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The normally differing color and condition of their uniforms didn't matter much any more. Both wore tattered rags stained mainly red, and most of it wasn't their blood. The soldier sitting on the left silently passed a tin container to the other young man.

"It's coffee, the good stuff shipped down from up Boston way," the first soldier reassured the other when he glanced suspiciously at the steaming liquid.

A long, surprisingly companionable silence stretched between the pair before the second soldier passed a rough, likely homemade pipe and a sweaty cloth bag full of tobacco.

"That there's the best 'baccer you're bound to find in this whole country," he bragged, "and that's about ALL we got in abundance. Tobaccer... and lice."

The first soldier laughed as he gratefully accepted the pipe. His side was low on tobacco and the other fellow's side was short on coffee. It was a hell of a thing. They had probably been shooting at each other in the chaos of the battle yesterday. Now they were sitting here trading delicacies as pleasant as a Sunday in a park.

"Say, Reb... What do you figure they'll call this battle?" the first soldier asked, puffing away at his borrowed pipe with something approaching contentment.

"They can call it the Fight at Fort Fornication for all I care," the second soldier said after a long swallow of the hot coffee. "Hell I don't know Yank, probably Sharpsburg after the town."

Yank all but rolled his eyes, distracted from trying to blow smoke rings.

"No chance, it will be called Antietam after the stream," he insisted and they argued about that good-naturedly for a few minutes. It helped to pass the time.

There was a truce on for now as both sides tried to collect their dead from the battlefield, from the bridge over that creek. From the sunken road they were already calling in hushed whispers the Bloody Lane. From the cornfield where more lay dead than anywhere. That was where they now sat, watching.

"Well, hell.. I'm going to get back to it Reb," the Yank said standing to his feet with a deep sigh. He extended his hand a bit awkwardly but sincerely to the other man.

Surprised, the Reb drained the rest of his coffee and handed it back before clasping the other man's hand.

"I'm right sorry y'all had to invade our land," he said almost jokingly, but there was genuine regret in his eyes.

"It was you southern sort invading this time if you'll recall," the Yank replied dryly.

They both laughed and stood there for a second longer before the Yank handed the pipe back and they went their separate ways.

The ground bled crimson and from it, the bones of slowly decaying bodies grew through.

But it was above, through the broken field of once green grass, that two men sat beside each other, dirtied and coated with thick soot. Their shoulders were broad but somehow still small — still so young — and when they slumped over, their backs rested against the trunk behind them like it was their only hold to reality.

Though, even without the tree, reality was never realer.

These men, unlike the men lying before them, had been lucky. They had seen the very worst of it, up until the last body was laid and finally burned, like ash in the wind, or tags without names, or faces without graves.

And perhaps that’s to say the war was their grave. Perhaps that’s to say they had always been walking to their death from the moment their mothers brushed the hair away from their faces and kissed their foreheads goodbye.

It was a sobering thought, to know that for all you’ve loved, it was death that loved the most.

The older soldier — taller, broader, and with a hint of a beard growing along his chin — turned to the younger one — shorter, thinner, no hint of a beard in sight — and tried to convey his thoughts without speaking. For no matter how much they spoke, they would never understand. After all, they spoke two different languages, and none knew the language of war better than them.

The younger soldier pursed his lips as if he’d just been sobered by something terrible; something foul and sour and awfully similar to growing old within seconds. But then he nodded to the man beside him, like he knew exactly what he meant. As if they were similar enough to understand each other.

But they weren’t similar. Nothing about them was similar. Their uniforms. The curve of their faces. The gapped teeth within the younger soldier’s mouth. Hell, even their fingers were different. But their eyes, one green and the other light brown, those were bred from the same mother — tasted the same bloodshed, held the same grief, made the same mistakes.

Yesterday they’d been enemies, but today they were only kin. Only two soldiers who survived the same war, walked the same battle, and buried the same corpses.

It was only in the dawn after that they’d been able to finally rest, but even then rest hadn’t come easy.

With a weary sigh, the older soldier closed his eyes, and it was only then that he could imagine the men beside him alive — his company alive — laying atop the field of barley where beneath, seeds sowed youth once more, for mere moments, just once more.

It made him wonder if barley was the same no matter where it came from. Though, when he looked at the younger man sitting next to him, eyes closed in restless sleep, he knew it was.

For it was here, across the battlefield and beside the smell of rotting flesh and bones that rattled even in sleep, that it felt as if they were the only two people in the world.

—

/r/itrytowrite

<Realistic Fiction / Historical Fiction>

What a shit day to die.

Raindrops fell lightly on Luca’s face as he stared up at a dense gray sky. The lingering smell of black powder burned his nostrils. Water filled half his boot, though the chill had long since stolen most of the feeling from his foot. He could feel the wetness, though. It was bothersome.

He tried once more to move, pressing his right palm into the mud. It sank to his wrist before the ground was solid enough to make a difference. But when he pushed, the pain in his abdomen forced a shriek. As his painful cry faded across the field, he heard the flapping of wings as birds realized they were more afraid than hungry.

Nothing but death for you anyway, he thought. Then he wondered how long they’d wait before turning their beaks on him. The thought stirred a fear in his chest he hadn’t felt in hours.

Turning his head to the left as far as he could manage, he eyed the body of the man that pinned his left arm to the ground. If he could just pull away, he might yet live. The hole in his stomach was bad, yes, but nothing a medic couldn’t stitch up in a jiffy.

After a shallow breath, he pulled, twisting his body and straightening his elbow. Something popped in his shoulder—not in a painful way, but remarkably unpleasant. He remained as stuck as he’d started.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered. “Told ya to lay off the damned biscuits, Harry.”

You’ll thank me later, he heard the man say in the back of his mind, when all them bastards are aimin’ at me instead o’ you.

“Lucky you’re dead, Harry, or I’d kill you for this shit.”

Something moved nearby, prompting Luca to stiffen. He heard the wet, squishing sound of a boot sinking into mud, followed by the distinct sucking noise of the earth trying desperately to make a captive of whoever stepped on the field.

For a moment, Luca was unsure what to do. Everyone he knew was dead—which left only possibilities for whoever approached. The strongest possibility was an enemy. But what would be their reason for walking the battlefield? To kill survivors?

Luca blinked, staring up at the lifeless gray sky. Calling out could mean rescue—or death. He wasn’t entirely sure which one he wanted.

But he did know he couldn’t fathom rotting in this field, pinned beneath Harry’s engorged gut.

“Who’s there?” Luca called out, finding the words more difficult to speak than he’d expected. His lungs lacked the ability to put enough air behind his speech.

But it did the trick. The steps quickened. Finally, a shape obscured Luca’s perfectly dull view, looking down at him with shock in his eyes.

“My lord, you’re alive?” the man said. His accent was familiar—but for all the wrong reasons. Not a friend, then.

“That I am,” Luca said. “Bit stuck, though. This fellow here had the indecency to die on top of me.”

The man’s eyes drifted for a moment before snapping back to Luca. “How very rude of him.”

Luca eyed the man, noticing the lack of a weapon slung over his shoulder. No pistol on his belt, either. If he was here to kill the few survivors, he was doing a shit job of it. Or worse.

“Well, let’s see what we can do, then,” the man said, stepping around Luca. He positioned himself on the other side of Harry, leaning forward to grab his arm. After a moment of pulling and grunting, Luca managed to pull his arm free.

Luca sat upright, the world spinning from the sudden change in position. He felt like he might throw up, but managed to steady himself. Then he noticed the large wooden beam just below his waist.

“Guess that’s one benefit to the mud,” he said. In his mind, he could only wonder where the beam had come from. There were only so many structures on the battlefield; he wasn’t particularly close to any of them, as far as he could recall. But then, he didn’t recall much before waking up here.

“Not sure I see you’re meaning,” the man said. “What’s the mud got to do with it?”

Luca lowered his brow. Perhaps it was a language barrier. The man knew his language well enough to communicate, but the finer points likely weren’t needed for prisoners of war. So, Luca gestured toward the wooden beam.

“The ground was soft enough to push my legs into the mud,” he said. “Want to help me move this thing, too?”

The man stared at him. “I don’t think you should, no.”

Luca blinked. “So what, you’re just going to free half of me and leave me stuck here? Or were you just having a bit of fun before putting a bullet in my head?”

The man shook his head and sighed. “I didn’t free half of you, friend. There’s only half of you left.”

“The fuck are you talking about?”

The man stepped closer to the beam, peering over to the other side. “The rest of you isn’t in the mud. Your legs are crushed beneath this thing. To be honest, I’m not sure how you aren’t in extraordinary pain.”

Luca stared down at the beam, eyeing the mud and grime surrounding his lower half. He tried to focus on his legs, tried to feel them. In his mind, he was wiggling his toes. But in reality, he felt nothing.

“Well, fuck,” he muttered. It was a strange feeling, losing his final shred of hope. Some part of him knew, he realized. That’s why the finality of the matter didn’t hit him so hard. From the moment he woke up on that smoky battlefield, he knew he was already dead.

He glanced up at the man. “Got a smoke?”

The man pulled a tin from his jacket pocket and popped it open. His hand was covered in blood and dirt, so thick you couldn’t see where his nails turned to skin.

“Appreciate it,” Luca said, taking the cigarette. “What’s your name?”

“Antoni,” the man said, lighting a cigarette of his own. He took a long drag, staring off at something in the distance. “Antoni Barczkowki, but my friends call me Kow.”

Smoke scratched at the back of Luca’s throat as he inhaled, but he managed to keep himself from coughing. “Well, Antoni, you and I sure as hell aren’t friends.”

Antoni shrugged. “I suppose not.”

“So what are you doing out here, anyway?”

“Not sure, to be honest.”

Luca chuckled. “Just taking in the scenery, then?”

A heaviness grew in Antoni’s eyes. “Something like that, I suppose.”

Luca tried to crane his neck around to get a better view of the destruction around him. Bodies were scattered about, surrounded by smoldering equipment and craters where shells had landed. It wasn’t worth the effort to look at.

“You come out here to kill me?” Luca asked before taking one last drag on the cigarette.

Antoni shook his head. “Someone beat me to it, it would seem.”

“So it would seem,” Luca agreed. He smashed the cigarette into the ground and looked up at the sky. A single ray of yellow light split through the gray, threatening to bring light to this dark place.

Antoni took a few steps to the right, then leaned down and reached toward one of the fallen soldiers. When he arose, he was holding the man’s pistol in his hand.

Luca stared at it, saying nothing.

Antoni stepped forward and tossed it on the ground at Luca’s side. Then he pulled his tin of cigarettes from his jacket and extended his arm.

Luca took the tin and nodded. “Cheer up, Antoni. Your team won.”

Antoni shook his head. “There were no winners today, friend.”

Read more stuff by me at r/Ford9863.

I appreciate the accurate history behind this story. Well done!!

[removed]

Thank you! I want to write a full length story about the battle one day so it was fresh in my mind from research. More died in the cornfield than on the beach at Normandy or on 9/11. It's hard to imagine.

Gjod moved their Head from left to right, until their neck strained to rotate any further. When they were sure that there was no more give in their muscles, the direction was reversed to the other side. Their gaze falling on fields of brown and grayish green soil, rubble, and a few sooty daffodils barely noticeable at the far end of Gjods vision. They repeated this, in a deliberate rhythm, for a while, before someone hit them in the side.

“Cut it out” barked Ofnet, the tone wasn't mean but still warning. “Ok” replied Gjod, looking directly forward as they had done for a long while. Both sat, back to back, on the ground, each having their legs dangling over a parapet. The rain had stopped an hour ago and the sun had come out in a very ironic display of a deep blue sky with just enough clouds to have a nice and even warm day a bit later.

“It smells of nothing” stated Gjod, desperate to fill the silence, dragging their hands along their side, trying to pick up some stones to throw. Gjod felt Ofnets Chest rise with a deep sigh, but there was no answer following. “It ought to smell of something. Most of the people in my company smelled, even when they were alive. But now, I smell nothing.” Gjod continued, finding a spent shell-casing, bringing it towards their face for inspection. “Looks like one of yours” Gjod said and presented it with an overhead reach to Ofnet.

Ofnet wasn't really in the mood, Gjod felt, and retrieved their arm after flicking the casing away. There was a plink sound and Gjod chuckled: “Six Sovereign Half-Pence say that was one of your side. Sounded empty enough.” There was no reaction from Ofnet, which made Gjod sad.

Around them wasn't much else than endless wrecks of vehicles, miles over miles of tangled wire fence and trenches as far as the eye saw. Blue and Green Uniforms marking where one or the other sides had lost a soldier, and in the middle, the two only survivors.

Gjod felt it had been lucky timing that they realized, guns trained at each other, with fingers on the trigger, that it had suddenly become quiet, just an hour or two ago. They had looked each other in the eye and lowered their weapons.

Two persons coming to a nonverbal understanding and agreement, they turned their backs, and leaning on each other, had sunk to sit on the trench wall under them.

The long years on the front had made Gjod quite sensitive to touch, and they liked the warm feeling of another human on their back. The boredom, or perhaps the countless dead bodies around them, overpowered any further positive emotion in that direction. “What do you want to do? Do you want to throw a coin, which side to go towards” asked Gjod, desperately wanting any reaction from Ofnet: “We can't sit in the warm sun all day and mope.“

There was another deep sigh, but also a thin voice: “It doesn't really matter. I forgot to press the dead-man switch on our doomsday weapon five minutes ago”.

There was silence for a while, then a loud belly laugh erupted from Gjod. This made Ofnet furious, and they shouted: “What the hell? We have perhaps a minute before there's nothing left of us.”

Gjod, suddenly standing up and facing Ofnet, explained over the last remains of their laughs: “What's the chance. I also forgot to press mine.”

Oh I like this one. Very poetic in a way.

Thank you!