Prisoner in Time

PRISONER IN TIME

Christopher David Petersen

Copyright 2013 Christopher David Petersen

Published Christopher David Petersen

Smashwords Edition

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Back to Top

Two autos raced upon their destiny. The irony of life’s tragedy had come full circle.

Chapter 1

The Desperate Surgery – Part I:

Year: 2033

Darkness masked the unseen film that coated Main Street, as the rains poured down from the sky. Heavy torrents drifted across the blacktop in sheets, completely blocking one’s vision through the frantic wipers. Rotating across the windshield at their highest speed, the flimsy blades were no match for the sheer volume of water.

Heading east along Main Street, a young man gripped the wheel and squinted as he stared intently through the windshield. With each pass of the wiper blades, he momentarily lost view of the road. In seconds, the field cleared briefly and he nervously scanned the path ahead of him. With the lines in the road mostly obscured, he could only guess he was situated correctly in his lane.

Heading west along Main Street, another young man rested his hand at the top of the steering wheel and reached for the buttons on his radio. Dividing his attention between road and radio, his concern for safety was replaced by his desire for music. Fumbling with the buttons, he depressed one and listened, then turned up the sound to drown out the loud deafening pelt of rain that echoed down from the roof from inside the truck.

As he returned his stare through the windshield, his eyes narrowly missed the pot-hole in the road. He felt his left rear tire roll through the depression and the sudden impact of the hole sent a shock wave up through the bed of the truck, shifting it slightly from its course. Instinctively, he turned the wheels in the direction of the skid, only to overcorrect. Instantly the rear of the truck skidded in the opposite direction. With each turn to correct, the oscillations grew in intensity and he now fought to control the ever growing crisis.

Suddenly, a burst from the sky sent a wall of water that covered the road and reduced visibility to mere feet. Seconds later, the rain briefly subsided and for a moment, both drivers could see each other.

Traveling east, the young man gasped at the sight of the truck as its bed crossed the centerline and obstructed his lane. Quickly, he steered to the right to avoid the collision.

Traveling west, the other young man gasped as he felt his truck skid out of control. His heart rate spiked and he burst out in beads of sweat as he frantically struggled to gain control of his truck. Through his side window, he caught the headlights of oncoming traffic. A sickening feeling rushed through his body as he realized the helplessness of his situation.

The eastbound traveler hit his brakes in reflex. Fear raged within him as he tried to steer away from the oncoming mass of steel. With an inch of water standing across the road, his tires barely made contact and began to hydroplane. Hurling straight ahead, the truck loomed larger in his windshield as the two vehicles closed the distance upon each other.

Perception of time seemed to slow momentarily. Mere feet from each other, the light pole that shined from above, illuminated their vehicles. The eastbound driver stared intently through his windshield and spotted the look of shock upon the other driver’s face. With his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth contorted in an unnatural state, it was obvious the driver had let out a fearful scream, only to be heard within his own truck. The westbound driver stared through his side window, his eyes glued to the face of the other driver. He could see the look of fright that registered across the other man’s face. As the surreal became reality, he let out a guttural scream in defeat.

The impact was thunderous and destructive. The westbound driver’s truck skidded into the front left corner of the eastbound car. Instantly, the car spun toward the truck and continued its impact, broadside. Metal collapsed, glass shattered and bones broke as the vehicles crushed around their inhabitants. Blunt force trauma created internal injuries as the mangled wrecks bounced off each other, sending them careening away in opposite directions.

The eastbound car rolled onto its side and skidded, coming to rest in the middle of the road. The westbound truck rocketed off into a ditch, flipped over several times, then landed on its roof in a nearby parking lot, narrowly missing parked vehicles.

For a moment, all was quiet… all except for the sound of rain on twisted metal.

Thirty minutes later:

Donned in heavy rain gear, emergency personnel and police alike lined Main Street as they rushed to evacuate the two victims in the driving rain. Having used the jaws-of-life to extricate the man from the car, they carefully placed him on a gurney and loaded him into the back of the waiting ambulance. Immediately, the paramedics got to work.

Paramedic Stan Pierce grabbed a pair of surgical scissors and began to cut away the man’s pants. While he worked, Paramedic Allen Singleton cut away the patients shirt. In seconds, both made quick assessments of the young man and immediately identified several areas of concern.

Shit, this guy’s in bad shape. I’ve got a left broken arm, probably both bones: the radius and the ulna. His left leg looks broken too in two places: the lower femur and both the tibia and fibula, PM(Paramedic) Pierce said.

Yeah, and look at the contusions in the left side of his chest, PM(Paramedic) Singleton added.

I know, not consistent with seat belts. Probably some internal hemorrhaging, PM Pierce concurred.

Man, the car really crushed him, didn’t it, PM Singleton said.

PM Pierce didn’t answer. Looking toward the patients head, he immediately noticed a swollen region about the left ear.

Temporal hematoma, PM Pierce said, now pointing.

PM Singleton nodded. Leaning over, he flashed a small pen light into each eye.

Right pupil is sluggish. Left pupil is nonreactive, PM Singleton announced in grave tone.

Ok, you get the cuff and I’ll do the pulse ox, pulse and temp, PM Pierce said.

I’m on it, PM Singleton said, already reaching for the blood pressure cuff.

PM Singleton slipped the cuff over the young man’s right arm and began to pump air into it. PM Pierce placed the pulse oximeter on the patient’s finger and depressed a button to begin its reading. Placing his fingers to the patient’s neck, he began to feel for a pulse.

BP’s weak… ninety-five over sixty-five, PM Singleton said.

Pulse ox is weak too: eighty-five, and his pulse is low: about fifty-three beats per minutes, PM Pierce said. Temp is ninety-eight point two.

He’s going into shock, PM Singleton replied, in ominous tone. I’ll start him on oxygen.

Right, I’ll call Erlanger, PM Pierce responded, reaching for the mic.

He depressed the button to the microphone and made his call to the hospital.

Rescue 3 to Erlanger, PM Pierce began.

He waited momentarily, then heard the hospital’s quick reply, Go ahead, Rescue 3.

Erlanger, we’re currently en route to your location, ETA: fifteen minutes. We have a code one, level orange: auto accident, young man in his early twenties. Patient’s condition is unstable. He has a large temporal hematoma. Right pupil is sluggish. Left pupil is nonreactive. He has fractures to his left femur, tibia and fibula, fractures to his left radius and ulna, as well as contusions to his left side thorax. His vitals are: BP ninety-five over sixty-five, pulse fifty-three and his pulse ox is eighty-five. We’ve started oxygen and are waiting further instruction.

Copy that, Rescue 3, Erlanger dispatch responded. Stand by.

Moments later, the speaker roared to life once more.

Rescue 3, start an I.V. drip and report any further decline. The trauma team will be waiting in the ER, dispatch sounded loudly.

Copy I.V. Drip, PM Pierce acknowledged.

As PM Singleton began the set up for the intravenous line, PM Pierce examined their patient once more. Looking up for a moment, both paramedics’ eyes met as they stopped to read the other’s face. Worry and sadness stared back at one another as they both knew there was little more that they could do.

Hang in there Buddy, PM Singleton said sympathetically to his patient. You’ll make it.

Looking over, PM Pierce nodded grimly, knowing all too well the reality of that statement.

Thirty minutes later:

The Boathouse Rotisserie Restaurant, Chattanooga TN

Damn rain, every time we come here, we have to sit inside. Just once, I’d like to sit out on that deck and enjoy the view, the doctor said.

Oh honey, it’s not EVERY time we come here. We’ve eaten on the deck a few times. Remember last summer… how beautiful that night was? The stars were shining and the lights from the distant shore shined across the river. It was almost magical, his wife countered.

You almost sound like a Hallmark card, he joked.

Ha Ha, very funny, she responded. Besides, this is your favorite restaurant. It doesn’t matter where we sit, just as long as you get your artery-clogging Ribeye steak?

I ordered mine with extra fat, he chided.

That’s real funny, coming from a doctor. You should know better. Why don’t you start eating fish and chicken? They’re so much better for you. Always with the red meat, she said.

That’s categorically untrue. I also eat a lot of desserts too, he joked further.

She smiled and shook her head in feigned disgust, then said, I don’t get it. You eat all the wrong foods and yet you somehow manage to stay so thin. You must have a tape worm hidden somewhere.

It’s not just a tapeworm. I do get a little help from exercise, he replied.

Speaking of which, how many miles did you jog this morning?

Eh, I don’t know… a few I guess. I kind of lose track after a while, he replied cryptically.

Another one of those weeks, huh? she asked.

This week has got to be a record. I had two surgeries for metastatic tumors, one surgery for a Medial Sphenoid Wing Meningioma, and one surgery for a Parapharnyngeal space tumor, not to mention seeing patients at my practice during the week, he said, his voice now showing the strain of his stress.

You do look tired. Is there anything I can do to help? she asked sincerely.

Not unless you know how to crack open a skull and operate on a brain, he joked.

They both smiled lovingly at each other for a moment. As he reached across the table to hold her hand, they both became distracted by the approaching waiter.

Ah, finally, I’m starving, he said quietly, out of earshot of the waiter.

With an aluminum three foot tray held above his shoulder, the waiter stood at the edge of their table, then set it down on a small stand.

I believe you ordered the side of beef, Sir? the waiter joked, setting the plate down in front of the doctor.

Half a side. I’m watching my weight, the doctor shot back in good humor, as he eyed his dinner hungrily.

And for you ma’am, the rotisserie chicken, he said, resting the plate in front of her.

The waiter stayed for a moment to ensure their needs were met, then headed off to the kitchen.

Finally, a decent meal, the doctor said, speaking while he ate. I’m so tired of hospital food. Damn, this is good.

Would you care for some chicken? It is delicious, she asked.

What? And taint my palate with that foul squab? NEVER, he joked.

It won’t kill you to try it, she replied.

We’ve been down this road before. It dead ends, remember?

I remember, she smiled, delicately slicing through her chicken.

Suddenly, an electronic vibration sounded out from the doctor’s pants pocket. Even with the sound turned to ‘silent’, the noise the cell phone made on vibration mode was loud enough for both to hear.

Oh no! his wife cried out. Not now. We just started eating.

Quickly, he dug the phone from his pocket and stared at the number disapprovingly.

Great... just great, he said, still chewing his food.

Maybe you could ignore it… pretend the batteries died.

They call page me unless it’s an emergency, especially this time of the evening, he said, now resigning himself to his fate.

He dialed the phone and waited for the line to connect. Glancing up to his wife, he smiled cordially. She stared back in frustration.

After a few words, he pushed the button to end the call and quickly stuffed his phone back into his pocket. Standing at the edge of the table, he searched for his keys.

I’m really sorry about this. I really wanted us to have a nice evening together, he said, sadness evident in his tone.

I know, me too, she responded simply, her disappointment limiting her words.

He bent over and kissed her goodbye, then hurried for the exit.

Fifteen minutes later:

The doctor burst through the double doors of the operating room. Having changed into his OR scrubs, he quickly prepared himself for surgery.

Ok, so what do we have?

Car accident, doctor. Young male, early twenties, TBI (traumatic brain injury). We have the films from his CT scan. It looks like a large subdural hematoma, assisting Dr. Bill Acosta explained. His vitals are weak but stable for the moment.

Pointing to a region on the film showing the left side of the brain, the doctor said, There’s significant hemorrhaging of the left temporal lobe extending into the external capsule and across into the frontal lobe. I’m seeing significant mass effect, with a midline shift. It looks like there’s also mixed density in the parenchyma of the temporal lobe.

Looking back at the OR team, he said bluntly, This is bad. Let’s get in there before the pressures grow too high and cause any further damage.

Immediately, the team moved to action.

Surgical Nurse Jenna Taylor carefully cleaned the left temporal region of the patients head with Betadine soap. Ten minutes later, she shaved and sterilized the affected area with a Betadine solution.

Ok, let’s secure his head in the Mayfield holder and push anesthesia, Dr. X ordered respectfully.

We’ve got a central line started. Pushing anesthesia and meds now, anesthesiologist Dr. Matt Haskins called back.

Dr. X glanced over to the monitors, then the I.V. lines as the anesthesiologist began his work. Looking back to surgical Nurse Taylor, he called to her, I need a fifty-fifty mixture of point-five percent Marcaine and two percent Lidocaine.

Having anticipated his request, Nurse Taylor instantly handed him a syringe. With a nod of approval, Dr. X accepted the anesthetic mixture.

I wouldn’t trade you for a hundred nurses, Dr. X complimented, now smiling through his surgical mask.

Turning his attention back to the patient, assisting Dr. Acosta had already adjusted the patient’s head, turning it toward the right to expose the left side. Grabbing the Mayfield holder, he positioned the three contact pins around the skull and waited for doctor X to administer the anesthetic.

I’m ready, Dr. X announced simply.

Quickly, Dr. X injected the anesthetic solution into the skin of the patient’s skull just under the three contact pins of the Mayfield holder. Moments later, as Dr. Acosta held the holder steady, Dr. X screwed the pins through the skin and into the skull. With the head now fixed within the appliance, he fastened the holder to the table, securing it firmly for surgery.

Ok, let’s place the neck and shoulder supports. Are all tools and instrumentation in place?

Patient is sedated. His vitals are weak but holding at BP ninety over sixty, pulse forty-eight and his pulse ox is eighty-two… for now, Dr. Haskins called out ominously. Maybe we should wait until he’s stable?

If we don’t get in there now, he’ll be dead in an hour, Dr. X shot back in grim tone.

Tools and instruments set, Nurse Taylor responded.

Ok, have a unit of O’negative standing by. I’ll have the twenty-two blade, he said. Directing his attention to Dr. Acosta, he asked, Can you take the suction?

Reaching for the instrument, he nodded simply.

Quickly, Nurse Taylor handled Dr. X the requested scalpel as Dr. Acosta manned the suctioning wand.

Dr. X stared into the worried eyes of his colleagues. He took a deep breath and exhaled. A moment later, he began his incision across the patient’s skull…

To be continued…

-----*-----*-----*-----

Chapter 2

Nashville, Tennessee

December 16, 1864

Confederate General John Hood pulled his felt hat from his head and wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Even in December, the cool temperatures weren’t enough to prevent beads of nervous sweat from forming on his brow. Sitting on his horse, he stared out over the battlefield. From the nearby bluff, he watched the action unfold on Compton’s Hill to his north. As a stiff breeze blew through his long black beard, he caught the strong oder of spent powder that drifted south from the distant cannons a half mile away.

He reached down and pulled his field glasses that hung from his saddle horn. Staring through them, he adjusted their focus and studied his generals as Union forces advanced on his positions.

On the eastern side of Compton’s Hill, Confederate General Alexander Stewart, waged a vicious battle against Union General James Steedman.

Situated along the hilltop, Gen. Stewart’s men knelt in shallow trenches and fired down at the enemy. At the base of Compton’s Hill, Union Gen. Steedman’s men held their positions behind breastworks made of logs and stone, and fired uphill at Confederated positions. As more Union soldiers entered the battle, they now began to outnumber Confederate forces. With the Rebel lines now weakening, Gen. Hood called up reserves to reinforce his right flank.

Captain Helms, send a dispatch to Gen. Stewart. Bring up the 9th brigade and shore up that weakening line to the east, he shouted to his officer standing nearby. Concentrate artillery on the Union left flank, he added.

Yes Sir, Captain Helms responded.

Quickly, the obedient captain dashed off to his courier, relaying the message from command.

Scanning the top of Compton’s Hill, Gen. Hood watched his men continue to fire down at the enemy. With a nod of approval, he surveyed his forces to the west.

Suddenly, the sound of a fast approaching horse, broke Gen. Hood’s concentration. As he turned to investigate, the dispatch rider pulled hard on his reins and brought his horse to a quick halt next to him.

Gen. Hood Sir. Urgent Dispatch from Gen. Stewart, the worn looking courier announced loudly.

Bring it here private, he shot back without hesitation.

Gen. Hood read the dispatch. His eyes grew in intensity with each line he finished. Quickly, he brought his field glasses back to his eyes and stared out toward the right flank he’d just examined moments before. To his horror, columns of Union Calvary were advancing on that position. As he continued to watch, a sickening feeling developed in the pit of his stomach as the once fortified position began to weaken.

Lieutenant Rosewood, send a dispatch to Gen. Stewart, Gen. Hood shouted frantically. Send in any and all of his reserve units. He needs to shore up that line before it’s too late.

Sir, he has no more men in reserves, Lt. Rosewood responded grimly.

Gen. Hood shot the lieutenant a scornful stare and instantly read the truth in his eyes. Quickly, he stared through his field glasses once more and scanned his forces off to the east.

We need to divert some of Gen. Lee’s men back to Stewart’s, Gen. Hood shouted.

But Sir, Gen. Lee’s lines are already thinning, Captain Gabriel shouted from his horse, behind his commander.

I realize that Captain, but the greater force is now to our east. We need to redirect our fire before it’s too late, the general explained. If they outflank us, not only may we lose the battle, but to a greater extent, we might not be able to retreat.

Captain Gabriel thought about the possibility of surrender. Up until that moment, he hadn’t considered it. With the general’s statement, the truth and extent of their crisis registered in his mind. He scanned the battle from east to west and a sickening feeling churned his stomach. Seeing anxiety spread across the captain’s face, Gen. Hood turned his attention back to Lt. Rosewood.

You still here? he said sarcastically to his lieutenant.

No Sir, Lt. Rosewood shot back in an obedient tone.

Instantly, the lieutenant hurried to his courier to deliver the general’s directive.

Within a half hour, the world of the Confederates had changed. As Confederate soldiers were diverted from the western edge of the battle, they marched through heavy fire toward the eastern flank. Soon, their numbers were greatly reduced. Upon reaching the eastern blockade, with nearly half the men laying dead or dying, their efforts proved ineffective. Shortly after taking up positions behind the breastworks, the Union advance overran their positions.

With the taste of victory on their lips, the Union troops flooded over the breastworks and headed up the eastern slope of Compton’s Hill. As Confederate soldiers fired down from their elevated position, the shallow trenches left their upper bodies exposed to the savagery of Union fire.

General Hood stared across the valley to his men’s position on the hill and realized the problem. His men had dug shallow trenches through the previous night in anticipation of the next day’s battle. In their haste, each trench was missing an important element: head logs. The missing logs would have provided the necessary element in their protective line. Now, fighting the battle without them, his men were paying the penalty for their oversight.

They’re being cut to ribbons, Gen. Hood said loudly. Keep your heads down! he shouted further.

Looking through his field glasses, he now stared at the unthinkable: he was being outflanked on both sides of the battlefield. He knew as the Union troops continued their advance, they’d eventually encircle him completely, cutting off all chance of escape.

Shock and horror raced through his mind as he thought about his capture. Desperate for a solution, he shouted the call for withdrawal.

Captain Gabriel sound the retreat, he yelled, his tone now harried and frantic.

Instantly, the bugler blew into his horn. Across the valley to Compton’s Hill, the distant sound was heard over the roar of rifle and cannon fire. Other buglers picked up the call and relayed the message to distant troops. As the men heard the frantic report, they quickly turned and headed for their escape, only to be caught in crossfire from the surrounding Union troops.

Gen. Hood stared out over his defeat. His shame was second only to his worry for his men. He had waited too long to sound the retreat and now there was little chance for any escape.

Sir, any ideas, Captain Gabriel asked in fearful tone.

Gen. Hood bowed his head in remorse. In a solemn tone, he spoke his simple reply:

Pray for a miracle.

-----*-----*-----*-----

Firing atop Compton’s Hill, inside a shallow trench, Sergeant Arles Moore encouraged his men to fight. As he stared down on the approaching enemy, he searched for weakness in their advance and directed fire from his troops. Although the Union advance up the sloping terrain was spirited and heavy, it was also chaotic. Arles noticed gaping holes in their defenses and took action.

To the left boys! he shouted loudly. Them yanks down yonder, separated from the others. Let ‘em have it.

Instantly, a volley of musket fire hurled down the hill. In seconds, a dozen Union soldiers lay dead. As their comrades fell, the few remaining took cover behind rocks or lay in shallow depressions, narrowly escaping the fate of the other’s.

Arles searched the scene once more. Again, he spotted weakness.

Over there boys! he shouted while pointing. Get them leaders.

A moment later, all guns were trained on a pack of soldiers leading a charge. Far out in front, they made easy targets. As Arles’ men opened fired, they cut down the blue coated soldiers with ease.

That’s it boys. We’ve got ‘em now. Keep a-firing, he shouted enthusiastically.

With even greater furor, the men from his company trained their sights on the endless sea of Union soldiers. Although dozens were falling in the charge, many more advanced.

Suddenly, Arles heard the sound of the bugler. Spinning around, he looked behind him and noticed the frantic retreat of his fellow soldiers on the opposite side of the hill.

Retreat? he shouted incredulously. Impossible. We’re whooppin’ them blue dogs, he continued in disbelief.

Not so, Sergeant, Lt. Drake shouted from nearby, overhearing his false claim. The Yankees are outflanking us.

Sir, we rule the high ground. Surely we won’t just let them blue cowards have it.

They’ll be taking it from us shortly, I reckon. Better move along while you still can, Lt. Drake ordered by suggestion.

But Sir, we can whoop ‘em. I know we can, he pleaded, then added in frustration, This is madness.

Sergeant Moore, fall in with your men. That’s an order, Lt. Drake shouted, unwilling to discuss the matter any further.

With a simple nod, he reached for his rifle. Instantly, the wooden stock exploded into splinters as a Union bullet found its mark. Arles jump back from the sudden violent event. For a moment, he stared down at his rifle, now a useless mass of wood and steel. Anger raged inside him at the destruction of his trusted weapon.

Them filthy blue dogs have wrecked my rifle, he shouted loudly, now incensed over the sight.

Leave it, Lt. Drake shouted back as he hurried away. You’ll get another.

Don’t want ‘nother, he said to himself, now holding the broken rifle.

As his fellow soldiers rushed past him, several bumped his shoulders. He looked around and realized the hilltop was quickly emptying of all men. Instantly, he hurried along with the escaping horde.

As he ran, he felt a sense of shame that seemed to overpower his emotions and logic. Soon, anger raged inside him as he thought about the wasted opportunity to beat the opposing force. He had lost many friends and now, just when they were so close to avenging their deaths, he was forced to give up.

Up ahead, Arles spotted a Confederate flag waving in the wind. Pierced through its cloth with a bayonet, it was attached to a musket that was propped up with a small pile of rocks. The lone symbol of his proud Confederacy was now ignored like useless trash.

The insult of the act was too much for him to stand. Arles felt crazed with rage and anger. He wanted to take action. He needed revenge upon the enemy.

In an act devoid of logic, he stopped and grabbed the rifle. Gently laying his own weapon on the ground, he reverently gave it a nod, then turned and headed back against the flow of retreating men. Holding his Confederate flag high above his head, he waved it vigorously as he ran.

Come on boys! Let’s show them blue dogs, he shouted loudly. Follow me! he yelled.

Arles ran for the trenches that guarded the hilltop. Dodging soldiers headed for their escape, he repeated his call to duty.

Come on boys! Let’s show them blue cowards what for, he roared enthusiastically.

With the Confederate flag moving high through the air, several men stopped to take notice. As they did, others joined the spectacle. Moments later, a hundred men stood and watched proudly as their comrade bravely fired down upon the approaching enemy with his flag-draped rifle. He reloaded quickly and fired again… then again.

Several of the men hurried to Arles’ side and fired their rifles at the enemy. Inspired by their valor, other men joined the heroic cause. Soon, hundreds of men stood on the hilltop’s shallow trenches and laid down bursts of unrelenting fire.

As the enemy’s pace slowed to a crawl, more Confederates were added to the melee. In very little time, the roar of repeated fire was deafening as one rifle became a thousand. Standing shoulder to shoulder, they sent a hail of bullets that turned the hillside a crimson red from the blood of fallen Union soldiers.

In minutes, the proud advancing army now organized a retreat of its own. Hurling back toward the breastworks at the base of the hill, their slow progress over it created a bottleneck that extended their casualties.

-----*-----*-----*-----

As General Hood rode away, he took one last look through his field glasses. To the east, his men were fighting for their lives while trying to escape. The Union right flank had nearly closed off their remaining route of retreat. Within a short time, they would be encircled and their capture would be complete. His stomach churned as he thought about their fate.

Scanning to the east, his mind suddenly became confused. What he expected to see was very different than what he saw through his binoculars. He pulled them from his eyes and stared out over the eastern slopes of Compton’s Hill.

This can’t be, he said under his breath.

Quickly, he brought his field glasses back to his eyes. Adjusting the focus, he shouted in disbelief, This can’t be!

Sir? Captain Gabriel shouted a short distance away.

Captain, sound the buglers. All men advance to the east, he shouted. We just might be able to save ‘em.

Save ‘em? Sir, with all due respect, we’re being overrun.

Captain, I found our miracle, Gen Hood said, now handing him his field glasses. Pointing to the top of Compton’s Hill, he said, There… there’s our miracle.

Captain Gabriel stared across the valley to the action taking place at the hilltop.

Sir, I don’t understand. Who ordered those men to fight?

I don’t know, but whoever it was deserves a medal. Now, sound that advance, Gen. Hood responded once more.

Yes Sir, Captain Gabriel replied enthusiastically.

Within seconds, the buglers horn signaled a return to battle. Moments later, more buglers carried the order. As the retreating men hurried back to their station, General Hood monitored the action from his distant bluff.

-----*-----*-----*-----

We’ve got ‘em on the run now, boys, Arles shouted. Let’s get ‘em.

With his adrenaline pumping and with little regard for his safety, he leaped from the trench and hurried down the hill toward the retreating men. All sense and logic seemed to fade as raw determination replaced his reasoning. Arles was now focused. He had his foe on the run and the taste of blood on his tongue. Nothing would deter him.

Racing down the hill, he fired his weapon, then stopped. With a quick roll of his wrists, he unfurled his proud Confederate flag from the gun barrel. He waved it above his head for all to see and continued on. He ran a few more yards, stopped, reloaded his rifle and fired on the escaping enemy once more.

Wooo... wooo… wooo… Arles shouted at the top of his lungs, yodeling the infamous Rebel yell.

Reloading on the run, he now continued his crazed pursuit. Twenty seconds after his last shot, he fired again. The bullet sailed through the air, descending lower in elevation toward the Union masses. Moments later, one man cried out in agony as the lead mini-ball tore through his wool jacket and embedded in his spine. The unlucky soldier fell forward and impacted the ground. He lay motionless, trying to breathe in spite of his paralysis. Seconds later, he was dead.

Arles let out another blood curdling Rebel yell, reloaded and continued forward. A satisfying smile curled up the corners of his mouth. He felt invigorated… he felt alive.

-----*-----*-----*-----

A half mile away, high up on the distant bluff, Gen. Hood watched in curious fascination at the spectacle unfolding beyond his orders. Looking through his field glasses, he watched a curly red-haired soldier, wave a Confederate flag above his head, jump from his protective trench and chase the enemy downhill. Suddenly, a rush of excitement raced through him as he focused on the recklessly brave soldier. Standing in his stirrups, he bent forward subconsciously, trying to get a closer look.

My God! he shouted loudly, unsure of the fate of the lone man.

Sir, what is it? Captain Gabriel responded, now riding up beside his commander.

He passed his binoculars to his officer and pointed.

I don’t know if that man is inspiringly brave or profoundly stupid.

The Captain stared through the binoculars at the heroic sight. He became mesmerized by the lone soldier waving his flag and chasing the enemy while firing. He felt a rush of pride to know the man he just spotted.

Sir, that’s Sergeant Moore, Captain Gabriel shouted. Sergeant Arles Moore.

My God man. How could you possibly know that? Gen. Hood asked, in surprised tone.

Flaming red curly hair, Sir, Captain Gabriel responded. "I recognize him from Captain Livingston’s unit.

Still looking through the field glasses, he felt a gloved hand pull them from his eyes. Momentarily surprised, he released his grip on the binoculars.

You don’t mind if I have these back, do you Captain? Gen. Hood asked in joking tone.

"Sorry Sir. It is an inspiring sight."

With a concurring nod, he quickly moved the glasses to his eyes. Staring intently, he said, That brave man, Arles Moore, is a hero. He deserves a medal.

-----*-----*-----*-----

Standing at the top of Compton’s Hill, a thousand men stared in awe at their brave comrade. Their disbelief was eclipsed only by their pride. With pride also came a sense of responsibility. Their friend, their comrade, had crossed from the safety of the hilltop and was now bringing the fight to the enemy. Their sense of duty could not allow him to fight alone. One by one, they leaped from the safety of the trench and headed down the hill to join him.

Arles continued his rapid chase. Firing three rounds a minute while on the run, he was a force unto himself. He stopped for only a moment to pull back the hammer on his musket and fire. With the enemy now only two hundred yards away, his accuracy became more deadly, felling a higher number of soldiers with each yard he gained.

Arles stopped for a moment. He let out a loud rebel yell and waved his flag. He felt the euphoria of his success. Suddenly, he felt the side of his jacket tug on his body. Looking down, he saw the unmistakable bullet hole in the cloth.

Bastards! he shouted loudly.

He fired again in retaliation.

Die you blue cowards! he yelled angrily.

On the run once again, the flag waved as he hurried to reload. Suddenly, he winced as he felt the sting of hot lead from a bullet that grazed his thigh. He stumbled forward, found his balance and stopped. With his free hand, he rubbed his thigh, momentarily soothing the pain. He raised his fingers and noticed blood. Greater anger now raged inside him.

You sons-a-bitches! You’ll pay for this, he yelled in near frantic tone.

He fired blindly and quickly reloaded.

Far down the hillside and all alone, Arles made a conspicuous target… even for a retreating army. As the Union soldiers hurried over the breastworks at the bottom of the hill, several men stood and fired uphill, covering their exit. The sight of Arles was irresistible. Through the hale of bullets that streamed from the top of the hilltop, they concentrated their fire at the lone man at the mountain’s center.

Arles heard the whistle of bullets as they passed his ears. Instinctively, he ducked, then continued moving. He reached for his powder flask and felt excruciating pain in his leg. Instantly, he fell to the ground and clutched his throbbing thigh. Writhing in pain, he looked down and saw the gaping wound. Blood and flesh oozed from his wool pants. More bullets embedded the ground around him. He bit his lip, refusing to yell and crawled to a large boulder a few feet away, dragging his rifle beside him. As he lay with his back against the stone, he looked up and smiled. There, racing toward him, were his fellow soldiers. To Arles, the sight was awe inspiring.

He reached into his jacket and pulled out a handkerchief. Wrapping it around the wounded limb, he pulled it tight, hoping compression would ease the pain. He let out a cry of agony, realizing only too late, the error in his logic. With his leg roughly bandaged, he turned over on one knee and placed his hands on the rock. Pushing in one effort, he was able to stand. He looked back at his approaching comrades and smiled through his pain.

Whoop them blue-bellies, he shouted up the hill.

Turning back, he began to limp down the hill. With his adrenaline pumping wildly through his body, he reloaded his rifle and fired. He hobbled along for a few more steps and reloaded. Moments later, his hat flew off his head. He ducked instinctively once more, causing his wounded leg to flex. He cried out in pain, nearly hyperventilating from the act. Looking down, he noticed his hat lying on the ground. He tried to bend over to pick it up, but the pain in his leg stopped him short.

You won’t get away with this, he said under his breath.

Looking down the hill, he reloaded his weapon. As he dragged his painful leg beside him, he fired. A hundred and fifty yards away, another Union soldier fell to the ground and died.

More bullets streamed by his ears. Each time he ducked, then winced and each time, he kept moving forward. Looking back up the hill, his fellow soldiers neared his position. The warmth of camaraderie raced through his body and gave him strength. He smiled as he reloaded, nearly ignoring the pain. He fired quickly and reloaded once more.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw the faces of his men now only a few yards away. As he turned back, several rushed past him and let out a rebel yell.

Inspired by their spirit, he yelled, Come on boys, our time’s at hand.

He limped forward and waved his flag.

-----*-----*-----*-----

Private Alfred Jones stood with his back to the column of escaping Union soldiers and fired rapidly at the approaching Confederates. Looking over his shoulder, he watched the flow of men cross over the hastily strewn logs and boulders in retreat. Nervous beads of sweat formed under his cap and dripped down his forehead as he wondered about his turn to escape.

He heard a dull thud in the grass beside him. Looking down, he saw a raised bump that streaked along the surface, showing the path of the bullet. Snapping him back into focus, the scared seventeen-year-old reached for his powder flask and began to reload. His hands trembled slightly as he poured a measure of black powder into the muzzle of his rifle. As more Confederate bullets passed nearby, he loaded wadding and a lead ball, then rammed the contents down the barrel.

He raised his weapon, then suddenly felt his jacket tug along his right shoulder. He turned quickly and noticed the torn and ragged seam where a bullet had passed through. Immediately, his stomach churned with fear. He considered turning and running for safety, but a sense of duty held him to his station.

He raised his weapon and searched for a target. His eyes immediately sighted a waving Confederate flag. Staring through the sights on his gun, he lined them up with the limping figure a hundred yards up the hill. He took a deep breath, exhaled and pulled the trigger. A cloud of smoke and flames instantly discharged out the end of the gun barrel.

The bullet roared through the crisp December air, barely losing altitude as it traveled. Halfway to its target, the limping man stared down the sights of his own weapon. Lined up with a young man of seventeen, he began to squeeze the trigger.

-----*-----*-----*-----

High up on the distant bluff, Gen. Hood stared anxiously at the action taking place far out on the western slope of Compton’s Hill. Watching through his field glasses, he squeezed their metal frames involuntarily in anticipation of the heightened drama. Seated beside him, Captain Gabriel squinted hard, but it was no use. The action taking placing was far beyond the limits of his vision. Impatiently he shifted in his saddle and waited for reports from his superior.

My God, he’s been wounded, Gen. Hood announced in distressing tone.

He shot Captain Gabriel a fearful look, then quickly returned to his field glasses. Captain Gabriel shielded his eyes and squinted harder.

Sir, he’s too far away. Can I borrow your glasses momentarily? he asked, in respectful tone.

The General didn’t answer. Still concentrating intently on the action, he rolled his finger over a dial and sharpened the focus.

He’s ok… he’s limping now. It’s only a leg wound, the General shouted as he continued to monitor the brave man’s actions. He just fired again.

He shot Captain Gabriel an approving nod and said, By God, he’s tougher than Injun leather.

General Hood Sir. Please, may I borrow your glasses? I’ll return them in short order, Captain Gabriel pleaded.

General Hood continued to observe, his stare went unbroken. Suddenly, his shoulders hunched and his face became drawn. Slowly he lowered his field glasses.

-----*-----*-----*-----

Arles felt a shiver run through him as his blood-soaked pant leg cooled in the December air and chilled his body. He looked down at his gray wool pants and noticed his right leg was completely red. For the first time, he realized the extent of his bleeding. Looking back behind him, he noticed a trail of blood in the grass.

Mangy blue dogs, he cursed under his breath.

He lifted his rifle once more in the air and waved the Confederate flag. Lowering the barrel, he took aim at a young soldier a hundred yards away. As he stared down his sights, he saw a cloud of smoke rise from the young man’s rifle.

Arles swallowed hard. For a moment, time seemed to slow as he listened to the faint sound of a