The Collected Works of Ambrose Bierce — Volume 2: In the Midst of Life: Tales of Soldiers and Civilians

Captain Graffenreid stood at the head of his company.  The regiment was not engaged.  It formed a part of the front line-of-battle, which stretched away to the right with a visible length of nearly two miles through the open ground.  The left flank was veiled by woods; to the right also the line was lost to sight, but it extended many miles.  A hundred yards in rear was a second line; behind this, the reserve brigades and divisions in column.  Batteries of artillery occupied the spaces between and crowned the low hills.  Groups of horsemen—­generals with their staffs and escorts, and field officers of regiments behind the colors—­broke the regularity of the lines and columns.  Numbers of these figures of interest had field-glasses at their eyes and sat motionless, stolidly scanning the country in front; others came and went at a slow canter, bearing orders.  There were squads of stretcher-bearers, ambulances, wagon-trains with ammunition, and officers’ servants in rear of all—­of all that was visible—­for still in rear of these, along the roads, extended for many miles all that vast multitude of non-combatants who with their various impedimenta are assigned to the inglorious but important duty of supplying the fighters’ many needs.

An army in line-of-battle awaiting attack, or prepared to deliver it, presents strange contrasts.  At the front are precision, formality, fixity, and silence.  Toward the rear these characteristics are less and less conspicuous, and finally, in point of space, are lost altogether in confusion, motion and noise.  The homogeneous becomes heterogeneous.  Definition is lacking; repose is replaced by an apparently purposeless activity; harmony vanishes in hubbub, form in disorder.  Commotion everywhere and ceaseless unrest.  The men who do not fight are never ready.

From his position at the right of his company in the front rank, Captain Graffenreid had an unobstructed outlook toward the enemy.  A half-mile of open and nearly level ground lay before him, and beyond it an irregular wood, covering a slight acclivity; not a human being anywhere visible.  He could imagine nothing more peaceful than the appearance of that pleasant landscape with its long stretches of brown fields over which the atmosphere was beginning to quiver in the heat of the morning sun.  Not a sound came from forest or field—­not even the barking of a dog or the crowing of a cock at the half-seen plantation house on the crest among the trees.  Yet every man in those miles of men knew that he and death were face to face.

Captain Graffenreid had never in his life seen an armed enemy, and the war in which his regiment was one of the first to take the field was two years old.  He had had the rare advantage of a military education, and when his comrades had marched to the front he had been detached for administrative service at the capital of his State, where it was thought that he could be most useful.  Like a bad soldier he protested, and like a good one obeyed.  In close official and personal relations with the governor of his State, and enjoying his confidence and favor, he had firmly refused promotion and seen his juniors elevated above him.  Death had been busy in his distant regiment; vacancies among the field officers had occurred again and again; but from a chivalrous feeling that war’s rewards belonged of right to those who bore the storm and stress of battle he had held his humble rank and generously advanced the fortunes of others.  His silent devotion to principle had conquered at last:  he had been relieved of his hateful duties and ordered to the front, and now, untried by fire, stood in the van of battle in command of a company of hardy veterans, to whom he had been only a name, and that name a by-word.  By none—­not even by those of his brother officers in whose favor he had waived his rights—­was his devotion to duty understood.  They were too busy to be just; he was looked upon as one who had shirked his duty, until forced unwillingly into the field.  Too proud to explain, yet not too insensible to feel, he could only endure and hope.

Of all the Federal Army on that summer morning none had accepted battle more joyously than Anderton Graffenreid.  His spirit was buoyant, his faculties were riotous.  He was in a state of mental exaltation and scarcely could endure the enemy’s tardiness in advancing to the attack.  To him this was opportunity—­for the result he cared nothing.  Victory or defeat, as God might will; in one or in the other he should prove himself a soldier and a hero; he should vindicate his right to the respect of his men and the companionship of his brother officers—­to the consideration of his superiors.  How his heart leaped in his breast as the bugle sounded the stirring notes of the “assembly”!  With what a light tread, scarcely conscious of the earth beneath his feet, he strode forward at the head of his company, and how exultingly he noted the tactical dispositions which placed his regiment in the front line!  And if perchance some memory came to him of a pair of dark eyes that might take on a tenderer light in reading the account of that day’s doings, who shall blame him for the unmartial thought or count it a debasement of soldierly ardor?

Suddenly, from the forest a half-mile in front—­apparently from among the upper branches of the trees, but really from the ridge beyond—­rose a tall column of white smoke.  A moment later came a deep, jarring explosion, followed—­almost attended—­by a hideous rushing sound that seemed to leap forward across the intervening space with inconceivable rapidity, rising from whisper to roar with too quick a gradation for attention to note the successive stages of its horrible progression!  A visible tremor ran along the lines of men; all were startled into motion.  Captain Graffenreid dodged and threw up his hands to one side of his head, palms outward.

As he did so he heard a keen, ringing report, and saw on a hillside behind the line a fierce roll of smoke and dust—­the shell’s explosion.  It had passed a hundred feet to his left!  He heard, or fancied he heard, a low, mocking laugh and turning in the direction whence it came saw the eyes of his first lieutenant fixed upon him with an unmistakable look of amusement.  He looked along the line of faces in the front ranks.  The men were laughing.  At him?  The thought restored the color to his bloodless face—­restored too much of it.  His cheeks burned with a fever of shame.

The enemy’s shot was not answered:  the officer in command at that exposed part of the line had evidently no desire to provoke a cannonade.  For the forbearance Captain Graffenreid was conscious of a sense of gratitude.  He had not known that the flight of a projectile was a phenomenon of so appalling character.  His conception of war had already undergone a profound change, and he was conscious that his new feeling was manifesting itself in visible perturbation.  His blood was boiling in his veins; he had a choking sensation and felt that if he had a command to give it would be inaudible, or at least unintelligible.  The hand in which he held his sword trembled; the other moved automatically, clutching at various parts of his clothing.  He found a difficulty in standing still and fancied that his men observed it.  Was it fear?  He feared it was.

From somewhere away to the right came, as the wind served, a low, intermittent murmur like that of ocean in a storm—­like that of a distant railway train—­like that of wind among the pines—­three sounds so nearly alike that the ear, unaided by the judgment, cannot distinguish them one from another.  The eyes of the troops were drawn in that direction; the mounted officers turned their field-glasses that way.  Mingled with the sound was an irregular throbbing.  He thought it, at first, the beating of his fevered blood in his ears; next, the distant tapping of a bass drum.

“The ball is opened on the right flank,” said an officer.

Captain Graffenreid understood:  the sounds were musketry and artillery.  He nodded and tried to smile.  There was apparently nothing infectious in the smile.

Presently a light line of blue smoke-puffs broke out along the edge of the wood in front, succeeded by a crackle of rifles.  There were keen, sharp hissings in the air, terminating abruptly with a thump near by.  The man at Captain Graffenreid’s side dropped his rifle; his knees gave way and he pitched awkwardly forward, falling upon his face.  Somebody shouted “Lie down!” and the dead man was hardly distinguishable from the living.  It looked as if those few rifle-shots had slain ten thousand men.  Only the field officers remained erect; their concession to the emergency consisted in dismounting and sending their horses to the shelter of the low hills immediately in rear.

Captain Graffenreid lay alongside the dead man, from beneath whose breast flowed a little rill of blood.  It had a faint, sweetish odor that sickened him.  The face was crushed into the earth and flattened.  It looked yellow already, and was repulsive.  Nothing suggested the glory of a soldier’s death nor mitigated the loathsomeness of the incident.  He could not turn his back upon the body without facing away from his company.

He fixed his eyes upon the forest, where all again was silent.  He tried to imagine what was going on there—­the lines of troops forming to attack, the guns being pushed forward by hand to the edge of the open.  He fancied he could see their black muzzles protruding from the undergrowth, ready to deliver their storm of missiles—­such missiles as the one whose shriek had so unsettled his nerves.  The distension of his eyes became painful; a mist seemed to gather before them; he could no longer see across the field, yet would not withdraw his gaze lest he see the dead man at his side.

The fire of battle was not now burning very brightly in this warrior’s soul.  From inaction had come introspection.  He sought rather to analyze his feelings than distinguish himself by courage and devotion.  The result was profoundly disappointing.  He covered his face with his hands and groaned aloud.

The hoarse murmur of battle grew more and more distinct upon the right; the murmur had, indeed, become a roar, the throbbing, a thunder.  The sounds had worked round obliquely to the front; evidently the enemy’s left was being driven back, and the propitious moment to move against the salient angle of his line would soon arrive.  The silence and mystery in front were ominous; all felt that they boded evil to the assailants.

Behind the prostrate lines sounded the hoofbeats of galloping horses; the men turned to look.  A dozen staff officers were riding to the various brigade and regimental commanders, who had remounted.  A moment more and there was a chorus of voices, all uttering out of time the same words—­“Attention, battalion!” The men sprang to their feet and were aligned by the company commanders.  They awaited the word “forward”—­ awaited, too, with beating hearts and set teeth the gusts of lead and iron that were to smite them at their first movement in obedience to that word.  The word was not given; the tempest did not break out.  The delay was hideous, maddening!  It unnerved like a respite at the guillotine.

Captain Graffenreid stood at the head of his company, the dead man at his feet.  He heard the battle on the right—­rattle and crash of musketry, ceaseless thunder of cannon, desultory cheers of invisible combatants.  He marked ascending clouds of smoke from distant forests.  He noted the sinister silence of the forest in front.  These contrasting extremes affected the whole range of his sensibilities.  The strain upon his nervous organization was insupportable.  He grew hot and cold by turns.  He panted like a dog, and then forgot to breathe until reminded by vertigo.

Suddenly he grew calm.  Glancing downward, his eyes had fallen upon his naked sword, as he held it, point to earth.  Foreshortened to his view, it resembled somewhat, he thought, the short heavy blade of the ancient Roman.  The fancy was full of suggestion, malign, fateful, heroic!

The sergeant in the rear rank, immediately behind Captain Graffenreid, now observed a strange sight.  His attention drawn by an uncommon movement made by the captain—­a sudden reaching forward of the hands and their energetic withdrawal, throwing the elbows out, as in pulling an oar—­he saw spring from between the officer’s shoulders a bright point of metal which prolonged itself outward, nearly a half-arm’s length—­a blade!  It was faintly streaked with crimson, and its point approached so near to the sergeant’s breast, and with so quick a movement, that he shrank backward in alarm.  That moment Captain Graffenreid pitched heavily forward upon the dead man and died.

A week later the major-general commanding the left corps of the Federal Army submitted the following official report: 

“SIR:  I have the honor to report, with regard to the action of the 19th inst, that owing to the enemy’s withdrawal from my front to reinforce his beaten left, my command was not seriously engaged.  My loss was as follows:  Killed, one officer, one man.”