author Therese A. Kraemer
Blue Thunder
ONE
“Sergeant, Sir! The men are tired and hungry.” A young soldier in a blue uniform spoke from behind Sergeant Brant Bergeron as he wiped his sweaty brow. He knew he could never adapt to the hot, humid southern climate in Georgia. He and his men were separated from their unit two days ago when the rebels attacked and they had been lost and unsure of where they were heading. He had six soldiers with him, not much older than himself. He didn’t want this war to be his war anymore than the others, but he was here and had to make the best of it.
The men were grumbling. They all had that look in their eyes after seeing friends cut down. It was a look that sent shivers down ones spine. Revenge! Even though he couldn’t get used to all that bloodshed he had to try to keep his men together. He moved slightly in the saddle, trying to get the kinks out of his tired and sore backside. His muscles screamed for attention but he ignored them. Would he find their way back to the main column? He didn’t know this countryside and feared he and his men had wandered too far from the front. This was a quiet place where his detachment sat in the shade. Because horses were scarce, three of the men were on foot but two days ago they fought near a small town, taking the enemy’s soldier’s mounts, the spoils of war. Out here in the countryside the fighting hadn’t arrived, yet. In time, these beautiful fields would be covered with bodies, and the smell of gun power and the stench of blood. Burnout homes will mar the lands. This damn war was taking its toll, not only on people, but on the green land. Man is the only animal in the universe that can cause such destruction; and we call ourselves the civil world. Disgusted and hungry, he turned to his unit.
“We’ll ride a little further. Maybe we’ll come to some sign of life soon. If not, we’ll make camp and hunt for our meals.” The men grumbled to themselves, but they continued until late that morning, when one of the soldiers called, “Look Sarge! Smoke’s coming over that ridge.”
Brant grabbed his spy glasses to get a better look. “Smitty,” he said, “go and check the area, it may be Rebs.” The private gave a sloppy salute, “Yes, Sir.” His men made themselves comfortable and stretched out, closing their eyes for a short nap. He sat and continued to look through the spy glass until he saw Smithy galloping back. Most of the men had started this war on foot, but they managed to get themselves a mount one way or another and he never asked. The private dismounted and grinned. “It’s a cotton plantation, Sarge. The smoke is coming from a chimney. My guess,” Smitty licked his dry lips, “someone’s cooking.”
“Okay, we’ll go peacefully,” Brant suggested. “With any luck, they’ll be just plain folks and---”
“Sure Sarge, just like the Rebs that ambushed us, killing most of the men,” snarled, Smitty. “Me, I’m not waiting to be cordially invited to dine.” Refusing to hear his objection, Smithy jumped on his mount, slapped the horse on its withers, and spurred away. Taken by surprise, Brant tried to call him back, but his orders fell on deaf ears. He was not happy about the feeling in his gut that his men were looking to even the score. The rest of the unit jumped on
their mounts and followed Smitty, also ignoring his pleas to remain civil. But his men were out of control. He knew they were trouble from day one, believing they were intending to desert the first opportunity. He kicked his horse forward and prayed.
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