3

The day dawned hot and bright and with the promise of blood. Little Round Top rippled with nervous soldiers. The 15th Alabama had never lost in combat, and it was the 15th Alabama they were to fight. The boys in blue quivered, anticipation their bosom companion. Pennsylvania heat was no friend of a regiment of Maine lads, lads who’d been raised on cool summer and frigid winters.

The 20th Maine knew that Little Round Top was to be defended at all costs. The 20th Maine knew that the enemy was coming, with their eerie, echoing rebel yells and unknown numbers. Muttered rumor rippled down the line as sweaty hands clutched muskets that gleamed in the summer sun.

I leaned up against a rock, burning in the summer sun, and wished for cool, calm home. War, the ravaging entity that ripped our country in two was too tearing me apart. My cap did little to protect my eyes from the glaring sun and I prayed both that this would be my last battle and that it would not.

Morning passed onwards, and the enemy stood before me, a threatening line of grey. Endlessly it stretched on and on. There were too few of us, and surely that spelled our death. Little Round Top was to be defended at all costs.

The officers’ calm words of the morning—“Hold, lads, not yet, not yet”—were replaced by thundering roars; their casual stroll up and down the lines to reassure the men was no more. The explosive sound of firing guns echoed from both sides. I was sure I was going to die. My hands shook as I refilled my rifle. I fired again and again.

As the Rebels surged forward I was sure I was going to die. Sweat dripped down my face and into my eyes, stinging like ocean water. Through the smoke, I saw several Rebels drop; I wondered if I had shot one of them. I wanted to run, but there was no place to run to. The usual rumors, promising pockets of safety, had collapsed under this onslaught. Little Round Top was to be defended at all costs, and even if we decided to run, the mass of Rebels at our feet would swallow us whole.

When I thought we were done, to be slaughtered like Mama’s chickens, the Rebels’ surge softened. I watched their retreat as I checked my ammunition. My fingers shook. My bullets were few.

Suddenly as they had gone, the mass of grey returned. A man next to me was shot in the side. He screamed as he died. His blood was spattered on my boot. I took his ammunition.

I was going to die. I was going to die here on Little Round Top where there was nowhere to run. I was going to die just like my companion had, and our bodies would be sent home on the same wagon. My face was bleeding—I’d been hit.
In and out the tide flowed, ebbing with the whim of some uncultured Rebel general. Red mixed with grey; red mixed with blue. Blood and sweat dripped from my face to my arms, and made my trigger slippery. The sun beat down on my neck and flies buzzed around and I began to shake.

“Bayonets!” ran the cry from line end to line end. Bayonets. Our ammunition was gone; bayonets we had left. I was going to die. Little Round Top was to be defended at all costs. The left side, my side, swung forward. The grey smear, speckled with red became men, Rebel men. Their faces spelled their surprise. Some dropped their weapons some ran: they surrendered.

“Don’ kill us,” they pleaded, fear in their eyes. They were gaunt. I felt sick. We would not kill them, we said. We were of one kind: honest men defending our land. “We kill,” the General told them, “only to not be killed.”

(Author's Note: Oh, Civil War Project. Oh, sophomore attempt to copy Stephen Crane. Good damn times.")
(Meg's Note: epic flashback lolz)