The Sharpshooter (1# for The Shiloh Chronicle)

The morning mist was thick, mixed with the man-made smokey haze of steam and sulfur, with a hint of urine from saltpeter. There was also more unpleasant sort of scents, of iron and feces – the scent of death by violence – permeating the woods.

Sergeant First Class Alvaro Fitzsimons spat after inhaling the air, and let go of the body of El-tee he was carrying. There was no hope for him, the Indie bullet had gone through his head and splattered his brain over the ground. At least it was quick, although messy. And he wasn’t going to just abandon him to be ransacked by the Indies for few coins or grisly battle trophy.

He noticed the irony in that line of thought, considering that he was going through the El-tee’s personal effects right now, but as far as Alvaro was concerned, he was just borrowing from a comrade who no longer needs them. Besides, his family should get some keepsakes to remember him if his body can’t be sent back, which was a real possibility right now with the angry Indies at their heels.

When that was done, he carefully took an aim from cover, crouched behind a moss-covered tree, readying for the enemies to emerge from the front. With the El-tee dead, the command of the platoon fell to Alvaro as a platoon sergeant… even if there was no time to wrangle out and establish the chain of command before the enemy came again.

The Indies was no longer rushing forward with infantry lines… Alvaro wondered what they were trying to do, if they were planning the next wave or given up, trying to flank them or bypass the skirmishers entirely to pursue the main body of his retreating unit. He thought then moved to speculate what they would send next – another infantry offensive, probably in even larger numbers? An artillery barrage? Their own sharpshooters to counter Alvaro and his own men? He was no fresh meat, but the waiting was getting on his nerve.

Then he spotted movement within the misty woods in front of him, and all thoughts inside his head came to a sudden halt. His pulse quickened and he could scarcely dare to even breathe as he quickly scanned the shrouded woods, straining his eyes to see if it just the trick of the light or skittering wildlife.

No, he was right. He spotted an unnatural man-shaped silhouette with what was unmistakably a rifle slowly moving through the mist and trees. Once he knew they were there, it didn't take long to spot their comrades slowly and painstakingly snaking their ways through the woods. But line infantrymen don't sneak their way through the woods, they march in formation, loud and visible for all the world to see. Which leaves...

Sharpshooters. Alvaro licked his dry lips at the thought. The Indie bastards must have finally decided to switch tactics.

Too bad they were here first and were waiting for them. The Indies should have changed the tactics much earlier, instead of blindingly sending the line infantries against his sharpshooters and giving them times to prepare the delaying action.

Alvaro slowly raised his rifle up and placed the iron sights dead center against one of the moving silhouettes. He didn’t bother to shout his men to fire at will, knowing that they would be already ready to fire with targets on their sights – they were sharpshooters, not regular infantry, after all, requiring no bellowed order and distance and direction pointed out by an officer.

A sharp crack rang out in the morning sky. His shot found its mark, hitting the enemy sharpshooter in the torso, sending him back to the ground. Other shots rang out alongside his or followed, enemies falling or hastily diving or sprinting to covers. The forest suddenly came alive with the sound of gunfire and screams of wounded.

He pulled the bolt on his rifle, ejected an empty cartridge, and pushed the bolt back, ready to fire again. The enemy was responding, shots fired from the grounds and trees, as well as the wall of mist and woods behind them, leaving malignant red flashes. Few of enemy rounds found his tree, crashing into the trunk but not him. Alvaro flinched, but his aim did not falter as his second bullet was fired out from the barrel.

 

The train rumbled and slowed down.

Nathanael Smith could already smell something in the air, even before he got off the train car. Sharp, metallic, burning scents, with a hint of sulfur.

It is a scent of war. He decided.

It was a hot and dusty early-summer afternoon. The extremely crowded rail station didn’t improve that one bit. Soldiers disembarked from the requisitioned railcars, adding more crowds to the station already bursting at the seams with people.

Officers shouted, trying to organize their men into a semblance of order, calling out the unit designations – 3rd Company! 3rd Company! 1st Troops! 1st Troops! Some were standing atop on munition crates to get a better view from above the boiling mess of crowds. Men and women in uniforms let out curses as they crashed into each other, and he saw a fistfight almost breaking out between the troopers from different units before other troopers and their officers managed to break them off. The wounded from earlier battles moaned and screamed as their wounds were disturbed by the crowds. Here and there, men would move sacks and crates of supplies from cars and haul them over the wagons.

And there were the horses. They heaved and cried out as soldiers grabbed their rope and lead them out of cattle cars they were stuck in for many days. It was clear that horses were irritated and spooked by all the noises and commotions of the chaotic station. Some were so frightened that groups of soldiers had to push them roughly out of cars, cursing all the way.

Yet the shrieks from locomotives drowned all of them out. They were shockingly loud, enough to daze Nathanael out of all thoughts momentarily.

What a complete ratfuck. Nathanael thought, slightly thankful at the fact that he didn’t have a unit to direct in this chaos.

Of course, that was going to change soon. There was a unit out there that require his presence, a sharpshooter platoon.