Micro Battles - Part Four.

Sergeant Matt Schreiber moved up and down his company, a word of encouragement here, a slap on the shoulder and a smile there. The faces of the men showed every emotion, from resigned acceptance, that this was to be another day to see the elephant, to abject fear in the eyes of others.
Matt had seen the elephant on a number of occasions, including First Manassas when he too was a raw private, through the hell of Fredericksburg as a corporal, and plenty of other hot actions since. Now in his third different battalion, he was a company sergeant in the 54th New York. A long road for Missouri boy who two years ago had been driving a delivery wagon and team, in and around St Louis.

He realised that the staccato of drums had ceased, and a quiet had returned. In the distance he could just make out the sounds of the horses, struggling to pull the guns and limbers up a low, steep ridge. He grudgingly acknowledged the skill of the rebel drivers, whose shouts and whoops echoed down the valley, as they drove their horses on.

He wondered what had happened to the cavalry troopers and artillery, he knew had been stationed at the south end of the valley. He and his boys had been manning that very spot only two weeks ago. 
Major Kovacs, commanding officer of the battalion was in deep conversation with General Ames and Lieutenant Colonel von Einsiedel of the 41st New York. Matt thought they had better be coming up with a good plan, or he may be joining his fourth new battalion, if he survived of course. His hand went instinctively to his left breast pocket, the comforting feel of the flip top pocket watch that was nestled there. A present from Christine his wife. Encased in a small circle of glass in the flip top lid, was a lock of her hair. She had said, that as long as he carried that watch, she would be with him and protect him. Well it sure as hell had so far, and he had been is some bad situations, but whilst others had died around him, or been horribly mutilated by flying lead, he had not suffered so much as a scratch. Matt tapped the watch through the material of his shirt, it may be superstitious mumbo jumbo, but it had worked so far.

The officers meeting had broken up and Major Kovacs was calling to the officers and non coms of the 54th to gather around him. Matt took another glance toward the enemy artillery, ominously it was now atop the ridge and was unlimbered, the crews turning the muzzles to point directly at him, or so it seemed. Whatever them officers had decided to do, if better be damn clever, though Matt.


Confederate initiative.

A general advance up the valley towards the enemy, and the artillery is unlimbered.

Troopers of the 1st Maryland (left) and 2nd Virginia (right) advance through the wood.

Brigadier General Ames, knew he could not stand and face the overwhelming odds before him, so ordered a fighting withdrawal. The leading unit would stand, fire and then rapidly retire through the second regiment, which in turn would stand and fire. This leapfrogging would continue as his forces moved closer to the Hog River. Well that was the plan!

Trooper Hal Barker was the acknowledged best shot in the 1st Maryland Cavalry, a fact he was proud of. He took up a position beside a tree with a branch at a convenient height on which to rest the stock of his carbine. He gazed down on the blue bellies, a stream of brown tobacco juice, spurted out the side of his mouth, staining the verdant grass beside him.

Hal was an assassin, he didn't miss. He had been asked on a number of occasions how many Yanks he had killed, he would send out a jet of brown liquid, before replying 'I don't know, maybe a dozen.' But Hal knew the exact number, he had taken numbers sixteen and seventeen this morning, a pair of troopers from the 7th Michigan Cavalry. He intended to take his score to beyond twenty this afternoon.

The men around him were busy firing and loading into the mass of blue in the valley below. No finesse or art involved, thought Hal, as a spurt of tobacco juice, desecrated another patch of green. He liked to take his time, choose his target, an officer preferably, he was not sadistic, he wanted to kill quickly and cleanly, he didn't want them to suffer agonizing stomach wounds, or fall under the surgeon's knife for an amputation. Oh no, Hal was an expert, he didn't even want his victim to even know he had been hit, the target dead, before he even hit the ground.

Hal still had not fired a single shot, when the men where ordered to move forward to the edge of the wood, the Yankees were trying to pull back. With a final stream of tobacco, Hal moved forward to find an even better sniping position.

Once again it is initiative to the rebels.

Hal and the other troopers moved to the treeline on the Union left flank.

The 13th Alabama and 7th Tennessee, advanced at a steady pace up the valley.

Booms echoed off the valley walls, as finally the now unlimbered and trained cannon spoke for the first time.

Most missed their targets, but one ball tore through the files of the 54th New York, leaving a trail of carnage and broken bodies to mark its passage.

Hal selected a good spot, he leaned against a gnarled, old oak tree and scanned below. His attention was drawn to a big man with the unmistakable stripes of a sergeant on his arms. A spurt of tobacco. The big sergeant was moving up and down the ranks of what was obviously his company, giving orders, bullying who knows. 

'For you sergeant, the war is over.' he muttered quietly.

The sergeant had stopped moving and Hal had a clear shot, in less than a second, he squirted out more liquid, held his breath, closed his left eye and squeezed the trigger. The carbine bucked against his shoulder. Hal smiled as the big sergeant staggered two steps backward, before hitting the ground. There was something even more satisfying about killing Yankees with their own bullets and carbines. He reached into the US Army issue ammunition pouch and selected another bullet. Both the pouch and fancy car-been, had been acquired by Hal that morning, from the many captured from the 7th Michigan.

Sergeant Matt Schreiber lay on his back, his chest was on fire and he could barely breathe. So this was how it was all going to end, he thought. Matt was oblivious to the fact, that four of his men, in rage or hope of retribution, emptied their muskets in the direction they believed the shot had come from. Two other soldiers of his company, each placed an arm under Matt's armpits, and he felt himself being dragged backwards. Matt was watching his shoes trailing through the grass, as the soldiers half ran with their load. His right shoe caught on a rock or root and was pulled off. Tears came to Matt's eyes, as he watched the shoe disappear into the distance. Why, in what is probably his last few seconds on earth, was he so upset about losing a damn shoe?

He was aware of legs all around him, and understood he was passing through the ranks of 41st New York. Eventually his backwards journey ended and he was motionless on the grass again. Matt was amazed that he was actually finding it easier to breathe. One of the soldiers tore open Matt's shirt, a huge bruise, the size of a man's hand was spreading across the left side of Matt's chest, every shade of colour from yellow through brown and purple to black could be seen. But no red. There was no blood!

The big sergeant had already been dismissed from Hal's mind, as he placed the new round in the carbine, his victim had simply become number eighteen. Nor was he even aware that four of Number Eighteen's men had fired their muskets wildly in his direction. Even if he had known, he would have mocked them as amateurs.

But amateurs occasionally get lucky. One of the four musket balls smashed into the oak tree against which Hal leaned. It tore a five inch shard of splinter off the trunk, no more than a foot  from Hal's head. The musket ball was on an upward trajectory from the valley floor, the splinter it ripped off maintained an upward direction, though at a much different angle. At that moment, Hal's face was inclined down, as he concentrated on loading. This combination of factors led to the narrow, arrow like, point of the splinter to remove Hal's left eyeball, the point then crumpled against the bone at the rear of the eye socket, but the velocity of the whole five inch piece, was enough to punch through. It penetrated a full three inches into Hal's brain.

The carbine slipped from his lifeless fingers, his corpse slid slowly down the old oak tree, his chin coming to rest on his chest. The last trickle of tobacco juice ran down his chin and dripped onto his uniform.

For Hal, the war truly was over.

This engagement is obviously going to run into table number 4, so I shall try to make a smooth transition for the camera. As it is a new table, I will roll again for reinforcements.

The Union will potentially receive six units to the Confederates maximum of two, and the latter have to start from the south end of the valley. Any Union units will be placed on table 4.

Not a particularly fantastic roll for the Union, but they do get two units for immediate use.

Two out of two for the rebels, they will be the balance of Archer's Brigade and will enter the southern end of the valley.

Matt Schreiber slowly got to his feet. He had no idea what in the world had hit him. He reached up to his left breast pocket to feel for the watch, it was there, but felt odd. He pulled it out and was stunned to see it was almost folded in half. Small shards of glass remained in his pocket. He turned it over in his hand, the rear of the watch had a neat round hole, and protruding from it, the back of a bullet. Matt had to use a knife to prize open the lid. More thin shards of glass fell to the ground. Inside, the point of the bullet was ensnared by the lock of Christine's hair. Like the tentacles of some sea creature they had wrapped themselves around the offending object.

The sound of barked orders snapped Matt back to attention. the 41st were withdrawing back toward them, it was their turn again to face the enemy. He dropped the broken watch back into his pocket and began shouting to his men to be ready.