Aborigines
"Here they come," Captain McGuiness mutters next to you. "Here they come! Over the hill!" he repeats, much more loudly. The call was entirely unnecessary. Every member of the much-depleted and dog-tired 2nd Company can see the mass of blue charging forward.
"Hold fire!" orders the lieutenant. It is all the boys could do to not pull their triggers; the oncoming Yanks were out of range, but panic spread in the wind like plague at the sight of impending death. When the swarm grew close enough, the lieutenant shouted "Open fire!" and the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder quickly replaced the lingering stench of carnage left after the initial artillery bombardment. Minie balls hissed through the ranks of both sides, the blue and the grey, like angry hornets, some finding their marks, others passing harmlessly through the air. The charging soldiers were near enough now that their massed footfalls were audible even over the cacophony of rifle fire. One man makes it to the lip of the trench and with his bayonet slays the man beneath him. The howls of hurt men fill the air and all seems lost, futile.
You awaken with a start. For a moment the ragged canvas of the army tent above you is unfamiliar and you can still hear the screams of the dying, but it recedes with the fog of slumber as you sit up and groggily rub your eyes. The cold of the early dawn has penetrated your shelter, and you slide into your blue army coat quickly before tugging on your boots and donning your gunbelt. The last thing you grab is your hat before emerging from the tent and into the gray morning. The rousing aroma of sizzling bacon and salted pork makes your stomach growl in anticipation, but what you really need is a cup of coffee. All around men are rising from their slumber, already dreading the hours of riding and heat that lay before them.
"Are we in Arizona yet?" you hear one of the green recruits ask a more grizzled cavalryman, who happened to be a former rebel like yourself.
"How the hell would I know?" the man replies, evidently grouchy from waking up, or perhaps intolerant to meaningless questions. That was the hardest thing about being a recruit: dealing with the grit and overall unfriendly demeanor of the older hands. It was different under fire, which most of the men had yet to experience.
You continue walking, savoring the early chill while it lasts, for before long it will be aught but choking dust and scorching heat. The cooking fire is just up ahead; you can see the pot of boiling coffee, attended by what had to be the most incompetent army cook this side of Chicago. On your right, Captain Reyes opens the flap of his tent and calls your name.
"Denver! Come here. I'd like a word."
"Hold fire!" orders the lieutenant. It is all the boys could do to not pull their triggers; the oncoming Yanks were out of range, but panic spread in the wind like plague at the sight of impending death. When the swarm grew close enough, the lieutenant shouted "Open fire!" and the acrid smell of burnt gunpowder quickly replaced the lingering stench of carnage left after the initial artillery bombardment. Minie balls hissed through the ranks of both sides, the blue and the grey, like angry hornets, some finding their marks, others passing harmlessly through the air. The charging soldiers were near enough now that their massed footfalls were audible even over the cacophony of rifle fire. One man makes it to the lip of the trench and with his bayonet slays the man beneath him. The howls of hurt men fill the air and all seems lost, futile.
You awaken with a start. For a moment the ragged canvas of the army tent above you is unfamiliar and you can still hear the screams of the dying, but it recedes with the fog of slumber as you sit up and groggily rub your eyes. The cold of the early dawn has penetrated your shelter, and you slide into your blue army coat quickly before tugging on your boots and donning your gunbelt. The last thing you grab is your hat before emerging from the tent and into the gray morning. The rousing aroma of sizzling bacon and salted pork makes your stomach growl in anticipation, but what you really need is a cup of coffee. All around men are rising from their slumber, already dreading the hours of riding and heat that lay before them.
"Are we in Arizona yet?" you hear one of the green recruits ask a more grizzled cavalryman, who happened to be a former rebel like yourself.
"How the hell would I know?" the man replies, evidently grouchy from waking up, or perhaps intolerant to meaningless questions. That was the hardest thing about being a recruit: dealing with the grit and overall unfriendly demeanor of the older hands. It was different under fire, which most of the men had yet to experience.
You continue walking, savoring the early chill while it lasts, for before long it will be aught but choking dust and scorching heat. The cooking fire is just up ahead; you can see the pot of boiling coffee, attended by what had to be the most incompetent army cook this side of Chicago. On your right, Captain Reyes opens the flap of his tent and calls your name.
"Denver! Come here. I'd like a word."