Tear In Time (23 page)

  Beyond
the farmhouse, the densely populated forest began to show signs of life as
Corp. Lewis Jafferies frantically dodged tree limbs and brush. Leaping over
stone walls, and hurtling over small streams and minor depressions, he
negotiated his way through the old growth of oak trees, as he loaded his rifle
on the run. With anxiety feeding his fear, he moved solely by instinct as he
ran from impending death.

  Just a
few steps behind him was Corp. Jafferies’ platoon of battle-worn men. Scared
and near exhaustion, they too operated on instinct as they followed him, as if
connected by cord. Still further behind them, the shouts of many more men in
retreat could be heard in the distance.

  Corp.
Jafferies broke into the clearing in front of the farmhouse. Out of breath and
his mind racing, he paused a moment to gain his bearings while his men caught
up. Scanning the landscape in front of him, a sense of overwhelming desperation
overcame him as he mentally counted out the hundreds of wounded soldiers that
waited their turn for treatment while the hot sun bore down on them
mercilessly, baking them in their uniforms and drying blood quickly as it
flowed from their wounds.

 
Evading capture while in retreat was difficult enough. Evading capture while
evacuating the wounded seemed an impossible task. As his platoon entered the
field and stood beside him, any relief they felt from surviving the battle now
appeared as a distant memory, as capture now seemed a real possibility.

  “Corp.
Jafferies, Johnny Reb is on our tail. What's going to happen to all these men?”
a young private asked. “Surely we can't take ’em all with us.” Pvt Carrington
asked.

  “We
ain’t. At least, not yet,” Corp. Jafferies replied. Quickly, he divided his men
into two groups and shouted out new orders. “You men go to the back of the
farmhouse and build some breastworks as quickly as you can. You others start to
help those of the wounded that can walk to the other side of the farmhouse out
of the line of fire. Give ’em rifles, pistols, or even rocks to throw. If they
can walk, they can shoot. Any effort will help.”

  “Corp.
Jafferies, we'll be overrun by Johnny Reb shortly. We can't possibly get all
these men hid by the time the fightin' starts,” Pvt. Carrington blurted out in
reaction.

  “That
is a fact, private, but we ain’t just handin' em over for capture either.
They're going to have to take 'em from us. Besides, once the other companies
see our efforts, they'll join us in defending these wounded men. With a few
good volleys across this field, we might just change Johnny Reb’s mind about
chasing us any further.”

  From
inside the farmhouse, David and the other doctors worked on their patients
while keeping a watch on the tree line. As Corp Jafferies emerged, Dr. Rogers
was the first to notice the harried soldier as he stood at the edge of the open
field and rested.

  “Dr. Warner,
I see one. I see a soldier at the edge of the field. We're being overrun,” Dr
Rogers shouted out in fear.

 
Quickly, David and Dr. Weiss spun around and looked out the window. The sight
sent chills through David’s body as he confirmed Dr. Rogers’ observation. As
fear set in, his mind began to react with irrational thoughts. Slipping further
into paranoia and delusion, he caught the telltale signs of hysteria before he
reacted out of control. Pulling his mind back from that dangerous state, he regained
control of himself and began to think about their situation logically.

 
“Doctors, those are our boys. By the looks of things, they’re helping the
wounded. We'll have to finish here quickly and help them evacuate as many as we
can,” David said, the tone of his voice showing the strain of the situation. He
then turned to Dr. Weiss and continued, “Doctor, can you close this man's arm?”

  “Yes,
doctor. Where are you going?” Dr. Weiss asked, the fear projecting from his
eyes.

  “Don't
worry. Dr. Rogers and I are going out to help move the wounded. When you're
done closing here, I'll need you and a few others to pack up our supplies. Do
you think you can do that for me?” David ordered with respect, then added,
“Don't worry; you'll be alright. We have time to get away if things unravel
before we're done.”

  “Yes
sir,” Dr. Weiss replied simply. Turning back to his work, he nervously watched
as the other two doctors exited.

  David
and Dr. Rogers moved swiftly through the front doorway and watched as more
Union soldiers stepped out of the woods. In amazed fascination, the two watched
as an endless sea of dirty and bedraggled soldiers flowed out of the woods.
Even at their distance from the farmhouse, David could hear the commanding officers
call out the orders to evacuate the wounded. David felt his inexperience
beginning to surface as he searched his mind for his next move. With fear and
anxiety confusing his logic, he stood momentarily paralyzed, unable to think
and unable to speak.

  “Enjoying
the view, lads?” Dr. Morgan called out from behind the two on the porch.

 
Quickly, both spun around, startled by the old doctor’s sudden appearance.

  “Ah,
ah, no, sir,” Dr. Weiss stammered as he searched his mind for an excuse. “We
were on our way to help evacuate the wounded. Sir, there are so many of them.
What are we going to do?”

  “Move
them out one at a time, lad. That's all we can do,” Dr. Morgan replied. “Load
as many as you can into the ambulances, then move the rest as far as you can
behind the farmhouse. I suspect our boys will establish a skirmish line from
behind this house as we try to evacuate everyone.”

  “How
do you know they'll do that, sir?” Dr. Weiss asked.

  “It's
what I'd do, lad.” Dr. Morgan responded. “Now, let's start with the boys
closest to us. Move the ones with the minor wounds first.”

  “Dr.
Morgan, what will happen if we can't get the wounded off the field before the
Confederates appear?” David asked apprehensively.

  “I
suspect they'll all be taken prisoner,” Dr. Morgan replied bluntly. He looked
into David’s eyes and could almost feel his sadness. “I'm sorry, lad: there's
only so much we can accomplish in such a short period of time. Time is our
enemy.”

  David shook
his head in acknowledgment. The three turned and hurried off the porch, and
began their race against time. One by one, they helped any of the wounded who
could walk to the rear of the farmhouse and beyond. The cries of pain and agony
were deafening as their open and bleeding wounds suffered from the constant
aggravating movements. Within minutes, word of retreat spread quickly through
those who were conscious, creating throngs of frightened humanity racing for
safety.

  While
large detachments of soldiers helped the wounded from certain capture, other
detachments moved old farm wagons, logs, and boulders to the quickly forming
skirmish line. Spread far out from each side of the farmhouse, the breastworks
were barely high enough to offer much protection. The unlucky few who could not
find shelter behind a solid structure searched for natural depressions across
the open field to help hide them from the enemy’s full view. In a relatively
short time, the gentle, picturesque land was transformed into a twisted and
contorted scene that cut across the open field like an angry scar.

  Any
man who could hold a weapon, whether healthy or wounded, clung to his rifle as
they prepared their last stand. Staring down their sights to the far side of
the battlefield, they watched a small detachment of soldiers as they continued
to evacuate the wounded.

  David
had just laid a wounded man down by his comrades, and was quickly approaching
from behind the skirmish line when he heard the first shot. Instinctively
flinching, he scanned the far tree line for the enemy but saw only the
blue-coated wounded laying at the distant end of the field.

  As
time seemed to slow, David again heard a loud crack from a rifle. Slowly and
deliberately, he watched as the far-off wounded fought through their pain and
began to crawl away from the tell-tale sound.

  Again,
David heard another rifle discharge: but this time it was much closer. He
scanned the skirmish line in front of him and immediately saw a cloud of heavy
smoke, and an impetuous private hiding behind a makeshift wall of stone,
reloading his rifle.

  “Hold
your fire,” David yelled out, startling himself by his own authoritative tone.
More out of logic than from rank, he continued, “What the hell are you firing
at? Wait ’til you see them at least.” Turning to the sergeant in charge up the
line, he called out another order.

 
“Sergeants, tell your men to fire on my command. Place your fastest shooters
behind these well-protected rocks. Have them line up cap, ball and powder in
front of them. I want them to be able to shoot as fast as they can shoot
accurately,” David ordered.

  “Yes
sir,” the sergeants immediately replied. As they quickly reorganized their part
of the skirmish line, David picked up a spare rifle and loaded it beside the
men now waiting his orders.

 
Glancing nervously over at David, a young private noticed the unusual sight of
a superior officer loading a rifle and taking aim upon the enemy. Feeling the
private’s eyes boring through him, David turned and looked directly into his
eyes.

 
“What?” David said abruptly, feeling a bit insecure about the stare from this
young stranger.

  “Sir?”
The young private answered, startled by David’s question.

  “What
are you staring at me for?” David responded.

  “Well,
sir, I ain’t never seen a lieutenant firing next to me, is all,” the private
answered nervously.

  David
smiled slightly and replied, “If you see me doing something wrong, let me know,
ok?”

  “Sir?”
the private replied in confusion.

  David
was about to respond when he caught the sight of the enemy out of the corner of
his eye. He turned and quickly took aim at the flood of gray-coated men pouring
from the tree line into the open field. Charging into the field, the wounded
Union soldiers created a barrier that the enemy now needed to negotiate.
Leaping over the wounded, the Confederate soldiers’ progress slowed, as they
tripped and stumbled through the men laying in agony.

  David
immediately recognized the situation as an opportunity to fire on nearly
stationary targets.

  “Fire!
Shoot 'em now,” David called out frantically.

  The
order to fire barely left David’s lips. Just as he pulled his own trigger, he
heard the deafening sound of a hundred rifles discharging in unison. In the
distance, he watched as the man he took aim upon dropped to his knees. David
had killed his first man in battle. Another time, he might have been consumed
by emotion over the taking of another's life, but this was war and he had
little time to reload, let alone ponder the impact of the event.

 
Quickly, with his weapon reloaded, he took careful aim as Confederates replaced
the ones that had fallen. Again he pulled the trigger and hit his mark. All
down the line, his fellow soldiers were doing the same with deadly accuracy and
efficiency. In seconds, hundreds of Confederate soldiers fell in battle as they
emptied into the open field, adding to the already mounting human barrier of
death and suffering.

  The
sweltering heat under the midday sun produced torrents of sweat that hampered
the reloading of the soldiers’ weapons. David wiped his hands on his
sweat-soaked pants and continued to reload, powder first, wadding and ball
next, then percussion cap. He hauled the heavy fifteen pound rifle up upon the rocks
in front of him, took quick aim, and pulled the trigger. Through the heavy
cloud of smoke that discharged out the end of the barrel, David watched as the
mini-ball hit its mark at the far end of the field.

 
Further down the line, the stronger, more able-bodied men reloaded and fired at
an incredible five shots per minute. The wounded men that were hauled to the
skirmish line, bleeding and in pain, fired at a much lesser rate, some only
able to discharge their weapon once every minute: but fire they did.