Fisher's Hill: Reveille

He could fly.

He hadn't tried hard enough, hadn't wanted to badly enough before; days of watching the birds and daydreaming couldn't grant him the lightness he needed to hover above the trees looking down at his sleeping friends, couldn't grant him the nerve to ascend higher and higher until they were just specks, faint outlines on a great patchwork cloth spread beneath him until it disappeared into mist on the horizon. His nature nearly bested him, nearly sent him crashing back to earth. He was a quiet, unassuming, sensible man, not often given to flights of fancy, a voice of calm reason to his friends. Yet here he was, surprised and delighted in the lower atmosphere. Tentatively, he moved his arms and legs, tried to make sense of the experience before realizing there was no sense in being able to fly, and in that moment he was free.

Something tapped his foot.

He looked down; nothing below him for at least fifty feet. Treetops, faint curls of smoke, the distance of knowing the impossible could happen-

"Private."

Hell-

"Git up. Come on. You all got five minutes."

Everything vanished. He was in purgatory. The world was a gray, hazy, pounding denial immediately behind his eyes.

Another voice.

"Shit, come on boy. We gonna get chewed good if we miss roll call."

He surrendered, opened his eyes and was earthbound. Sergeant Myers was moving down the line of prostrate forms, giving each protruding foot a kick and a sharp warning. Beside him, Sean was wincing in the morning sunlight, and Jess had his arms crossed resolutely over his eyes.

Sean was the first to move.

"Alright, guess he ain't fucking around this morning. Le's go."

Resignedly, the three men threw off their blankets and unwrapped their long, heavy rifles from their groundcloths. Long experience had taught them that sleeping with their weapons was preferable to leaving them stacked; the discomfort was balanced by keeping the weapons free from rust, and by this September only one of them had a bayonet anyway.

Myers was calling in the distance.

"First company - fall in! Canteens and haversacks! Drop yer packs, boys, we're not going far."

The cartridge box slung over one shoulder, belt fastened, haversack and canteen hanging under his left arm, short jacket half-buttoned, rifle in hand and cap on head, he trailed after his friends as they made their bleary, hungry way into line.