New two parter

[matteus the inbred]

first part of a bit of a Civil war thang, based on true events...

Shock in the Morning

The mist was just rising, faint sunlight beginning to glimmer off to the right of our position. Unfortunately, the slowly clearing vista was not a pretty one. Miles of trenches, muddy thanks to an unseasonal downpour two days ago, scarred and pocked by shell-craters from the previous day’s Federal bombardment. On the southern horizon, the spires and stacks of Petersburg rose dimly through the murk, coughing out smoke like a man clearing his lungs with a cigar. I thought of my own cigars, four of them, crudely wrapped in my last few dollars and stuffed into the pocket of my undershirt, and decided that after a night of nerve-wracked and cold-sweating guard duty on the forward saps I deserved to have one.
Groaning as I pulled myself upright against the trench wall, I shuffled down the line and stopped at a shallow scrape in the wall. A swift kick awoke the occupant, one Private Jubal Hicks. ‘Wha? Hmmm? Damn you man, what is it…?’
‘We’re bein’ attacked Hicksy, thousands o’ goddam Yankees comin’ across the trench lines. All of ‘em got their bayonets real sharp just for your worthless guts.’
‘Awww, dammit sarge’, I was dreaming. Sonofabitch.’
Hicks rolled clumsily out of his shelter, reaching automatically for his Springfield rifle-musket, propped on the wall beside his dugout, and used it lever himself upright. He spat and coughed and focussed one red-rimmed eye on the Union lines.
‘So, where in hell are all these Yankees disturbin’ my sleep?’
‘Ah, they must’ve gone when they saw you getting’ up. Gimme your tinder, I need a smoke.’
‘Not unless I get one, sarge.’
‘All you’ll get if you don’t hand it over is fatigues and latrine duty for a week you peckerwood backalley piece of rebel scum. Give.’
Grumbling, Hicksy handed it over. ‘I don’t even get a good morning kiss?’
‘Kiss my bayonet, you slovenly excuse for a soldier.’
‘Gee, thanks Sergeant Miller.’
That’s me. Sergeant Andrew P. Miller, twenty-six years old and frankly too old for this war. Most of the boys in my company are not a day over nineteen, uneducated Southern farmboys and Richmond slum trash. All they can do is fight, but they can do that better’n any other company on earth, and certainly a lot better’n any damn Yankee. We’re part of the 16th Georgia Rifles, or what’s left of it. From Seven Pines to Cold Harbour, via Sharpsburg and Chancellorsville, and now here, Petersburg. We’d spent so much time digging, my hands were blistered all the way through on both sides, and I never want to see no spades again. But it’d worked, for now. Grant and his massive army were stuck outside lookin’ in, and knowing they’d never get through the trenches, not with Southern boys defending them. We’d never be beaten on the defensive, not us.

Still, Federals can be darn tricky when they got time to think. We’d heard rumours for weeks now, that they had a bunch of boys all digging like moles down below the lines, putting together a tunnel under our position and filling it with black powder and blowing us all to kingdom come. Maybe they’d blow up Petersburg itself if they could, but I don’t believe all the powder in the North could do that. Anyway, Bobby Lee doesn’t believe a word of it, and he’s not often wrong. He did order some Virginia companies to do a spot of digging and listening a while back, but they never found anything except earthworms.

Tugging out my battered pocket watch, I checked the time. Half past four in the goddamn morning, or thereabouts. Only a soldier or a fool gets up that early. Maybe a farmer too, but I was never a farmer. I left a wife and three kids and a small farrier’s business behind to come and fight for my state and the South, and now here I am being a sergeant and watching for Yankees in the siege lines at Petersburg. No shortage of ‘em, our observers reckon they’ve got at least 90,000 of the rascals out there, or maybe more. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s never to trust rumour when it comes to enemy numbers, but they’ve definitely got more than us. Always have.

Drawing deeply on the cigar, savouring the taste, I strolled down the trench, ducking automatically at low points in the parapet. Union troops like to use snipers, and some of them even get up early to see if we’re stirring. The Lieutenant was awake, sitting on an ammunition crate and yawning into a tin mug of what was probably very bad coffee mixed with mashed oats.
‘Ah, Sergeant Miller. Good morning to you. See anything during the night?’
‘Good morning sir. Nope, ain’t seen nothin’ except maybe some Yankee miners digging holes in the floor.’
‘Hmm, the old mining rumours again. I don’t know Sergeant, the Yankees sure do love a bit of engineering.’
‘Railroads and fancy boats is different from mining sir. I expect they got their heads down right now.’
‘I expect so, sergeant.’ The lieutenant rubbed his whiskers and stood up, stretching, then made a face and threw the contents of his mug over the parapet. ‘Right, I want an ammunition check this morning. And make sure everyone’s got a nice sharp bayonet too. Word is the Federals might be sounding us out sometimes soon, while they think we’re concentrating on their flanking movements around Fort Stedman. And sergeant, do try to steal me some decent coffee one of these days?’
‘Yessir, I’ll see what my scoundrels can scavenge…’

Nice fella, the lieutenant. Bit fond of luxuries and not entirely concerned with soldiering, but he always wants to know about ammunition. Used to be a linen trader’s son down in the Carolinas, but left to go gold mining and joined the army instead. Walking back east down the line, I spotted Corporal Decker emerging from his dugout, and filled my lungs to shout at him to get his squad together…

The earth heaved. The breath left my lungs in a tearing rush as I was smacked flat into the stagnant mud of the trench floor. A thundering rolling roar of dull sound ground into my eardrums and shook my skull around like a child’s rattle. My vision blurred, and a fist of air pounded my stomach and left me trembling as though my ribs were gone.
The first thing that registered was the enormous plume of filthy smoke, then the smell, the bitter rotten egg stink of powder mixed with a thick cloying earth stench of a newly opened grave. The lines to our left, where the Virginian 56th Rifles had been, was now hidden under the pall, rising hundreds of feet. I couldn’t stand, my legs felt severed and numb. Rolling over, I vomited onto the boards and lay panting, my hearing gone, only a painful, thick noise singing in my ears.
All I could think was ‘A mine. They did put one there, and it’s gone off. Dear God, a mine…’ Impossible, undetected, but they’d done it.

I staggered to my feet. All around men in grey, blue and butternut brown, patched and ragged and shoeless, were staggering up likewise, drunk-like and disbelieving. Shambling into a run, I turned down a reserve trench and clambered onto a protected viewing ladder, staring east. My jaw dropped open, ears popping in the suddenly warm air. The mine had been huge, I could see some of the extent now.
It had blown a hole across damn near 200 feet of trench, just wiped it out. I couldn’t see how deep it was, but it was at least 30 feet wide front to back, filled with black soil and debris, bits of wood, bits of men. Nothing moving though…except…to the rear a soldier stumbled out of the smoke, from a reserve trench. He was naked, clothes blown off him by the blast, sheeted in blood and dirt, wide-eyed and moving like a puppet.
Another soldier scrambled up beside me, fingers probing in his ears, his mouth moving but I could not hear him. Hundreds, I though. There must be hundreds of men killed in there, wiped out without knowing anything except maybe the earth moving like some great disturbed beast rising to swallow them.

Turning to stare north I saw banners and bayonets gleaming bright, Old Glory coming at the head of thousands of dark blue uniforms, ants swarming to the smoking gap in our lines.
‘Christ Jesus, we gotta get out of here!’ My hearing was coming back, buzzing and numb, but now I could hear shots, dull and faint, and cheers. The soldier next to me spoke again ‘Sarge, sarge come on, we gotta run, them Yankees’ll be here in next to no time!’
I shook my head, inarticulate for now, but I was already thinking, thinking no darn Yankee was going to take my trench with a dirty trick like a mine. I sprinted back down the trench grabbed my rifle and checked the priming, and then began grabbing men, shoving them towards the appalling plume of smoke, shouting ‘Form, you dozy sons of bitches, form! Get your guns loaded, get ‘em ready and get up and fightin’! We got Yankees coming in fast, get up!’
The regimental orderly scrambled out of a dugout with the flag, and let the rising breeze unfurl the red and blue of the Stars and Bars into the sky, white stars bright. The lieutenant fumbled the last round into his Colt Navy and clapped his battered slouch hat on, scowling and snapping at his men. The trickle of soldiers heading east down the trench became a flood, carrying me with it, heart pounding and mouth dry and sour from the tobacco. Surprised, shocked and semi-deaf, the 16th Georgia Rifles were going to a fight…

To Be Continued

[Ludens]

Very good, matteus! I like the atmosphere, which I think is even better than in your previous stories. Please continue .

[Franconicus]

Very good. The persons are very real, that is what I like most.

One question: If memory serves, the Union used mines only at the end of the war, when both sides were already demoralized. If this is true then the Greys should be more demoralized.

But go on! Excellent story.

[matteus the inbred]

Very good. The persons are very real, that is what I like most.

One question: If memory serves, the Union used mines only at the end of the war, when both sides were already demoralized. If this is true then the Greys should be more demoralized.

But go on! Excellent story.

that's a good point...this is of course the 'big mine' at Petersburg in 1864. I guess some people never think about giving up, and I think this is one of the things that made Lee's Confederate troops so invincible on the defensive, they just wouldn't quit...
writing part two sometime this week, work permitting...

[Franconicus]

Matteus,
Red it once again and I want to add a few comments, if you do not mind!

First of all I think it is the best story you have ever written. The persons are real, not TW stereotypes. You describe their feelings and thoughts very realistic as well as the situation in a real army. That is very good. If Petersburg is the scene, you could add more depression. They should have known that the war was lost. However, they refused to accept it and kept on fighting. Maybe some "there will be a lot of mothers in the north who cry for their sons before this war is over".

Before the mining operation there wasn't there an attack from the North were the soldiers refused to attack? The moral of the North was poor then too and maybe the Rebels know that as well.

But again, this part of the story is excellent, I like it a lot.

If memory serves the explotion of the mine was a big surprise, not only to the Greys but also to the Yanks generals. Why do you take the surprise away? You write that the defenders expect a mine and so the story is predictable.

I think you have to better options:
1) They do not know anything. They are waiting for the Yanks, determined to fight until the bitter end. Then, suddenly, there is the big bang, chaos, noone knows what had happaned.
2) They know what the Yanks are doing. They know that there will be the blow someday and that they do not have a chance to survive. Nevertheless they decide to stand.

P.S.: Your stories always show the glorious side of war. although you also show that there is a dark side. But glory dominates, maybe the dark side even emphasises the glory. My stories are the opposite. I know there is courage and pride but the dark side dominates. In the end the dark side makes the pride and honor absurd.
Maybe we should put our stories together and publish a book with our short stories

[matteus the inbred]

hey thanks Franconicus! I also feel that this is the most 'complete' story I've written thus far. Perhaps another multiple author's story between the two of us would be the answer!
As far as I can read from sources (mainly Bruce Catton rather than Wikipedia) the North had planned the mine for some time. The south had suspicions about it (Lee did indeed have some listening patrols set up) but didn't really think it would work (mining was a known siege tactic even in medieval times, after all). So, it was a big surprise to both sides that it went off and was so effective in blowing a hole in the lines (despite a hitch with the fuse) but neither side really knew how the fight would then proceed or how best to take advantage...I'll get to that soon!
I thought I'd conveyed the main character's shock about it well enough, but maybe I should have emphasised it a bit more. Maybe he's one of those guys that always expects the worst!

Your point about our contrasting styles is very good though, it's true that war has a darker side than I tend to go for. However, I'm going to lower the tone a bit in part two, I assure you.

[Franconicus]

Do not get me wrong! Not everyone has to paint in black like I do. Your lancers story was a bit to glorious for my taste but this one is great. Go on!!

[matteus the inbred]

Ok, part two, and I'd like to thanks Franconicus for inspiring me!

My first thought was ‘too late’. The still smouldering edges of the crater were rapidly disappearing under the pounding of Yankee boots as wave after wave of blue-coated men scrambled over the lip and spilled around the edges. Even as the front ranks of our men hammered down the trench and reached the crater, Federal troops began to fire down into the trench and across the crater, rifle fire snapping and crackling. Private Foley Clay was hit just ahead of me, the smack of a bullet spinning him around and spraying his blood across the trench wall. People who haven’t been in a fight think bullets make neat little holes, but them minie balls are the near the size of your thumb and made of lead, and blow damn great chunks out of anything they hit. Clay collapsed across the floor, his wheezing screams drowned by bubbles of blood as he vanished under the boots of his comrades. The trench wall ahead of me collapsed, dumping a bewildered Yankee on the boards at my feet. Without even thinking, I let out a yell of anger and terror and brought the butt of my rifle straight into his forehead, like driving a pile-hammer into a fence post. I remember the sound, a solid wooden noise, and that Yankee flopped backwards as if his bones were all dissolved. All around me men were screaming now, the Rebel Yell, high pitched madness as we stormed the remaining length of the trench and cleared it, panicked Yankees pitching into the crater to tumble down into the mud.
We stumbled to a halt, surveying the scene. The crater was packed with them, blue coats and bright buttons, the air above their heads thick with bayonets and banners waving, and there seemed to be not a Johnny Reb in sight on the rear edge of the crater.
‘Stand boys, form line, stand! We gotta keep them Yankees down there else they’ll take the trench line! Stand and FIRE!’
The lieutenant had climbed onto the parapet above us, legs planted and hat off, screaming hoarsely into the confusion. I remember thinking what a fine man he looked just then, defying everything Uncle Abe could throw at us and cursing like
a trooper. Three companies manned the trench line, mixed and mingled, shoving and loading. The rest of us began to fan behind the trench line, forming up on the lip of the crater, kneeling and aiming. The sides of the crater were steep, twenty feet of crumbled soil, but the Yankees at the back edge had momentum, and they were climbing up fast. I couldn’t worry about that now. Aiming blindly down into the mass of bodies I pulled the trigger, felt the rifle kick back into my shoulder, reminding me of cold-shoeing a bad-tempered stallion back home, saw powder smoke gout into my face, stinging. Cartridge out, bite the bullet off, pour the powder, hands shaking, stuff the wadding and spit the bullet down the barrel, pull back the hammer and fumble a percussion cap onto the nipple, cock the hammer, aim at something blue, fire…all around me men were doing the same, shouting, screaming defiance or fear, bullets whipping through the air in all directions, and through it all the angry rumble of five thousand Yankees trying to get out of that crater and carve a path through to Petersburg. Artillery was firing now, ours and theirs, shells gouting out chunks of earth all along the trench lines, flinging men back into their dugouts like an angry child, leaving red-hot shrapnel and wood splinters stuck into the wounds, flaying a man’s insides across ten feet of duckboards. The noise was deafening, crushing, and endless.
I never saw the lieutenant get it. One minute he was on the parapet loading his pistol and yelling at Sergeant Ambrose to take a squad and close the gap between B and E companies, the next minute I turned around and he was gone. A private in F company swears he was hit by a sniper through the heart, but I looked afterwards and found nothing but scraps of bloody uniform and bone. It must’ve been a shell, direct hit, he’d never have known about it. Not like Private Jubal Hicks, who got two minie balls in the belly and died four hours later screaming in agony, nor like seventeen year old Private Ross Levin, who slipped on the crater’s edge and tumbled twenty-five feet to land amidst the feet and bayonets of the federals below. They were in no mood to show mercy in the madness, and he had time to shriek one syllable from breathless lungs before they clubbed and hacked him to death even as we shot them down. Hell, even I got shot, and I’d promised my wife not to. A ricocheting ball got me through the left arm, and it was lucky it was a ricochet or it’d have taken my damn arm clean off like you’d pull the stalk off a cherry.
Slumped against the wall of the trench, staring into the thrashing horde of soldiers below, with bullets hammering into the mass to spray red everywhere, smoke and flame drifting across my eyes, I thought of hell and sin. Through the chaos I could see blue uniforms stumbling over the skyline across the rear of the crater, unstoppable. We would truly reap the whirlwind now, I thought, as I struggled to jam one more cartridge into the hot barrel of my rifle…and suddenly the air was filled with shrieking, as though steam had escaped from a pressure cooker somewhere above us, growing louder and clearer.

He was a small men, Major General William Mahone. ‘Little Billy’, his boys called him, but he was a soldier, they used to say, every inch of him, though there weren’t many of those inches. He’d seen the danger, seen the opportunity, rallied his men and led them forward, yelled at them to scream like Rebels, god-damn it. That’s what the fellow on the next bunk to me in the sick ward said, claimed to have been at the front of the counter-attack that stormed up to the rear of the crater, tumbled the Yankees back into it and then formed up and began firing. And just like that, the battle was turned about.
‘The Turkey-shoot’, we called it after. For four hours, federal troops swarmed into the crater, and for four hours we stood and shot, kneeled and shot, shouted for water and ammo and listened to the yells and cries of wounded men dying, bleeding, suffocating. For they wouldn’t give up, the Yankees. They poured a whole division of troops in there, wave after wave, trampling their dead and wounded, shuddering and falling as the minie balls hit, getting shot and spiked in the hands and arms and face as they clawed their way up the dirt walls towards us, but they never had a chance. Perversely, their stopped their artillery fire, presumably in case they sent shells into the crater, as if they weren’t losing hundreds of men a minute anyway.
My eyes were red and aching, my shoulder bruised and sore, the wound in my arm a fire that pulsed and tore every time I shoved the ramrod down the clogged up barrel. I ran out of cartridges, saw a body beside me, the face blown through the back of the skull like a pulped melon, ignoring the horror as the mind will in times of need. I groped about the waist, pulled the belt and cartridge box around and used my bayonet to saw the straps, keening as the pain shot up and down my arm. Cartridges sprinkled on my lap as the strap parted, a bullet thudded into the earth beside my ear as I loaded again, saw a Yankee not fifteen away taking aim at me, pulled the trigger and saw the bullet blow a piece of his skull the size of a saucer six feet into the air behind him. I remember laughing at the insanity of it, wheezing and giggling as I searched for another round.

Eventually it was over. I can’t place the moment, but gradually I noticed the enemy going backwards, stumbling and crawling, pulling their wounded or leaving them to die as the bullets and shells kept lashing down, blowing holes in already dead blue-coated bodies, ripping open live flesh to expose ribs and spines and guts the stinking air. Our artillery never let up, nor did we, firing at the fleeing men, firing at those who tried to stand and fight, firing at the wounded crawling and thrashing and staggering below. I have never in all my fights seen such an absence of pity as we displayed to those poor damn Yankees on that day. I recall one fellow limping on his shattered shin, flapping his arm in the air as though he were scaring crows, shaking his head in a frantic attempt to ward off the bullets. I thought he’d make it, as the bullets kept missing and missing. So I aimed low, straight through his backside, and pulled the trigger for the last time that day. It took him through the left lung. I could see the white rib suddenly spring from his jacket in a spray of blood, and that minie ball turned him clean round to stare back at me in shock, legs twisted, his face as disbelieving as a man who sees the Hand of God manifest itself on this earth. Then he just dropped, a rag doll whose strings had been snipped clean through. Was it a sin, I ask myself? Would he have done that to me? What kind of cause could make a man do that to someone? Is it in all of us?

I could not find the answer as I stared wearily over the crater at dusk. The smoke was clearing, but the mass of bleeding, dead, dying men below me, heaving like a stirring anthill, was obscure and dark. Whoops and yells sounded down the trench line, celebration of the day’s victory, for victory it was, and yet I could not help but feel utterly beaten, defeated, sullied and sad. Perhaps I’d always known we’d lose. Perhaps I was already anticipating the day when we’d lay down the guns and roll up the flags, that hot day at Appomattox when we finally went home, our cause lost and reviled. Perhaps, in view of what I believed myself to have become, I was relieved that I wouldn’t ever be an honest farrier again, for though I had kept my arm, the bullet had left it too weak and I would be crippled, so the surgeon said, for the rest of my life. In the twilight, staring down into the horrid pit of death that we had made, I felt obscurely satisfied that God had judged me thus.

[Strike For The South]

GOD SAVE THE SOUTH