“What’s the meaning of this, Private?”
The shadows in the tent hung eerily over the live figure of the general. The lone lantern offered little luminescence. There was an incessant pounding, pounding, pounding of the heaviest precipitation possible on the tent’s roof.
Outside in the camp, the scattered campfires’ coals peeked out from underneath freshly soaked firewood. The huddled soldiers’ figures sat around them, dark masses of somber hope.
“I don’t rightly know, Sir!” The front lid of his felt cap was so drenched that it literally dropped sheets of water in front of his face. This did little for his confidence in the face of this, probably the most important and yet intimidating interface he had ever experienced, or perhaps ever would, with a superior officer.
“We come across this enemy picket in the woods, all of us,” he said excitedly. ‘We have you, soldier! Hands behind yer back!,’ we yelled.”
“I’m not sure I comprehend, son,” the general grunted, chewing ever-so-heavily on his dry cigar.
“Well,” continued the young soldier, “he surrendered willingly, but then he commenced to try and explain to us that yeah, we had him, but did we not realize that we were still behind enemy lines?”
“I’m not sure I see the logic or reasoning behind that premise, sir!” countered the general. “By God, he was a prisoner! No matter where he was!!! And so what the hell happened is what I want to know! Right here and now!!!”
The soldier went on telling his story. “Yes Sir! The prisoner said, ‘I’d sure be a-willin’ to lead y’all outta here. Should ya set me free.’ “We was kinda lost, anyhow, seein’ as to how dark it was. Wudn’t no moon nowhere!”
The general sat up in his chair and gazed at the man with a tilt to his head and a wide-eyed amazement.
“And then he commenced to jump on a pack horse. Told us to follow him outta there,” said the soldier.
At this, the general straightened his head, banged both his fists on his desk, and shot up, ram-rod straight, out of his chair. The redness and sheer heat shown in his face belied the frigid air outside and slightly warmer temperature inside. The veins in his temples and tendons in his neck protruded unnaturally. “And you mean to tell me, you all followed him?!?!? What the hell happened to you?”
“Well sir, they did. I was left behind in the hustle. On account of I couldn’t keep up….” He momentarily lost eye contact with the General, and his eyes focused on the puddle of water on the floor below him. He looked up again.
The General moved around from behind his desk and walked up to the soldier. “And so then here you are! Any idea where these troops ended up?”
“No, sir. I turned around and straggled back the best I could to where I thought our camp was,” the private stammered. All that could be heard was the sound of heavy rain on the tent’s roof.
“I want you on a detail with a few others of my aide’s choosing to find these boys at the break of dawn. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Dismissed!”
The young soldier did an about-face and hobbled to the tent-flap opening to go outside and onto the short wooden platform. The rain was falling in sheets, as it had been for hours, as he moved to step off the platform. Underneath his right armpit was the pad of the walking apparatus he’d used since losing that part of his right leg from below the knee at Chickamauga. His knuckles were white and gripping mightily onto the handle of the crutch. The cut-off thread strings of his twisted, knotted half-pant leg clung to his gnarly stub. He lifted his left leg in order to step off of the platform, followed by his right. The ground had become so wet and soggy that it was as if the soil was in the form of quicksand, and his crutch sank, quickly, into the mud. The awkward imbalance of this situation saw him land face-first in the ground. He twisted onto his left hip and started to hoist himself upright using his elbow. Once standing, it took everything in his power to lift his crutch out of the ground from where he’d placed it and then attempted to replace it, the “slurp-slog, slurp-slog” sound emitting repeatedly, unfailingly, from below.
He stared into the distance at the sunless daybreak. A lone teardrop, not to be mistaken for a drop of rain, trickled down his cheek.
2 comments
Andy,
Mudcrutch is gripping. Such good writing. Wow. Very impressive. I was there and felt that teardrop fall down my face. I felt like I was in the middle of a movie or glued to part of book scene – a really good one. And I’m picky!
Thank you so much, Lila!