January, 2012

Issue #28

Blue Sky and Grey Smoke
by Chad Strong

A barbaric yawp surging from his throat, George charged the creek with his rifle, bayonet affixed, clutched tightly in both hands. From the other side of the creek the cloud of grey charged him, itself a screaming, dagger-clawed beast. He was certain it would rake him, tear him. But he was charging forward regardless — the company had their orders.

He heard the captain call out something but he could not discern the words through the chaotic cacophony and commotion about him. Men shouted and screamed. Everywhere, from within their ranks and without, bullets sped from the smoke and the forest like insects on a wild and deadly spree. Mortars boomed and shells soared for the sun. Always, always they fell short and plummeted to earth, whistling their eerie swan songs.

George didn’t know which one sang for him, but one of them did. The blast of soil, water, and shrapnel shoved him yards beyond his own stride and slammed him face down on the bank. The ground shook beneath him as another shell exploded nearby. Mud and water sprayed his blue uniform from head to foot. He flung his arms over his head.

The captain’s voice came to him through the din somehow, “Who’s firing those? Who in blazes is firing —”

His words were cut off abruptly. George hoped the captain hadn’t been as well. He didn’t have to release his head and look up to know that the shells were killing both sides. Somebody was making a big mistake.

Something — he didn’t pause to consider what — made him look up. A confederate soldier was coming for him, splashing through the shallow creek with his bayonet ready. With tunnel vision George watched him. Where was his own weapon? His right hand reached around, frantically slapping the mud for the feel of wood and metal. Rocks, mud, reeds. The rebel was only four steps away. Panicking, George twisted and tried to stand.

Searing pain ripped through his left leg and he wailed in shock. Dropping to his knees he spotted his rifle, fell toward it and yanked it upright just as the reb’s bayonet slipped through his sack coat and into his left shoulder. The new pain ignited a rage that compelled George to thrust his own bayonet up into the enemy’s belly. The blade in his shoulder jerked and in reflex George yanked his to the right. The rebel soldier cried out and fell beside him in the creek.

The greycoat’s blade ripped out of George’s shoulder as he fell, but George’s blade stuck and was nearly yanked out of his hands as he fell forward on top of the other. For a stunned moment George could only lie atop him. Then he saw the red blood oozing from the greycoat’s belly and pooling on the surface of the creek water next to him. With a grunt George shoved himself up and off the enemy soldier.

The movement sent pain raging through his shoulder and leg again. He pressed a hand to his bleeding shoulder and looked down at his leg. About halfway below his knee it was gone.

He lifted his face to the smoke-choked sky and screamed. He screamed until there was no breath left in him to scream. He stared down at his severed leg, certain it must be someone else’s he was looking at, certain that it was only the grime in his eyes, certain that once he blinked it would be there again. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and blinked deliberately. Once, twice, three times. Still the leg was gone. Panicking, he splashed around as far as he could reach, searching for it. It had to be here. But what to look for? Would his foot and ankle be intact or in itty bitty pieces that he would never find scattered all over the creek bank? He’d been wearing red socks, red socks that his mother had knit him and sent at Christmas to cheer him. He was still wearing one.

“I still got one, Ma!” he cried aloud.

The other sock should be easy to spot. He searched up and down the creek with his eyes until his vision blurred and he wavered and slumped into the muck, sobbing. But his sobs ended quickly as he became aware of his lightheadedness. He was losing blood from his wounds. He had better do something about it. Fast.

He removed the bayonet from the reb’s forgotten weapon and slit his trouser leg. Tearing off strips of fabric, he bound his wounds as best he could. Exhausted from the effort, George leaned back against the creek bank and closed his eyes. Sleep tugged at him. Sweet, peaceful blackness beckoned. It would be so easy …

A sound startled him — a sound so close beyond his silent sweet blackness that George sat bolt upright. He hadn’t even realized how quiet it was before the sound. He looked around. The trees seemed quiescent after the turmoil, their young spring leaves still and silent, half-cloaked in the mist and smoke. Nothing stirred on the battlefield. George saw bodies of men littering the grassy meadow. No one walked among them, checking for fallen comrades they might save. Perhaps he should do that.

George attempted to stand but collapsed back down with a cry of agony. Maybe with a crutch. He could use the rebel’s rifle as a crutch. He reached for it. Just as his hand closed over the slippery wet wood stock, a pale hand closed over his. George froze, sucking in his breath. Snatching back his hand he realized the reb was still alive. George yanked his own rifle from the soldier’s belly and raised the bayonet to finish him.

But the boy’s cry stopped him. Fresh blood brightened his grimy white shirt and soaked darkly into the wool of his grey sack coat. George’s eyes scanned his surroundings. None of this soldier’s mates were rushing to save him, to kill George for him. Nobody moved. Grey uniforms and blue lay still and silent.

In a sudden flash of panic George cried out,“Johnny! Ted! Burtie!”

He waited. No answer. “Cap’n Tay!” No answer. Not even an attempt at an answer. And still no grey uniforms moved to silence the remaining bluecoat.

George’s eyes fell to the soldier he’d stabbed. He was a private, like George. Except for the bayonet he’d stabbed George with, he appeared unarmed. George’s arms suddenly cramped beneath the weight of his weapon. He grunted, trying to steady his aim, but the boy moaned softly and George couldn’t complete the thrust. He let down the rifle and sighed. For safety he tossed both firearms out of reach of the rebel soldier.

The reb suddenly began thrashing about in the creek, not becoming still until he had flopped, exhausted, onto his stomach. He would drown in moments if George didn’t right him.

Fighting the pain in his own wounds George shimmied across the muck and grasped the rebel’s coat in both hands. His left arm didn’t want to work, but he got enough out of it to haul the boy’s shoulders out of the water and lay him on his back on the bank. The reb’s cap fell off his head. George retrieved it and laid it next to him.

The boy was blond, a soft mellow blond, except where the mud caked his hair. His eyes opened and closed intermittently and were a bright crystal blue. Fine yellow hairs spread across his lean cheeks like down. His face and hands were fine-boned and he was handsome in an almost pretty way. No doubt he had the girls all over him back home, wherever that was. Unlike George who was short and stocky with coarse dark hair and mud brown eyes. The girls in Massachusetts had rarely looked at him twice. George guessed the boy was barely eighteen, if that. George himself was twenty-two.

If he let the boy live, he’d have a prisoner. If the reb died, George could walk out of here the only survivor of this battle. Except he might not be able to walk out of here at all. He might need the boy’s help.

He cut off the sleeve of his own sack coat and pressed the thick wad against the confederate’s oozing belly. The boy moaned and kicked briefly. George felt suddenly sorry for having stabbed him. But what else could he have done — knelt there and allowed himself to be killed?

He lay back as comfortably as possible and held the pressure on the boy’s wound. He stared up at the smoky mist hovering over the meadow and drifted towards peace. In his bliss he woke nestled in deep spring grass and a bright blue sky and his brother’s face smiling down at him.

“Come on, Georgie, it’s time to go.”

“Okay, Peter.”

George struggled to sit up and the pain brought him sharply back to the creek. The smell of sweet April grass fled before the acrid stench of smoke and the comforting warmth of that spring sun shrunk from the chill of the murky creek water that saturated him.

He blinked back tears. He had never found his brother. They were supposed to meet in the river meadows at Independence, Missouri, and make that their jump-off point for Oregon. Peter had gone ahead with his wife and two children and George had followed after helping their father clear one more field. George was unprepared for the sheer vastness of the site and the multitudes of people and animals and wagons. He had wandered for three days amongst the crowds and finally lay down one afternoon in a patch of grass, turned his face to the sun and hoped that if he stayed in one spot long enough, Peter would find him. They couldn’t go anywhere, anyway, until their guides determined the grass had grown enough to sustain their livestock along the way.

Then the announcement of the war had reverberated through the camp. By the end of the day George had decided to enlist. He would fight for his country and get to Oregon when it was all over. If men like him didn’t fight, there might not be an Oregon to go to.

The confederate boy stirred. George looked over at him and watched the crystal blue eyes flutter open. They darted about with a confused and helpless expression. Then they came to rest on George. They stared at him quite a while before they showed a flicker of comprehension.

“Am I a pris’ner?” he asked with a soft southern drawl.

“Yep. You’re my prisoner, seeing as it’s just you and me and I got the guns.”

The reb’s eyes flashed around in astonishment. “Nobody alive but me and a dad-blamed Yankee?”

“That’s right,” George replied. “Nobody alive but me and a cotton-pickin’ reb.”

The blue eyes narrowed and glared at George. “If I’m gonna die, I ain’t dyin’ next to no Yankee!” He slapped George’s hand away from the wad of coat sleeve pressed against his belly and struggled to move away, to shove himself up the creek bank on his back.

George bristled. “Well, maybe I’m not so pleased with your company, neither!”

The boy gave up his squirming, his face contorted in pain.

“Besides, it doesn’t look like either of us can do much about giving the other some room, does it?” George replaced the wad of sleeve on the boy’s wound.

The reb pushed his hand away again and pressed on the cloth himself. “Oh, my gut hurts! Like fire! Whadya have to do it for?”

“What’d you have to stab me for?”

“’Cause yer a Yank — the enemy!”

“Well, you’re the enemy, too.”

They scrutinized each other’s faces in silence. A moment later George asked: “So what’s your name?”

The reb looked like he wasn’t going to answer at first. Then he said, “Ethan. Ethan Langford Pitt.”

“That’s some name, Ethan Langford Pitt.”

“Well, I like it, so don’t y’all be makin’ fun of it!”

“I’m not. I just said it was some name. Mine’s dull. Just plain old George Dunn. I got a brother named Peter. You got any brothers or sisters?”

Ethan merely grunted.

After another moment of awkward silence George said, “What do you say we get out of this creek and dry off? There’s so many of us in it, it’s not even running anymore.”

“Okay.”

With his good leg and arm, George pushed and shoved his way up the bank. Every few inches he stopped to drag Ethan’s shoulders up while Ethan pushed with his feet. The blond boy grimaced and bit back cries of pain. At last they were clear of the murky water and lay, exhausted, side by side on the soft green grass.

The smoke was lifting gradually and George’s nostrils didn’t burn so much from the sulphur hanging in the black powder. The low clouds from last night’s rain were breaking up and George could see patches of blue sky way up high above the layers of smoke and mist and cloud.

“D’ya think someone’ll find us, George?”

“Sooner or later.”

“And they’ll take us home?”

“I’m sure of it. With wounds like this, we won’t be fighting again any time soon.”

Ethan was silent a few moments, then asked tentatively, “D’ya think I’m gonna die, George?”

Startled, George replied, “I dunno.”

“I don’t wanna die. I promised my ma I wouldn’t.”

George didn’t know what to say to that. “I didn’t promise anybody anything,” he said finally. “I just joined up and went. I was in Independence, trying to find my brother and go to Oregon. But I couldn’t find him. So for a while nobody knew what became of me. I wrote home soon as I could, so my folks would know and they could get word to Peter.”

“That’s good.”

Ethan was silent for a while. George thought he might have heard a bird or two twitter in the nearby trees. That was a good sign, when the birds came back.

“Do y’all believe in God, George?”

“Yeah. Of course I do.”

“What do ya think heaven’s like? Is it just like they say — all beautiful and perfect and no troubles and no pain?”

“I suppose, since that’s what the Bible says.”

“It sure’d be nice if it were true. It sure’d be nice if it were true for right here and now on earth, wouldn’t it? There wouldn’t be this stupid war. I shouldn’t oughta be here a-dyin’ and neither should you.”

“I suppose. My mother always said she’s happy things aren’t so perfect. Think how dull life would be if everything was always perfect.”

Ethan gaped at him with those blue eyes of his big and round like his mouth. “She figgers heaven’s dull?”

“She never said that exactly.”

“Sho’nuff sounds like it!” The exclamation left Ethan cramped and breathless with pain. When he finally spoke again, his voice was weaker. “I think you oughta pray for your mamma’s soul.”

“I haven’t prayed since my folks made me go to Sunday school, except when it was my turn to say grace at dinner. Once I read about Mr. Thomas Jefferson’s point of view, that a man can be a good man without him having to be religious. I cottoned to that right off. Even called it quits with church-going. My folks weren’t none too pleased, but I was a man by then, so they couldn’t force me. The way I figure it, if I was to start praying now because I’m in trouble, I’d have to be a hypocrite. If God is what the Good Book says He is, I figure He’d rather have me honest than trying to fool everybody just for looks. I sure couldn’t fool Him.”

“But how’ll you be saved if you don’t believe? I want you to be saved, George, so we can be friends together in heaven. I’m afraid to go by myself. I’ll pray for you, if you want I should.”

George felt a lump form in his throat as he watched the earnest moisture make Ethan’s blue eyes shine. “Thanks, Ethan. Go ahead, if you want, I don’t mind. But no amount of praying will save a man God don’t want in heaven, our preacher told us. I’m just a man, and no matter how hard I try, I’m gonna mess up now and then. So I can’t ever be good enough. I have to rely on His grace to get me into heaven. So I’ll just be the best man I can be and leave the rest up to Him.”

“I guess I never thought about it quite that way before.”

George noticed the fading energy in his new friend’s voice. He remembered what the camp doctor had said about shock. He had to keep Ethan talking, keep him from passing out. He swallowed hard, fighting back a sudden surge of pain from the stump of his leg right up to his spine.

“Well, just think,” he began. “If my ma’s right, if heaven’s perfect, wouldn’t you get tired of having everything you want all the time? There wouldn’t be anything to wish for. I like wishing.”

“God’d keep it in’erestin’, wouldn’t He?”

“I dunno.”

Ethan tried to lift his head to look at his belly. “I don’t think I’ve stopped bleedin’ yet, George. And I gotta pass some water.”

“Go ahead. I won’t look.” George turned his face away while Ethan struggled to turn on his side. He could hear him grunt and suck air through his teeth. He knew Ethan was in agony and he hated himself for being the cause of it. His shoulder didn’t bother him that much, but his leg throbbed and burned constantly. “I wish I could jump up and run away from the pain,” he said as Ethan turned back, finished. “But I suppose that would just make it worse, huh?” He chuckled with self-mockery.

“I wish I could sleep or pass out or somethin’. At least I wouldn’t feel nothin’.”

“Our doc said not to sleep. Because that’s when you go into shock and die.”

“I’m startin’ to wish I would die. It hurts so bad. And everythin’s all turnin’ and spinnin’. I’m scared I might throw up.”

“I hope you don’t. It won’t do your gut any good. Maybe just hold your head still and close your eyes.”

Ethan tried it.

“Any better?”

“Yeah. Better. It’s all black. Nothin’ there to spin around. I’m just floatin’.”

George brushed a fly from his cheek and raised his eyes to the sky. There was a lot more blue now. Only a few white cotton ball clouds drifted slowly along. The smoke was gone from the meadow, but it hung still as death in the trees.

“That’s what it’s like after you die,” George said softly. “Just like sleeping in pitch black silence. No explosions, no fire flashes, no bad dreams. Nothing. You don’t even know you’re sleeping until somebody wakes you up. Except it’s not your mamma this time. It’s God.”

“How long ‘til He wakes you, George?”

“I dunno.”

“Then what?”

“Then heaven, I suppose. Or the eternal fire, depending on what He’s got written in the Book about you.”

“I think I’m goin’ to hell, `cause I feel like I’m on fire already.”

“Naw, you’re not goin’ to hell. You haven’t done anything so terrible. You’re just a kid.”

“I’ve kilt people in this war. I tried to kill you.”

“I tried to kill you, too. Wherever you’re going, I’m going.”

“Well,” Ethan said with a brave smile, “at least we’ll have good comp’ny.”

George laughed. “Who wants to go to heaven anyway? Too gosh-darned boring! We’d have nothin’ to do but sit around and have our every wish granted every second of every day.” “

Yeah,” Ethan agreed, sliding like a canoe into the stream of George’s vision. “Pretty soon we’d run outa wishes.”

“Yeah. Then what? Boring eternity. Forever bored.”

“Heaven’s so perfect, we’d be perfectly bored!” Ethan howled with laughter even as he clutched his belly in agony.

George crowed in near hysteria. Their laughter died down gradually, like applause for a delightful play. They lay together, chests heaving until their giggles dribbled away.

Drained, George allowed his eyes to close and rested. He slipped in and out of sleep for how long he did not know. He dreamed that the spring grass had grown long and lush about him. He blinked at the ripened seed heads waving in the breeze above him and squinted at the sun hanging high and bright in the clear blue sky. Then his brother’s face was smiling down at him and his hand was reaching for him.

“George. C’mon, George, it’s time to go.”

Smiling, George answered, “Okay. Just let me get Ethan.” He reached his arm out and tapped Ethan’s outstretched hand. “Come on, Ethan. It’s time to go.” When he got no response he pulled himself from the dream and tapped Ethan’s hand again.

Still Ethan did not respond. George struggled to lift himself up onto his good elbow and look more closely at his friend. Ethan’s crystal blue eyes were wide open, staring at him unblinking. His peach-fuzzed jaw was slack, and his lips were parted slightly as if he were about to speak.

“Ethan?” George squeezed the soldier’s arm and shook it. The blood-soaked wad of sleeve rolled off his belly and onto the grass. He pressed his hand against the chest. There was no rise and fall of breath. He found the artery in the boy’s neck but no blood pulsed there. He waved a hand in front of the pale face. Ethan was already gone. “Aw, Ethan . . . .” George slumped back into the short spring grass. The blue sky above blurred and shimmered as tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks to his ears.

It was April now, he was sure of it. He wondered how long it would take for them to be found. He wondered if the grass would grow long and lush around their bodies before anyone came.

With a start he realized that he had never asked Ethan where he came from or what his life was like before the war. Sighing, he figured it didn’t really matter anymore where Ethan was from. It only mattered where he had gone. George didn’t know how long it would take, but he knew that from this battlefield jump-off point, he would follow Ethan there.

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