JUNE 15, 1863
Don’t stay mad too long at the man next to you. He may just save
your life in the next scrap. And there will be a next one.
JUNE 15TH, AND it’s hot. There’s hardly a blade of grass or a bush in sight. The trees we felled before the Yanks came lay flat from the shelling. The dirt is as powdery as the loads we pour into muskets—like Ma’s flour after she sifts it for baking. Sifted. Pastor Dobbs preached that Satan would sift Peter like wheat. That couldn’t have been a pleasurable experience. It ain’t here, either.
Hog Fart returns from town early and hands me yesterday’s Vicksburg newspaper printed on wallpaper.
That ain’t a good sign.
“Got no money, and them boys just gonna get in trouble, anyway. I come on back to be with you, Lummy, that all right?”
I nod, but really, I’ve enjoyed not talking to anyone.
The little news rag has nothing of value except to laugh at the Yankee lies about our enormous casualties and how they run the river blockade with ease. True or not, doesn’t matter. We’re sifted down to bags of skin and bone with little food except the rats we catch. The Yanks could take us if they make one mad rush from all directions. If they do—oh, well.
James complains when they dole out rations. “Might as well eat it all in one bite. I might die today.” I eat a bit at a time to make it last. Either way, hunger pangs don’t go away.
Hog Fart begs, “Lummy, can you spare a bit of hardtack? I’m so hungry I could eat the slop out of a dead hog’s rear end.” I heave, but there’s nothing in my stomach to puke up. Hog Fart laughs. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”
“Shut the hell up or go somewhere else.” I hurt his feelings. “Sorry, I just ain’t in the mood to hear about eatin’ out of a dead hawg’s hind end.”
“I shouldn’t have said it, I guess. But don’t you forget how I got my nickname, you bastard.”
I like that boy. You can’t stay mad too long at the man next to you. He may just save your life in the next fight. And there will be a next one.
I’ve heard about people going crazy with hunger to the point of eating each other. I’d rather shoot myself. The Lord surely would understand. Both happened in the Bible—people eating each other and people killing themselves.
Thunder booms in the west. I spy a strange ship in the air across the river. “What is that?”
Hog Fart squints. “I don’t know, but there’s a long rope tied to a big basket hooked to a big round ball floating in the sky.”
Heavy thunder then booms east of us. I glance back at the strange ship. “Hog Fart, dark clouds comin’, so you best find cover or you’ll get soaked.”
Douglas the camel bellows back at the thunder, almost like he’s trying to tell us something.
Hog Fart cups his ears. “Lummy, that ain’t storm clouds comin’. Them’s Yankee cannon.”
A whistle becomes a scream. My skin crawls. “Get down! It’s goin’ over, but not by far.”
The shell slams into the embankment behind our rifle pit and blows dirt all over us. Hog Fart rolls on the ground screaming. I jerk him up and peek through a sniper’s pipe. The Yanks are marching directly at us. The blue storm lets go of its thunder when they charge.
A sergeant yells, “They’re comin’, boys! Put them bayonets on, quick!”
Hog Fart’s knees shake as he puts a cap on his rifle. “Ain’t they had enough? Ain’t none of us gonna live to see our mommas ever again.”
They come in a fury to take the 27th Louisiana Lunette. But we’re meaner. They scramble up the hills in four columns attacking the breastworks like they’re just going to walk right in.
Wrong again.
What’s wrong is another senseless bloodletting that’ll end with dead bodies and no change. But the damn generals will give account to someone someday, even if it’s only to God.
I guess Grant wasn’t serious when he ordered no more frontal assaults. Maybe it’s just a trick to make us slack off. There won’t be any tricks coming from this side today. We have the high ground, and our boys are shooters. The Yanks slip and slide in the powdery dirt. I’m reloading when a blast of hot wind knocks me back. A lone cannon on our right pours fire into the side of the Yank’s advance.
The Missouri men yell, “Hurrah for the 3rd Looseana.” It’s only one gun, but the canister fire blows holes in their lines big enough to drive a wagon through. It’s awful—the screams, body parts scattering everywhere, blood covering the ground like snow in the wintertime.
Now I understand why they call it “sacred ground.” It’s ground washed in blood.
A colonel waves his hat. “Give them the hot lead, boys. Make your brothers down the line proud they joined in. Enfiladin’ fire, damn, that’s the ticket. Hurrah for the 3rd Looseana!”
We fire faster and fight harder, cutting men down like making hay.
The colonel yells again, “No way in Heaven, Hell, or on Earth are you taking this hill! Not today, by God!”
Jasper and James steadily chunk grenades, tuning out the screams and groans of the wounded and dying. The Yanks make a mad rush only to run into a gray brick wall. Finally, they back away, dragging their wounded and dead with them. When they stop shooting, so do we.
We watch for a second charge that never comes.
I elbow Hog Fart. “Wonder what the talk in Grant’s headquarters will sound like tonight?”
He grins. “Probably more drinkin’ than talkin’.”
The Yanks cannonade us all through the night while we repair our defenses—defenses they failed to take yet again.
Will this ever end?
———————————
MORNING DAWNS PLEASANT with cottony white clouds floating by, as if all is well with the world everywhere. And it is, at least for the morning. We receive rations hardly enough to stave off starvation. Anything is good when you have nothing. The Yanks know we’re having a hard time food wise. Our nightly talks are had in good spirits. But there’s always at least one wise ass.
A Yank tosses over a hardtack biscuit into our little group huddled against the wall. Starvation is written on it. We immediately chunk it back over, politely inscribed, Forty days rations and no thanks to you.
“Don’t mean no harm, Johnnies. We just want to know how much longer we gonna be out here in the sun and skeeters.”
Hog Fart finds his bravery. “Best settle in, Billy Yank. There’s no place we’d rather be than right here. That fine beef steak and sweet taters I had for supper surely will help me sleep well.”
“Yeah, but when’s the circus show?”
“What circus show?”
“You got an elephant to go with that camel? Pemberton’s the best damn ringmaster ever.” They laugh.
“Poke your damn head up, and we’ll show you the elephant.”
“No need to get testy, Reb. We figure if you don’t put on a circus show, we could put that critter on the spit. Bet camel tastes better’n mule and rat.”
“You’re right about rat, but give mule a try. You might just like it better’n beef cow.”
“Give ’em hell, Johnny Reb.”
“Give ’em hell, Billy Yank.”
We laugh, but keep our heads down.