War Stories Read online

  War Stories

  War Stories

  Edited and with an Introduction by Lamar Underwood

  An imprint of Globe Pequot

  Distributed by NATIONAL BOOK NETWORK

  Copyright © 2017 by Lamar Underwood

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Information Available

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Available

  ISBN 978-1-4930-2961-7 (paperback)

  ISBN 978-1-4930-2962-4 (e-book)

  The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Contents

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1: What I Saw of Shiloh

  Chapter 2: The Sword of the Lord and of Gideon

  Chapter 3: Poker and Missiles: A Pilot’s Life in Vietnam

  Chapter 4: The Very Real George Washington

  Chapter 5: Waterloo

  Chapter 6: David Crockett: The Frontiersman

  Chapter 7: The Red Badge of Courage

  Chapter 8: Sniper: American Single-Shot Warriors in Iraq and Afghanistan

  Chapter 9: The Parisian

  Chapter 10: General Custer

  Chapter 11: The Battle of Trenton

  Chapter 12: The Fourteenth at Gettysburg

  Chapter 13: The Brigade Classics

  Chapter 14: The Air War Over the Trenches

  Chapter 15: Nathan Hale

  Chapter 16: Okinawa: The Fight for Sugar Loaf Hill

  Chapter 17: An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge

  Chapter 18: The Battle at Fort William Henry

  Chapter 19: The Pass of Thermopylae

  Chapter 20: A Woman’s Wartime Journal

  Chapter 21: Andrey and Bagration: A Rearguard Action

  Chapter 22: A Buffalo Bill Episode

  Chapter 23: A Night Ride of the Wounded

  Chapter 24: The Battle of Hastings

  Chapter 25: A Grey Sleeve

  Chapter 26: Gunga Din

  Chapter 27: The Saga of Crazy Horse

  Chapter 28: Bull Run

  Chapter 29: Eight Survived

  Chapter 30: Vicksburg During the Trouble

  Chapter 31: Intensification of Suffering and Hatred

  Chapter 32: The Flag-Bearer

  Chapter 33: We Die Alone

  Chapter 34: The Trojan Horse

  Chapter 35: The View from a Hill

  Chapter 36: A Horseman in the Sky

  Chapter 37: A Night

  Sources

  Introduction

  “This is a simple story of a battle; such a tale as may be told by a soldier who is no writer to a reader who is no soldier.”

  The very first sentence of the first story comprising this gigantic volume sets the exact tone I believe will result in great reader reward in the pages ahead. The opening line jump-starts the story “What I Saw of Shiloh” by Ambrose Bierce, who in fact was a writer of prodigious talent. Bierce, like many of the other authors of the thirty-seven tales presented here, knew that the art of storytelling went far beyond the accounting of raw “facts” and brought to life the deepest emotions of all those involved. While the “facts” may hold the interest of war buffs and scholars for a considerable time, the average reader needs more. The books they turn to again and again reveal life laid bare, the moments of terror and heartbreak, of victory and exhalations. Such moments form the heart and soul of great war stories—the Classics.

  It is the pursuit of such stories that has brought this editor to the tales worthy of comprising this volume. The final collection is composed mostly of stories gleaned from three previously published Lyons Press anthologies: My own Classic War Stories, Lisa Purcell’s Classic Civil War Stories, and Stephen Vincent Brennan’s Classic American Hero Stories. Also included are tales of the modern era: World War II, Vietnam, and the Iraq/Afghanistan operations.

  From ordinary citizens describing their war experiences to the most distinguished writers of their generations, these stories comprise a diverse treasury of voices, eager to describe what they saw and felt in war.

  Consider this gem from Rudyard Kipling’s enduring poem “Recessional”:

  The tumult and the shouting dies;

  The captains and the kings depart;

  Still shines Thine ancient sacrifice,

  An humble and contrite heart.

  Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

  Lest we forget—lest we forget!

  Even though he wrote “Recessional” before the death of his son in the First World War, Kipling knew a thing or two about the pain of war and the drama of war stories. He knew, for instance, that the “captains and kings” would command center stage as much as the troops who fought the battles, and that afterwards the bloodshed and losses would be horrible to contemplate without linking them to some Almighty purpose.

  Today, such reflections continue, just as the battles themselves continue, followed by the accounts and journals of what happened on the fields where victories and defeats were forged. News of the outcomes is not enough. The details, the exact history, the stories of the men in uniform—these accounts go on for decades, or, as in the case of some battles, for centuries. It would seem from the popularity of war literature that once a certain amount of interest is created by a particular battle or campaign, there will always be readers on the hunt for accounts and stories that put them in the very flames of the battle itself. They search to know and feel: What was it like?

  What was it like at Waterloo, or Gettysburg, or the Marne? What was it like to maneuver the armies, carry the weapons, and face the enemy? What was it like to feel the pain and loss?

  So many of mankind’s most talented authors have tackled this amazing subject so many times for the simple reason that for many, many people the material is endlessly fascinating. When it comes to war, whether the scenes depicted are of bravery and glory or tragedy and defeat, many of us avid readers are drawn irresistibility to the pages, like rubber-neckers staring at the site of an accident.

  The war stories I personally feel qualify for the exalted title “Classic” have earned their way onto my list by being sources of great reading reward for many years. In my mind they are not Classics because the gurus and high priests of literature have deemed them so, but because they are enduring as great pleasures to read. Considering the authors who have penned these tales, one can hardly be surprised by their quality and staying power. Hugo, Tolstoy, Crane, Kipling . . . several others . . . are not exactly one-book celebrities. These gentlemen were drawn to war as a colossal canvas because they had plenty to say about the subject and the talent to back up their ambitions. We readers are truly blessed by their efforts.

  In rereading many of these tales, I am often struck by the vividness and intensity of the scenes the prose evokes. The great writers did not settle for dry reportage of facts and events. Their pages instead capture mood and atmosphere, while crackling along with the pace and exhilaration of action unfolding. The pages of Victor Hugo on Waterloo, or Tolstoy on Borodino, or Stephen Crane on a Civil War battle become some kind of magical wide-screen film in my mind. I can see, hear, and feel the tu
mult of the battle. It is the best way to go to war.

  In preparing this book, I resisted the temptation to present the stories in any sort of chronological time line, either by the dates the action occurred or in the sequence in which the works were published. That sort of thing may seem tidy, but in my mind the book becomes more exciting by a random presentation, tale after tale jumping across the ages, each story a unique experience.

  Obviously, there are many, many stories that could have been included. No doubt, some readers will feel a stab of disappointment on not seeing a favorite among these tales. Being an editor is, I think, rather like being a quarterback in football. You call the play, then run it, hoping for the best.

  On behalf of myself, Lisa Purcell, and Stephen Vincent Brennan, I would like to thank you for your attention.

  —Lamar Underwood

  January 2017

  Chapter One

  What I Saw of Shiloh

  By Ambrose Bierce

  As no other war, the Civil War has captured the American imagination. This is not surprising: It had great leaders, such as Abraham Lincoln, Robert E. Lee, Ulysses S. Grant, Stonewall Jackson, and William T. Sherman. It had great battles, too, such as Shiloh, Chickamauga, Antietam, and Gettysburg. This war—the only war fought on American soil, between Americans—was surely one of the most heroic and the most horrific. During the four years of this brutal, bloody conflict, Americans killed each other in greater numbers than in any war before or since. The Civil War left the Southern Confederacy defeated and the Union intact, and it ended slavery, all at the cost of nearly 1,100,000 casualties and more than 620,000 lives.

  Between the first shots fired at Fort Sumter on April 12, 1861, and Lee’s surrender to Grant at Appomattox on April 9, 1865, the nation was irrevocably changed. Homes were transformed into headquarters; churches and schools into makeshift hospitals. Marauding armies decimated the once-peaceful landscape, pillaging farms, burning towns, and killing each other wherever they met. And whether soldier or civilian, the lives of those who lived through the war were irrevocably changed, too.

  Newspaper columnist, satirist, essayist, short-story writer, and novelist Ambrose Bierce was a veteran of the war, fighting for the Union at several major battles, including Shiloh and Chickamauga, before he was severely wounded in the head at Kennesaw Mountain.

  In contrast to the romanticism of most turn-of-the-century writers, the work of Ambrose Bierce is far more realistic, whether he was writing short stories or nonfiction pieces. Bierce wrote gritty, often disturbing tales of wartime experience. His “What I Saw of Shiloh” is an idiosyncratic account of this famous battle, which in two days claimed a greater number of American lives than all previous wars combined.

  —Lisa Purcell

  I

  This is a simple story of a battle; such a tale as may be told by a soldier who is no writer to a reader who is no soldier.

  The morning of Sunday, the sixth day of April, 1862, was bright and warm. Reveille had been sounded rather late, for the troops, wearied with long marching, were to have a day of rest. The men were idling about the embers of their bivouac fires; some preparing breakfast, others looking carelessly to the condition of their arms and accoutrements, against the inevitable inspection; still others were chatting with indolent dogmatism on that never-failing theme, the end and object of the campaign. Sentinels paced up and down the confused front with a lounging freedom of mien and stride that would not have been tolerated at another time. A few of them limped unsoldierly in deference to blistered feet. At a little distance in rear of the stacked arms were a few tents out of which frowsy-headed officers occasionally peered, languidly calling to their servants to fetch a basin of water, dust a coat or polish a scabbard. Trim young mounted orderlies, bearing dispatches obviously unimportant, urged their lazy nags by devious ways amongst the men, enduring with unconcern their good-humored raillery, the penalty of superior station. Little negroes of not very clearly defined status and function lolled on their stomachs, kicking their long, bare heels in the sunshine, or slumbered peacefully, unaware of the practical waggery prepared by white hands for their undoing.

  Presently the flag hanging limp and lifeless at headquarters was seen to lift itself spiritedly from the staff. At the same instant was heard a dull, distant sound like the heavy breathing of some great animal below the horizon. The flag had lifted its head to listen. There was a momentary lull in the hum of the human swarm; then, as the flag drooped the hush passed away. But there were some hundreds more men on their feet than before; some thousands of hearts beating with a quicker pulse.

  Again the flag made a warning sign, and again the breeze bore to our ears the long, deep sighing of iron lungs. The division, as if it had received the sharp word of command, sprang to its feet, and stood in groups at “attention.” Even the little blacks got up. I have since seen similar effects produced by earthquakes; I am not sure but the ground was trembling then. The mess-cooks, wise in their generation, lifted the steaming camp-kettles off the fire and stood by to cast out. The mounted orderlies had somehow disappeared. Officers came ducking from beneath their tents and gathered in groups. Headquarters had become a swarming hive.

  The sound of the great guns now came in regular throbbings—the strong, full pulse of the fever of battle. The flag flapped excitedly, shaking out its blazonry of stars and stripes with a sort of fierce delight. Toward the knot of officers in its shadow dashed from somewhere—he seemed to have burst out of the ground in a cloud of dust—a mounted aide-de-camp, and on the instant rose the sharp, clear notes of a bugle, caught up and repeated, and passed on by other bugles, until the level reaches of brown fields, the line of woods trending away to far hills, and the unseen valleys beyond were “telling of the sound,” the farther, fainter strains half drowned in ringing cheers as the men ran to range themselves behind the stacks of arms. For this call was not the wearisome “general” before which the tents go down; it was the exhilarating “assembly,” which goes to the heart as wine and stirs the blood like the kisses of a beautiful woman. Who that has heard it calling to him above the grumble of great guns can forget the wild intoxication of its music?

  II

  The Confederate forces in Kentucky and Tennessee had suffered a series of reverses, culminating in the loss of Nashville. The blow was severe: immense quantities of war material had fallen to the victor, together with all the important strategic points. General Johnston withdrew Beauregard’s army to Corinth, in northern Mississippi, where he hoped so to recruit and equip it as to enable it to assume the offensive and retake the lost territory.

  The town of Corinth was a wretched place—the capital of a swamp. It is two days’ march west of the Tennessee River, which here and for a hundred and fifty miles farther, to where it falls into the Ohio at Paducah, runs nearly north. It is navigable to this point—that is to say, to Pittsburg Landing, where Corinth got to it by a road worn through a thickly wooded country seamed with ravines and bayous, rising nobody knows where and running into the river under sylvan arches heavily draped with Spanish moss. In some places they were obstructed by fallen trees. The Corinth road was at certain seasons a branch of the Tennessee River. Its mouth was Pittsburg Landing. Here in 1862 were some fields and a house or two; now there are a national cemetery and other improvements.

  It was at Pittsburg Landing that Grant established his army, with a river in his rear and two toy steamboats as a means of communication with the east side, whither General Buell with thirty thousand men was moving from Nashville to join him. The question has been asked, Why did General Grant occupy the enemy’s side of the river in the face of a superior force before the arrival of Buell? Buell had a long way to come; perhaps Grant was weary of waiting. Certainly Johnston was, for in the gray of the morning of April 6th, when Buell’s leading division was en bivouac near the little town of Savannah, eight or ten miles below, the Confederate forces, having moved o
ut of Corinth two days before, fell upon Grant’s advance brigades and destroyed them. Grant was at Savannah, but hastened to the Landing in time to find his camps in the hands of the enemy and the remnants of his beaten army cooped up with an impassable river at their backs for moral support. I have related how the news of this affair came to us at Savannah. It came on the wind—a messenger that does not bear copious details.

  III

  On the side of the Tennessee River, over against Pittsburg Landing, are some low bare hills, partly inclosed by a forest. In the dusk of the evening of April 6 this open space, as seen from the other side of the stream—whence, indeed, it was anxiously watched by thousands of eyes, to many of which it grew dark long before the sun went down—would have appeared to have been ruled in long, dark lines, with new lines being constantly drawn across. These lines were the regiments of Buell’s leading division, which having moved from Savannah through a country presenting nothing but interminable swamps and pathless “bottom lands,” with rank overgrowths of jungle, was arriving at the scene of action breathless, footsore and faint with hunger. It had been a terrible race; some regiments had lost a third of their number from fatigue, the men dropping from the ranks as if shot, and left to recover or die at their leisure. Nor was the scene to which they had been invited likely to inspire the moral confidence that medicines physical fatigue. True, the air was full of thunder and the earth was trembling beneath their feet; and if there is truth in the theory of the conversion of force, these men were storing up energy from every shock that burst its waves upon their bodies. Perhaps this theory may better than another explain the tremendous endurance of men in battle. But the eyes reported only matter for despair.

  Before us ran the turbulent river, vexed with plunging shells and obscured in spots by blue sheets of low-lying smoke. The two little steamers were doing their duty well. They came over to us empty and went back crowded, sitting very low in the water, apparently on the point of capsizing. The farther edge of the water could not be seen; the boats came out of the obscurity, took on their passengers and vanished in the darkness. But on the heights above, the battle was burning brightly enough; a thousand lights kindled and expired in every second of time. There were broad flushings in the sky, against which the branches of the trees showed black. Sudden flames burst out here and there, singly and in dozens. Fleeting streaks of fire crossed over to us by way of welcome. These expired in blinding flashes and fierce little rolls of smoke, attended with the peculiar metallic ring of bursting shells, and followed by the musical humming of the fragments as they struck into the ground on every side, making us wince, but doing little harm. The air was full of noises. To the right and the left the musketry rattled smartly and petulantly; directly in front it sighed and growled. To the experienced ear this meant that the death-line was an arc of which the river was the chord. There were deep, shaking explosions and smart shocks; the whisper of stray bullets and the hurtle of conical shells; the rush of round shot. There were faint, desultory cheers, such as announce a momentary or partial triumph. Occasionally, against the glare behind the trees, could be seen moving black figures, singularly distinct but apparently no longer than a thumb. They seemed to me ludicrously like the figures of demons in old allegorical prints of hell. To destroy these and all their belongings the enemy needed but another hour of daylight; the steamers in that case would have been doing him fine service by bringing more fish to his net. Those of us who had the good fortune to arrive late could then have eaten our teeth in important rage. Nay, to make his victory sure it did not need that the sun should pause in the heavens; one of many random shots falling into the river would have done the business had chance directed it into the engine-room of a steamer. You can perhaps fancy the anxiety with which we watched them leaping down.