a short story i wrote

i wrote it

rate.hate.love.rave.



my story;

This book doesn't have a fancy title, and this book doesn't have a fancy author. I have the information necessary, and a pen and paper. After all, how much does an author really need?

it was December 5, 1776. the heat of the revolutionary war drained the morale of patriots and loyalists alike, inflation was staggering, neighbors were cruel, and the country was in turmoil. but while i was being trained and fighting, i found myself thinking of the country. My home, my family, all that i held dear disappeared. My most prominent regret while in the Continental Army was one of the most surprising to me. I imagined myself gazing through the back window of my carriage as i left, while my wife and two boys waved goodbye. I left at 4:00 in the morning, and seeing through the frost covered windows was nigh impossible. I left my wife alone to manage our small shop, and raise our children, the decision was one of the hardest that I ever had to make.

On my first day formally enrolled in the army, i stood in a line of men who's story seemed eerily similar to mine. regretting leaving their wife and children, still smelling of the baked bread they were sent off with. Nobody was really happy to be there, but we all felt a common duty to our country, and this is what would carry us throughout one of the most difficult wars in history. I quickly came back to reality as the officer in charge continued shouting —what was it?-- a cold shock of fear zapped through my spine as i realized with a start that the officer was yelling my name! this was my first roll call, and i had already made a fool of myself. I squeamishly raised my hand and was awarded with disapproving looks by officers, and fellow countrymen alike. I managed to make it to the mess hall without making much more of a fool of myself. as soon as i sat down, a burly man with muscular arms, a shaved head, and outfitted with an ordinary military uniform seated himself next to me. he said nothing, and started digging into his stew. i took advantage of this opportunity and started looking him over, standard boots, standard jacket, standard everything, really. but then something shiny caught my eye, he had a medal of some sort, and i made it a point to ask him about this when i had the chance. he suddenly looked up at me and said earnestly; “you better not pull a stunt like that again, these military people are strict, you will be set on kitchen duty if you keep acting so ignorantly”. He briskly stood up to leave, and i came out of the stupor produced by what he said long enough to ask his name. “private Wallers” he said, and left to finish his stew elsewhere.

I soon learned the name of our trainer, a german man named Von Stuben. At first i was weary of the man, considering that the german mercenaries [hessians] were the most powerful part of the british fighting force. but we all soon became to know him as a brother. He taught us to use the same technologies that the british had claim to. Like fighting with large knives mounted on the front of the gun called bayonets. We were enlisted for a year, and many men cracked under the pressure of not knowing what was happening to their wife and children, resulting in many training injuries, under suspicious circumstances. bayonet in the leg, gunstock to a shoulder, i heard it all during my months at the training camp.

Around two weeks into my training, we stood at roll call while a military man with excellent posture, and a commanding aura marched by. His uniform had several ribbons, and assorted medals from past achievements. For some reason we all stared at him, nobody knew him, but he was the type of man who instantly gained respect. he suddenly halted in the center of the roll line, turned on his heels, and looked us over. “You did well Von” I noticed that Von had materialized behind the roll call line as he said; “thank you, Mr. Washington, it means a lot to hear that from you.”. Mr. Washington? could this be our famed commander? i thought incredulously. General Washington then addressed us as a whole; “Thank you all for answering the desperate cry from our newly appointed congress. We are in desperate need of assistance and value your support greatly. But i am sorry to say that you will soon be transferred to the front lines in an upcoming battle. this battle will help decide whether we will gain additional forces from the french. As you know, they are already aiding us, but this is a clandestine relationship. The British were the victors of the french&Indian war, the bitterness on France's part has probably given them the initiative to lend us forces in the first place. But they do not want to be embarrassed by another grueling defeat. in consequence, this will be the deciding factor in the revolutionary war.”. He announced this on Christmas day.

For the two weeks after this statement, the barracks were on high alert. Men often glanced at the muskets on the wall, and kept ammunition in their satchel to prevent it from being misplaced. We never took our boots off, even to sleep, because of our fear of setting off at night. Rations were reduced, because nobody had much of an appetite, especially for the disgusting stew. Letters home were doubled, and as the economy became more grim, men had breakdowns worrying about their family. I am ashamed to say that i was almost relieved to set off for battle, for the quiet before the storm, was the most agonizing part of a war.

we trudged through despicable circumstances for hours on end. Our shoes wore through, our rations lowered, and we had to fight just to get to the british. We mixed hair powder with our stew to make it more substantial. Some soldiers drank molasses instead of the rum our officers promised us, unfortunately, this caused crippling diarrhea. As if to make matters even worse, it was in the middle of january, and it was a few degrees at most. Because of our less than adequate circumstances, we only covered five to ten miles a day. we eventually camped near a large hill, and the officers stunned us by telling us that the very british army that we were about to battle, was right over the hill. prayers circulated the camp, pictures of family were placed in boots, bayonets mounted on muskets, and a felling of brotherhood was prominent on everything. longtime enemies made amends, officers addressed their men, and everyone said goodbye. for we knew that many of those around us—including ourselves, might not live see to the next day. The common vote was to stay until the morning, but those in charge eventually convinced us that we may be discovered by then, and lose the element of surprise. which was about the only advantage that we had access to.

The commanding officers soon decided to send a phalanx around the back of the British, and distract them with guerilla tactics on top of the hill. I was assigned to the dangerous position, on top of the mountain. This was also the most difficult place to shoot from, since the musket balls often whizzed over the heads of the british.

Just twenty minutes before my group started shooting, we erected defenses to hide behind, and started gathering ammunition. All the sudden there i was, lying on my stomach with my my gun loaded. the phalanx circling around was ready to go, all the had to happen was one person t-- “BOOM”. and there it was, the first shot was fired, from then on life was a blur...reload, aim, fire, reload, aim, fire, reload, aim , fire. This was all that was going through my mind, not the british i was killing, not my family, not even my own safety. just the cold efficiency of this deadly pattern. smoke filled my vision, i was completely blind to what was around me, but I'm not even sure i noticed, all i knew was; reload, aim, fire, reload, aim, fire, reload, aim, fire. that was all i heard, that was all i saw, that was all i felt. The shooting around me soon stopped, but i kept going; reload, aim, f-- “STOP IT, ITS OVER”. somebody yelled above my shooting, i fired three more shots before the smoke cleared. the British were slain, and the other phalanx was nowhere in sight. I suddenly realized that this small group had defeated the entire British force before the other phalanx had even made it to the british.

After the battle i walked around, Shell shocked, i didn't have much else to do, so i walked to the infirmary. there were a few people injured, it was private Walkers. As soon as i saw him i knew his wounds were mortal. “So what is that medal for?” i asked. i had nothing else to ask, my sensed were dimmed, and i didn't have any long drawn out advice. He looked at me dead in the eye and said; “its a mark of shame, i was a general, but i used an inexperienced group of militiamen. We all ran at the sight of the british, and i left the other general to die. I have been demoted to private and i changed my name, i was general Gates. I will surely go down in american history as a coward”.After listening to this statement, i walked home, i started walking an i didn't stop until i reached my family.


thank you for reading

 

Im A little dissapointed that all that a few of you could think of was "ummm"

 

By all means i appreciate the effort put into reading my story, but if all you say is "ummm", then your more post-hunting than anything, its better just to post if you have something to contribute. I personally would rather have them not have posted at all. And for all i know, they didn't even read the story. I'm asking for opinions, if you cant muster the strength to take five minutes of your life to read it and --if posting-- come up with something other than a one-syllable answer, then i suppose that is your choice.

I never forced you to read it you know...

 

I suppose that that could happen.