The musket fire was spreading to the right, low mumbles from some of the men, orders called out from officers who led the way. Beside him, Willis stepped over a log, tripped, stumbling into mud, righted himself, wiped mud from his hands. Bauer stopped to help, but Willis said nothing, stepped forward, glanced back at him with a hard glare that carried the message.
Move it
. Bauer struggled to keep to his feet, the entire line disorganized, the floor of the woods a carpet of ankle-breaking hazards, hidden muddy holes. All through the blasted woods, the going was slow, the musket fire and artillery thumps louder, the shouts of the lieutenants seeming to increase in pitch, those men just as unsure, just as scared, most of them ducking and flinching with the sheets of fire that tore through the woods to the right.
And now there were bodies.
He nearly stepped on the first one, realized they were everywhere, many hidden by the destruction of the woods. Others were finding them as well, low groans of the advancing men suddenly blending with the sounds of the wounded. The cries grew louder, the surprise of those men who had endured the long wet night, who had absorbed the relentless thunder from the gunboats, no different for the men in blue as it was for the rebels. The wounded seem to wake up, suddenly aware that soldiers were moving past them, and their cries began to spread, some of them from behind, men in cover so deep, Bauer and the rest had stumbled right past them. It was clear that some of those men were barely alive, their cries nonsensical, but others emerged from their holes with desperate pleas for help. Through the advancing lines, the orders still came, different now, the officers seeming to understand what many of their men did not, that they had to continue, to keep moving. There was no time to stop for the wounded. But some did stop, the sergeants exploding with profanity, dragging their men past the nightmarish sights, the tormenting needs. Bauer tried to ignore the wounded, but he saw now he was walking straight toward a man lying in the hollow of a shattered tree trunk, the man staring at him with pale white skin, hatless, a smear of muddy hair. The uniform was blue, washed by the rains, and Bauer hesitated, searched for some way around the man. Willis called back to him, out to the right, a narrow gap in the impassable timber where men were funneling through. Bauer caught the wounded man’s stare again, and the man raised a quivering hand, pointed at his own head, turned, one ear completely gone, Bauer staring at a gash in the man’s skull, a thick crust of dried blood. He realized that a piece of the man’s skull was gone, torn away, the man’s brains exposed. The man looked to him again, no words, seemed unable to speak, and Bauer looked away, a piercing thought: How can you be alive? Champlin had him now, a hard grip, sharp surprise, hot words: “Go! You can’t help him!”
Bauer went with the shove, moved quickly through the gap in the fallen trees, more men falling in behind him, one man saying something about the wounded man, the words choked away by Champlin.
“Move forward! No talking! The enemy’s close! He might be waiting right through those trees, so quiet down!”
Bauer focused on the sheer stupidity of Champlin’s words, the sergeant doing plenty of shouting himself, loud enough for the enemy to hear, even above the gathering musket fire.
They reached the edge of open ground, a large patch of burned brush, and Bauer’s nose curled up from the stink, different, the rain doing nothing to wash away the smell of what he saw now. Across what had been thickets of tall grass were dead, charred bodies, covering most of the ground, some in rows, lying where they had fallen, some of those twisted in grotesque shapes, many of them unrecognizable, no hint of a uniform, or a face. But others had crawled out after the fire, dozens of men who were dead now, who had escaped the woods, for reasons Bauer could not fathom, seeking water perhaps, their faces upturned, mouths open, drinking in the rain. Some were still alive, the mud and black soot on their clothes disguising which side they had fought. Some wore blue, were curled up next to men who did not, the dead and the barely moving. The bodies spread out far beyond the charred ground, but the black stubble lay directly ahead, and the lieutenants were waving the men forward, right across the sea of bodies. The lines wavered, the advance halting on its own, frozen by the nightmare in front of them.
Once more the wounded seemed to wake with a burst of energy, aware that help was at hand, rescue perhaps. The lieutenants continued their shouts, and the sergeants obeyed, pushing the men onward, hesitant footsteps even from them, the troops responding as they had to, stepping through and over the corpses, trying to avoid the wounded. Bauer closed his eyes, a bad idea, opened them again, picked his way past lumps of burned corpses, struggled through the smell. Close to him, one man moved his arm, waved, called out, and Bauer couldn’t look away, saw the man’s hand a stump of black, stripped of fingers. The mud was there as well, even in the stubble, and Bauer smelled that, too, thick on his boots, knew without looking it wasn’t just mud. Some of the bodies were in pieces, one man sliced in half, perfect precision, the two parts separated by a foot-wide puddle. Bauer picked his way, the fury of the wounded driving a hole in his brain. One officer reacted his own way, calling out, “The ambulances are coming! They’ll be here soon!”
Bauer wondered about that, saw the stare on the lieutenant’s face, knew it was a lie. The officer could not possibly know anything of ambulances, or what might be coming up behind them. Bauer was moving past the burned stubble, into taller grass, wet, stinking, but still there were bodies, some of them pressed deep into the soft grass. Around him, some men were tripped by what they couldn’t see, some jumping forward, past whatever sickening obstacle they encountered, making their way the best they could. By now all of them were staring downward, making their way forward by first searching the grass. Bauer could feel the wetness from the grass soaking through his trousers, but below his feet, the rains had a different effect. Much of the blood had washed into the ground, but there was a price for that, so many parts of bodies clean, a shining skull, stripped of skin, exposed bones, a rib cage, no head, a single leg, naked. There were many more still whole, no apparent wound but a rip in the cloth. In this field was a perfect mix of troops from both sides, and hidden in the grass were the weapons, a danger all their own, bayonets and knives, one man to Bauer’s left crying out, stumbling, a sergeant moving quickly. The man stayed down, the sergeant saying something about a bayonet, then looking back, as though hoping the lieutenant had been right, that an ambulance might yet come up. Bauer stared down again, his feet pushing more carefully through the grass, thought of the newly injured man, Hopkins, from Madison maybe. Now Hopkins was their newest casualty, the newest member of this astonishing horror, this nightmare fraternity that spread out in the fields as far as anyone could see.
Bauer glanced toward Willis, saw him making his way with delicate care, staring downward, picking his way, making a long stride over a body. Around them were more calls from the wounded, men in every direction, hidden by the grass, the voices too many for Bauer to hear the words, one thought as he blocked them out: God help them. The slow trudging march seemed unending, and Bauer looked toward the far wood line, another blasted patch of wrecked timber. Officers were there already, a man on a horse, a sword pointing, guiding the closest men through a gap in the timber. There were more gaps, narrow openings that led them around and through the obstacles, the lines disorganized once more. He reached the tree line, waited his turn, moved through the gap, made his way over the obstacles, could see more dead, heard more cries. By now Bauer was growing numb to it all, his brain saturated. The bodies had become just part of the ground, pieces of trees alongside pieces of men, the smells blending together, mud and death. The shouts of the officers grew louder, the woods only a small patch, the field beyond one more carpet of horror. Out front, another horseman appeared, and Bauer welcomed the distraction, saw it was Captain Patch.
“Move those men out here! Double-quick! The enemy is in those far trees, and they’re coming! Fall into line in cover … get ready! Aim low!”
Patch seemed to pause, realized his horse was stepping through the remains of the men who had gone down the day before. He said something Bauer couldn’t hear, seemed to back the horse away. Another pair of horsemen rode quickly across from one side, and Bauer was surprised to see Colonel Allen, had wondered if the colonel was even alive. A few men acknowledged that, shouts, mostly subdued, but Allen spoke only to Patch, waved one hand toward the far woods, and Bauer saw the bandage, thick and heavy, wrapped around Allen’s chest. Bauer felt a strange surge of emotion, the thought shared by men around him, low voices, all of them recognizing that the colonel had come back …
for them
. Allen looked across the line, said something again to Patch, then rode away, followed by his aide. Patch turned the horse toward them, another shout, “Find cover anywhere you can! Get ready!”
A voice behind him, Champlin.
“The colonel coulda stayed in the back. We’ll follow him to hell, boys.”
Champlin went to work, moved quickly out past Bauer, pointing out the cover, the best places for a man to lie down. Other sergeants down the line were doing the same, but the men were already dropping low. Bauer backed farther away from the edge of the field, heard a wounded man behind him, a desperate rasping cry. Bauer hadn’t seen him before, wouldn’t see him now. He saw a gap between two logs, slid down, wet mud beneath, brought the stock of the musket against him, the muzzle pointing up close to his face. The mud was soaking up into his pants, and he tried to ignore that, but couldn’t, one hand reaching out below, feeling for something … human. He glanced at the hand, saw mud, only mud, once more the quick prayer in his mind: Thank God.
He heard horses, turned, was surprised to see an artillery battery, the teams of horses pulling limbers and four guns up close to the edge of the woods behind them. Men were calling out, low cheers, and Bauer felt that, the sudden surge of confidence, added power to the position. He watched as the gun crews unlimbered the artillery pieces, wheeling them about. One officer stepped through them, pointing out past the men in the trees, toward the woods far across the field beyond. The guns were positioned a few yards apart, their crews adjusting the elevation, nudging each gun to one side or the other, what Bauer could only guess was the effort to aim at some target only the gunners knew, where rebel batteries were positioned, or where the rebel infantry might be moving right now. He stared with excited admiration, watched as the crews loaded each gun, and Bauer tried to see the projectiles, but the men moved too quickly, no way for Bauer to see if they were using canister or solid shot. Canister, he thought. If the rebs are coming … we need canister. He glanced out toward the field again, saw Willis close to one side, staring out to the field, not interested by the battery. Willis had his musket up, resting on a log, and Bauer looked again to the big guns, saw the aim of the barrels just above them, thought, keep your head down, that’s for sure. The crews stood back now, ready, and Bauer knew to brace for it, expected the battery to open fire immediately, the blasts that would throw thick clouds of stinking smoke right over them.
But the first shell came from the other way, from the front. It tore through the jumble of tree limbs with a sharp scream, the blast coming down close behind him, tossing splinters skyward with a deafening burst. He ducked low, farther into the mud, the thick limbs on two sides of him, a V shape, pointed out toward the field. He glanced back, saw a shred of blue, smoke engulfing him, blinding, choking, tried to see the ripped coat … who? But there was no time for that, the next shell coming in with a different sound, a tumbling whistle, impacting farther back, where the battery was positioned. He kept low, the shells coming in a screaming chorus, one to his right, then more, a shower of roars, impacting behind …
the battery
. A half-dozen more split the air to one side, coming from another place, somewhere to the left, all of them exploding where the cannons had been placed. He covered his ears, fought the sounds, harsh ringing in his ears. But the shelling seemed to slow, a pause, silence, then one shell out front, far short, in the field, dirt and debris tossed in the air.
The silence came again, a long pause, nothing at all. He waited still, slowly dropped his hands from his ears, took a breath through the dense sulfur smoke, shook his head slowly, the silence not changing the ringing pain in his ears. The rebels guns were firing somewhere else, nowhere close, and he rose up slightly, turned, looked back. The battery was completely destroyed, all four guns broken, blasted, smoking heaps of wreckage. The smoke was clearing, but still, one limber was on its side, burning, black smoke. Where the guns had been were only broken wheels, timbers, one barrel stabbed straight down into the ground, another cracked, split lengthwise. He rose higher, drawn by a stunned curiosity. He saw the crews, what was left of two dozen men, shreds of blue cloth, bodies and pieces of men scattered through the wreckage … and dead horses. They lay in pieces as well, steaming piles of ripped flesh, guts in heaps. He felt sick, still stared, a last flicker of hope, that someone would have survived, that one gun would still be there, ready to help. But there was nothing left. The men around him stared as he did, raw silence, a short moan coming from the wounded man, still unseen, Bauer hating the man, furious now, furious at everything.
“Get ready!”
The voice came from some other place, barely audible, the ringing in his ears numbing his brain, but the voice came again, closer, familiar.
“Get ready! They’re coming! Aim low!”
A pair of shells came in one behind the other, the ground jumping beneath him, a shower of thick splinters blowing into his back. He cried out, the shock, saw a man lying across a broken tree, the shell finding him, pure chance. He ducked again, curled up as tightly as he could, thought of Willis, where? Champlin, the others … Captain Patch. But his brain pulled him back, another jolt under him, a remnant of a tree to one side swept completely away. Every part of him was shaking, a hard shiver in his gut, the musket held tightly against him. The shells came again, another series of four, then two more, not as close, the aim of the gunners shifting, seeking targets farther to the right.