July 2, 1863:  The column moved forward at an easy pace.  I could hear artillery booming in the distance along with the sporadic rattling of musketry but the pace didn't change.  It wasn't our time to fight just yet.

At this range, the battle sounded like some distant storm that, over the years, had become strangely relaxing to me.  It would have seemed almost innocent if I hadn't had first-hand experience with these man-made tempests of canister and grape.  I understood all too well that this storm was raining death on all those unfortunate enough to be in its path.  Technology may have advanced us considerably but there was no umbrella made that would stop a torrent of lead.

I continued steadily forward, having learned long ago that there was no use getting excited without need.  The needless use of energy is a waste and something I  might have better use of later.  Besides, I had no doubt that there would be cause for excitement soon enough.

We were all exhausted at this point and that, along with the slow, steady plodding of my horse allowed me to drift into some small relief from the events I knew were coming.  I had learned to enjoy these little snatches of contentment.  Anything to get my mind off this fool war.  The tiredness had been sneaking up on me more of late.  The fatigue felt heavy but warm and I was soon enjoying a rest of sorts.  It was an unsettled rest but rest nonetheless.

As I drifted in and out of half-sleep, the corners of my mouth curved unexpectedly into a thin smile.  The memory of my first time in battle meandered slowly but fitfully across my mind even though I would have just as soon forgotten the whole thing.

The day in question was eons ago, not so much in time but experience.  I was a strapping kid then and as physically adult as most others in this army.  But, as I would soon learn, I was still infantile to the finer points of inhumanity.  I rode then, much like now, expecpt for some panic-stricken condition that had caused my body to go numb and any kind of sleep, half or otherwise, was the farthest thing from a mind packed with that much fear.  I almost laughed out loud at the thought of what I must have looked like with my eyes bugged out, teeth clinched and complexion sure to make any self-respecting corpse envious.  My knuckles were pale from the death grip I had on the reins and I rode as if somebody had shoved a corn cob up my butt.

I would later remember muttering, "Dear Lord...oh, my dear Lord!" each time a barrage of artillery punctuated through the still air.  A weathered old sergeant riding next to me had reached over and patted me on the arm.

"Easy son," he said with a smile.  "No use wettin' your pants 'till there's a reason to let it go.  I reckon we'll all be a little damp before this day's over."

I appreciated the effort but his stab at humor hadn't helped settling my stomach any.  On top of everything else, I felt the drizzles coming on which I had always been apt to do when I got too nervous.   But I figured I would surely drizzle myself down to nothing but butt-hole and bones this time because nervous had a brand new meaning.  The old man smiled knowingly and returned his gaze to the column ahead but, as it turned out, wet pants would be the least of his worries.  I found him later on the field with his intestines hanging down his legs.

I'd thought about battle a lot but even through my fear, I wanted very much to face the enemy bravely like some knight of old.  However, I had found that it's hard to feel knightish when you're about to mess your pants.  I had no idea what battle would be like or how I would react to it.  I just prayed that, in spite of my numbness, I could remain astride my mount and not drizzle or pee down my leg before I at least got a chance to fight.

Despite all odds, I was still dry when the order to charge had finally come and I burst ahead blindly, not at all sure of where I was going or what was waiting when I got there.  I only knew one thing.  I had to move before whatever I was holding in with such difficulty should cause me to explode or at least stink up the landscape considerable.  I gave the best yell I could muster without having my insides squirt out and rode hard into...hell, I didn't know.

There were vague memories of many hooves against hard ground, thundering smoke and fire and strange buzzing sounds in the air around me.  I could see masses of screaming men and horses in the distance but the colors were blurring and I wondered if I would know who to kill once I got there.  The smoke from rifles and artillery mad the battle field almost disappear and I could only catch glimpses of the fight by the time I was halfway there.

I continued my blind, screaming charge until I was suddenly hit by a low limb which knocked me from my horse and sent me tumbling.  Fortunately, I was stunned but unhurt and got to my feet when I saw Smokey trotting back in my direction.  I noticed my hat lying several yards away so I lazily walked over, picked it up and dusted it against my leg, oblivious to the bullets and shrapnel whizzing around me.  Like a fool, I just continued to stand where I was and make an excellent target of myself.  Luckily, I wasn't hit so I remounted and rode toward the sound of the fighting.

As I approached the battle site and reined in, I was surprised to find that the battle was over and the enemy was retreating.  Just a minute ago, my body had been geared to fight but now I could only blush at the realization that I had completely missed my first engagement and worse yet, hadn't fired even one bullet at a Yankee.  I took a nervous glance down at my saddle and quickly felt my pants to see if anything was wet.  Everything seemed to be in order but it did little to improve my circumstances.  I took another quick look around me to see if anybody was watching and then sat with a numb expression and wondered what to do next.

I had often thought about getting shot or killed but the notion of making a mistake in battle and disgracing myself held a lot more water.  So, more out of embarrassment than anger, I pointed my pistol in the general direction of the retreating soldiers and fired.  It was the last shot of the battle.

Later, our regimental commander would very angrily report that our final casualty had been an infantryman who had gotten ahead of his company in chasing the enemy and was shot in the butt by a single bullet from one of his own comrades.  Nobody ever found out who fired the shot and I had shared the story with very few people.  But, it had helped put things into perspective because I had been humiliated, at least privately, and lived.  I would find also that there were much worse things than humiliation in this war.