Never Call Retreat by Newt Gingrich & William R. Forstchen

Author:Newt Gingrich & William R. Forstchen [Gingrich, Newt & Forstchen, William R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: St. Martin's Paperbacks
Published: 2010-07-30T23:00:00+00:00

Damn good work, boys!" Hunt shouted. "Damn good work!"

Now mounted, he trotted down the line, shouting his congratulations, the men cheering as he passed.

"What do you think of Western gunners now, sir?" one of them yelled out.

The question actually gave him painful pause for a second, remembering the bloody defense at Gettysburg, the sacrifice of Stevens's Battery, the final stand in the cemetery. And all of them gone now.

He slowed, then remembered to stay in this moment, not to dwell on the bitter past.

"You're damn good lads and I'm proud of you!"

His response drew a cheer and he rode on.

The men were exhausted; many had stripped off their jackets, sweat streaming down their bodies. The August sun beat down on them; gun barrels were so hot that to touch them would fry a man's flesh.

As his batteries ceased fire, men were already swabbing and reswabbing the bores, the sponges hissing and steaming as they were slammed in.

Limber wagons were coming up, circling around, ignoring the incoming fire that still rained down from the center of the rebel line, crews rushing up to off-load ammunition and carry it into the bombproofs.

He passed an entire team of gunners who had been wiped out, all of them killed when a well-placed case shot detonated directly above them. Stretcher bearers ignored them, going down the line to pick up the wounded. Even in victory there would be the casualties.

Eleven of his guns had been disabled in the fight, wheels taken off, barrels hit and dismounted, or bursting case shot killing everyone gathered around a piece.

As always, the wounds to artillerymen were the most horrific. A solid shot had torn off the wheel of a Parrott gun, then slashed clean through the solid oak of the trail piece, killing or wounding the entire crew; one man was impaled against the side of the lunette, a spoke from the wheel driven through his stomach, pinning him to the wall. To Henry's absolute horror, the man was still alive, groaning softly, several comrades gathered round him, debating whether to try to move him or not. A surgeon came up and Henry prayed that the man had the courage to inject him with so much morphine that he would slip away.

He turned his head away and rode on.

Another shot winged in from the distant rebel position, this one either damn well aimed or pure luck. It hit a caisson moving up. The caisson, loaded with fifty shells and over a hundred pounds of powder, exploded with a roar, the entire team of six horses blown down, debris soaring heavenward. Seconds later a distant roar went up. It was a defiant rebel yell.

His own gunners turned, facing the rebs, waving clenched fists, vowing revenge.

Henry continued to ride on, inspecting his pieces. He knew the next stage was about to begin. The question now was simply when.

Headquarters, Army of the Susquehanna 11:00 A.M.

Grant lit what was now the tenth cigar of the day, coughing slightly as he puffed it to life, remaining motionless in his camp chair, just sitting silently, watching the fight.

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