noticed it, and it was coming straight at him.
"Sergeant of the guard!"
His voice could be barely heard above the confusion.
"Sergeant of the guard!" Vincent looked over his shoulder, desperate for some help, but all around him was confusion.
The light was drawing closer.
By the starlight he could see a lone man bearing a torch, standing rigidly before him, not twenty yards away.
"Sergeant Barry!" Vincent cried.
Still no response. He had to do something. He was supposed to be on sentry duty, and Barry had roared at him more than once about staying exactly where he was put. He just couldn't run back to one of the officers; they might think he was running away.
He had to do something.
Taking a deep breath, he clambered up over the breastworks. Lowering his rifle to the advance position, he started out across the field toward the solitary figure.
Could he shoot this man? Vincent wondered. Since the start of the war he had wrestled with that. To kill was the greatest sin, the elders had taught him. But to him the enslavement of fellow men was just as heinous. For that reason he had finally resolved to run away and join the army, hoping nevertheless that in the confusion of a battle he would never see a reb that he would be forced to aim at.
But as far as he could tell, these men weren't rebs. What now? Even as he advanced he decided that come what mayhe would not shoot, but nevertheless, as if in spite of himself, he kept his gun cocked and pointed.
Gradually the silhouette took on features. The man was short and rotund. He was dressed in a simple pullover shirt that fell to his knees and had a wide flowing black beard that cascaded down nearly to his waist.
Vincent stopped, his leveled bayonet pointed squarely at the man's oversized stomach.
"Identify yourself , friend or foe," Vincent squeaked out.
The man before him started to break into a grin, and held his two arms out to either side, still smiling.
"Go on, tell me who you are," Vincent whispered.
Ever so slowly the man thumped his chest with his right hand.
"Kalencka."
Vincent let the point of his bayonet drop. How could he stick this man? The fellow was grinning at him.
"Who the hell is out there?"
"It's me, Sergeant Barry!"
"Damn you, soldier, who the hell is me!"
"Private Hawthorne. I've got one of them out here."
"Well, goddammit, private, bring the prisoner in!"
"You heard him," Vincent said softly. "You've got to come in with me," and motioning with his rifle he indicated that the stranger should lead the way.
"Kalencka."
"I guess that's his name," Emil said softly.
Andrew nodded and sat down on his camp chair. Exhausted, he tried to focus his attention. It seemed that all discipline in the regiment was near to breaking. He could hear Schuder roaring out commands, but still there was the shouting. Damn it all, he was terrified himself. There could only be one explanation to all of this, but his mind recoiled at the enormity of it all.
Somehow they were no longer on earth. What other explanation was possible at this point? But each time he tried to come to grips with the thought, he felt as if he wanted to crawl away, fall asleep, and pray that when he awoke he would either be dead from the storm or somehow back in the world he knew and could understand.
The crack of a carbine snapped his thoughts back. The camp fell silent.
"All right, you ignorant, whining, lazy bastards!" Schuder roared. "You're nothing but fresh fish, the whole damned lot of you. And I thought the 35th had men in it. You're crying like green boys being led to see the elephant. Now goddammit, act like men, or so help me I'll thrash the next man who so much as peeps, mit god I'll do it!"
Andrew held his breath. The sergeant major was the most feared man in the regiment, and he could only hope the fear of Schuder would be greater than the unknown that confronted them.
There were a couple of low murmurs.
"I heard you, Fredricks, you little milksop, you whinny
"Sergeant of the guard!"
His voice could be barely heard above the confusion.
"Sergeant of the guard!" Vincent looked over his shoulder, desperate for some help, but all around him was confusion.
The light was drawing closer.
By the starlight he could see a lone man bearing a torch, standing rigidly before him, not twenty yards away.
"Sergeant Barry!" Vincent cried.
Still no response. He had to do something. He was supposed to be on sentry duty, and Barry had roared at him more than once about staying exactly where he was put. He just couldn't run back to one of the officers; they might think he was running away.
He had to do something.
Taking a deep breath, he clambered up over the breastworks. Lowering his rifle to the advance position, he started out across the field toward the solitary figure.
Could he shoot this man? Vincent wondered. Since the start of the war he had wrestled with that. To kill was the greatest sin, the elders had taught him. But to him the enslavement of fellow men was just as heinous. For that reason he had finally resolved to run away and join the army, hoping nevertheless that in the confusion of a battle he would never see a reb that he would be forced to aim at.
But as far as he could tell, these men weren't rebs. What now? Even as he advanced he decided that come what mayhe would not shoot, but nevertheless, as if in spite of himself, he kept his gun cocked and pointed.
Gradually the silhouette took on features. The man was short and rotund. He was dressed in a simple pullover shirt that fell to his knees and had a wide flowing black beard that cascaded down nearly to his waist.
Vincent stopped, his leveled bayonet pointed squarely at the man's oversized stomach.
"Identify yourself , friend or foe," Vincent squeaked out.
The man before him started to break into a grin, and held his two arms out to either side, still smiling.
"Go on, tell me who you are," Vincent whispered.
Ever so slowly the man thumped his chest with his right hand.
"Kalencka."
Vincent let the point of his bayonet drop. How could he stick this man? The fellow was grinning at him.
"Who the hell is out there?"
"It's me, Sergeant Barry!"
"Damn you, soldier, who the hell is me!"
"Private Hawthorne. I've got one of them out here."
"Well, goddammit, private, bring the prisoner in!"
"You heard him," Vincent said softly. "You've got to come in with me," and motioning with his rifle he indicated that the stranger should lead the way.
"Kalencka."
"I guess that's his name," Emil said softly.
Andrew nodded and sat down on his camp chair. Exhausted, he tried to focus his attention. It seemed that all discipline in the regiment was near to breaking. He could hear Schuder roaring out commands, but still there was the shouting. Damn it all, he was terrified himself. There could only be one explanation to all of this, but his mind recoiled at the enormity of it all.
Somehow they were no longer on earth. What other explanation was possible at this point? But each time he tried to come to grips with the thought, he felt as if he wanted to crawl away, fall asleep, and pray that when he awoke he would either be dead from the storm or somehow back in the world he knew and could understand.
The crack of a carbine snapped his thoughts back. The camp fell silent.
"All right, you ignorant, whining, lazy bastards!" Schuder roared. "You're nothing but fresh fish, the whole damned lot of you. And I thought the 35th had men in it. You're crying like green boys being led to see the elephant. Now goddammit, act like men, or so help me I'll thrash the next man who so much as peeps, mit god I'll do it!"
Andrew held his breath. The sergeant major was the most feared man in the regiment, and he could only hope the fear of Schuder would be greater than the unknown that confronted them.
There were a couple of low murmurs.
"I heard you, Fredricks, you little milksop, you whinny
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