They Met at Shiloh (24 page)

Robert had spent his days watching over Huebner like an older brother but had not had to keep him company or spend any time conversing with the misfit. With most men, conversation would be about the state of the rations or the officers or fatigue duty or the rebellion. Unpracticed at talking to him, Robert didn’t know where to go.

Robert sat and tried to think of something to say or some topic that Huebner would be able to participate in. It suddenly occurred to him that Huebner had never spoken his mind on anything before that afternoon. He had always been in the background, always on the verge of causing some great camp calamity. He was a man who always acted on his first impulse.

Huebner broke the silence between them. “Hildebrande und Gustavson sind getötet; Robert. They’re gone, fällt sich.”

“Yes, Hube, fällt sich. Sie schläft. They sleep. “

“I miss them.”

“They were our pards and mess mates,” Robert added. To his ears, his words sounded eulogistic.

“They are mit Gott,” Huebner said.

“Sounds better than sitting here in the rain,” Robert replied.

Huebner turned toward Robert. “No, they with God and not because it sound better.”

“I’d hope so,” Robert said. He turned away under the pressure of Huebner’s stare. It was there again, that look of conviction from such an unlikely source. Robert still could not reconcile the misfit with the man of forceful will.

Huebner resumed his empty gaze into the night and lowered his voice. “Gustav Hildebrande was pious Lutheran. Mein Vater und Gustav’s Vater serve der Regent of Saxony in fighting der Catholics in their war mit Prussia, serve in der special guard and all men followers of Luther. Vater deacon in der church mit Herr Hildebrande als ich jung war. I knew Gustav then. I knew Gustav’s Mutter. Frau Hildebrande will be sad now. You think we see her again?”

“Hope so, though I’m not sure we will, if ever. If today was any indication of how we are doing in this war, it will be a long while,”

“I want to tell her…tell her about Gustav der Soldat.”

“Someday, maybe,” Robert said. As if life were not complicated enough, he now must contend with the oddities of relationships and comrades taken away. Huebner owed his presence here to Robert if for no other reason than avoiding capture. Yet this boy of simple thoughts and actions was putting Robert’s own thoughts to shame.

“I hope I don’t have to meet your Mutter with telling of Robert der Soldat,” Huebner said. He wiped his nose on his soaked sleeve.

Robert froze and felt the uncomfortable notion that Huebner was about to get into territory best left unspoken.

“I’m happy you not getötet, too,” Huebner said. “Who would look out for Hube then?” Robert tried to smile but stopped when he saw the serious look on Huebner’s face.

Robert nodded and pursed his lips. How does one reply to something like that? One stood side by side with one’s comrades in arms, day by day in fatigue detail and in drill. They slept in the same tent or under the same stars in the dry and in the wet and occasionally under fire. Everything in the army finally came down to the living and the dead. They had lost other comrades to sickness and disease, but they held onto their mess mates as if family. It was unspoken; one just felt it. To hear Huebner speak of it now made Robert uncomfortable, and he had no reply.

“We fight more tomorrow?” Huebner asked.

Robert welcomed the change of topic. “Probably. We aren’t finished here yet. But will we be finished or do the finishing?”

“I’m sorry we have to fight more. More chances to lose more comrades.”

“As long as the enemy holds our camp, we’ll have to.”

Huebner made a choking sound, and his voice was pleading. “But I got Gustavson dead. It was my idea go back.”

“It was the right thing to do. You said so yourself. We followed because we knew it to be true. Gustavson knew it also. Not your fault Gus fell, Hube.” They had returned to the line to fight for honor and cause, but Huebner was right. It was his leading that had brought them all back into harm’s way.

“We still be by river bank and alive,” Huebner said.

“Maybe, or maybe we’d have been rounded up by some provost guard and all thrown into the stockade for desertion. That’s why we went back. You said it yourself earlier that you felt like a deserter. Now, not any more.” Robert didn’t think what he said had any effect, and he wasn’t sure he really believed it himself.

“Fahnenflüchtiger Gustavson be alive und not Soldat Gustavson kaput,” Huebner mumbled.

“Gustavson gestorben mit honor not alive mit shamt. Komradschaft du Soldat, Huebner, und Soldat Mitchell, verstehst du? We are all alive and together in honor, Hube.”

Huebner’s face brightened somewhat.

Robert fished for his time piece and asked, “You think you can stay awake for another hour?”

“Ja,” Huebner answered.

“Be a good Soldat, Huebner, und wake Piper in an hour and then get some sleep. Verstehst du?” Robert asked.

“Ja, be good Soldat Hube for comrades.” His voice held no cheer, but it was good enough that he agreed.

“Have Piper wake me after his stand,” Robert said.

Robert rolled himself up into the gum blanket. Though everything they owned in the world was left back in camp, there wasn’t a want for blankets or other necessities that could not have been picked up from the ground.

“Ja. Gute Nacht, Robert,” Huebner said and stared out into the blackness of early morning.

24th Ohio Skirmish Line

AM April 7, 1862

M
ule started at the sudden crack from Johnny’s rifle. “What’d you do that for?”

“Rebel pickets is pushin’ forward,” Johnny explained.

A loud report in front of them accompanied a minié ball zipping over their heads. The morning had been quiet save for the sudden disruption of solitude and the returning bark of an enemy musket.

“Fools!” came a shout from their left. “Whataya’ think yer doin’?” shouted someone to the right.

The vedettes of the 24th Ohio were spread out at five-pace intervals in skirmish formation. Bright sparks of yellow lit up closer to the picket line than anyone had expected. Soon, fire begged counter-fire, and the picket lines livened with activity. The slumbering regiments farther back of the picket line began to waken.

“Ready!” Philip shouted to the man to his left. He needed his Comrade in Arms to be loaded and ready before he fired his own weapon. A crack and flash in front of him, no more than fifty paces he figured, was followed by the zing of lead the ball made as it passed. Philip knew the Rebel was out there and probably lying prone to reload. He jerked the hammer down and winced as the flash from the cap snapped into his right thumb. Not wasting any time to see if his round accomplished its goal, he rolled over on his back and dug into the cartridge box. On a skirmish line, it was safer to load while lying prone, but more powder poured down his chest than in the barrel.

“Ready!” Philip shouted to his partner, and it was his turn to wait and watch. He rolled over and onto his knees and waited. The flicker of fire dotted along the undulating ground for as far as Philip could see. Save for the bursts of musketry, little else announced the presence of either side. Brief flashes illuminated figures in split-second repose, silhouetting forms against the landscape as if they were posed mid-stride. It was impossible to tell how far away the enemy was or what he was really up to. Each man simply fired in the general direction of the other if for no other reason than to participate in the charade. If the enemy were pushing forward, they would be on top of Philip and the others before anyone could do anything about it.

The company commander jogged up behind Philip and peered over his shoulder.

“Too dark to see much, sir,” Philip said.

Another flash from in front lit a line of Rebel skirmishers and nothing else.

“They jus’ feelin’ us out,” the commander said and moved on.

“Ready!” shouted Philip’s partner.

They had no target, just the vague impression of a shape created by the flash of a discharge. The glimpses were so brief that they might have been shooting at trees and stumps. The fire was coming from the enemy, but where was he? Philip took his best guess and fired, then repeated the business of reloading.

Philip hated skirmish detail. Skirmish detail was risky and personal. They faced their enemy in the clear, and they fought one man against another, not in the scatter spray of lead with which opposing lines showered one another. A skirmisher saw the man he was trying to hit, and was seen in return. In line of battle, they faced a greater barrage of flying lead, but it was impersonal. It was company against company, a collective effort to destroy as many of the enemy as one could. He saw men fall or stagger to the rear of the line, and it meant one less enemy to harm his pards. Here, on the skirmish line, it was vengeful. It took less personal courage than standing shoulder to shoulder to receive the enemy’s first fire; it was a moral courage to willingly harm a man from a close distance.

“Ready!” Philip shouted. Dear Lord, carry mine enemy into Your eternal rest should I take a life this morning, Philip prayed. It felt odd to pray, but it felt worse not to. Philip didn’t struggle with moral questions of life and death and sanctity. It was war. It was killing sanctioned by those higher than him. Had not the Israelites been commanded by God to take the lives of the Canaanites? Still, he was troubled by the thought of taking lives with no conscience. Bear my pards upon wings of Your angels should any fall this morning, Lord. Bear Your servants on heavenly wings should they be counted among Your children.

Skirmishers from other regiments began to fire upon enemy close enough to pose a danger. Farther to the left of the line, all was still.

*****

36th Indiana picket line

AM April 7th, 1862

Robert sat up and rubbed his eyes. “What’s happening?”

“Skirmishing down the right,” Piper replied.

“What? How long?” Robert grabbed for his musket.

“Not long. Just began. Nothing happening in our front, though,” Piper said.

“Ok, I’ll wake Hube,” Robert said. He nudged the snoring Huebner.

“Hube, wake up,” Robert whispered.

“Huebner sleep through more racket before. Have to do better than that,” Piper said with a chuckle.

Robert prodded a little harder. “Hube, wake up. C’mon, Hube, time to wake up.”

“Remember when we found him asleep during skirmish drill? Fool slept through mock attack like nothing happening all around him. He’s kaput to der vorld,” Piper said.

“Well, I don’t want him sleepin’ if we get pushed,” Robert answered. “Hube, wake up,”

“Let him be. You never wake him,” Piper said and turned back to his front. The flashes of musketry to the left resembled a candlelight procession as the random rifle fire created a lane between the combatants.

“Oh yeah? Watch this.” He reached for the mucket tied to his haversack. “Who’s got the coffee up?” He tapped his spoon against the tin cup blackened from many a camp fire.

“Kaffe?” Huebner said and he sat up and looked around.

“Mein Gott!” Piper exclaimed.

“You gotta know what is important to a man to get him out of bed,” Robert said, laughing. “Sorry, Hube, no coffee to kick over, just needed to get you up.”

“What’s that noise?” Huebner asked, rubbing his eyes over and over again.

“That, mein Freund, is the sound of skirmishing over that way und Lord willing will stay that way,” Piper replied.

“Battle?” Huebner asked, surprised.

“Ja, Hube,” Piper answered, “a battle, but it’s still dark, and die skirmishers are nervous. Nothing to worry about, mein Jonah.”

Huebner cocked his head to the side and looked at Piper. “Why you always call me Jonah? Ich Fredrich Huebner.”

“Because, like in the Good Book, Jonah vas always in wrong place at right time,” Piper said with a smile.

“Nich namen Jonah. Ich Friedrich Huebner,” Huebner protested.

“Ja, Friedrich Huebner, die Jonah,” Piper said, and he laughed when he saw the serious look on Huebner’s face. He just wasn’t getting it.

“It stop raining,” Huebner said to change the subject.

“Some time ago,” Piper replied. “If die enemy is in front, they is keepin’ to they’s selves. Between die jittery pickets und those gunboats firing all night, Es überrascht mich – surprises me — you slept.”

“Kanonenboote, wo?” Huebner asked.

“On die river, Hube,” Piper said and rolled his eyes. “Zwei Kanonenbootes.”

“Oh, das booming, ja?” Huebner asked.

“Ja, Hube, das boom,” Robert said with a laugh.

“It’s Sunday, ja?” Huebner asked.

“Ja, it’s Sunday, Hube, der Tag des Herrn. The Lord’s Day. Why?” Piper asked.

“More fighting today, ja?” Huebner asked.

“Probably, Hube,” Robert said.

Huebner hung his head and shook it. “No good to kill on der Tag des Herrn.”

“They say die Rebel Jackson prefers to fight on der Tag des Herrn. He thinks he’s doing the Lord’s work,” Piper said.

“Jackson here?” Huebner looked up and asked.

“No, Hube, least not that I know of,” Robert said.

“It’s just another day, Hube,” Piper replied.

“Nein! Remember die Sabbath Tag und keep it holy,” retorted Huebner.

“I don’t see how it can be helped, Hube. They attacked us, and now we have to drive them back or be forced back into the river and drowned,” Robert said.

Huebner nodded. They each looked in the direction of the river and then toward the enemy.

“Well,” Piper said, “it be light soon.”

*****

Stephen Murdoch

Camp of 25th Missouri, AM April 7th, 1862

Stephen Murdoch gingerly stepped his way over the rows of wounded men, using a kerosene lamp he had borrowed from the church to see his path. He moved through trees that, with the lack of light and clouded sky, were not discernible. Hours of scrutinizing rigid or contorted faces slipped by. The church was a magnet for wounded men who could drag themselves there or who were helped by comrades. The Federal wounded lay near their enemy, and all received equal attention from the surgeon’s saw. A wound equalized friend and foe.