It was a dangerous practice, and we took it serious. He’d press hard to get our flag out front of the others and plant it for the twenty-seventh. Us breathing up his ass, him calculating how close to those rebs he wanted to crawl. He’d set our goal, and on we came then, one bloody inch, one bloody mile we pushed that line. By God, we pushed that line. When we got going I tell you, pluck, oh my God, “Well, who the hell you shooting at?” we’d say, firing ourselves into such a tizzy we’d as soon club a man to death with our guns as shoot him. Or choke him with our hands, beat him with a rock, and some of us already dead with wounds that would go gangrene, or the dysentery already working its fingers in our innards. But when we pressed that line we said, no weapon shall prosper against us and no wall of flesh, gun and good intention shall keep us out. We were the fearsome sons of the union. We’d argue some when the battle was over who’d pressed forward the hardest, made it there first, met the line or broke past it.
What do You think about Fight For Glory (My Wounded Soldier #1)?
