. They have their backs to the bay, facing a series of dunes.

“Observe Sergeant Cade.”

Cade appears at the top of a dune over a hundred yards away, waves his hat.

“That is the enemy position. You will advance by rushes, maintaining your lines, on my command. Company, port arms!”

The shadows of a phalanx of pelicans ripple over the sand in front of them. Royal feels the first little bit of heat on his cheek.

“First platoon, double time, forward — march!” shouts Sergeant Jacks and they are off, Royal aware only of the other seven men in his squad strung out beside him, boots sinking into the soft sand as the dune slides away beneath their feet, stubbornly surrendering as they lift their knees and pound it under, climbing till Cade is just visible over the crest and—

“Down!”

Royal flops forward, easier on the uphill slope than on flat ground, raising the Krag to aim—

“Three rounds — fire!”

A metallic clicking all down the line as the men sight their weapons and pull the trigger. Sergeant Jacks always has them check the magazine and set the cutoff before they leave camp, and Royal has only had two brief sessions with live rounds back at Chickamauga. Jacks calls behind them.

“Second platoon, double time — march!”

Royal has put three imaginary shots through Sergeant Cade’s forehead by the time the second platoon comes huffing past—

“First platoon cease fire!”

The second line kicks sand back, Royal catching a noseful, as they double-time over and past the men lying on their bellies. They are down the far side and halfway up the next dune before Jacks calls out.

“Down! Hold fire! First platoon up, double time, march!”

His heart is hammering against his ribs by the time he reaches the upslope of the second dune, his grime-stiffened wool starting to loosen with his sweat, sand down his collar and in his pants and in his eyes and gritty in his teeth and Down! and firing, at will this time, Royal not aiming so much as pointing the barrel in the general direction of Cade and the second line slogging past and down and up to the crest of the next one and then Up! they are charging forward again, shirt soaked and stuck to his body, sand stuck to the wet on his face, the day suddenly very bright, legs leaden on the last slope and then Down! flopping at Sergeant Cade’s feet and heaving for breath, a flock of gulls mocking noisily overhead now, till the second platoon thumps down next to them.

“On your feet, gennemen!” calls Sergeant Cade. Cade has dull black skin that is creased with age and exposure, is missing several teeth and rumored to have fought the Confederates at Fort Wagner. “Form your skirmish lines! You all bunched up, dammit!”

Shuffling and side-stepping to get their intervals back. Little Earl is throwing up beside him, a thin yellow liquid that smells like coffee.

“About face! Rifles, port arms! First platoon—”

Sergeant Jacks stands back at the shore, waving his hat over his head.

“—observe the enemy position. Advancing by rushes, first platoon, double time—”

If you drop they let you lie there a bit but then there is kicking and shouting and even the ones who are carried from the field have to make it up later, in spades, and the veterans spit their tobacco and look at you like you’re nothing. “You can rest when you’re dead,” Sergeant Jacks will say, the toe of his boot digging into your ribs. “And there will be no dying without my permission.” There have been times, since the regiment has been here in Tampa, when Royal has been amazed to survive the day, amazed at what his body can endure, and thought this must be the last test, the worst they will ever put us through—

“—forward march !”

They charge back and forth between the sergeants in rushes, first by platoons and then by squads, till the sun is straight up in the sky. The only break is for the few men detailed, one at the shoulders and one at the feet, to lug the five troopers who collapse and lie motionless to the edge of the water and leave them there in the rising tide. All but one is able to stand by the time Sergeant Jacks has the company clean the sand out of their rifles and start the march back to camp.

The insects are out in force for the return, sand fleas and biting flies, and Royal’s rifle weighs twice what it did in the morning, digging into his shoulder. His eyes sting with sweat and they take a longer route, swinging well clear of the sunburned Georgia Volunteers learning the rudiments of their old trapdoor Springfields at the base of the Heights. When they trudge into camp the other companies are already sitting around confronting the midday meal.

“Yo, Junior,” calls Coop, fish-eying an open tin of stringy beef trimmings packed for the Japs four years ago, “hold your rifle on me so’s I got a reason to eat this shit.”

Tampa is a fever dream of commerce.

Tampa is a fever dream of war.

Jacks leads the detail of recruits along the trolley tracks that lead down Seventh to the railhead, old Patch following with the supply wagon. He likes Ybor, likes the noise and the pace and the mix of people. The white folks lord it over you in Tampa City, even now that they are outnumbered by soldiers, and the colored who live in the Scrub are a sorry-looking bunch, just scrabbling along, but here there is color and music and industry, more fun than anything he’s seen outside of Mexico.

The signs are in Spanish, of course, though there are hasty translations painted below them on the establishments catering to soldiers. Two little brown boys, barefoot, fall into step with the detail, thrusting forward an old shoebox filled with live baby alligators.

“ Caimanes aqu í , muy chicos, muy baratos! ” they sing. “ Caimanes vivas! ”

“ Para comer? ” says Jacks, poker-faced, and the boys peal with laughter, both at the phenomenon of this yanqui speaking Spanish and at the idea of eating the lizards.