The Soldier, that’s what my wife called me. It was the day that I was drafted into the army. She was joking around at the time and trying to make light out of what was a very serious affair. I joked around with her too. It helped us to ease the tension.
I’’m the last guy that you would ever choose to be in a fight. I’m just not a fighter. Even as a kid, when I saw other boys fighting, I tried to break it up. I’m not the fighting type. But now, I had no choice.
Lincoln’s Emancipation Proclamation has helped me. He freed all the slaves. That was a noble thing to do, and I now felt that I was fighting for a great cause. For no one Made in the Image of Almighty God should ever be enslaved.
The past two years have been rough. At night I go to bed, hearing the moans of those that have been injured earlier in the day. And with the smell of gunpowder still in my nostrils. Have you ever stabbed a man with a bayonet? I have. And I held him in my arms and watched as he prayed to God and then died. He looked like he was around sixteen.
Sometimes at night, while I’m trying to fall asleep, I can still hear the sounds of gunfire, rifled muskets, ringing in my ears. And the screams of men being hit. And crying out for help.
Sometimes at night, I’m bombarded with terrifying dreams… Nightmares. Soldiers that I’ve known, badly hurt and crying out to me, pleading with me for help… but there is a deep abyss, that is bubbling up with blood and separating us. I could never reach them.
Sometimes at night, I’m in a deep sleep, and am awakened by the sounds of cannonball fire and exploding cannonballs. The bright orange red flashes illuminate the darkness with unimaginable terror. I’ve seen buddies of mine hit with them, and they are engulfed in flames. You’re here this instant and gone in the next. What a horrible way to die and even more horrible to survive.
We’re surrounded and there is no way out. What are they waiting for? Do they want to terrorize us even more? Most of the men in the units that we were fighting with, are either hurt or dead.
Surrender? No! Soldiers like us would never surrender. Our hearts have been chiseled by war and death. If there is a doorway to life, a road to freedom, an escape, it is in the hands of Faith and destiny.
We are battle-hardened ghosts of war, and we’ll fight to the last man. We lie down in unmarked graves. Bodies broken, but Spirits unyielding. The light in our eyes gets extinguished, but not the Light in our Souls.
And if we are to be swept away by the tides of war, the enemy soldiers that slaughter us will at least never forget our bravery.
Will anyone else remember this day? Will anyone else remember us? Just our families and friends. And when they die there will be no one left to remember our great sacrifices. We’ll just be unknown soldiers, with a Cross for a gravestone. No one will know my name.
In the future will they even have a parade in our honor or a holiday?
“Are you alright?” asked Private Johnson.
“Yes,” I replied. “I was thinking. Maybe someday I’ll write about all of this.”
“Here you go,” said Private Johnson.
He handed me a pencil and paper. “What’s this for?”
“Me, Robert, and Joseph have written our last letters to our families. Hopefully, they won’t be our last. But if they are, we promised each other that whoever survived would make sure our families received them. I thought of you. Would you like to join us?”
I nodded my head. And took the pencil and paper.
“Do you vow to Almighty God to deliver these letters?”
“Yes… I do.”
“You better start writing it now,” said Private Johnson. “And when it’s finished, place it in your right pocket. This way… you know.”
I wrote, “Dear Margaret, the love of my life. I miss you and the kids so much. Give the kids my love and kisses.
I’ve been lucky… haven’t seen too much fighting. Right now, me and my unit are in a nice sunny field listening to the birds chirping. It’s a beautiful Sunday afternoon. The beautiful blue sky is a great gift from the Almighty. It reminds me of the Sunday afternoons, after Church, when we would go strolling hand in hand, and make plans for our life together.
We were playing poker earlier and I won a few bucks. You won’t believe this, but there are guys here that don’t even know how to play Whist.
When the war is over, I think we should move to California. Get a farm there. I’m tired of the cold winters in Boston. What do you think darling?
And don’t listen to those newspaper stories. They like to print sensational stories about the war so that people buy their papers.
Don’t worry dear. We will one day, once again, walk hand in hand and dream dreams that only those in love dream. I guarantee it.”
I watched as a few men ran by me, and the Sergeant yelled at me, “Come on, grab your musket. We’re being attacked.”
I had to finish the letter first. I wrote, “My Sergeant has just challenged me to a game of checkers for a buck. I can’t resist. This is easy money. I’ve beaten him before. I’ll send you another letter tomorrow… I promise. Give the kids a big hug and kiss for me. I love you.”
I placed the letter in my right pocket, grabbed my musket, and ran dutifully toward the sound of gunfire and perhaps eternity.
** ** ** ** ** ** ** **
I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I am sorry that it took so long for me to get it to you. By now you know that your husband is dead. But what you don’t know is that he fought bravely and valiantly for his country. He died a hero. And no one that dies for a just cause dies in vain. His name will be remembered.
Out of the four of us that took a vow to deliver these last letters, I am the only one to survive.
Out of a regiment of a thousand men, only two hundred of us survived. I was one of the lucky ones. Though not that lucky. That is why this letter took so long to get to you. I was badly hurt.
If you’re ever in Wilkes-Barre Pa. go to the Public Square and ask for the Johnson farm. That’s where you’ll find me. I would come to you Margaret, but I no longer have my legs. God Bless you and yours,
Private Charles Johnson
Photo by Chris Chow on Unsplash
Fictional stories by John Saccone 