Gotta Take This Hill, Men

By Cayce B. Shelton

"Corporal, take your men over there and set up those weapons," said the Captain, pointing to a brushy area fifty yards away. I jumped to do his bidding, motioning to the bunched up machinegun squad.

"We gotta take this hill by noon!" The Captain, waved his hand toward the big bald knob of Cook's Hill.

The thing was more of a mountain, a small one, than a hill. A hill you could climb with somewhat ease, but Cook's Hill literally took your breath away within a dash of a hundred steps, it was so steep. No way we gonna take that hill by noon. Hell, it's so hot half the company would be dead from exhaustion, even if they didn't get shot.

I set up one of the two machineguns and hurried with the rest of the men to the next clump of brush to set up the second gun. The men were silent, anticipating the defense of the hill. How many soldiers drop without ever knowing they had been shot? How long does each emplacement last? Fifteen minutes, is that what the book said? You can kill a lot of charging men in fifteen minutes.

The captain gripes and shakes his arms until he has the whole company scattered out in a long line, bayonets fixed, faces grim, facing the mound of dirt before them, the horizon looming far over their heads. I see the tension in their bodies as the men wait.

How can that idiot do that? Did he ever read a history book? Running a line of men up a bare hill without any cover against hell only knows what? Gonna get us all killed, no doubt.

I take my forty-five out and brace myself for the onslaught. I watch the captain. I see the arm raise and put the shiny whistle to the pursed lips. Then, as the shrill noise scatters the few birds in the neighborhood, fifty men and one idiot charge up the barren ground at a dead run.

I wait for the sound of rapid firing, which does not come, and caution my men to hold fast. I see the charging men start to stumble and fall half way to the top. Like little black bugs, the men writhe on the ground, either trying to catch their breath, or find some way to hide from the burning sunlight. Finally, I see the captain fall forward, his arms outstretched. A cloud of dust spurts into the air as his fat body slams into the dirt. I laugh as I watch the two strongest soldiers charge over the top, screaming at the top of their lungs.

I wait until the sweat blinds me. As I wipe my forehead, I see one of my men pointing up the hill. Ten pair of eyes watch two soldiers start to drag the captain, limp and heavy, toward the crest of the hill.

As the National Guard exercise falls apart more of the little squirming bugs rise up in the heat that had knocked them down. They follow their leader as he is dragged away, his boots stirring up the dry dirt.

With a short laugh, I make a motion to the men. Without any more noise than a few chuckles, the sun-baked crews dismantle their guns and fall in behind me as we trudge towards the top of Cook's Hill. I know that right over that far edge, there ought to be some cool water and a shade, preferably up against old man Cook's barn.