Tie - Breaker - Tale of The Week 53

**Hesus de bodemloze** · August 30, 2009, 12:38 PM

Submission 1

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

The Last Reservoir of Strength

Battles can start from a chance encounter. Reconnaissance units can be reinforced by both sides. At some point the skirmish becomes a battle. This was the case as my company of riflemen rushed to the sounds of battle.

The early morning dew was still damp on the grass. The foggy mists were lifting. An enemy rifle company was spotted. We were out numbered. Withdrawal across the open fields was impossible due to a small cavalry reconnaissance unit that started this skirmish. I though it best to make our stand in the open where distance could be our ally.

The men formed up into a line. We fired the first volley of the morning. The enemy returned a volley. I was fortunate to only receive a flesh wound in my right leg through my boot. Both sides fired with the precision of well trained units. The second ball cut into my right leg again. Blood ran, but my aide was able to make a rough bandage to stop the loss of blood.

Soon our unit was joined by others to each side. We were now the center of our forces on the field. Our enemy was stronger as well and maintained their advantage of numbers. The skirmish was now a battle. The third ball was more serious. It ripped a hole in my left shoulder. There was now more blood and more bandaging to keep me on my feet and in command. Men were fewer on both sides, but the ones that remained were still steady in their gruesome duty.

The fourth ball does not even really count since it struck near the first wound in the early morning. A pain shot through my leg. The ball had done its destructive job. I grew fainter, but I continued to lead my men. They were holding up admirably against the weight of the enemy. I had to remain and guide their fire as the enemy began to advance in skirmish formation.

I ordered them to hold their fire until all had a load ready. Perhaps a single concentrated volley could break the morale of the skirmishers before bayonets would be needed. They fired and the enemy began to fall back at bit. The idea had bought us some time.

The fifth ball struck at the end of the day as both sides were slowly withdrawing. The battle would end without a decision for the day’s efforts. The ball struck me in the face. I fell to the ground. The accumulated loss of fluid through the day and the final shock sapped my body of the last reservoir of strength. I was fortunate to awaken in a dispensary. The surgeon needed to remove my right leg above the ankle. My shoulder was bandaged and apparently still in working order. My face was a mess. Time can close many wounds. Unlike some of the poor unfortunates of battle, I am here to write my day’s account.

Submission 2

Spoiler Alert, click show to read:

I do not know his name.

When I used my spyglass to survey the field below our hill, I saw his company, what remained of the South Carolina 10th Regiment of Militia. General Morgan had sent ‘em ‘round my hill to flank Tarleton’s left by the creek bed. But Bloody Ban saw those boys comin’ and unleashed some dragoons to head ‘em off. They dismounted, pinned ‘em in on the boggy hillside and started pickin’ em off like it was a turkey shoot.

Looked to be dead, all ‘em, but I saw one kneel up. Blood was runnin’ down his face from his ear, shot clean off, ‘twas. I saw him grimace, clutching his shoulder or his chest – couldn’t tell – then gripping the muzzle with a bloody hand. He steadied himself on his musket and stood. He started hollerin’ at the dragoons as they marched away. He loaded and fired, hit one dragoon. The man toppled like a tater sack. The rest turned around, growled and headed back toward the militiaman.

“Boy’s liable to bleed out in minutes,” I thought. When the howitzer nearby was bein’ reloaded I heard what he was yellin’. “Give me Tarleton’s quarter! Give me the same what my ma and pa got! Come on, now, you bloody cowards!” I’d heard tell what depraved things Tarleton done out in the wilderness. He once killed a man, raided his farm months later, told the man’s widow to dig him up and serve him dinner before letting loose his animals on her. I wondered if she was this boy’s mother. I reckoned all he wants in his last mortal moment is to make his stand with honor.

“Look at that boy yonder,” I called out to my artillerymen. “Tarleton’s men took everything he had but his last breath, and he is ‘bout to use it to kill one more o’ them devils. They think we are things, to be used and trodden ‘neath King George’s heel. This man’s had enough, and we need to show him – so have we.”

I ordered the howitzers wheeled ‘round – “Quickly now.” The shells had to rain down before the dragoons closed to their pistols’ range. “Fire!” The shells arced skyward then plummeted, exploding all around Tarleton’s men but a safe distance from the Carolina man. The dragoons’ wretched cries of unspeakable burning pain reached us on the hilltop, as did the acrid odor of smoke and charred flesh.

The Redcoats battling our foot regiments in the trench slops further out were horrified to look back. As for ol’ Ban himself, I could just make out his face, red as Mars as he thrashed around with fury. Our infantry rallied and seized the moment of the Brits’ confusion. ‘Twasn’t long afore the Brits just started scatterin’.

The militiaman had fallen where he stood, succumbed to those first two shots. I do not know his name. But he was a hero to his country that day, and I will never forget him.

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