Most Hallowed Ground (standard:drama, 3915 words)
Author: Peyton L. Hughes	Added: Dec 22 2000	Views/Reads: 3561/2237	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Set in the Civil War. A Union regiment is forced to protect a peach orchard from and overwhelming Confederate force, and for someone reason cannot receive ammunition or reinforcements.

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With that, the Union regiment, all men from the counties of western
Massachusetts, slowly and cautiously entered the dense thicket that 
thrived among the roots of the lively peach trees.  These men were 
experienced soldiers; that is they could load their rifles and fire 
without the fear and concern felt by novice troops.  Their experience 
in the heat of battle was limited, however, their only real fighting 
having taken place attempting to burn down a bridge in western Virginia 
four months before.  They now slowly crept through the darkend orchard, 
the trees so closely grown that light only hit the orcahrd floor in a 
minority of locations, providing the emotion of fear and loneliness in 
the hearts of the soldiers.  The young men to the front walked slowly, 
their rifles in firing positon at their hips, their fingers sweaty and 
tightly gripped.  Not a sound but the snapping of twigs beneath heavy 
boots broke the silence in the orchard.  It was not long before the 
edge of the orchard was no longer visible, and Lynch began to wonder 
how thick the orchard actually was. 

Suddenly their came an exclaim from the front of the formation; a young
soldier had fallen into a dried streambed.  Lynch cursed and quickly 
moved past his men to the front, peering down into perhaps a thigh-deep 
ditch that had, in his mind, probably been an irrigation canal for the 
peach trees, and had dried up after the orcahrd was abandoned.  Lynch 
quickly realized he had found the perfect defensive stronghold, and 
sending two men along each side of the ditch, he told his men to find 
every log, rock, and branch around and to form breastworks.  Underneath 
the playful darkness and the rose petals, the regiment slowly erected a 
wall of logs and rocks, and the five hundred Massachusetts men 
stretched out along the ditch, prepared their bayonets and guns, and 
waited in silence. 

Lynch checked his pocket watch; a gift from his wife for his
thirty-fifth birthday.  It was beautiful, a bright, vivid gold with 
diamond encased numerals and hour and minute hands.  It seemed to glow 
like a lantern, Lynch had always thought, and it was his most prized 
possesion.  He planned to give it to his son when his son reached 
maturity.  Lynch smiled, the gold pocket watch reminding him of his 
times at home; his farmhouse, his cornfields, the warm summer days 
spent in the fields working with his family and friends.  How he longed 
for those days again.  He knew, however, in the back reaches of his 
mind, that it would be an eternity before he returned to Massachusetts, 
his home, his family. 

Four.  An hour had been spent in the ditch.  Lynch surveyed the thickets
that lay before the dried creekbed for what seemed like the thouandth 
time, attempting to make out the silhouette of a rebel sodlier, but 
just like the thousandth time before, there was nothing.  A dead 
slience.  Not even the sound of gunfire.  It was not the kind of 
silence that was appreciated, it was the kind that caused young troops 
to get ancy, to take chances, to make mistakes.  Lynch knew this.  He 
had been young before. 

Five.  Still no sign of trouble.  A dead silence.  Not a bird whistling,
not a twig snapping.  A dead, utterably annoying silence.  As much as 
Lynch feared it, he wanted the rebels to come.  He wanted to fight. He 
wanted to prove he was an able commander.  If true, if this orchard was 
in fact of importance to the balance of the battle, Lynch wanted to be 
there, in the thick of the melee.  He had always been that way, but 
never had he been presented with the situation he desired, to fight and 
make his name a staple of American bravery. 

Five-thirty.  The silence is broken.  A gunshot.  Rebel scouts towards
the southern end of the ditch.  Lynch leaped from his position and 
sprinted his way down the ditch.  Soon he saw too, several rebel 
scouts, perhaps three, in the shadow of the trees.  Those troops of his 
who were able to see them were in the process of reloading, their first 
volley indecisive.  A rebel fired, Lynch watching the blue smoke hover 
above the barrel of the rifle like a snake, the thud the bullet made 
hitting a log made Lynch jump.  A Union soldier fired, his shot 
striking the branches above the rebels, sending an avalanche of rose 
petals upon their caps.  The three gray-clad men stepped back, fired in 
sucession, and retook their hidding places in the shadowy thicket.  
Lynch halted his men's fire.  He knew the rebs had discovered his 
position, and a larger force would be headed there way. 

Six.  Silence returned.  The Union troops stood stiff, armed, ready. 
Young men, barely twenty, arms trembling, muscles tensed, fingers 
aching.  Through their minds ran the memories of their families, the 
good times of their childhoods.  These memories faded with each trigger 
pull.  Each boy, now a man, lost a part of his youth with every day he 
spent fighting.  Their minds were a jumble of millions of different 
thoughts: what do I do if a reb were to stand before me, ready to fire? 
 What would happen if I were to die today?  What would my family do?  
Would I be remembered?  What of my friends, my fellow soldiers?  
Questions with no answers.  The "men" lay, arms resting in the cliffs 
of the ditch, tightly holding their rifles, their youths slowly seeping 
from their pores with every second that ticked by on the pocket watch 
of their colonel. 

Six-fifteen.  Nothing.  Not a sound.  Eyes still glued to the shady
clearing that lay before the creekbed.  The branches of the peach tress 
swayed in the dusk breeze.  Rose petals, caught in the breeze, spun and 
danced as they slowly sputtered their way to the orchard floor.  Once 
reaching the ground, the petals lay softly, occasionally caught in a 
draft, and their dances renewed. 

A call from the left.  Rebels advancing.  The order to fire.  The
silence is broken by the thunderous hammering of three hundred rifles 
crackling simultaneously.  A blanket of smoke spread before them like a 
cloud.  Screams, groans, moans.  The Confederate line seemed to melted 
away before the young soldier's eyes.  Arms, legs, heads.  The soldiers 
quickly began to reload, bending low into the ditch.  The rebels stood 
dazed, but regained control within seconds of the rolling thunder.  
Suddenly a row of rifles arranegd itself in a long, uniform pattern.  
The order.  Muzzles flashing, the murderous sound of six hundred guns 
brought to bear upon fellow humans.  Screams.  The sound of splintering 
wood and logs.  The Union troops turned and raised their rifles above 
the breastworks.  The sudden image of shiny silver rifle barrels froze 
the rebs in the conflicting blue smokes.  The call for charge.  A surge 
of energy.  The infamous rebel yell.  Suddenly a wave of gray hits the 
wooden breastworks as the wave of blue bends back on itself. 

Man against man.  The bare essentials.  Rifles swung like clubs. 
Bayonets piercing soft human tissue, amongst the howling of pain.  A 
Union reserve rushes in, bayonets affixed.  They fire in the rebels 
faces, the rebels fall back behind the breastworks.  Union troops make 
a dashing charge, forcing the weary rebels back.  A howl of emotion 
emits form their chests.  The rebels stop and form battle formations.  
The rolling thunder rips through the Union soldiers like a hurricane, 
hurling them back into the creekbed.  Another rebel charge, some rebels 
are able to hop the berastworks and land in the ditch.  Union troops 
hurl themselves at the invaders, soldiers pushed down into the mud and 
their lives stomped out of them.  A Union regroup, and the southerners 
are discharged from the ditch.  The Union soldiers from a line of 
rifles, and fire all at once into the retreaters.  A cascade of rose 
petals falls from the branches of the peach trees onto the dead and 
wounded bodies that now littered the orchard. 

The south pulled back out of view, which was already constricted by the
floating smoke that was unable to escape due to the heavy branches.  
Each side was now in distance to taunt they other, but neither coudld 
see far enough to fire.  The Union soldiers screamed out, coaxing the 
rebels into another charge.  The rebels retaliated back with their own 
choice words. 

Neither side allowed treatemnt to reach the wounded soldiers who now lay
in the no man's land before the ditch.  If a medic were to attempt a 
rescue, is own life would be ended by the bulelt from the opposing 
side, no matter who the patient be.  The scream of the dying men filled 
the canopy of the orchard.  Each side sat quietly, trying to ignore the 
howls, yet unable to do so. 

Six-thirty.  The fight had only lasted fifteen minutes.  The rifle smoke
hung like a black curtain of death.  The orchard floor smothered in a 
thin layer of rose-colored petals.  The Confederates got set for 
another offensive; Yankee troops sat motionless in the dried creekbed 
tending to their injured.  Slowly under the smoke blanket, the rebels 
crept forward, Union troops ready for their inevitable clash. 

Six-forty-five.  A muzzle flash.  Instantly the smashing of thousands of
guns tore the peaceful orchard in two.  Each side tore away at each 
other with rifle fire.  The rebels lay on their stomachs beneath the 
smoke, firing at the heads and caps of Yankee troops.  Union soldeirs 
fired, reloaded behind the safety of wet dirt, rose, and fired again.  
A standstill.  Attrition.  Neither side wanted to move forward, yet 
neither wanted to fall back.  The orchard grew dark with smoke, and the 
day's remaining light slowly disappeared from the orchard floor. 

Confusion.  Not a soldier could see three yards in front of him. 
Soldiers began firing into smoke clouds and at muzzle flashes.  Slowly 
the gray lines inched forward.  Suddenly the arrival the north had been 
waiting for.  Two cannon were dragged into clearings behind the ditch, 
and armed immediately.  Hours after requesting it's presence, the tool 
Lynch needed had finally arrived.  In minutes the cannons fired into 
the smoke, spraying shot across the rebel lines.  Limbs and bodies 
torn.  Gaping holes quickly formed in the advancing rebel formations.  
Confusion.  Southern troops began running in every direction, trying to 
avoid the now seemingly ever-present blast from the cannons.  Some 
rebel soldiers so lost in the smoke retreated straight back into Union 
lines.  Other troops ran into each other, mistaking them for an enemy 
and killing them.  More confusion. 

Seven-thirty.  The smoke still remained.  Nightfall was approaching,
with each side nursing its wounds.  Neither troops knew the overall 
condition of the battle outside the orchard, neither cared.  
Throughtout the night the wounded lay, covered by rose petals and 
caught in the chilly April breeze.  Occasionally a shot would ring out 
across the dead night air, and suddenly twenty identical flashes of 
light could be seen.  As soon as it started, it stopped; a reminder to 
both soldiers of how close their proximities were. 

The night was unseasonably cold.  The bodies of the wounded froze to the
ground.  Their screams pierced the midnight air.  The soldiers slept 
uneasily, if they slept at all.  Most men slept with their rifles in 
their hands.  A post was kept awake to keep an eye out for moonlight 
offensives.  This post was replaced every hour.  The night slowly 
slipped away in the orchard. 

Four.  A sharp crackle.  Yankee soldiers awake with a jolt from their
light naps.  The rebels were attacking under the moonlight.  They 
advaned quickly through the piles of wounded soldiers.  The Union 
troops grabbed their rifles and quickly lined up in firing formations.  
A quick, bright flash of light.  The rolling thunder illuminates the 
faces of the charging soldiers before returning them to darkness.  The 
attack slowed the rebels, but they returned fire heavily, and upon 
firing, rushed forward. 

Sharp crackles, seemingly every possible second.  Fire at will.  The
Yankees were pressed down in the ditch by the overwhelming Confederate 
forces, formingly seemingly from the devilish shadows of the peach 
trees.  The cannon fires.  A sudden gasp.  A hole.  Union troops fire 
into the flanks of the advancing rebels, who confused, freeze.  The 
cannons continue their murderous rampage.  The Union troops, 
outnumbered and blinded by the darkness, could not tell where the 
attacks were originating from.  Suddenly a breakthrough.  Rebels pour 
into the ditch, flanking unsuspecting Union soldiers. 

The ditch begins to fill with bodies.  Union forces, surrounded, hold
their ground.  Union troops form the left try to force their way 
through the hole, only in doing so a gap was formed in the breastworks. 
 The south breaksthrough again.  Sharp cracks, like a whip, every 
second.  Men screaming.  Four rebels run up to the barrel of a cannon.  
The main gunner is gutted by a bayonet and tossed into the ditch, where 
he is beaten by more Confederate soldiers.  The other pulls a pistol, 
fires quickly, striking a rebel in his shoulder.  Three quick shots.  
The gunner spins and falls.  The cannon is aimed down the ditch.  With 
the force of a tornado, the blast of the cannon rips down the ditch, 
striking the unsuspecting Union men in their backs and necks.  Total 
confusion.  Several Union troops fire at the cannon, two of the rebels 
struck by bullets, the other dives back into the ditch. 

Each shot from the rifle like lightning.  Men low on ammuntion using
their fists, rocks, and sticks.  At only one section had the rebels 
made it to the ditch, along the rest of the creekbed the rebels were 
held at bay by surpressing Union fire.  Each charge met with the 
rolling thunder.  A sudden burst.  Union troops rise from the ditch and 
charge forward.  The two forces met midway.  Each side fired into each 
other's faces.  Then without chances to reload, each side rammed 
forward, bayonets armed.  Groans, rebel yells, clashing steel.  A 
stalemate in no man's land. 

Five.  Rebels forced back from the ditch.  Each side lay back, firing
into each other constantly.  One could not stay silent and not hear the 
constant crackle of the rifle.  The smoke lay heavily between the 
forces, fighting it's own battle. 

Six.  Another rebel charge, only now under the sun.  The Union lines
bend, stretch, strain, hold.  The rolling thunder causing confusion and 
delay.  An hour since a horsemen had been sent for reinforcements.  
None had yet arrived.  The rebels inched their ways to the ditch, but 
could not suceed in breaking the Union's lines.  The cannons yell.  
Humans yell.  Yet the rebels keep coming.  No matter how often the 
Union liens forced back the grays, the grays keep coming. 

Seven.  Still no reinforcements.  Confederate troops still hitting the
breastworks.  Ammunition low.  A horsemen sent for ammunition as well 
as more reinforcements. 

Eight.  A body count.  Two hundred thirty-four.  More than two-thirds
gone.  The Union troops were demoralized, tired, weary, frustrated.  
Outnumbered, low ammunition.  The rebels kept coming, a dozen assaults 
so far, only one reaching the ditch, but each and every one hurled 
back. 

Nine.  Union troops load several guns, line them up, and fire them, one
after another.  But for every one Union soldier, there were three 
rebels.  For every Union rifle, there are three rebel rifles.  The sun 
shown brightly through the patches in the canopy of the orchard, formed 
by rifle fire.  It's light bore down upon the wounded soldiers, who lay 
amongst peach petals, rose and red.  Confederate troops were cared for 
by the advancing rebel medics.  Union soldiers were either ignored or 
shot.  More reinforcements are sent for; still none had arrived. 

Ten.  Another body count.  One hundred seventy-six.  The rebel attack
has slowed.  Each side exhausted, rests under the shade of the giant 
peach trees.  The Union soldiers are worried.  Five hours and still no 
arrival of the reinforcements they sent for.  They knew they were at a 
disadvantage.  Several young men had deserted, unable to deal with the 
continous assaults.  Tired, hungry, frightened. 

Eleven.  They heard it.  Marching.  The sodliers lined up quickly.  Then
they heard it.  The rebel yell, and from the thicket bounded hundreds 
of rebels.  They reached the ditch quickly.  Five rebels tackle a lone 
Yankee, beating him with their rifles.  Several Union men surrender, 
are taken out of the ditch, and promptly shot.  Mne pinned to the 
ground by bayonets.  Rifles howling.  The Union troops scramble out of 
the ditch and begin to sprint, dropping their rifles, their ammunition, 
their pride, their dignity. 

They run madly for the orchard edge.  A rifle will fire and a Yankee
will fall, shot in the back.  If he is still alive after the fall, he 
will be gutted by the chasing rebels.  Some Union men stop long enough 
to fire at their pursuers, then turn and run again.  They try not to 
look back, it will only slow them down.  The rebels follow close 
behind, taking every possible oppurtunity to take out a straggler or 
fire into the back of their prey.  The Union soldiers keep running.  
Panting heavily, lungs burning.  To stop is to die.  The rebel yell 
echoes through the orchard behind them. 

Sunlight.  The Union troops cross the road parallel to the orchard and
enter the knee-high grass field.  Before them lays a ridge.  Positioned 
on top is a line of soldiers in battle formation.  They wear blue 
uniforms.  Yankees.  Reinforcements.  A cheer arose from the fleeing 
Union troops.  Some turned, firing their rifles at their pursuers.  
Others ran up to try and get behind the reinforcements.  Yet the 
retreating men were not allowed to pass. 

Lynch caught a glance of the unit's commanding officer.  He remembered
that face from somewhere.  It seemed as though the commander was 
staring past his eyes; into the deep reaches of his mind.  Lynch grew 
uneasy.  Something was not right.  The Confederates behind had stopped 
along the road behind him.  They were confused about the situation 
unfolding before them.  Lynch stared back at the man.  He remembered.  
The man was his wife's former fiancee.  His wife had chosen him over 
this man.  Suddenly the man's troops raised their rifles, and took aim 
at Lynch's men.  Lynch froze, pulling the pocket watch his wife had 
given him and squeezing it in his cold palm.  The man raised his sword. 
 The troops before them waved their arms, feel to their knees, pleaded 
with them.  The man stared at Lynch.  Lynch glanced back.  He rose and 
turned his back.  He would rather gaze into the eyes of the "enemy" 
then watch as his men were slaughtered by his own countrymen.  Lynch 
pressed the watch against his heart.  The call.  The man's troops 
fired. 


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