In a storm of gray and blue forms and metallic flashes and fiery explosions and screeched orders, there were no directions. “North” and “south” and “east” were replaced with “charge” and “retreat” and “fire”. Henry waded through the twisted corpses and squeezed his eyes closed as the flash of a bayonet lodged itself into the figure beside him. The inhuman caterwaul was cut short by a suddenly unbearable pain that shot through his knee, and immediately there was nothing left in the world to do but get off of that field, but every time he tried to move his quickly-paling body elsewhere-
A pair of wide eyes the color of spring grass- grass from anywhere but this blood-stained field- observed the boy silently, as if they were used to beakers and data and graphs. Instead of the twisted corpses of war, those eyes saw the immaculate cadavers of anatomy class. It took until Henry was on the ground, pants-leg no longer blue, for the man to move, and when he did, it was a quick lurch that made the injured soldier worry that he had been hit as well. A choked drawl assured Henry that the man was still alive.
“God, forgive me, I shot him.” His voice, even laced with panic and disbelief, was soft, slow, and even, and Henry found himself clinging to every morbid syllable.
The man looked over his shoulder at his army before dropping to his knees and pulling a long, yellowed strip of cloth from the small, bloody bag at his hip. He tied it in a tight tourniquet just above Henry’s knee with a calmness that was almost comical, given their condition. When the man was finished, he turned his face back to the young soldier, who had to squeeze his eyes closed to keep from getting sick. When there had been distance between them, Henry had failed to notice the grotesque spatters of blood across the lenses of the man’s small, round spectacles. He let out a choked sob when he saw a hand, covered in blood, run through the man’s dark hair absently, and Henry was suddenly able to believe the myths that Death wore a gray uniform.
“I’m going to lift you. Don’t scream, or I’ll get shot.” The soft drawl started again and Henry nodded slightly, allowing the man to lift him out of the pool of blood that had collected under him. He was carried off of the field to a small area of trees behind Confederate lines. “Southern boys have too much honor to shoot a wounded man,” the man claimed, as he continued treating Henry’s wound as he had been on the field.
“If you’re not going to finish me off, at least give me your name. Mine’s Henry.” The boy stared up at him with pale blue eyes and flecks of blood and dirt in his flaxen hair. “I mean, Private Henry S. Adamson, sir. New York.”
“Lieutenant Robert Owen Luceton, Virginia.” His drawl had hardened and became formal.
“Pleasure to meet you.”
“Don’t lie. The Bible says not to.”
“No offense, sir, but that’s not the Commandment that I’m most concerned.” And, for once, the Southern man was speechless.