A Soldier's Story

By B.K. Birch

You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than I will. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it; and those who brought war into our country deserve all the curses and maledictions a people can pour out – William Tecumseh Sherman, on the American Civil War.

Olin Fitzgerald flung his gun over his back and fell in with his regiment when they heard the call to pull out. Fire raged all around him and it looked as though he had been swallowed down into the bowels of hell. He covered most of his face with his shirt so he could breathe easier, blocking out the putrid odors from the smoldering belongings of those who once called this wasteland home. Thick black smoke hung heavy in the early morning air and he could see nothing unless it was right beside him. Ash rained from the sky and blanketed his clothing and hair, turning them a ghostly gray. The earth trembled beneath his feet and downtown Atlanta moaned in agony as Sherman laid waste to all that was once prosperous and beautiful.

He had been a soldier for over a year now, serving in the Ohio Army under General J. M. Schofield, enticed into service by heroic tales of soldiers at Gettysburg and gallant acts of bravery at Petersburg. All the grand visions were fading with each step he took south, leaving him feeling misled, cheated, and overwhelmed. There were no heroics, no noble deeds. It all seemed poison to Olin – the unanswered cries of despair lifting up to the heavens, the annihilation of righteous men and a senseless destruction of all that was good in this land.

He refused to join the others as they sang some song about John Brown. Olin didn't know the words and didn't want to know them.

“Olin, look,” Avery said and pointed to a mass of old men, women, and children heading east out of the city. “I heard that General Sherman told them to get out. Damn Confederate devils.”

Olin pitied the ash-covered refugees as they carried, pushed or pulled all they owned to walk God knows where and for only God knew how long. He could hear children crying and women praying. He was glad he didn't have to look them in the eyes.

“They don't look too much like devils to me,” Olin said. “Where do you suppose they're going?”

“Damned if I know,” Avery said. “To hell most likely. Ain't that where devils live?”

“But there are children,” Olin said. “And some women.”

“Why do you always have to be so uppity?” Avery asked. “They started this whole damn mess. They deserve what they get.”

Olin was tired of talking to Avery, even though for once he made sense. He was tired of walking with Avery, tired of eating with Avery, tired of being dirty with Avery, and most of all, he was tired of being in Georgia with Avery. He missed his books, Sunday church meetings, and especially his mother. At last he understood why she kept him in school when the other boys were home, working in the fields. He didn't want to seem uppity, but when compared with the rest of the group, he was. Avery was his only friend, if developing actual friends was possible on this infernal march. Sometimes another soldier would ask Olin to write a letter home for them, but other than those infrequent requests, any conversations he had were with Avery.

It was unbearably hot - a kind of hot Olin never felt before, and although he tried to describe the intense lung-scorching heat in letters to home, he never quite found the right words – and that was before the fires started.

They'd camped in this Godforsaken state for two months and had only encountered sporadic Confederate defensives since they seized Decatur back in July. A shell had grazed his shoulder and he'd spent a few hours in the infirmary to get patched up. That's were he met Avery, the tall, lanky boy from somewhere in Northern Ohio. Avery had said the name of the town many times but Olin didn't care enough to remember. He was just trying to be polite, but ever since they met, it was as if they were attached at the hip.

He stepped cautiously over the charred rubble that blocked his path. The land was still hot and smoldering in some spots and sometimes those places couldn't be easily seen until it was too late. The chimneys and smoke stacks were the only reminders of a grandeur that was no more. They jutted out of the smoky earth as though pushed from the netherworld by Satan himself, monuments to a new hell on earth.

As they left the center of the city, more dwellings appeared unscathed by the flames but were still covered with ash. A strange feeling rushed through him when he passed a church. The vacant building with its magnificent stained glass windows now broken reminded Olin of his faith, which faltered more and more with each passing day, replaced by repulsion for this war and his fellow man.

He didn't know how long they walked until the y reached camp on the edge of town, but those long rows of tents were the best thing he'd seen all day. He ate his dinner of potatoes, boiled cabbage and bread and wondered what his ma was fixing for dinner.

* * *

The anticipated defensive by the Confederate army never materialized and Olin's sergeant called out the orders to pack up and move out. He told them they were heading east, but gave no explanation for the decision.

“I heard where we're going,” Avery whispered once he caught up with Olin.

“Where?”

“Savannah,” Avery answered. “I heard say it's near the ocean. I ain't never seen the ocean. Have you?”

“Nope,” Olin said. “What's in Savannah?”

“I don't know,” Avery answered.

For weeks, they marched and laid waste to anything or anyone who tried to come between them and Savannah. Olin followed orders, but the behavior of his comrades disgusted him to the point where he preferred self-induced isolation to the hoards of ravenous vigilantes and thieves many of them had become. He felt ashamed. Even Avery had abandoned him, preferring the companionship of barbarians to the brooding loner Olin.

The destruction became more savage with each home that they destroyed. Olin was no longer talking, would barely eat, and couldn't sleep. He'd heard they were approaching Savannah but didn't bother to ask anyone if it were true.

He stood and watched a burning oak tree, one of the many that lined the quarter-mile-long entrance to the stately plantation home. He stared at the tree, burning brilliant with orange and red flames and smoke billowing into the night sky, because to look at the devastation behind him was too much to bear. He had done what the sergeant had asked him to do and all he could do now was watch. He knelt down and sharpened his pencil with his pocketknife. He pulled the last scraps of paper from his satchel and began to write:

Dear Ma and Pa:

I'm sorry I haven't written but they keep us pretty much on our feet all day and I'm dog-tired when we finally stop.

I try to find words to describe the horrible events I am witness to, but they flee from my mind as though they fear to be a part of the testimonial I am about to write. I don't feel real good about what is going on around here and I pray daily for forgiveness of this treachery that is forced upon us all.

I'm sitting here writing because I'm afraid, Ma. I fear for the family who huddles together behind me watching everything they own burn or carted away by our moral and God-fearing soldiers. I call them a family, but there are no men of fighting age - not even Negroes. I guess they're either off fighting for the cause or dead. Only women, an old Negro gentleman, and four young children remain. I wonder if they are even aware of the tears streaming down their faces, now soot-covered from the standing too close to the fire. I'm compelled to tell their story as I see it. I only pray reading it does not sicken you. You always said I was good at telling what folks are feeling. If I don't tell someone I fear I will go insane.

A woman, I believe her to be the mother, stares straight into the fire, forcing herself to ignore the chaos surrounding her. She holds her chin up and her back straight, as if refusing to let go of what dignity remains in her. She seems torn between her desire for revenge deep in her heart and the word of the Lord. I can tell this because I can see the crucifix dangling from the rosary she has entwined within her trembling fingers. She keeps asking God why but she does not get an answer. Her heart grows bitter, and by tomorrow, will be as cold as the ash on the ground that once was her home. She holds one small child, a girl, in her arms while two young boys cling to her skirt.

The eldest of the two boys is easy to read. His gaze is fixed on the fire, yet his mind wanders. He pictures himself running into the house, fetching the gun and killing us - all of us. He aches to protect what will some day be his – the house, the land, and the valor of his prestigious family name. His anger is so intense it can find nowhere to manifest – so travels through his body in a frenzy and causes him to shiver, despite the intense heat from the fire. He holds onto his mother.

The youngest of the boys seems a bit of a dreamer and feels their loss more than the other two. Even at his tender age, he realizes their genteel way of life is gone, as is the beloved literature and art collections of his family. However, he is the one – the one who will not be embittered by all the destruction that is before him. He will, in time, embrace the changes and make a contribution to a new era.

Beside the woman, stands a shorter Negro girl also holding a young child. She was probably anxious for the war to start, to gain freedom for herself, her children, and her future generations. The look in her eyes says she questions what freedom really is and whether it is worth giving up the security she had. She realizes there is no turning back now and fears for her future.

The old Negro man stands behind them all. He stands back so no one else can see the half-grin on his face. His dreams of freedom are about to come true. He resists the urge to join the soldiers and stands obediently behind his master. He sees me watching them and his teeth emerge as his grin turns into a smile. He knows the end is near.

I'm sure I'll look back one day and agree that this war was necessary and it succeeded in doing what it was supposed to do. Nevertheless, right now, I can only see the devastation of war – the pain, the suffering, the dying and the guilt.

I'll be home soon, Ma. Please watch for me.

Love, your son

Olin Fitzgerald

November 1864

Olin folded the paper and tucked it into his last envelope. He searched for the clerk and handed him the letter. The clerk gave him a strange look and stuffed it into his shirt pocket.

He took one last look at the family, statuesque amidst the chaos around them. He saluted the old Negro gentleman, who was truly the only man around worthy of a salute. The old man saluted back. The burning tree became too weak at its trunk and toppled over. The burning embers exploded outward, like a million fireflies.

Olin gazed up through the smoke into clear black night dotted with brilliant stars and wondered if his ma was looking at the same sky back in Ohio. He located the North Star and disappeared into the darkness.

______________________________________________________________

B.K. Birch is a writer and poet from North Carolina. In addition to The Copperfield Review, her short fiction pieces have been featured at Wildchild Publishing, Penwomanship, Bygone Days, and Emerging Women Writers . Her poetry has been published both in the U.S. and abroad and she is the author of a quarterly poetry column for KIC Magazine . She authors Pure Grace - A Writers Way, a daily look at the trials and tribulations of writing and the writing business. For more information about this up and coming author, please visit her website .