Martin Anderson fell asleep for what could well have been the last time when a Reb musket ball struck his leg and he fell, hitting his head on the rifle butt of one of his comrades.

Exactly which comrade that was Martin would have been hard-pressed to say. The man's face was covered with blood, and he would not be introducing himself again in this life. Martin's passage into sleep was accompanied by a macabre lullaby echoing rifle shots, whizzing bullets, the grunts and screams of his brother soldiers.

He awoke in a sea of flattened bodies, all of them fellow Minnesotans. Some dark god might well have thrust his sickle amongst them, having judged that the Fortieth Minnesota was ripe for the harvest. Martin lifted his head and looked around. The entire valley was a mass of bleeding blue.

The Rebs no longer covered the hills around them. The only shooting Martin heard was far away. There were still plenty of screams, though, plenty of moans and breathless prayers. The Rebs had not bothered to come down and check on their handiwork, and the rest of the Union forces were too occupied to miss a couple hundred Minnesota farmers at least a quarter of whom, judging by the noises and the movement, were still alive.

Martin tried to stand. He crumpled immediately, swearing foul things by the Lord's name while at the same time praying for relief. His leg had an awkward feel to it; it was like holding the limb of some dead animal and watching it swing to and fro apparently of its own volition. He feared that the bone was shattered.

He slowly realized that he was one of the fortunate ones. Most of his companions had been hit at least twice by that lethal Confederate barrage, some several times. It had been like shooting fish in a barrel, except that in this case the shooters had violently hated the fish and wished for no trace of them to remain. Martin was blessed in that he only took one bullet. He was not comforted by this.

One man, not five feet from Martin, had suffered the misfortune of having part of his brains blown away. The man lay with arms outstretched and eyes staring blankly at the clouds. His jaw was slack. His breath came in ragged gasps; each exhalation was accompanied by a bloody froth. Strings of brain matter hung loosely from a deep crease in the top of the soldier's head. The face was vaguely familiar. Martin felt he might have recognized it when it was lit by reason.

The poor soul would have made a good officer someday, Martin thought darkly. This was evidenced by his ability to live without brains.

Their colonel had certainly possessed that ability. He had led his regiment blindly into a culvert, leaving them surrounded and doomed. The colonel was probably dead now, blissfully unaware of the condition of his men.

Martin looked once more over the remains of his regiment. The survivors writhed about so that the complete body of men looked like a single living thing, thrashing feebly in its death agony.

Then he detected something new. At the culvert's opening, through which they had marched an eternity ago, thick smoke rose into the air. Staring harder, Martin was barely able to see flames licking at the grass.

"Martin!"

Astonished to hear a human voice form actual words, Martin Anderson turned toward its source. Billy Parkins was crawling slowly toward him. Parkins had lived on a farm half-a-mile from Martin's own. The other man was bleeding from a shoulder wound, blood seeped from the tops of his boots, and his hand was clutched to his reddened side.

"Hello, Billy," Martin said. Billy, his face already twisted with pain, still managed to look angry at his friend's casual greeting.

"Reckon when they'll send some medics or somethin' to fetch us?" Billy groaned.

Martin shook his head. "When they get around to it, I suppose. They probably figure the best way to help us is to go ahead and win the battle."

"What if they lose it?"

"Then we're bound for Andersonville, Billy. Assumin' we live through the trip."

Billy nodded roughly -shelving his concerns about the future with a gesture. "Have you seen my brother Jaye?"

Martin shook his head. "Not since before the shootin' started."

"I gotta find him," Billy said absently. Then, looking over his friend's shoulder, he said, "Good Lord! Look yonder!"

Martin followed the other youth's gaze. The source of Billy Parkins' concern was the fire Martin had seen earlier. It was much closer. The flames were as tall as a man.  A hot breeze blew into Martin's face. Some random spark must have lit the dry grass, and the wind was blowing it into a conflagration.

The two men watched nervously as the flames came even nearer. There was no mistaking their destination.

"I believe we're in trouble, Billy."

"It's going to pass right over us!"

"Only if we stay here and wait for it."

Billy blinked at the approaching fire. "What are we gonna do, Martin?" he said, his voice high. "Jesus help us, what are we gonna do?"

Martin hesitated a moment, staring into the flames. Shadows danced within them, twisting and writhing darkly, like souls shriveling in perdition; how cruel, Martin thought. Burning away our souls before our flesh had lain down its last. If we survive, will we carry nothing inside us now but numb ashes?

Martin shook his head yet again, struggling to brush away the delirium of pain. He would need a clear head in the coming minutes.

"Listen to me!" he cried, his voice barely stood out from the wounded cries of other survivors, and to the few ears that heard him he must have seemed like just one more supplicant wailing to the Almighty.

"Listen to me, you fools!" he shouted, and some of the bloody men near Martin looked toward him. "This field is on fire," he told them. "We have to make it over that field yonder the river is just beyond it."

Several red-and-black faces nodded in agreement. Many others just stared numbly at Martin, or at the fire, their minds so contorted by pain that they could not grasp the situation. The great majority of faces on that field were beyond pain or fear, and beyond recognizing that their bodies were going to be spared from the worm.

Martin dragged himself toward the hill. Every inch that he pulled his crushed leg through the dry grass was a fresh moment of agony. He pushed the pain back, putting it behind him like it was a living thing separate from him. He knew it would catch up to him eventually, and exact its vengeance for being ignored, as would the anguish wrung from him over the miseries he had seen in this war -but there was no time to consider that now. There was time for nothing except staying alive.

Billy was close behind him, pausing often to peer at the faces of dead soldiers, or to mutter greetings to those still alive in hopes that one would be his missing brother.

Others were behind Martin now. Most were crawling; some would manage to stumble a few steps, and then fall. They would crawl awhile, then stumble again. The flames had reached the bodies now, the stink of burning flesh was added to the general stench of the killing ground. Screams issued from the fire, the agonized sounds of those too badly wounded or too confused to flee.

Martin reached the hill and started crawling up its side. If pulling himself through the grass had been painful, traveling up the incline was nothing short of torture. He could hear Billy's frantic voice behind him.

"I can't go up the hill," Billy moaned.

"You have to," said Martin. It came out as a gasp -he was surprised at how out of breath he was. "Make yourself it's climb or fry."

"No, no," said Billy. "I ain't found Jaye yet. I can't go home without Jaye.  I can't tell Ma and Pa that I crawled off and left him to burn."

Martin did not answer his friend; in fact, he did not even look back. He could think of no answer to give Billy. Concern over the other man's dilemma passed through Martin's mind only briefly; he honestly did not care whether Jaye, or even Billy, lived or died. He had always considered himself a compassionate man, and a Christian, but the heat of the fire had turned his mind into a simple gear which moved his body forward, making it a machine of survival.

"I found him!" Billy cried. Martin still did not look back. A couple of Minnesotans, wounded less severely than he, had surpassed Martin and neared the crest of the hill. What little reason was left in his mind was focused on anger at these men, who had unfairly taken advantage of his weakness and were approaching a reward which should be his.

"Thank God I found you, Jaye," Billy's voice intruded into Martin's fevered brain. "Don't waste your breath tryin' to talk, little brother, we have to get up this hill. Come on, now! Let me help you."

More cries sounded behind them. The flames had burst over the corpses like hungry demons, and were now overtaking the weakened stragglers who lagged behind the rest of the refugees. Martin crawled faster.

He reached the top of the hill. A gust of cool air blew into his face from the silvery river below -he paused a moment, for all his energies had been directed toward this goal and he was forced to adjust his momentum. Martin looked behind him. The inferno was only thirty or forty yards away, traveling like lightning, engulfing his comrades.

Billy was still close behind him, dragging his injured brother. Billy strained to reach the top of the hill. Martin's head cleared for a moment, and he placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

"We'll never make it like this, Billy!" Martin grabbed a handful of Jaye's shirt and propelled himself backward over the hill. The world spun madly, accented by the smell of smoke and the taste of grass. During the brief moments when Martin could glimpse the top of the hill he saw the flaming silhouettes of comrades. Pain jolted through him as his leg was jostled.

The bright river beckoned, its gentle waters welcoming him like outstretched arms. Martin splashed into it and flopped like a fish. He pushed against the water with tired arms. A dozen or so of his fellow soldiers had already reached the far bank; the Parkins brothers fell into the water not far from Martin.

Billy Parkins struggled in the water. He was trying to hold his brother above the surface with one arm, while swimming with his injured limbs.

"I'm not going to make it, Martin," he yelled. "Help us!"

Martin looked on, helpless. He was only halfway across the river and knew it would take all of his strength to finish the trip. He would not make it if he went back for them.

"Let go of him, Billy!" he shouted. "Save yourself! He probably won't make it anyway!"

"I can't do that," Billy called out. "I can't go back without him."

Martin kept swimming -a couple of the men who had already made it shouted encouragement to him. The others had collapsed from the fatigue of their efforts. A few screams could still be heard behind Martin.

The bloody, exhausted soldier climbed onto the moist earth. He rolled onto his side; Billy was nowhere to be seen, but Jaye Parkins floated toward Martin. Jaye was on his back, and for the first time Martin looked closely at him. The neat hole in his chest was clearly visible. He had probably been dead since the first Rebel salvo.

The flames reached the edge of the water and died with remarkable swiftness. Martin could barely see the hillside through the smoke, but was able to distinguish several lumpy black forms. The sight both sickened and elated him, his eyes were alive and unburned to see the horrible spectacle.

The river was silent. None of the survivors spoke or even moaned. They lay back, their eyes closed. Martin followed their example.

He hoped the smoke would never lift.

*~*~*~*~*

Copyright © 2000 Troy Smith. All rights reserved.