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The air stung her eyes now as the breeze
lifted the smoke. Others moved back but Lauren remained where she was,
stubbornly refusing to give in. To move back was to let the war win.

Jill was at her elbow, shouting something
in her ear. But the cannon deafened her. She shook her head, unable to
understand. Jill waved her hand in a never mind manner and stood beside her.

Having John’s friend beside her made it
easier to stand pat. Breathing shallowly because of the smoke, she peered
through the gloom to look for John, knowing it to be futile.

Gunfire punctuated the cannon’s roar as men
in the corn started aiming and firing at each other. As before, the corn stalks
provided less and less cover as the men crushed them with their passing. And
their falling. Lauren gazed in sadness at the number of men already down.

And more came on. From her left, a fresh
troop of Union soldiers made their way between the cannon that fired over their
heads and headed into the stalks. The slight rise of the land where she stood
gave her a clear view of another troop, this one wearing Confederate gray,
doing the same thing.

The two sides met near the middle on the
Union side. Shots were exchanged, bayonets “used” and not one of them came out
of the cornfield. All went down, “killed” by either gunshot, bayonet, knife or
cannon fire. Cannon that did not distinguish between friend and foe in this
hell of a battle.

She had to look elsewhere. The tightness in
her chest was making it difficult to breathe. Or was it the smoke? No, that had
drifted as the breeze changed direction. Instead of watching men die, she chose
one of the cannon crew to watch, their graceful ballet of movement giving lie
to their deadly actions.

One man called out commands and each of the
crew snapped into place, executing the commands with precision. The whole
affair looked automated and Lauren wondered, if there were real mini balls
flying at them, would they be so calm?

The group next to them moved faster, the
gunner in charge calling his commands with urgency. Lauren frowned as she
watched. This group’s actions definitely looked sloppier. This group didn’t
show the same grace, the same calm as the cannonneers on her left. They hurried
their task, as if they wanted to get as many shots off as they could
before…before what? Lunch? Lauren shook her head, reminding herself this was
only playacting. No matter how into it some of these guys seemed to get, this
wasn’t war.

The reminder served to assuage some of the
panic that kept her chest tight even as the noise continued to assail her
senses. The deep bass of the cannon booms, the lighter tenor of the rifle pops,
the mixed tones of the dead and dying. The hills multiplied every sound,
sending the echoes back to join fresh concussions, fresh screams.

She couldn’t stop watching the men around
the cannon, comparing the two groups’ styles. Focusing on their technique
helped her deal with the PTSD. Which manner would be more likely in a real
battle? Probably the one on her right. Moving too fast, fighting the panic,
wanting to run, wanting to knock the snot out of the enemy.

She saw the accident happen. She was
looking right at the man with the sponge on the end of his pole when he rammed
it down the bore too quickly following the man who’d wormed out the barrel. She
saw him step wrong, his body partly in front of the cannon’s mouth. He’d done
it once before and she’d seen the commander warn him on it.

But time didn’t allow for a second warning.
The cannon fired again, sending the ramrod and the soldier’s arm sailing across
the cornfield.

He screamed and the moment froze in
Lauren’s mind—the soldier behind the cannon, the lanyard still unattached to
the vent hole, not yet ready to set for the next charge, the captain, his mouth
open, ready to shout a warning that came too late, the others turning to look
in horror, the man on the ground, a bloody stump where his arm used to be,
writhing in pain.

The scene shifted as time stood still.
Sand
blew in her eyes as she ran to the Jeep that had been blown upside down. A
soldier in khaki, bleeding, his arm gone at the elbow, his face half
obliterated…

“Call an ambulance!”

The shout brought her back and Lauren
sprang into action, her eyes unblinking, half in one world, half in another.
She called out orders as she ran to his side. Pointing at a civilian, she
commanded, “Call 9-1-1.” To another, a man on horseback, she yelled, “Stop the
battle.”

One person had actually bent down to help
the man, trying to hold him down by the shoulders to keep him still. Lauren
called to the leader of the organized, still-calm, though shocked group of
cannonneers. “I need something to make a tourniquet with. Belt, tie. Now!”

He jumped into action and she bent over the
wounded soldier to assess his condition. He was already in shock and she nodded
at the man keeping him still. “We need to stop the bleeding before he loses too
much blood.”

Someone handed her a thick strip of cotton.
The frayed ends showed it had been just torn off something. Lauren didn’t care
what. There was precious little of the arm left to tie onto, but there would be
enough. Cinching it shut, she called out for a stick and before the words were
completely out of her mouth, someone slapped a short metal ramrod into her
hand. Twisting with all her might, she cut off the flow of blood.

The man lay silent now, and slowly Lauren
realized the entire battlefield had gone quiet. “Check his vitals,” she told
the man next to her, not even looking at him.

“Pulse is irregular and thready.”

Someone who knew medicine, she thought as
her mind raced. Where was the damn ambulance?

Sirens sounded in the distance as if in
answer. “I need a blanket. We need to cover him and keep him warm.”

From somewhere, a scratchy wool blanket
settled down over him.

“I’ll take over here.” A man’s hands came
down and took hold of the ramrod, keeping the pressure up. Lauren let go, her
shoulders aching from the effort.

“Thank you.” She looked around. “Please,
everyone…move back. He needs air and the ambulance has to get through.”

The shocked crowd fell back several paces.
Then fell back again as a young soldier came running toward her through the
crowd, carrying the man’s arm as if it were simply a misplaced piece of
equipment. He hurried over and set it down beside her, the white bone jaggedly
sticking out, the end bloodied and dead.

“Can you put it back on?”

Lauren looked at him as if he’d gone
insane. “Put it back on?” She started to laugh and heard the hysteria in her
voice, but no longer had the urge to control it. She stood. “Put it back on?
This is war, you idiot. This is what really happens.”

John pushed his way through the crowd,
shouting orders. “You on the hill, bring that cooler down here. We need ice.
Lots of it.” He’d reached the young soldier and patted him on the back. “Good
work. Wrap the arm and get it in the cooler with the ice.”

Lauren snorted. “There’s no point. Too much
damage. Too much blood loss.”

“You don’t know that, Lauren. Let the
doctors decide.” He reached for her, but she backed away, shaking her head.

“You see what happens when boys play at
being soldiers? People die in war. This,” she gestured at the ruined cornfield
with a hand covered in blood, “isn’t war. This is a bunch of men dressing up
and pretending to be soldiers.” She pointed to the wounded man. “But people die
in war. They get hurt, they lose limbs. They die.”

She was making a scene. She knew it. Her
mouth, however, kept running away with her as her nerves needed an outlet.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,
making a mockery of the real men who died in this war. They fought because they
had to. Because their lives were at stake. You shoot off cannon and rifles with
no bullets and fall down and pretend you’re dead.” She rounded on the man who
could not hear her. “And you get so caught up in it, you find out what real war
is, and…and…”

She couldn’t go on. Her voice caught and
her eyes filled with tears.

“Lauren,” John put his hands on her
shoulders. She shook them off and turned on him once more.

“Go away, John. Just go away.”

Turning, she fled into the crowd.

John stood there, not stunned, not
surprised even. Just sad. He’d seen her on the hill and watched her as he made
his way back in his retreat from his unit’s foray onto the field. She’d been
keeping it together. He even thought he’d seen her smile once or twice.

And then the ramrod had gone flying across
the field, followed by its grisly counterpart. How the wooden pole managed not
to hit anyone was beyond him, but he’d felt grateful there was only one
casualty from the man’s idiocy. Even as he turned to find her, she’d been
moving toward the wounded cannonneer, slowly at first and then at a dead run.

The crowd had closed in quickly though, and
he’d had to push and bully his way through.

The young man who’d brought the arm—that
was what pushed her over the edge. If only he’d seen him coming and stopped him
from reaching her, maybe he could’ve prevented Lauren from having such a public
meltdown.

Will came to stand beside him. Together
they watched Lauren march away. Jill nodded to her husband and followed her.

“This is certainly one hell of a way to
start a day.”

John nodded. The ambulance had arrived and
the crowd was breaking up. While many still stayed to watch the paramedics do
their work, others broke into clumps, discussing what they had and hadn’t seen.
A reporter carrying a microphone hurried over to John and Will, cameraman in
tow.

“You seemed to be the focus of that woman’s
anger. Can you tell us why?” The carefully manicured blonde stuck the
microphone in John’s face.

Tempted to swat it out of the way, he only
stepped back. “No, I can’t. Please go away.”

“Do you know her? Can you tell us her
name?”

John didn’t answer, only turned his back.
When the reporter came around, the mic at her mouth to ask him another
question, John marched off the field in the same direction as Lauren.

Thankfully, the reporter didn’t follow. The
paramedics lifted the gurney into the ambulance at that point and that was a
much better image for the camera.

“They’re calling the battle for the
morning, John.” Will caught up to him. “Afternoon activities are still going on
as planned though.”

John shook his head. “I don’t know.
Lauren’s not going to come back and I need to think.”

But when they got to the campground, John
still didn’t know what he was going to do. Jill called Will over and the two of
them went inside their camper, giving John and Lauren the privacy they needed.
With the entire campground still over at the battlefield, the two could shout
and holler as much as they wanted.

John stepped into the tent, seeing the
sleeping bags neatly rolled and tied, his clothes from yesterday folded and
beside his duffle, her knapsack and duffle bag packed and ready to go. She
hefted the knapsack and picked up one of the bags.

“I rolled both and then realized you’d need
one for tonight. Unless you decide to sleep in Will’s RV.”

“Lauren, you don’t have to leave.”

“Yes, I do.” She pushed past him and into
the sunshine. John followed and stood over her.

“What happened this morning was an
accident. Over a hundred cannon teams and ninety-nine of them were doing just
fine.”

“And one man who no longer has an arm.
Statistically insignificant, you’re going to tell me?”

“No.” He’d been about to reach for her, but
he let his hands fall to his sides. “No, he’s not statistically insignificant.
He’s a wounded soldier—”

She made a noise of dismissal. “Soldier.
Play soldier.”

“Soldier,” he corrected. “These men go
through a great deal of training before they’re allowed to participate in a
national event. They might not operate modern machine guns, but that doesn’t
make them any less soldiers.” He heard the anger growing in his voice and tried
to bring it down a peg. “Lauren, it was an accident.”

“I watched them, John.” Her voice, quiet
and deadly, stayed calm and serious. “I watched them and they weren’t nearly as
professional as the group beside them. They were sloppy and careless. He was
sloppy and careless. He allowed himself to get caught up in the moment and he
paid for it with his right arm. He might pay for it with his life.”

“Men like that are the same in everything
they do. He could’ve been painting his house and fallen off a ladder, or
working on his car and forgotten to block the wheels.”

She shook her head. “I can’t do this, John.
I thought I could. Dr. Butters thought I could. I can’t.”

“You did. And you did beautifully.” This
time he did take her in his arms.

She pushed out of them. “Don’t you see? I
didn’t. I wasn’t working on that idiot who stood wrong and got his arm blown
off. I was working on a soldier, a real soldier, who lost his arm when an IED
exploded and flipped his Jeep. I was there. With the sun and the sand and the
heat and the rockets falling. I wasn’t here, John…I was there.”