Jim at Antietam

Jim slowly massaged the upper portion of his left arm as he lay on the bed. The autumn winds were rising up, and he hugged his jacket closer as he watched orange and yellow leaves blow from the darkness outside through the open door several sickbeds down. The door of the makeshift hospital was open to readily admit the newly wounded. A handful of bloodied men, including him, was brought in hand-stretchers yesterday - the 15th of September.

A bullet took off some skin at the point where Jim's shoulder joins his left arm. Apparently, the bullet also skimmed an artery or a vein, which caused a good deal of hemorrhaging. But he had been lucky; Kit, from Ohio, took a shot in the gut. He was dead in a few hours. The surgeon could do nothing but give him some morphine in the last hour so he'd stop screaming. Michael, of northern Maryland, somehow got a slug in the right calf. The surgeon amputated his leg above the knee. He'd lost so much blood that all he's been able to do for the last day was slip in and out of consciousness, with the only decipherable phrase of the day being, "Mother, water." Jim, in comparison, was treated quickly. His shoulder was bandaged up, and the wound didn't hurt quite so badly.

Jim didn't sign up with the army to watch his friends bleed and die. He had it all perfectly envisioned in his mind the day he marched down from Boston in a sharp and tidy blue uniform. He would rush toward the enemy, shouting with his friends for the preservation of the Union. His enemies would drop neatly one by one, as he ducked and weaved from the enemy fire and fired in return. The Confederates who didn't fall from his attack would flee in terror. And he and his friends would fire a few more shots after the rebels and holler, "Come back and fight like men!" Of course, in the urgency of their flight, none of his enemies would even turn back to look at them.

"The surgeon just gave the word to let you go," said a nurse, breaking Jim from his reverie. Missus Killington, the nurse, was a middle-aged woman from the neighboring town of Keedysville. She lost her son in the first Battle of Bull Run, early in the war. "Here, Jim, I filched them from the surgeon's dinner table," whispered the nurse as she discreetly passed a little tin of salted pork and biscuits with a treat - a small, green apple with brown splotches. "Hope this'll tie you over on the trip back to the fight!" Jim smiled weakly and quickly tucked the edibles into his jacket. Mrs. Killington smiled back, helped Jim to his feet, and escorted him out. Giving him a firm pat on the back as he walked into the night, Mrs. Killington said, "Go and make the Union proud, son!"

As Jim shuffled under the balding trees in the twilight, he took out the smuggled food out from the folds of his jacket. Opening the tin first, he broke off a piece of salted pork and popped it into his mouth. He followed suit with a small bite of the biscuit. After those were gone, he out the apple and devoured it slowly, sucking out the sweet-sour juices before swallowing each bite. His next post was in General Ambrose Burnside's camp, where he was to aid in driving the Confederates back from a bridge on the Antietam Creek. Jim was glad of the relocation, because it was under General McClellan that he was wounded. The handful of bloodied men that were sent to the field hospital were hurt in the skirmish when McClellan tried to break through General Lee's Confederates at the Antietam, a day and a half ago. Jim had heard from soldiers who arrived later at the hospital that by now the two sides had relocated to the two banks of the creek. McClellan had decided that it was best not to attack, since Stonewall Jackson's men, recently victorious at capturing Harpers Ferry, had reinforced Lee's forces. It had been thus for about a day, with tensions still rising for the opening move.

In no more than half an hour of walking south, Jim was at the borders of the McClellan lines. Seeing a soldier lounging about, Jim asked for the directions to Burnside's troops. "South one hours, west for a half," was the crisp answer he received. Thanking the grouchy soldier, who had apparently been on the fringes of sleep, Jim headed towards his post. He trudged for another hour and a half, as prescribed, and reached his destination. After reporting to an officer, he was given a rifle and a position - front lines. It was another few hours before dawn, so Jim found a hollow in a large tree and fell into a deep sleep. In his dream he saw his home in Boston, his family's flower business, and his girlfriend, Betty, who was eighteen - a year younger than he. When he was a bit older, he would take over the family business, and probably marry Betty. Life would be comfortable and organized.

Jim was roughly awakened from his slumber by the sounds of distant artillery thunder and yells of men. Panicked, he dropped to the ground and grabbed his head with both arms. But his hiding was not to be, for at that moment, an officer grabbed him by his jacket and pushed him toward his lines with an encouraging, "Get fighting, ya louse!" Jim had no choice but to oblige, and readied his rifle as he ran toward the front lines. When he arrived, he found that the battle for the bridge had already begun. The first lines of Union soldiers had tried to create niches around the bridge from which to fire at the enemy, while their compatriots were rushing forward to back them, all the while firing their rifles blindly ahead. A bullet skimmed by Jim's face and caused a red gash in the head of the man immediately behind him. Jim dropped to the ground and crawled forward toward the base of a tree, where two other soldiers had already positioned themselves. From this position he watched the progression of the battle, while firing occasionally when he saw a Confederate show his face on the opposite bank.

Jim noticed what produced most of the din of the battle were not the sounds of weapons, but rather the screams of the men. The Confederates, under heavy fire, began to back from the bridge. A number of men, while retreating from safe positions, were shot in the back. It was a simple matter to see whether or not a shot had taken its mark, for there would be a sudden burst of vivid red, followed by the gradual settling of a red mist in the area.

Jim was jolted from his observances by the agonizing cry of one of the two men nestled behind the tree with him. The man, seeing that the Confederates were falling back, meticulously sidled out from behind the tree and bravely toward the bridge. But there were plenty of Confederates left, firing from safety, and one of their bullets found its way to the man's knee. There had been a dull crack as the bullet collided with and shattered the knee cap, and as the man cried out in pain, dropping his guns to hold his wounded limb, another bullet passed through his neck at an angle, so that the bright stream of blood that urged forth sullied the uniforms and faces of his two companions still behind the tree. The other man hastily wiped at his face with his sleeve, only to smear the smatters of blood in long strokes, achieving an effect not unlike the Indians' war face painting. He resumed his coordinated rhythm of fire, never noticing his appearance. Jim, on the other hand, paused to stare at the prostate, twitching form of his dead companion, and brought his hand up to his face to see if the blood there was real.

"Forward!" Jim was again jostled out of his shock. An officer leading a battalion of Union soldiers in formation was rushing toward the bridge. "Take the bridge!" Came the order. Jim complied. Stealing one last look at the dead man near the tree, he crouched low and ran to join the left flank of the troops. The Union force moved with swiftness and deadliness. Numbers of Confederates were caught before the rain of bullets that the force created, and fell to the ground, far more mutilated than they had been a moment before. As the Union troops ran on top of the bridge or waded through shallow parts of the creek below, they suddenly heard a yell from the enemy's side - "Attack!"

From nowhere, the smatterings of Confederates on the opposite suddenly doubled and tripled in number. Waves of bullets now swept toward the defenseless Union troops on the bridge and in the water, and those in back, grasping the situation, fled toward safe havens without looking back. Jim was among these fortunate ones. He again took shelter behind his tree and again looked upon the scene of the battle. The soldiers in front took the brunt of the attack. Finding that they could not retreat for the numbers of soldiers behind them, some rushed forward, in hopes of taking a Confederate or two with them in death. Others froze in place and were cut down. Most, however, tried their best to take defensive positions, to find ditches or bushes to hide behind. Those on the bridge had nothing to protect them, and many jumped into the creek for refuge. Those who didn't jump fell into the creek anyway, after being pumped full of metal slugs. Their bodies became pincushions for the bullets, many of them standing and swaying after taking a shot or two, until the Confederates had hit them with so many bullets that their bodies sank to the ground with a thump and a splat. The bridge itself had been matted with blood in the half hour that it took to level all the Union's men. The creek and banks below it were stained red.

The battle for the bridge raged for another two hours. There came several occasions for the Union to rush forward again and attempt to claim the bridge, but the Confederate battalion would strike back forcefully, keeping their opponents at bay. For the entire duration, Jim had been behind the tree, carefully picking out targets among the enemy, and sometimes hitting one or two. Finally, as the Union lines reformed and the small Confederate force tired, Jim jumped in again at the left flank. This time he fought with greater zeal than ever before, from time to time stepping out from behind the lines of men and making courageous shots at the retreating enemy. He joined in when the northern soldiers bashed in the skulls of wounded Confederates with rifle butts as they swept over them. Still, several handfuls of Burnside's men were dead and rotting in the creek before they were at last able to secure the entire opposite bank.

Seeing the successful advances, the Union general made the decision for his lines to continue the attack and to attempt to drive the grey-coats past Sharpsburg. There the Union can keep the bridge battalion of the Confederates from meeting with the rest of their army a little way north, as well as cut off a main Confederate escape route.

As he and his comrades forced the enemy to near Sharpsburg, Jim saw the action stalemate. The Union was now on the slopes west of the bridge, firing on the Confederates, who they themselves were able to hold their position. Jim found a dent in the knoll, and settling himself down, resorted back to watching the much-slowed action. He was quite satisfied with his performance in the battle. He was very tactical in picking off enemies, knew the right time to escape, and of course helped in the final drive against the Confederates. The Union would win this battle, assuredly! Perhaps, just maybe, he'd even get a medal of honor. Ah, what would Betty say? Of course she would be proud of him! Jim smiled to himself, and didn't flicker an eyelid as his heart was pierced by a bullet fired by Confederate forces sweeping northward, sowing the hill's grasses with Union blood.