Chris was never going to find me. I lay in a crouched position between the branches of a tall tree. Hey Michael! Michael! Where are you? My mom has cookies for us today!” Chris yelled. The sound of cookies enticed me, so I went down. “Where are the cookies, Chris? I want some!” I asked, which was rather gullible of me. “I tricked you!” Chris yelled back. “Hahahaha!” I chased Chris as fast as I could, I wanted to lick him. But it wouldn’t do to be caught by a younger cousin. I stopped and panted. He was fast runner. The top in town. Mrs. Mardgry called us in, “Suppertime Chris! You too Michael.” Following Chris, I walked into the Mardgry’s house. Chris stopped and turned to ask my mom a question. “Mrs. Johnson, what shall we be eating today?” “Turkey.” At that point I remembered. It was Thanksgiving Dinner! “Hurray! Turkey for dinner!” I whispered loudly to myself. Chris nodded at me with a grin. “Yes.” He said. We slipped into the Mardgry’s parlor quietly and slid into our chairs. And after the prayers, we quietly ate our food. I blanked out of that memory, back to the present time. Back then, it was 1843, but now it was 1863. I was in the Union army now, but Chris was not with me. He had moved a decade ago to Louisiana, to the Southwest, and mighty hot it would’ve been there. I was sweating already, and it was summer. I checked my pocket watch, and I needed to be on schedule. It was time for supper. I crawled out of my tent and promptly got up, bumping into the colonel. I winced, wondering what was to happen next, as them higher ups usually never returned you kindly. “Sharpshot.” Colonel Burgen snapped at me. I snapped up straight. Yes, I was a sharpshooter in the Union army, a sniper of the Civil War. “About time you get up.” The colonel continued. “Pick up you stuff and let’s go.” “Now?” “Now!” “Why?” “Gettysburg’s been attacked, starting a day ago.” Without further question, I went back in my tent the way I came out, a few seconds ago. “Yes, sir.” I hastily packed my belongings and equipment, and a bit of it went atop the wagons, the rest loaded my back. It was a day and a half march to Gettysburg battlefield. When we got there, it was an eyesore of bodies and blood and bullets zipping everywhere. The three B’s of war. I took to a tree and climbed up, praying that I was not seen. Climbing was easy, for I had been doing so for years. I loaded my musket and held it up, gazing around for a gray-coat officer to shoot at. Before I could do anything with my gun, Colonel Burgen yelled into us, “Face the right! The one driving a small right flank attack!” That was an easy task for me. I knew which one was the Colonel and I would get him. He was the one on the galloping horse. I aimed the space in front of him, knowing that his galloping horse would catch up to the bullet. For what seemed like hours, my finger slowly pulled back the trigger, and the musket sparked to life. The bullet flew and spun. I inaccurately hit his horse from under him, for my target was the Colonel. He got up quickly, and continued leading the flank drive, running, with speed I had not anticipated. I aimed again and fired. I hit the back of his knee. The rest of flying bullets finished him. Another job well done. After what seemed like years, ceasefire was made. I jumped out my tree, expecting to hit the hard ground. Instead, I heard a crunch. I had accidently landed on the dead body of Lieutenant Markle. At camp, while I was eating my supper, Colonel Burgen came and sat across me, facing the campfire. “Good job, kid. If it weren’t for your work, them grey men might’ve driven through and flanked the general himself.” I looked up, proud of myself. “Yes sir.” “That Colonel Mardgry ain’t knowing what he was doing when he tried to flank us.” Mister Burgen continued. I took a sip from my cup. “No he ain’t, sir. For fighting in the wrong side.” It was his fault...
