A March in the Ranks, Hard-Pressed

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A March in the Ranks, Hard-Pressed; Short Story based on a poem by Whitman
Topic Started: Nov 29 2009, 10:02 PM (119 Views)
Llarys	Nov 29 2009, 10:02 PM Post #1
Poliwag Posts: 34 Group: Members Member #294 Joined: Oct 24, 2009	I had to write a short story based off of a poem, I chose Walt Whitman's: A March in the Ranks, Hard-Pressed. I felt pretty proud of it, so I decided to post it =P PG for graphic-ness? Our army marched on and on and on throughout the cold, depressing night. Our losses were great, and the resolve was pitiful at best. From our severe loss, we had to flee, sneaking through the hidden, darkened paths of the hidden forest. Many fell on the arduous treck, but many more had fallen at the battle. And we marched still, past the long hour of midnight, till we saw a dim glow up ahead. As we drew nearer, we shall what it was, an old church sitting on the crossroads of the land. Its surrounding area barren and oblique, the building itself in poor repair. As we look inside, we find it had been turned into a pseudo-hospital. The pews all thrown to the sides and out of the way, the floors and even the walls covered in blood, beds laid hither and thither, and the bodies…so many bodies. It all had been given an eerie, profane look by the scattered candles in various states of destruction. As I look, I find a young boy, no older than sixteen, lying near my feet. He was far too young to be a soldier in my opinion, but a soldier none the less. He had been shot in the stomach and was bleeding profusely. I ripped off a piece of cloth from my tattered pants and helped staunch the flow of blood from the boy, giving him silent reassurances, despite his face growing paler, paler, paler. As I held in that position, my eyes swept across the room absorbing in all I could see, the bad and the worse. There were people, so many people, with their exasperated faces, their pained faces, and the calm faces of the dead. There were the windows, once proud, once mighty, now broken, now grimy. There were doctors and surgeons, doing the best they could; assistants and students holding candles for them to see, learning through seeing. As I sat, comforting the boy, the one thing that hit me the hardest was the sickly-sweet smell of blood. That ichor so profane to smell, see, feel flowed through the room in nauseating waves. That was the difference between this room and the battlefield, I’ve seen blood, I’ve felt blood, but the smell, the SMELL is just too much in this small space. I’d rather be out in the worst fight than to be trapped in this small room, but duty called. My task lengthening out, second by second, time seemingly to slip along at a deathly pace itself. People were brought in, what was left was taken out, screams, wails, and soft speaking flowing through the room almost as liquidly as the blood… Then I heard the call that I both longed for and feared: our new orders. We were to leave and continue marching on, nothing more, nothing less. It was as if there was no use anymore, no need, just to wander on and hope for the best. I looked down at the boy I was helping, and he nodded, ever so slowly. He closed his eyes, ever so calmly, the creases in his face smoothing out as a slow smile came to his face. I rose from my spot, cramped as could be, and took my final look at the life that had just passed away…
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