Weekend Warrior
James Whitby brushed the first flakes of a late fall snow from the stock of his replica Enfield rifle and, hoisting it upon his right shoulder, proceeded from the mouth of his tent to where a number of like-minded business professionals huddled around their breakfast campfire. His junior law partner, Bob Wade, sat cross-legged, a strain for the bulbous man who couldn’t hide his weight under the heaping, poorly matched faux-beaver pelts concealing his gray uniform.
“Morning, Bob.”
“Mornin’, Jim! Made some coffee, threw in a little burnt chicory to enhance the realism. Have a cup.” Bob handed a scalding tin cup of brew to James, who winced at both the temperature and the overpowering acridness of the chicory. Bob let out a self-satisfied chuckle.
“What’s on the agenda for today, Captain?” Bob asked with his hack Southern drawl.
James felt too tired, too sore from a night’s sleep on cold, uneven earth, far from his own king-sized feather bed, to slip into character just yet.
“Well, the Historical Society’s program director slotted today for ‘The Battle of Griswoldville,’ part of Sherman’s March to the Sea. That means today we’re not regulars, just Georgia militia,” James said.
Bob marshaled all the forces of his dimly imagined Confederate-speak. “It also means the damned Yanks’ll see fit to route all’us Johnny Rebs, what with this storm rollin’ in an’ all.”
“Un-huh,” James grunted. He wondered if he might get away with pulling Bob’s Christmas bonus on the basis of annoyance.
Many of the actors had already packed up their dishes and were heading for the bridge, falling into formation. Their forms grew vague as they shuffled up and over the hillside through the quickly intensifying snowstorm.
“Hell of a day for playing wargames,” James thought to himself.
“Well, why don’t we finish our vittles and join our fellow countrymen, Jim?”
“I’ll meet you up there. Coffee ran straight through me. Give me ten.”
Squealing an effete Rebel Yell, Bob waddled up the hillside as James strolled past the tents and down into a thicket to relieve himself in privacy. As the winds whipped up, James imagined laughing comrades, fireside feasting, and the burn of spiked cider sliding down his throat in reward for suffering through the last day of reenactments. He buttoned his trousers and turned to march uphill.
The blizzard obscured everything beyond a few feet, leaving James disoriented within the whirling sheets of white and gray. For a moment he felt lost, wandering amongst a sea of stained tents, cold campfires, and muddy snow. As the first inexplicable pang of panic struck, he heard a distinctive bugle call giving orders to march from just over the hill. The show had begun!
He raced down to the back of his formation. Where the hell was Bob? He couldn’t find his lesser’s corpulent form amidst the mass of ragged Confederate outfits. The wind momentarily let up and James inhaled a cloud of body odor, whiskey, gunpowder, and urine. These boys had partied it up too much last night, he mused. An actor on the front line toppled downward and let out the customary gurgling scream at the behest of a cracking Springfield rifle from the approaching Union force.
All at once, without the typical command of “Forward, MARCH!,” the entire troop rushed across the bridge, hurling obscenities with surprising vehemence while lowering their rifles for the charge. James felt the spirit of the moment overcome him, indulging in the glee of an actor left free to improvise. Bodies fell on both sides as he drew nearer the front line. He fired his blank shot at a Union soldier, who, upon finding himself unharmed, lowered his bayonet and advanced grimly.
The last thought that went through James Whitby’s head as he watched blood spill from his disemboweled torso and mingle with the corpses of his fallen comrades was, “Hell of a day for playing wargames…”
