Friendly Enemies (standard:drama, 2319 words)
Author: Ian Hobson	Added: Jul 12 2006	Views/Reads: 3675/2198	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A story inspired by Bernard Cornwell's Starbuck Chronicles and by the American Civil War picture cards I collected as a boy in the 1960's.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

There was no sign of a musket but the dead soldier still had his 
canteen and I used the saber to cut its leather thong.  I cursed the 
soldier as I found that the canteen was empty, but I dragged it along 
with the saber as I continued downhill.  The pain in my head was bad 
but the thirst was worse.  A small patch of long grass, somehow spared 
from the trampling of cavalry, infantry and artillery, lay between me 
and the nearest trees at the bottom of the field.  I could clearly hear 
the water now; almost smell it.  I crawled through the long grass 
towards the sound, keeping left of a boulder that the field's owner 
must have thought to be too big to be worth digging out.  I stopped to 
rest for a moment and lay my head on the grass.  I remember the 
sun-warmed earth feeling good against my face.  I wanted to sleep but I 
pushed myself up onto my hands and knees, driven on by thirst.  But 
then movement caught my eye and I heard a ragged, Southern voice. 

'Could use a drink, myself.' 

Startled, I rolled onto my side, and gripping the saber's leather bound
handle, I looked back towards where a confederate solider lay propped 
against the rock, his right hand resting on the musket that lay across 
his lap and his left hand cradling a bloody stomach wound.  My eyes 
strayed from the man's bearded face, to the musket, and back again. 

'It's loaded and primed,' he said, 'but don't worry, son.  I reckon I've
killed enough men for one day.'  The man grimaced and blood seeped 
through his fingers as he gripped his wound more tightly.  'And maybe I 
won't see another.  What's your name, son?' 

I stared at the man.  He was older than me by at least twenty years. 
His uniform looked old and faded and there was a hole in the sole of 
his left boot.  He was clearly in pain but he managed a smile.  'Cat 
got your tongue?' 

'Nathan,' I replied.  My mouth was dry; whether from fear or thirst I'm
not sure. 

'Mine's Ed.  Now how 'bout that water? 

I stared at the southerner a little longer.  He was my enemy; the enemy
I had been trained to kill yet, somehow, that no longer mattered.  He 
and I were both casualties of a brief but bloody encounter and, at 
least for that moment, there was a bond between us.  So, still carrying 
the saber and the canteen and ignoring the pain in my ankle, I got 
shakily to my feet and, turning back towards the sound of running 
water, I carried on down between the trees and clambered over a 
snake-like tangle of tree roots to reach a gurgling stream. 

As I leaned close to the water to take a drink I could see my own
reflection.  My face was an ugly mask of dried blood, but I drank first 
and then washed my face as best I could without disturbing the bandaged 
saber wound.  Then I filled the canteen and hobbled back uphill to 
where the Southerner lay against the rock with his eyes closed.  At 
first I thought that maybe he had died, so spoke his name, 'Ed?' 

As he opened his eyes he seemed a little surprised to see I had
returned, but he smiled as though he had just won a wager with himself. 
 I stumbled and then crawled the last few feet, removed the cap from 
the canteen and held it out towards him.  Ed took the canteen, held it 
to his lips and drank, keeping one eye on me, perhaps worried that I 
might make a grab for his musket.  'Thanks,' he said.  'You seem kind 
of attached to that saber.  Spoils of war?'  He handed the canteen back 
to me and I replaced the cap before answering. 

'I guess.'  I didn't know what else to say, as I suddenly realized that
now I too was a thief who stole from the dead. 

'Swords look fine on the parade ground, but give me a musket any day.' 
Ed grimaced and clutched at his wound again and a trickle of blood ran 
from the corner of his mouth. 

'You gonna be alright?' I asked.  I could see that Ed's wound was still
bleeding but there was nothing I could do to help him. 

'Maybe.  Maybe not,' he replied.  'Where' you from?' 

I moved closer to Ed and sat beside him, leaning back against the rock. 
The last of the day's sun filtered through the nearby trees and shone 
on our faces.  'Boston,' I answered.  'You?' 

'Mississippi.  I guess we're both a long ways from home.  This your
first time?  In battle I mean.' 

'Yeah...  You too?' 

'No, but first time shot.'  Ed grimaced again and then closed his eyes. 
There was more musket fire to the north, but he didn't seem to notice 
it.  'And I don't mind tellin' ya, it hurts like hell.' 

For a time it seemed to me that the musket fire was getting closer but
then it petered out.  Then I must have fallen asleep for a while 
because suddenly, though it was still light, the sun had gone behind 
the western hills.  Then I heard a distant shout followed by a horse's 
whiney, and Ed, who had seemed to be asleep, stirred and opened his 
eyes as he heard it too.  I turned towards the sound and edged myself 
up to peer over the top of the rock.  Three grey-clad cavalrymen had 
come over the hilltop and were heading towards the bottom of the 
meadow.  But one of them slowed his horse and veered towards where the 
dead cavalry officer lay. Then he called to his two companions who 
turned their mounts and followed him.  I slid back down to hide behind 
the rock, guiltily remembering how I had mutilated the officer's body. 

'Confederate?'  Ed must have seen the look of panic on my face.  I
nodded my reply.  Then as Ed's right hand closed around the stock of 
his riffle, I reached for the saber and edged back a little, ready to 
thrust forward with the weapon and kill him if I had to.  'No, son,' he 
said, his voice more ragged than before.  'If they catch you with that, 
you're dead for sure.  Take this.'  He slid the musket off his legs and 
pushed it towards me.  'Give me the sword and go hide yourself.'  He 
nodded towards the trees from where I'd fetched the water.  I 
hesitated, not understanding.  'I have a son about your age,' he said.  
'Now take it!' 

'Thanks,' I said, though my voice was just a whisper.  I looked into the
eyes of my friendly enemy and exchanged the musket for the saber.  Then 
quickly I dragged myself away towards the stream, keeping as low as I 
could until I was into the tree cover.  From there I could see both Ed 
and the three cavalrymen.  One was stooped over the body of the 
officer; the others seemed impatient to leave.  For Ed's sake, I 
thought about shouting to attract their attention, but Ed slowly raised 
his right arm and gave me a brief salute, then waved me away.  I 
returned the salute and then backed down to the waters edge and made my 
way upstream until I was able to enter the woods to the west of the 
meadow. 

I was limping badly and it took me the best part of three days to rejoin
my company.  They had been forced to retreat but were now on the march 
again.  Because I was wounded and weak from lack of food, I had to 
remain behind.  But a month later I returned to the meadow where I had 
almost been killed.  The bodies of Union soldiers had long since been 
removed for burial or to be returned to their families.  But there were 
six unmarked graves at the edge of the field; unmarked all except for 
one where a saber was thrust into the earth at the head of the grave.  
Its brass guard was tarnished and its steel blade was rusting but I was 
sure it was the same saber.  Though I had no way of knowing who was 
buried beneath it: the cavalry officer perhaps, or Ed, my friendly 
enemy. 

*** 

My favourite picture card was titled 'Friendly Enemies'.  It showed two
wounded soldiers lying in a field beside a stream; one with a bloody 
stomach wound and the other giving him a drink from a canteen.  Here's 
an extract from the text: 

The bodies of the dead and wounded covered the battlefield for miles...
Shirtsleeves were applied as tourniquets to stop the bleeding from 
wounds and head bandages were made from old handkerchiefs.  Once 
wounded, the soldiers no longer thought of war, and only tried to help 
each other survive. 

I still have the cards.  A full set except, for number 80.  I must have
chewed a lot of gum. 


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