The Civil War Trilogy: Gods and Generals / the Killer Angels / the Last Full Measure by Michael Shaara
The shells began to reach them now, and the rhythm of his steps was jarred, the ground rolling and bouncing him up, and dirt spraying him, pushing him aside with a breath of hot wind. But he did not fall, looked back toward the explosion, saw . . . nothing, a gap in the line. He turned to the front, the rhythm returning, thought, There had been a man there . . . several. But his mind would not let him focus on that, and he stared ahead, saw the backs of the men out in front of him, saw the lone soldier still marching by himself. The noises were growing now, loud hisses, high screams. The ground began to bounce again, and now he could hear something else, the sounds of men, and he still focused ahead, saw the lines in front bunching up, the men gathering together, crossing a canal, and for the first time he said something, made a sound, called out to his men.
“Hold up the line, halt!” They were looking at him, would do what he told them to do, and he thought of that, of being in command, felt a strength, a new rush of energy.
He held them back, moved out by himself, closer to the canal, looked at the small fragile planks, the last of the Second Brigade crossing, forming again on the far side. He turned back, raised his sword, looked along the line, then saw, off to his left, toward the right flank of the regiment, beyond, saw . . . nothing. There had been other units on the right flank, two more regiments, and they were not there. He suddenly felt a cold panic, moved over that way, looking back, then saw the lines, lagging a hundred yards behind, and he saw Ames with them, in front of them, yelling angrily, bringing them on, and he felt a sudden rage, impatience. This is no time for mistakes, for stupidity.
He yelled aloud, over the heads of his men, “Get up here, on the right flank! Step it up!” and his men were turning, looking back with him, and now he saw: Ames was moving them up. Other officers, their own officers, were yelling and moving quickly along the lines, closing up the brigade.
He turned back toward the canal, felt his hands shaking, the rhythm broken now. He walked forward, stepped onto the small bridge. He waved the sword forward, and they began to form a line, began to move across on the planks. To the other side, the left flank, he saw the other regiments, saw there were no bridges, and the men began to move along the canal toward him, to the one dry crossing. No, he thought, it won’t work, and he saw other officers waving swords, and now the men began to jump into the water, moving across where there was no bridge. He looked down into the canal, thick masses of blue, like piles of rock, but the men were walking around them, careful, and he saw the rocks had arms, the bottom of the canal was deep in the bodies of blue-coated men. Suddenly his stomach turned, and he shook, held it in, looked up, away, fought for control.
There was a loud rush of sound, a sudden splash, and he was sprayed with cold water. He looked down again, and there were more bodies, fresh bodies. At the far end of the canal he saw a bright flash, a rebel battery firing straight down the canal. Another great splash of water blew over the small bridge and men below him were suddenly swept away. His men began to cross with more speed, and the men now down in the canal pushed across, climbing out quickly, knowing this was not a place to wait, this was not cover. Now he was caught up in the heavy flow of men, pushed through, moved out in front waving his sword. They began to spread out again, forming the lines, and again they marched forward.
There was no rhythm now, each step was deliberate. He tried to see, to find the men in front, and there was nothing, a field of thick gray smoke. Then a hand was on his arm. It was Ames.
“You have command of the regiment! I must take charge of the right side of the line. The commanders are down. . . . God help us!” and he was gone.
Chamberlain suddenly felt awake. He climbed out of his thoughts, saw the faces looking at him, waiting for him to lead them. He pointed the sword toward the thick unknown, yelled, “Men! Forward! Keep it up!”
The sounds came by him one at a time now, the single terrible whiz of the musket ball, the hot whoosh of streaking shrapnel, the air hitting him in short, hot bursts. He still could not see, moved forward through the thick smoke, did not look at the bodies as he passed, the red and blue poured out into great heaps over the white snow. He looked back to his men again. They were still with him, and he gripped the sword hard, dug his fingers into the steel of the scabbard, but it was not enough. He reached for the pistol, held it tightly in his other hand, still moving forward.
There was a break, a small gap in the flowing smoke, and he could see a wide depression in the ground and a shallow rise, men in blue crouching down, some with muskets, firing, reloading, vast numbers that were just . . . bodies. Beyond, he saw a stone wall, and he raised the pistol, his hand shaking with a boiling rage. He was not thinking, his mind did not tell him what to do. He began to yell, screaming now at the muskets pointing at him from behind the wall, the face of the enemy, and his voice blended with the great roar around him. There was a burst of flame from the wall, and around him men fell, and he aimed the pistol, fired, and fired again.
THERE WERE men all around him, voices and cries, and he lay without moving, staring up at the darkness, the night sky. What was left of the regiment, and of the brigade, was lying flat around him in the depression, out in front of the stone wall, and for today it was over.
He could feel the cold of the ground under his back, felt it creeping up, into his hands and arms and feet, and he thought, This is not good . . . we will freeze to death. They had heavier coats, of course, had left them in the town, had left everything in the town except what they would need to fight. But they were still out here, still facing the enemy, and would have to wait through a freezing night before anything else would happen, before there could be any relief.
He began to shiver, flexed his fingers, wrapped himself with his arms, and now shivered more. He raised his head just slightly and looked around him, saw a great field of black shapes. He began to move, slid along the hard ground, moved up alongside one of the shapes, said in a low, hoarse voice, “You, there. Are you wounded?” He waited, then reached out a hand, touched the blue cloth, prodded harder, poked the man’s stiff body, and he understood.
“Truly sorry, old fellow. But . . . I need to . . . ” He slid closer, pressed his body up against the mass, grabbed the man’s loose coat, unwrapped the body slightly, pulled a flap out over him and lay still again, but it was not enough. He rose up, saw another mass a few feet up the rise, pulled himself along, prodded again, and again, there was no reply. As he slid back down, he grabbed the man’s foot, pulled him down the hill, put the man on the other side of him, pulled another flap of coat out over him. Now he lay between them, thought, All right, so now you will be warm. He pushed up hard against one man, pulled the other closer still, then lay his head down, his hat for a pillow.
It had been dark for about an hour, and he began to hear new sounds, the numbness of the shock, the natural anesthetic of the wounded giving way to the raw pain. The sounds began to grow, spreading out over the entire field, soft cries broken by short screams, words and meaningless noises, curses and prayers. The sounds filled his mind, there was no shutting them out, and he stared up at the stars, tried to see beyond the sounds, but they pulled him back. There were other voices now as well, the men who were not wounded, who were scattered through the others, through the lifeless forms, as he was, and they began to shout, some of them yelling at the wounded to stop, to be quiet. Some were angry, loud hostile screams, others begged, pleaded. He kept staring up, distracting himself, trying not to hear, but the sounds were now filling every space, and his head began to throb . . . the sounds were coming from inside, louder now, no voices, no words, but a steady, high scream, and he felt his head would burst, his mind shattering, blowing into a thousand pieces, the pieces of the men around him. . . .
And then he was suddenly awake. The sound was gone, and he felt the cold again, felt the hard masses pressing on him from either side. Above him there was a face, a man crouching low over him, and the man pulled the flaps back, looked at him, and Chamberlain
The man jumped, lurched back, said in a burst, “For the love of God!” and crawled away, sat for a moment in the dark, said in a whisper, “Sorry. I thought you was with the Beyond.”
Chamberlain raised himself up, could see across the field now. The moon had come up, and men were moving around, crawling among the dead, pulling off coats and shirts and boots. There were men with stretchers, lifting some of the wounded, carrying them back toward the wagons waiting far behind the lines. The sounds of the wounded were still there, but not as many, softer sounds, and he thought, Many have died, maybe the lucky ones.
He propped himself up on his elbows, told himself, You are in command, maybe you should . . . This had never been discussed; Ames had not told him what to do in this situation. Ames . . . he wondered if he was alive. He crawled out from the shelter of the bodies, slid along painfully, then saw more of the stretcher bearers, standing, and he rose to his knees, tried to look around. He wanted to say something, to call out, how many were still alive . . . Tom. Tom! He felt a burst of cold in his gut.
“Tom!” The noise exploded through the cold night, and he listened, waited, and then he heard other voices, other yells.
“Tom!” and laughing, and he looked that way, over the hill, toward the stone wall, and now there were more voices.
“Tom! You home, Tom?” and along the hill, across the field, his own men began to take up the call.
“No Tom here!”
“Hey, Tom! You got a message!”
He felt a rush of anger, wanted to yell again, and now he heard another voice, one single sound from below him, down in the bottom of the wide depression:
“Lawrence!”
He started to rise, to stand up, thought, I can see, the moon is bright, maybe I can see where he is . . . and suddenly there was a flash, several more, and he dropped down, lay flat, and around him other men began to yell, “Keep it down, stay down. You’ll draw fire!”
He lay still for a minute, raised himself up slowly, thought, He is alive, thank God. He turned, crawled back up to his bed, slid in tight between the bodies, pulled again at the flaps of cloth.
There were clouds now, moving across the face of the bright moon, and he could see fewer stars. There was a new sound, the wind, a steady growing breeze, and he thought, No, please, no storm, no snow, not tonight. But the clouds were thin, and the moon was still there, shining through. The breeze flowed across the field, and he rose one more time, felt the sharp chill, lay back down, said in a low whisper to the bodies, to his shelter, “God forgive me.”
He lay still for a long time, watched the clouds slide past the moon, and the wind began to change, to shift direction, and suddenly there was a noise, a rustle, a knocking. He sat up, looked to the side, up over the rise, saw a dark shape in the distance, a battered house. The noise came from there, but he could see nothing. He lay back down, and the noise kept coming, and he tried to imagine what it was, pictured a house in his mind, the wind, thought, A window. And he knew it was a curtain, a blind, slapping against an open window frame. He felt relief, let out a long breath. He lay still again, and the noise still came, the sound growing, pushing everything else away, and his mind was filled again, and the noise became words, a hard, cold whisper.
“Never, forever . . . never, forever . . .”
HE WOKE to the dim light of a foggy dawn and the sound of muskets. There were scattered shots, small protests from the stone wall, and his men learned quickly that they had no choice but to stay low, keeping their heads barely above the surface of the ground. The depression gave them cover, broke the clean line of fire from the wall, but higher up, on the face of the hill, the big guns still watched over them, and so Chamberlain stayed put.
The word had been passed, the Ninth Corps would advance, come up behind them, renew the attack, a strong force moving up to replace them. It had the logic of something official, and so he believed it, did not distrust that it was only the wishful thinking, the careless fantasies of pinned-down officers. By mid-morning there was no attack, only the scattered firing, and he could see up the rise, across the shallow hill, could easily pick out the men who were still alive, the ones who held a musket as they took their careful shots, reloaded while lying down, then took aim again. There was little action anywhere else, no distant sounds, no long-range guns. He began to think about the army on the hill in front of them, wondered if they were coming, to sweep away this small line of troops who lay flat in the thin snow.
He tried to reach a better vantage point, make some reconnaissance, slid on his stomach, and a rifle ball plowed into the snow beside him. He backed down the hill, said to himself, All right, so much for that. He passed beside more bodies, pulled one down with him, lay it on the uphill side, above his head, toward the enemy, thought, He would understand, I would want them to do this with me. Then he pushed that from his mind, was not at all sure if it was the truth.
There was no reaching Tom, and he had not seen Ames. He heard some talk that orders were being issued, and it sounded like Ames was moving about, farther back, on safer ground. He realized that Ames might think he was dead. I need to get word to him somehow, he thought, find out what I should be doing. Suddenly, there was a flurry of musket fire, and he turned, looked out over one of the bodies and saw a line of gray soldiers moving beyond the crest of the hill, coming out, forward, firing into the open flank of the men in the depression. He yelled out, a warning, and others were yelling as well, and now the shots were being answered, his men firing at the new line of skirmishers. He pulled the pistol out, laid it across his chest and raised his head slightly, just to see past the body beside him. He saw a man raise a musket, spotting him, and he dropped his head down, heard the crack and the dull slap of lead against his protector. Now there were other shots, balls whizzing inches above him, and more lead hit the man beside him, thuds and thumps. He could feel the impact, the shock passing through the man’s body, and he wanted to sit up, fire the pistol, felt a new anger, wanted to yell out, “For the love of God, let him lie in peace.” There was more firing now, from below him, and he heard yelling and new sounds, and a line of his own men began to push by him, toward the rebel line. Now the volleys were slow and scattered, and he could hear his men, talking, yelling, they had pushed the rebels back.
He sat up, saw the blessed blue coats moving slowly back down the hill, spreading out just above him, and he said, “Hey! Good work . . . good work, thank you!”
A man moved down toward him, slid heavily along the ground, and he saw the round face of the Irishman, Kilrain.
“Well, Colonel, me laddie, we was a-wond’rin’ if you was still among the living.” He looked at the bodies on either side. “Got to hand it to you, Colonel, you have a talent for pickin’ your friends. This one’s . . . done his bit. . . .” He reached across, rolled the other man toward him, and Chamberlain saw the expression change, the bright smile vanish, replaced by a look of recognition and horror.
Kilrain said, “Oh, Mother of God.” He let the man go, turned away, stared down at the ground.
Chamberlain wanted to ask who it was, felt the bulk of the man still pressing against his side, thought, No, don’t, let it go.
Kilrain shook his head, looked at Chamberlain, said, “We lost many a fine man . . . a few fine boys too. Don’t seem like we can do much of anything today. Nobody coming up to help us, it appears. We’re scattered out all over this field, the whole division, more. The rebs . . . they seem pretty happy to sit tight. We run off that one bunch. A few of them didn’t make it back. . . . Don’t expect they’ll try that again.”
“Sergeant . . . I need to get back . . . to find Colonel Ames. Can you . . . is it all right to move back down the hill? You seem to have been able. . . .”
“Come on, Colonel, just keep your head down. The rest of ya too. Stay low.”
Chamberlain slid out from his human shelter, fought the urge to look at the face of the man Kilrain knew,
They reached the bottom of the depression, and Kilrain led him along, over the mass of bodies, and now Chamberlain could see horses, officers, flags, some organization, back out of range of the muskets. He began to walk upright, heard a musket ball whiz overhead, and he ducked.
Kilrain watched him, said, “Colonel, me darlin’, if that one was meant for you . . . there’d be no need to be duckin’.”
He stood upright again, looked at the officers, finally saw Ames. He felt another thrill, wanted to run up to him, show him he had survived after all, and Ames looked at him, nodded, a quick, short smile. Chamberlain understood, saw now General Griffin, and Colonel Strong Vincent, of the Eighty-third Pennsylvania. Griffin was speaking.
“. . . while Stockton is unable. Colonel Vincent, you are now in command of the Third Brigade. Keep the men in position here until dark. You will be relieved as soon as possible.”
Vincent saluted, said, “Yes, sir,” then noticed Chamberlain, stared for a second, said, “Colonel . . . are you all right?”