Chapter 5

As I trudge up the hill, my face is in the process of deciding what emotions to feel.  Fear, anger, guilt, …nothing.  The smell of gunpowder is still raw in my throat, like a spreading wildfire, burning everything. I almost trip as I let my foot plunge through the somber air.  Slowly, I tilt my head back upright to see a permanent nightmare-giving sight.

My face is ghostly pale as my knees crumble to ashes.  I feel a hot, salty tear stream down my face, into my gaping mouth, as I take in the view, helplessly.  The field was once a calm, tranquil place until the blue uniforms of the Union and the gray of the Confederates invaded.  Now, bodies lay strewn like scattered leaves, tinged in a deep, crimson red.  My eyes desperately search the ground, for a familiar face, a friend of color.  There's too many bodies, there’s too many bodies! screams my conscience.  It’s all your fault! my guilt wails.  Just give up, pleads my whole body, tired from the grief, battle, and decision making.  Not seeing a familiar face, I curl up in a ball and slowly cry myself to sleep as the guilt eats away at my body.

A friendly face is giving me an assuring smile as I tremble in fear, on the verge of crying.  “Benson, what about our families?  What about us?  Anything can happen out there, in the fields of Gettysburg,” I say, trying not to make my voice crack like a china glass.

“Listen, we’re fighting for the right cause.  This can be our last battle.  After this, we can go around, sharing stories of how we both survived Gettysburg.  Think of the all the amazed and awed faces when we say we lasted until July 3!” but Benson’s eyes are hollow and somber.  We both know all too well the possibility of death once we step out onto those fields.  Anything can happen when at war.  He plasters on a smile and says, “C’mon, we’re in this together.  We’re pals who got each other’s back, understood?”  All I can do is nod instinctively.

“We’re being bombarded! Everyone take cover!” shouts an anonymous voice. 

“Benson!” I shriek. I scan the area, searching for my friend when I’m pulled to the ground.  Before I can think or speak, I see Benson scooting to the safety of a trench, but I can’t move.  I’m frozen in the spot until I see Benson uncontrollably flapping his arms in my direction.  I snap out of the trance as all the screams and screeches of men shatter my ears as if they are made of glass.  I scurry over to the trench on my stomach like my life depends on it, which it does.  Benson and I lay in the trench, side by side, for what seems like hours. 

Finally, it stops.  All is silent once again.  Benson slowly lifts himself up, and I follow.  I look at my surroundings, astonished at the little damage compared to what I imagined.  I see other blue uniforms walking around, watchful of the ground, looking for any bodies, I guess.

 Benson rushes over to the spot we were before the bombardment.  He turns in circles, like a predator circling its prey, searching the ground.  I question what he’s looking for until he runs in one direction and picks up a brown pack.  I recognize that this is the bag he stashes extra food that he never finishes.  Benson starts probing through the bag until he takes out a few hard “crackers” and a chunk of stale bread.  He hands me two “crackers” and splits the bread in half, handing me a piece.  We plop down on the ground, eating silently, pondering over what just happened. 

I’m finished with my small meal in about ten minutes.  With nothing to do, my mind starts to drift as I stare at the sky.  I notice the sun’s already starting its slow descent and guess it’s about 2, 2:30 in the afternoon.  I sigh and continue to take in and examine the cloud animals for about the next half hour.

Suddenly, “There’s more Confederates on the way!” shouts a brother in arms, breaking my gaze off of the clouds.  Benson’s already on his feet, looking hysterically, like a wild animal in the direction the shout just came from.  There are, in fact, more gray uniforms in the distance.  Benson and I give each other one look and get into our positions for battle.  We run to a trench and lay down amongst other soldiers as the Yankee infantry takes the Confederates from the center.

 It’s only 15 minutes before an estimated few hundred of gray uniforms are still charging toward us, getting closer by the minute.  I panic and freeze again, not being able to move.  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Benson give a war cry as he races towards the Confederates along with other Union soldiers.  I’m startled by the war cry and snap out of the trance.  I spot a Confederate sword fighting another Union soldier.  I need to help out a fellow soldier, I think frantically.  With trembling hands, I prep my rifle quickly and prop it against the ground.  I make sure I have the right aim as my finger starts putting pressure on the trigger.

It’s like the whole world slows as the pressure on the trigger increases.  Just as the pressure is at the max, the Confederate falls with a sickening thump, dead with a sword stuck in his chest.  Behind the gray uniform stands a blue uniform, his back facing me.  It’s too late now; there’s no turning back. The bullet’s already flying, in search of a home.  “WATCH OUT!” I screech, my voice shrill.  The soldier turns around just in time for me to see his face as the bullet finds its home.  He grabs the lower right side of his stomach as a maroon rose starts blooming.  The aghast face of the soldier is there for two seconds as his body goes limp and slumps to the ground.  My final memory is the face of Benson, frozen in shock and death. 

“AHHHH!!!!!!!” I wake up in a cold sweat, my whole uniform sticking to my body.  I’m gasping for air when I freeze with an icy terror blossoming in my chest.  There’s a pale, ghostly figure standing at my feet.  He’s dressed in what seems as if it’s a Union uniform as my eyes slowly make their way up to see his face.  I stop when I see a dark blotch on the lower right side of the figure’s stomach.  It stands out compared to the paleness of the body.  I gulp as tears start flooding my eyes.  I look at the ghost’s face as I whisper, “Benson…”

I blink to hold the tears back, but it just makes them flow even more. He’s gone, like the wind.  I cry as I stare at my hands, which I imagine are drenched in his blood.  I curl up into a ball and sob uncontrollably as I rock back and forth like an old rocking chair.  “Why did it have to be you? Why?” I wail at the wind.

“I’ll never forgive myself,” I mumble through muffled sobs as I rock back and forth forever.

-Irene Montanini