Edge: Killer's Breed

There was a sudden lull in the artillery barrage and he took advantage of it to scramble across the open, shell-scarred ground and into the fast running water of a narrow creek feeding the river. The water felt cool on his sweating body and he dipped his cupped hands to scoop some of it into his mouth. But then he threw the water from him, his face a mask of horror as he saw the pink tint in the liquid, turning a deeper shade as he watched. He looked to his right, along the creek and met the agonized eyes of one of his own troopers. The man was sitting in the water, resting his back against the bank, trailing his hands and making no attempt to move. Further along the creek men were lying in the water, firing towards the enemy lines. It ran clear where they were.

"I didn't think it would be like this, Captain," the injured trooper murmured, pressing his back into the bank as a new artillery barrage sounded, the shells arcing low over the creek.

Where does it hurt?" Hedges asked as he splashed along the creek bed, keeping his head below the level of the bank.

"All over, sir." He sighed. "Except my legs. My legs don't hurt." He abruptly closed his eyes and fell forward, toppling like a sack of potatoes. The creek gripped him and sent his body floating down towards the river outlet and Hedges caught his breath. Both the troopers' legs had been blown off.

For a few moments the creek ran clear, but then two infantrymen collapsed with gaping head wounds and Hedges, experiencing a stronger urge to empty his stomach, scrambled clear of the water and ran in a fast crouch towards a low stone wall. He heard shouting from behind him and glanced over his shoulder to see infantrymen and dismounted troopers streaming in his wake. Many others were running in the opposite direction, shedding their identifying uniform tunics and discarding their rifles and muskets.

As Hedges dived behind the wall another man thudded down beside him and began to loose off bullets at the deserters, bringing down three in quick succession.

"Chicken-hearted bastards," Forrest yelled, and spat in disgust as the men ran out of range.

"Anyone you wouldn't kill, Forrest?" Hedges asked as he watched the survivors of the advance sink behind the wall and begin to fire at the rebels near the bridge. He saw Douglas, Bell and Scott with several other members of his troop. There were many he could not see, but this. did not indicate they had been killed or injured, for the Union line was spread wide and rifle fire sounded from behind every form of cover.

Forrest grinned as he reloaded his rifle. "Don't reckon there is, Captain," he drawled. "Man gets in my way, he's just asking to get blasted."

"They weren't in your way," Hedges pointed out, going up into a crouch and pumping four shots towards the rebel position.

"Oh, my dear God," a man screamed near the end of the wall. Then he gurgled and slumped forward, choking up a great spout of blood.

"They weren't men," Forrest countered. "Just rats. I shoot rats for fun." He went up against the wall, stood erect and sprayed the Confederates with rapid repeater fire. He sank back again to reload.

"Those guys are in my way." He and every other man at the wall threw themselves to the ground as a half dozen shells arced in to spray up earth only a few yards behind them. "And their guns are bigger than mine," he continued as he wiped dirt from his face. "I don't like that."

"Me neither," Hedges answered, and looked along the line of Union men, able to ignore the bloodied bodies of the dead and the cries of the wounded as the anger inside him swamped the last vestiges of pity. "Is there a bugler here?" he called.

"Sir!" a young voice answered, and a brass bugle was held aloft, glistening in the bright sun as it wavered in a trembling hand.

"Sound the advance!" As the first notes of the clarion call split across the other sounds of battle it seemed to arouse in the men the same degree of anger which had gripped Hedges. Fear, despair, compassion, frustration and every other shade of emotion which can be generated by war was suddenly swamped by an irresistible rage to kill. The men rose in a single, synchronized movement and hesitated for only a split second, as a stray mortar shell smashed the bugle into a mass of twisted metal and drove this into the face of the musician with enough force to decapitate him.

"They shouldn't have shot him," Forrest muttered as the final note urged the men into a headlong dash for the rebel line. "He was doin' his best."