Crashing? Can we still make
Atlantic City?
Christopher David Petersen
Copyright 2011 Christopher David Petersen
Smashwords Edition
It was a cold fall day in New England. I remember it clearly. There was a heavy overcast that blanketed the entire northeast. The cold air felt raw and distinctly uncomfortable, but I didn’t care ‘cause I was now an instrument rated pilot. I was a hero in the sky. Only a select few general aviation pilots ever move to this lofty status. Oh yeah, I could handle anything now that I had just obtained this new license the day before.
Moments before the flight, I had called Flight Services and received the weather for my route of flight: heavy clouds, ceilings beginning at 800 feet; rain, heavy at times; strong headwinds along my route of flight. Yes, today I was going to put this new license to the test.
“We’re you scared?” You ask.
‘Course not… and besides, I had Bob with me.
Who’s Bob, you ask?
Only the bravest, most level-headed, clear thinking gambler this side of the Hudson River. Bob was my best friend. He and I did everything together. We flew planes together, climbed mountains together, golfed, mountain biked, drank… boy did we drink, chased women… Hmmm, I better stop there. Wouldn’t want you to get the wrong impression of me.
Anyway, Bob decided that I was a skilled enough pilot to make the trek from New London, Connecticut, all the way down to Atlantic City, New Jersey, to gamble. With that kind of endorsement, what could possibly go wrong, right?
Ok, so there we were, minding our own business, taxing down the taxiway when the engine decides to sputter on us.
“What the HELL was that?” I asked Bob.
“Probably nothing,” Bob reassured me.
Phew… Thankfully I had Bob along to add clarity to an otherwise serious anomaly. Many hours spent riding as a passenger made him uniquely qualified to offer this expert advice. Besides, he wasn’t about to let a little thing like an unreliable engine stand between him and that casino.
“How much you bring?” I asked Bob.
Clutching his small rounded paper bag, he raised it aloft and announced, “Forty bucks!”
“Quarters… you’re brought forty dollars in quarters?” I asked incredulously.
“Dimes and nickels… I’m saving the quarters for beer,” Bob shot back instantly.
“Hmmm, sound logic,” I replied, in mocking tone.
What else could I say? After all, it was money. It’s not like I was going to turn around just because he brought denominations that seemed ridiculous to everyone but a three year old.
I lined up on the runway, advanced the throttle to full and adjusted the rudders to keep the plane on the centerline. Rolling down the runway, I heard the engine suddenly cough, then surge. I looked over to Bob for consultation. Nervously, he held his eyes forward to avoid consultation. He was a true master of avoidance. The engine stabilized, I was at my takeoff speed and Bob was determined to gamble, so I pulled back on the control yoke and lifted off into the wild gray yonder.
Climbing through five hundred feet, we hit a passing snow shower.
“Huh… Snow,” Bob remarked nonchalantly. “And early this time of year… nice.”
Nervously, I looked over to Bob and said, “Hey, numb nuts… snow’s nice for skiing… bad for flying.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Bob replied with confidence.
Moments later, we entered the clouds and I transferred my view from outside the cockpit, to inside the cockpit. I now had to rely solely on the instruments for flying the plane. Scanning the gages, I was like a finely tuned machined, flying with absolute precision as we continued to climb higher. As I headed west toward New York City, I climbed to four thousand feet and leveled off. Aside from a torrent of rain that nearly tore the wings off my plane, everything seemed fine.
“Six-Tango-Lima, turn heading 180 degrees and hold at Deer Park,” ATC barked over the loud speaker.
Looking down at my map, Air Traffic Control was instructing me to turn away from my original route of flight and hold at an imaginary point in space, fifteen minutes away.
NYC Air Traffic Control was notorious for this kind of maneuvering. The larger traffic took precedence over smaller traffic. If you were in their way, they simply rerouted you out of their way and forced you to hold somewhere on the edge of Timbuktu. This meant one thing and one thing only… Atlantic City was now in jeopardy.
Ah, but I was too smart for them. I had a plan.
“Center, this is Six-Tango-Lima. Request flight change. Now landing NYC,” I confidently retorted.
I figured that landing planes take precedence over planes passing through. I figured that they would now HAVE to direct me to the airport for landing. I was so smart. I even smiled at my ability to out think my adversaries.
“Roger, Six-Tango-Lima… proceed to Deer Park and HOLD,” ATC dryly ordered.
“BASTARDS, they’re onto me,” I said to Bob. “We’re going to have to hold over Long Island for a while until they can route us past New York City.”
“How much longer will it take?” Bob asked, with obvious concern that someone was eating into his gambling time.
“Don’t know… an hour, maybe two,” I replied. “…and with these headwinds, it could take longer.”
“OK, wake me up when we get there,” Bob said.
With that, Bob wadded up his jacket as a pillow and rested his head against the side of the fuselage. So much for the pleasure of his company. I was now alone, at least it felt that way.
As I headed for the Deer Park Intersection, dusk became darkness. Flying at night is fun, with its beautiful stars and the city lights that sparkle like Christmas decorations, only we weren’t flying in clear weather with beautiful stars and sparkling lights. We were flying in grey, dense clouds with heavy rains. I saw nothing. It felt like someone had stuck me alone in a closet with a flashlight… a closet 4000 feet above Long Island Sound. Damn, it was creepy.
Anyway, there I was, chugging along, minding my own business, alone, in darkness and clouds, when the plane decided to do something stupid.
That’s right… the plane did something stupid. It coughed… again, only not like before… And I’m not talking about a wimpy wheeze or some polite little throat clearing. Oh no, this was a well developed, phlegm hocking, bellicose bark that scared the living Sh#t out of me. As if my under-britches needed any further soiling, the engine’s RPM’s then suddenly dropped from 2400 RPM’s to just over 1500.
Folks, if ever in your entire life, you ever need an OH-Sh#t moment to measure all others by… TRUST ME… This is definitely it! This is the granddaddy of all OH-Sh#t’s.
Oh Sure, I’m certain there are those of you out there who have been in death defying near misses, but nothing is more scary when you have lots of time to envision your own death.
Before you accuse me of over drama, please allow me to explain the gravity of losing power in an airplane… at night… in the clouds… over open ocean…
You see, in order to maintain flight, you need, at the very least, 1800 RPM’s of engine power. That power setting, while it might seem like a lot, is just enough to keep the plane flying at a minimum speed before the wings lose lift, stall, causing you crash and die. Anything below that power setting means you have to lower the nose of the plane to convert your descent into enough speed to keep the wings from stalling. If the best you can do in a plane is descend, then you are effectively crashing.
In broad daylight, in clear weather, over land, you have a really good chance of finding a landing spot and crawling away with a bloody gash or a broken limb. Unfortunately for me, I waited to have my emergency in those exact opposite conditions. This was shaping up to be a great test of my skills. It was a genius plan.
Years of flight training are spent preparing you for moments of terror like this, so if disaster strikes, you make the right choices and improve your chances of survival. For me, instinct took over… I instinctively panicked.
“Bob, wake up you idiot… we’re crashing,” I instinctively yelled over to Bob.
“Huh?” Bob replied, still in his dreamlike state, barely phased by my alarm.
“We lost power. I can’t maintain altitude. We’re going to have to land,” I spat out in quick succession.
“Crashing?” Bob replied, now wide awake. “Can we still make Atlantic City?”
That was a defining moment in Bob’s life. Yup, that moment defined Bob not as one who couldn’t be counted on in a crisis. Oh no, something far more serious had just been discovered. I now realized that Bob had serious gambling issues. Terrible, just terrible. If we made it out alive, I felt I was going to have point out this character flaw.
Suddenly, I heard the strange sound of air rushing past the plane. I instinctively looked outside to gain my bearings, but realized that the darkness and clouds made the horizon undetectable. Bummer.
I quickly scanned my flight instruments. To me horror, I realized we were not descending, but were in a climbing turn. I locked my focus on my attitude indicator. It was registering a big frowny face…
Sorry… Couldn’t help myself.
The attitude indicator displays the position of the plane in space. Mine was showing my wings banked and my nose above the horizon. I quickly leveled my wings and lowered the nose of the plane. As I banked to bring myself back on course, I heard the rush of air once more. Scanning the instruments again, I nearly freaked. I was now banked in the opposite direction and rapidly descending.
“Damn, stay focused you idiot,” I remember telling myself.
I hauled back on the control yoke while leveling the wings.
“Phew… that was close,” I said under my breath.
Suddenly, a loud screeching alarm sounded. Instantly, Bob popped up to a sitting position.
“What the hell is that?” he asked.
“Stall warning! The wings are stalling – SH#T!” I exclaimed, in frantic tone.
In my struggle to keep the plane flying straight and level, I forget that we didn’t have the engine power to maintain altitude. As a result, we were trading altitude for airspeed, causing the wings to stall. Quickly and deliberately, I lowered the nose while forcing myself to keep the wings level.
Through the blaring alarm that screamed from the speaker above, I heard Bob yell out, “Can’t you shut that thing off!”
Apparently, the sound was bothering him.
Moments later, after some quick reflexive control inputs, the plane was now stable and I began to go through my emergency checklist.
“Ok, airspeed… 65 knots,” I read off from the top of the list.
I was travelling a bit faster than that speed, so I raised the nose slightly and reduced my speed to 65 knots.
“Carb heat on,” I read next.
“CARB HEAT?” I remember yelling out loud.
I looked at the outside temperature gauge and realized that I was flying in clouds in freezing temperatures. Quickly, I pulled the Carb Heat knob to add hot engine air to the carburetor. I couldn’t be sure, but I now suspected the loss of power was due to carburetor icing. It made sense.
As I finished the checklist, I called ATC and informed them that I had lost power and couldn’t maintain altitude.
“Please advise,” I radioed in perfect throaty airmen tone, exuding confidence and professionalism.
“Do you wish to declare an emergency?” They radioed back.
‘Why yes, I do want to declare an emergency… I just sh#t my pants and I’m flying with a complete idiot.’
No, that’s not what I declared… but I should have ‘cuz it was pretty damn close to the truth.
“Negative, need vectors to the closest airport,” I radioed.
“Steer heading 200 degrees, MacArthur Airport 8 miles ahead… straight-in landing approved,” the controller shot back instantly.
“Eight miles ahead?” I shouted out incredulously.
“Is that close to Atlantic city?” Bob piped up.
I didn’t answer him.
Through all the “excitement”, I hadn’t realized how far I had actually flown across Long Island Sound. Feeling relief that I wouldn’t have to attempt a water landing, I flew more calmly now, clearly thinking through my options. I knew that I needed to conserve as much altitude as possible until I reached the airport, then once there, I would spiral down out of the clouds and hope that the cloud ceiling was high enough for me to pop out and land.
“Six-Tango-Lima, you are now directly over the airport. Cleared to land,” ATC radioed.
This was it. The moment of truth. I started my circling descent. I scanned the gages repeatedly, flying with near perfect precision. I was in the zone. Nothing was going to stop me now.
“Bob, watch for lights through the clouds. Shout out if you see any,” I called out in authoritative tone.
“Dude, you can count on me,” Bob replied.
Knowing Bob was on the job and couldn’t possibly fail me, I also scanned the clouds for any signs of lights.
As we descended through 3000 feet, I held a constant bank that I hoped would hold me close in to the airport. Fortunately, the rains had stopped and turbulence was nonexistent, making my task easier to accomplish. Round and round we flew, descending at 500 feet per minute.
Two minutes later, at 2000 feet, I began to see the slight illuminations of the city through the clouds. One minute after that, at 1500 feet, I saw my first glimpse of a beacon flashing below the cloud deck.
Looking over to Bob, his sights were glued to the windscreen in front of him. If there was a light out there, he was going to find it. He was like a bloodhound on the hunt. Nothing was going to slip by him.
Another minute ticked by now. I was seeing sporadic lights from buildings below. At 1000 feet, I was breaking in an out of the cloud deck. Another 200 feet or so and I’d be in the clear. I felt relief knowing that I was going to have nearly 800 feet of altitude to plan my landing.
“I see lights,” Bob announced proudly.
And so he finally did.
At 850 feet, I was in the clear. Below me was the airport, brilliantly lit. As I continued to circle, I watched the long runway carefully, trying to judge when to brake off from my emergency descent and fly straight in.
At 500 feet, while lined up on my shortened approach, I could easily see that the runway was assured. I was going to make it.
I pulled the power and lowered the flaps for my final approach. As I touch down on the wet tarmac, I felt the weight of the world lift from my shoulders. I taxied to general aviation parking and shut down.
To my left, I heard the distinct sound of someone clearing their throat. Yes, it was Bob.
“So… what are the odds we make it to Atlantic City tonight?”
Ahhhh Bob, always the gambler…
Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed the short story above, please read the following sample chapters of Tear in Time (tear as in torn).
Tear in Time
Christopher David Petersen
Copyright 2011 Christopher David Petersen
Smashwords Edition
TT: Chapter 1
Chattanooga, Tennessee
Alton Park region
June 8th, 2005
Life and destiny stood for one last moment, perfectly synced in time. Never again would the world see the past as they remembered, as one death would change the world’s destiny forever.
--- --- --- --- ---
Trae Williams leaned to one side as he sat on his mother’s decrepit front porch and watched his sister play in their front yard. Lena Williams, an energetic eight-year-old, raced back and forth across the worn lawn as she chased after tiny moths that had hidden themselves on the blades of grass. With each swipe of her hand, she expertly snatched the tiny white targets out of midair, then released them back to the world safely.
“Oh yeah! Trae, did you see that?” Lena asked proudly.
“Damn Le, you’re like a ninja or something,” Trae replied.
Beaming with pride, Lena replied, “Too bad Mom can’t see my skills.”
“She’s working, Le. She’ll be home in a couple hours. Maybe you can show her then,” Trae answered.
“Mom’s always working,” Lena said disapprovingly, then added, “Too bad we don’t have a dad like Sharice’s, next door. Then Mom could stay home too.”
“Le, you do have a dad. He just don’t come around no more… and Sharice’s mom don’t work ’cause she’s lazy,” Trae replied as delicately as he knew how.
Lena stopped running and sat down next to Trae.
“Do you ever see your dad, Trae?” Lena asked sincerely.
“Not for a long time. Not since before he went to prison. That was before you were born,” Trae replied.
“Oh,” Lena said simply. “Do you miss ’im?”
“Nah. He wasn’t around much, even before he got sent up,” Trae answered.
“Well, I miss my dad,” Lena replied.
“Damn, Le, you never even seen ’im before. How could you even miss ’im?” Trae blurted out in quick reaction.
“I just do, Trae…I’m sure he misses me too,” Lena replied.
Trae knew his sister was hurting from her father’s rejection. Hoping to take her mind off her pain, he searched for anything to distract her.
“Hey, Le: check out those moths over by the street. Bet you can’t catch ‘em all,” Trae said, with a challenging smirk.
“Bet I can,” Lena replied, laughing.
Immediately, Lena sprang to her feet and darted to the edge of the road, both hands sweeping through the air as she lunged for more moths.
Trae watched her for a moment, then became distracted as an older Buick with faded paint slowly drifted toward the stop sign at the beginning of their street. Unremarkable at first, the long length of time spent at the stop sign made the old sedan a conspicuous sight.
Trae focused more of his attention on the car. Something just wasn’t right. He squinted hard as he tried to see through the darkened, tinted windows, but it was of no use. The occupants remained a mystery.
Trae began to feel uneasy. The old Buick was literally parked at the stop sign for what now felt like an eternity. He glanced over to Lena, then back at the suspicious car. A knot in the pit of his stomach began to grow.
“Le, come here for a minute,” Trae said in nervous tone.
“Just a minute, Trae. I almost caught ‘em all,” Lena replied, indifferent to the world around her.
Trae saw the brakes release from the old Buick, then quickly stop again, almost as if by accident. He looked up the street to see if the vehicle had intended on pulling out but reconsidered due to another passing car. Strangely, there were no other vehicles in sight.
“Lena, come here,” Trae said.
Hearing Trae use her full name, Lena stopped and stared at her brother for a moment. She could see the peculiar look spread across his face as he turned back toward the mysterious Buick.
“Trae, what’s the matter?” Lena asked innocently.
“Dunno. That car’s been there a while. Maybe you should go in the house for a minute,” Trae replied, now feeling the anxiety of the moment.
“Ahhh,” Lena sounded out in protest. “I don’t want to go inside. It’s just a car, Trae. Besides, I can take care of myself,” Lena stated proudly.
“Uh huh, sure you can… just get in the house,” Trae responded bluntly.
“Just one more m.…” Lena began, but was cut short by the revving of the Buick’s engine.
“LENA, GET IN THE DAMN HOUSE NOW!” Trae shouted loudly.
Suddenly, aggressively, the old Buick released its brakes and stormed around the corner. With tires squealing and smoke billowing from behind the car, the old sedan charged up the street toward them.
“Oh no,” Trae murmured to himself, almost in sobbing tone.
With little time to react, Trae sprang to his feet and hurried toward his sister. Lena stood paralyzed in confusion. She knew something was wrong, but was too young and naive to fully understand Trae’s actions.
Trae watched in horror as the Buick’s dark tinted windows began to lower. In seconds, his worst fears were realized as the occupants extended their guns out from the windows. With deafening sound, their automatic weapons came to life.
As bolts of white light streaked from the ends of the gun barrels, Trae lunged for Lena, knocking her to the ground. He instinctively rolled on top of her to protect her as a hail of bullets tore up the ground around them. As the faded Buick roared past, Trae and Lena lay motionless on the front lawn, their minds and bodies unable to react.
As time seemed to slow, Trae could almost count the bullets as they exited the guns. One by one, each bullet miraculously missed it mark. Trae looked into his sister’s eyes. She had not been hit. Suddenly, he realized they both were alive and had made it through the drive-by shooting.
Quickly, Trae leapt to his feet, pulling Lena up with him. The sight of the two still alive spread quickly to the driver of the car. In an instant, he slammed on his brakes and brought the old Buick to a quick halt. Throwing it in reverse, he immediately roared backward down the street toward Trae and Lena. Seconds later, the driver slammed on the brakes once more and brought the heavy vehicle to a quick stop.
Trae grabbed Lena around the waist and sprang from the edge of the road. Like the stride of a gazelle, he bounded across the front lawn with amazing speed and agility, his adrenaline pumping at full capacity.
As the faded Buick came to a stop, all its doors were flung open and four young men exited the vehicle quickly. With their guns still drawn, they wasted no time in continuing their task. Trae leaped to the top step of his front porch and felt a sharp razor-like object strike his left side. Before the first bullet could even register, a second bullet struck him in the right shoulder, rendering his arm useless. Instantly, Lena dropped onto the porch, Trae collapsing beside her.
An eerie quiet spread over the neighborhood as the four thugs reloaded. Knowing this was their only hope of survival, Trae crawled to the front door and tried to wrap his fingers around the lower corner. With his hand covered in blood, they slipped off the edge of the door.
“Le, get in the house… stay low,” Trae ordered.
Lena, scared and crying, lay beside her brother, unable to move.
“Lena, get moving NOW!” Trae shouted.
“I’m scared,” Lena whimpered.
“I’ll block you. Go now… hurry up!” Trae assured confidently.
Nodding reluctantly, Lena quickly stood up and pulled the front door open as Trae moved to shield her from the four men nearby. Instantly, a roar of bullets unleashed a swath of destruction across the front of the house, breaking windows and knocking shingles from the siding. As Lena began to enter the house, another bullet entered Trae’s lower back, knocking him forward against the door, closing it momentarily across Lena’s body. Trae rolled to his side and dropped down onto the deck of the porch once more.
“TRAE!” Lena cried out in fear and disbelief.
“Lena, get inside. GO, NOW!” Trae said, his voice now barely audible.
“No, I can help you,” Lena replied with determination.
Before Trae could protest, Lena reached down and grabbed him by his shirt. She pulled with all her might as Trae pushed with his feet. Suddenly, Lena exhaled abruptly and sounded a guttural moan, as a bullet struck her in the chest. Immediately, she slumped to the ground, then rolled over on top of Trae.
With both victims down, the four thugs ran back to the waiting car and sped off. Once again, an eerie quiet swept over the neighborhood as the neighbors, one by one, ventured out into the warzone.
Further south, along Signal Mountain, Dr. Phineas Morgan stood on his wooden deck. Perched high above the valley floor, he stared out toward northern Chattanooga and tried to shut out the images of carnage that had just taken place.From his location a few miles away, he could not see the muzzle flashes, nor did he hear the gunshots; but strangely, he knew exactly where the shots were fired and who they were fired upon.
Sadly, he checked his watch: 10:30am.
In a moment of solemn respect, he uttered a few simple words, “Forgive me Lena. Your death will save thousands.”
Turning away, he stared out over the city and spoke. “The dominoes of destiny are now tumbling... Godspeed, David.”
T T: Chapter 2
Chattanooga, Tennessee,
June 7, 1862 – 8:30am
The Tennessee River quietly flowed south and west as it made its way past Missionary Ridge, toward the city of Chattanooga. The April rains were now a month past and the wild and raging torrent that threatened to breech the swollen banks was now a gentle lazy river that quietly meandered its way through the valley. The muddy water that had angrily lapped the river’s banks receded some, leaving heavy, waterlogged brush and debris drying in the morning sunshine.Soft and tranquil, the water trickled past the fallen branches that scraped the surface of the river, catching any unsuspecting object that dared to tempt its grasp.
Flowing placidly south into the city, the river touched the edge of civilization, then abruptly changed course and headed north, past Signal Mountain. Several miles later, changing course once more, it looped around the mountain and continued its previous direction south, carrying with it the tiny bits and fragments of an industrialized city hard at work.
Sitting patiently on an elevated boulder, a young boy hung his makeshift fishing pole over the water in an attempt to catch his breakfast. Looking toward the city, he could see the tall smoke stacks that emitted the evidence of men toiling at work. A light, gentle breeze blew across the valley of high plains grasses, carrying with it the fragrance of fresh cut hay and wildflowers. The breeze brushed past his face, filling his tiny nostrils with the scent of nature, and sending warm contentment throughout his body as the sun shined down upon him. He reveled in his independence as he envisioned other boys suffering through school while he enjoyed his day of truancy.
Further up river, leaving the city limits, a raft made from hastily hewn logs of birch were haphazardly strung together with cord and vine, creating an unstable, yet functional mode of travel. Dirty and bedraggled, the two aged trappers floated downstream, extending into the water, long poles made from pine saplings, skillfully placed to navigate the many bends in the river on the way to their next destination.
Inside the city limits, at the sharpest bend in the river, a small force of Confederates guarded the main dock and prepared to unload supplies. In the morning sun, under the direction of the regimental captain, the men formed a human chain that led from boat to horse-drawn wagons. Hand over hand, they passed the goods and ammunition from one soldier to the next in sequence, until the final soldier arranged and stacked the supplies neatly in the back of the wagon. At this hour of the day, the sun sat lower in the cloudless sky, warming the temperatures to a comfortable seventy degrees. If it were not for their thankless duty to task, the soldiers would normally have enjoyed the balmy climate. As it was, their heavy labor created torrents of salty sweat that streamed down their faces, and soaked through their cotton shirts and heavy gray uniforms. When the wagon had been completely filled, the driver snapped the reins to the team of horses and started off to their encampment, whereupon the next driver in line took his place for loading.
Beyond the dock, a local merchant swept off the elevated wooden walkway in front of his General Store. A small cloud of dust rose in the air as he briskly cleared away the caked mud that had collected between the wide spacing of the wooden boards that ran the length of the street. At the rear entrance, a young man helped load heavy sacks and other supplies into a waiting wagon to be delivered to a local resident.
Further up the boardwalk, the blacksmith and livery were hard at work, attending to the needs of the community as well as those of the Confederate officers that had entrusted their belongings to their care.
At the center of the industrious town, off the open green, the one room schoolhouse bustled with activity and the sound of children’s voices, as they recited passages pulled from the important authors of the day, such as Twain, Thoreau, Dickens and Blake, each child’s voice as distinctive as the passage they read.
Beyond the main thoroughfare, on the secondary and tertiary roads, tiny houses dotted the roads leading out of town. Hung on public display, tiny diapers, socks, shirts, dresses and other freshly washed articles of clothing were draped over the makeshift clotheslines and pinned in place with wedges of wood, and allowed to dry in the brilliant sunshine as the matron of the home moved through her chores of the day.
This day began as any other day: monotonous and routine, men, women and children alike, functioning in their singular importance while contributing to the whole of their society. Unsuspecting and mostly indifferent to the violent world beyond their borders, they went about their lives, contented in their own daily struggles.
--- --- --- --- ---
On the opposite side of the river, hidden in the dense thicket and underbrush, several companies of Union sharpshooters lay in wait. Quietly and undetected, they had moved to the river’s edge, sneaking in under the protection of darkness. Perfectly concealed, they laid on their stomachs and waited for their signal. They watched in anxious fascination as the Confederates on the opposite side of the river worked to unload their delivered supplies. With their rifles aimed at their targets, they whiled away the time by calculating windage and elevation. Time seemed to slow as they waited on their signal of death. At two hundred yards away, they were well aware of their ability to hit their mark. Spread out shoulder to shoulder, they presented a menacing sight.
The wait seemed to go on forever. Shifting their weight from side to side, they tried to alleviate their discomfort. As their arms and legs fell asleep, they shook them out, recirculating the blood through their extremities, gaining the feeling in their hands and feet once again. For an unlucky few, insects presented more of a distraction than the lack of feeling in their limbs. With regularity, ants returning to their nest would find their passage blocked by the hulking mass in blue. Upon investigation, the ants angrily attacked any bare skin, biting and pinching in a futile attempt to drive away the enemy. Their feeble assault was met with equal aggression as the soldier swatted and crushed his irritating attackers.
Time was their enemy. Waiting quietly in the underbrush, each soldier pondered his own fate. Any attempt to push the morbidity from their minds proved fruitless, as they watched the enemy in their sights, reminding them again of the possibility of their own forthcoming violent death. Searching for solace, they turned to their companions, whispering inquiries about families and future.In return, they received warm reassurance as the sound of their comrade’s whisper helped to sooth their deep worry. Having sat through the bite of cold as they crawled in under darkness, hunger pangs from lack of food, and the contemplation of death, the Union volunteers of the 79th Pennsylvania were ready and determined to complete their task.
Up in the foothills, away from the edge of the river, the Union artillery waited on their orders from Gen. James Negley. High on his horse, barrel-chested and confident, he posed an impressive figure. He sat pensively and observed the scene below. Lifting his spyglass to his eye, he continued to look for weakness and opportunity. With an authoritative voice, he redirected cannons down the line to specific targets as he developed his impromptu battle plan.
As the Union soldiers manned their stations of artillery, they looked out over the valley at the Confederate soldiers drilling in formation in an open field far on the opposite side of the river. Several cannons were already directed toward them, but with a quick nod of his head, Gen. Negley ordered additional cannon support on that location. Feeling somewhat detached from the Confederates’ impending doom, they obeyed their orders and indifferently aimed the deadly weapons at the center of the field.
Standing by their designated cannon, each soldier mentally prepared himself for the battle. At their elevated position, and protected by the river, they all felt relatively safe: that is, safer than their comrades below by the river. They had survived the previous year’s battles, and were well seasoned in their trade. They knew there would be casualties, but felt relatively sure that with the element of surprise, the battle would be fairly one-sided. They looked down at their comrades who had crept up to the river's edge just before dawn. A sense of sadness and anxiety come over them, knowing they were in harm’s way. Any retaliation by rebel forces would start with them. Well-hidden in the thickets, the Confederate soldiers would have a tough time distinguishing the exact locations of each Union soldier. The Confederates would hear the sound of the Union rifles and fire in that direction. Most of the boys in blue would be lucky, and escape the wild and harried volleys of lead. Some would not.
The previous day, June 6th, Dr. Jeb Morgan prepared one of the supply wagons as a makeshift operating table in preparation for the impending battle. As a commissioned medical officer in the regular Union army, he held the rank of Captain. Serving in the military for most of his life, he was no stranger to the horrors that warfare could bring. His battlefield experience was extensive, having served in the Mexican-American War of 1846-1848, various Indian campaigns, and now the War Between the States.
Dr. Morgan was a short, stout, older man of sixty, with a full head of white hair, a long, white, flowing beard, and piercing blue eyes. Having dodged Mexican bullets and fought hand to hand with Indians, he possessed an inner strength and courage, as well as intelligence, that were uncommon for most, distinguishing himself for his skill with a firearm as well as a scalpel. Recognized for his abilities, he had been offered lofty positions at comfortable hospitals of his choosing, yet rejected the honor, preferring instead to remain in the field, saving a greater number of lives; much to his superior’s dismay.
Far behind the Union front line, the doctor had searched for a suitable location to operate. In a protected grove of birch trees, he found a large flat area with lush green grass. As the principal surgeon for the brigade, it was his job to ensure a site that was far enough from the action to allow for undistracted work, yet close enough to the front lines for quick evacuation and treatment. Ordinarily, Dr. Morgan preferred the protected confines of houses and barns, commandeered from private citizens at the onset of battle. With the battle for Chattanooga started from a location far removed from civilization in order to preserve the element of surprise, the wooded clearing would have to suffice.
The previous day, while Gen. Negley prepared his battle plan, Dr. Morgan scoured the foothills near Signal Mountain on horseback. As he rode up through the rolling terrain, the trees and vegetation became less dense, allowing him to catch glimpses of the city. Leveling off, he rode through the forest of white birch, weaving a path around the denser areas until he found the clearing.Immediately, he recognized the qualities of the find. He deduced the small field would allow for bright light to operate by, and the trees at the clearing’s edge would provide comfortable shade to the wounded as they recovered. It wasn’t perfect, but he felt he had worked in worse conditions while fighting in the west. This would certainly be more tolerable – as long as the good weather held.
After locating the medical encampment, Dr. Morgan quickly summoned a wagon to be used as an operating gurney and prepared his instruments. With the canopy removed, he neatly arranged his supplies on the right side, along the length of the wooden side-bracing. Within arm’s reach, he placed his instruments first; a basin and canteen of water next; then cotton batting and other bandages last. At the head of the wagon, he arranged the necessary supplies for the assistant, such as chloroform, bandages, and morphine in powder form, as well as opium as an analgesic. With the preparation for surgeries in place, he rejoined the front lines, offering his assistance where he could, leaving an assistant to watch over their makeshift hospital in his absence.
The following day, June seventh – the day of the battle – Dr. Morgan woke early after a restful night's sleep under one of the many cannons aimed at the city. He was offered a tent for accommodation, but declined special privilege, electing to ‘rough it’ under a cannon instead of putting others out. A selfless man, he figured the boys that were fighting and dying should at least be granted the small pleasure of the comfort of a tent. After years of adapting to the rigors of warfare, he learned to sleep wherever he laid his head.
The dawn of the new morning created cool dew that had soaked through the unprotected parts of his body, mainly his legs and boots, producing mild discomfort. By 8:30am, his clothing had dried out completely and he focused on his duties of the day. Filling up on hardtack, a hard, flavorless cracker, and some water, he administered various remedies to the soldiers that had reported for sick call while he ate.
Of the thirteen men reporting various symptoms, only one was deemed incapacitated.Suffering from acute dysentery, he was given a mixture of quinine and Dover's powder, and sent to the medical encampment for recovery. Dr. Morgan was a compassionate and sympathetic older man, but tough nonetheless. His private philosophy was, "If you can walk, you can fight."
With his duties accomplished for the moment, Gen. Negley ordered Dr. Morgan to ‘his station’ with a reverent nod. No words were exchanged. They both were seasoned military men who understood each other implicitly. With a respectful salute, the doctor turned and walked past the soldiers readying themselves at their own stations. He could now see the woeful anxiety on their faces as he made his way past, and he flashed them a courteous smile, trying to ease their worry. Locating his horse, a dark brown Canadian Stallion called Bill, named for an old friend that had died at the hands of an Indian ambush years before, he mounted the saddle, adjusted his boots in the stirrups, and with a quick snap of the reins, turned and rode off toward safety.
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“FIRE!”
With his sword lifted to an exalted position above his head, Gen. Negley roared the order to commence firing. Loud and with great authority, he repeated his simple command over and over as he rode up the line. Instantly, his men responded and lit the fuses to their cannons. Like violent demons, the cannons came to life as they reported with a thunderous roar, shaking the ground under them.
Instantly, the fresh and clear morning air became a heavy cloud of smoke that stung their eyes and seared their nostrils with the foul stench of sulfur, as the powder quickly burned and discharged through the breech of the cannon.The deafening cacophony of cannon and soldier startled the birds and jarred other wildlife from their morning routine, instinctively sending them scrambling for cover.
The well-trained soldiers began their work. In groups of three, one loaded the powder and wadding, one loaded the shell or heavy ball, and the third lit the charge. They were as a machine, working in perfect sequence and timing to efficiently deliver unto the enemy, their deadly payload.
Whistling through the air, the shells and cannonballs picked up particulates of dust and small flying insects as they arced across the valley toward Chattanooga, killing anything in their path before reaching their final destination.
The valley below became awake. The loud cannon fire from above signaled the sharpshooters below to unleash their own deadly volley of destruction. In reflex, they pulled their triggers and sent the tiny, yet deadly pieces of lead on their individual paths of doom, as they quickly reloaded their weapons with practiced speed.
They had only a second to think. With a startled jolt, the town and the Confederate soldiers both stood in place as their minds tried to quickly process the disbelief of their forthcoming death. Unable to move, they heard the whistle of air as the projectiles hurled toward them. Those with their backs to the volley waited and listened as the whistle grew quickly louder, into a thunderous rush of air. Those facing the volley watched in disbelief as they quickly trained their eyes on the direction of sound, watching the heavy ball and tiny bullets disrupt the air in front of them just before impact.
As fate and misfortune collided, so did shell and flesh. In the group of drilling Confederate soldiers, the first volley hit its mark with deadly accuracy. One unlucky private watched in horror as a shell found its mark in the chest of the unlucky companion marching in front of him. The shell tore through his uniform, flesh and ribcage, instantly killing him even before the shell's internal mechanisms sensed the pressure of impact. With a great explosion, the canister fragmented into thousands of tiny projectiles, completely disintegrating the whole of the soldier’s existence. There would be no burial for him, as there was not a remnant left of his body.
Continuing on their way, the fragments of the now exploded shell found their next victim in the watching soldier. As the hot pieces of metal tore through his body, it severed his extremities, as well as buried molten metal into his own chest. Deflected, yet still deadly, the fragments found other victims all around the location of impact, sending blood, torn limbs and other shredded body parts into their fellow soldiers. For a lucky few who escaped the initial impact, the concussion from the shockwave of the explosion ruptured their eardrums, disorienting them and rendering them useless. As other shells exploded into and around the stunned, helpless soldiers, the same gory results affected the devastating loss of the entire company.
Along the waterfront, the Confederate soldiers that were unloading supplies met with the same fate as their drilling comrades. Shells fell around them, exploding into thousands of fragments and tearing through their bodies, killing the closest to impact while maiming and impairing others further away from the epicenter. Cries of agony could be heard as they fell.
As the Union sharpshooters unleashed their hail of shot, balls of lead sailed through the air with an awful shrill, telegraphing their intentions. The bullets found their mark, tearing through gray cloth, violently ripping through flesh and bone, and creating large, gaping wounds for germs and disease to enter the body unrestricted. Collapsing to the ground, many screamed out in agony, clutching their bleeding wounds in a desperate attempt to relieve the pain as death quickly overcame them. Others lay in torment as hypovolemic shock quickly enveloped their bodies from the loss of blood.
All around the city, that first barrage of munitions inflicted devastating damage. Not only was the Confederate encampment targeted: loading docks on the river, telegraph offices, livery stables and blacksmith shops were also targeted. Anything that could be used to further the Confederates’ cause was targeted in the first volley of Union fire.
Within seconds of the first discharge from the Union rifles and cannons, another round quickly sounded, followed by a third and fourth volley. The murderous fire seemed unrepulsed at first, but slowly, the Confederate soldiers that had not been wounded, and others that had not been targeted withdrew and regrouped to form a defensive line at various points around the city.
With determined anger, positioned behind a breastwork of wagons and supplies, a band of Confederates located both sources of gunfire coming from the opposite side of the river and higher up in the foothills, and unleashed their first of many volleys of retaliation and repel.
As Union soldiers lay on their stomachs and reloaded, they heard the sound of lead crashing through the branches and thickets above them as the Confederates searched for their targets by trial and error. With the next round by the Union sharpshooters, more Confederates lay dead and wounded, but with this volley came a pinpointing of the Unions’ exact positions. With orders to aim low, the Confederates returned fire into the lower banks of the river. Cries of pain and agony testified to the Confederates’ skill, as several Union soldiers now lay dead and permanently maimed, slowly reducing their effective force. Just as with the Confederates, the Union soldiers now were on the defensive, and scrambled for a moment, regrouping into a smaller fighting force.
Unbeknownst to the Union command, out beyond the city limits, the Confederates loaded several cannons. Tucked away in a grove of tall oaks for protection from the elements, they were easily missed by their opposing force. Quickly, the three-man teams loaded their cannons and took careful aim at the Union battery. With the command to fire at will, the Confederates opened up on the Union forces staged in the foothills of Signal Mountain.
With visibility drastically reduced by the repeated cannon fire, the Union forces struggled to see targets. By the time the Union artillery brigade saw the heavy smoke from the Confederate volley, it was too late. As the scream of the fragmentation canisters telegraphed their arrival, the Union soldiers could only stand and watch in horror as the tiny projectiles grew larger in their vision, the speed leaving them little else to do but stand and watch their impending death.
The first of the four canisters roared into camp and impacted the ground between two cannon batteries, immediately exploding into tiny shards of twisted and molten metal. Instantly, the thousands of fragments traveled from the point of impact and found the first of their victims in the two Union soldiers that stood between the two cannons. Within a blink of an eye, their bodies absorbed most of the fragments, nearly obliterating any proof of their existence. Blood and bone splattered the two cannons in a characteristically horrific pattern of death and destruction. As the fragments deflected and ricocheted off objects human and metallic, their destruction was devastating, in all, killing and maiming nine Union soldiers.
A split second later, two more canisters roared in after the first, these two impacting the bluff just below the Union's cannoning. Although the projectiles embedded in the earth and exploded, their destructive intention would not be denied. The soil heaved and broke apart, sending large amounts of fast-moving granules of dirt and pebbles toward the Union battery, ripping into flesh, maiming several Union men hard at work, the force knocking them to the ground in agonizing pain.
The last canister rocketed over the heads of the Union soldiers and hit a birch tree high up in its trunk, exploding and instantly amputating its upper half from the lower. The crash of the tree as it hit the ground went unnoticed as the Union forces turned their destructive force onto the cloud of Confederate smoke far out beyond Chattanooga.
With a wave of his sword, Gen. Negley bellowed the order to silence the cannons at the far edge of town. Quickly, the teams of three jockeyed their cannons toward the fading Confederate smoke, calculated the angle of trajectory, and lit their charges. The repositioned cannons came to life as their muzzles spewed fire, smoke, and metallic death, the recoil sending them reeling backward against their restraints. Seconds later, far out beyond the city proper, primary explosions could be seen as the shells hit their targets, followed by several secondary explosions, signaling the destruction of enemy ammo caches that had ignited as a result of the primary detonation.
Violently jolted from his lazy stare up river, the young boy sitting on the elevated boulder fishing for his breakfast nearly fell into the water in reflex to the loud explosions. He quickly gathered his things and jumped from rock to rock, desperately fleeing for cover. Still at the bank of the river, he found two large boulders to hide behind, giving him safe cover during the violent exchange.
Closer to the action, the two bedraggled trappers, upon hearing the deafening explosions that were killing their countrymen, quickly deduced that their only safe escape was to continue their poling down river. Any attempt to make land might expose them as combatants and draw fire from either side. They grabbed their poles even harder and strained to push the tiny raft faster down river. Hand over hand, they pushed on the flimsy poles, nearly breaking them as they rushed to evade harm’s way. Painful blisters formed and quickly broke, leaving fresh blood along the length of the poles as they continued to push for their lives.
Standing on the left side of the raft, without warning, a single stray bullet whistled through the air and impacted the back of the first trapper’s head. The lead ball mushroomed and shattered his skull, propelling bone, brain and blood down the front of his tattered clothes and into the river. Instantly, he fell overboard and floated downstream.
In shock from witnessing the death of his companion, the remaining trapper cried out in anguish as he helplessly watched his friend floating away, trailing behind him a path of red water. Reality snapped him back into focus as another bullet embedded into one of the logs of the raft, fracturing it and sending tiny splinters into the water. He looked back at the pelts of beaver and muskrat he and his now deceased friend had toiled over for the previous two months. He hesitated for a moment, then grabbed a handful of beaver pelts, his rifle, and a tiny strongbox of money, then quickly jumped into the water. Struggling to stay afloat with the weight of the rifle, he kicked his boots wildly under the water. As his head dipped below the surface, he was about to let go of the rifle when his feet touched bottom. He pushed off the muddy floor of the river and popped his head above the water, took a gasp of air and sunk below the water again. Finding the bottom of the river once more, he launched his waterlogged body above the surface and gasped for another breath of air. As he sank back into the water, his head now was above the water line. He had managed to move close enough to shore to now wade toward land with his handful of belongings safe.
Spotting a large boulder at the river’s edge, he made his way toward it, keeping his head mostly submerged for cover. At the boulder, he threw his pelts and strongbox onto higher ground and positioned his rifle for defense. With the powder wet and useless, he still aimed his weapon, hoping he would not be called on to bluff.
Shaking and scared, the young boy huddled close to the rock, having just witnessed the drama of the trappers unfold further upriver. At the tender age of seven, he had never seen a man killed before, and the sight of the old trapper's violent death shook him to his core. His world had changed in an instant, the graphic vision imprinted in his memory forever. He openly wept as he watched the remains of the old man drift slowly downstream past him.
Union Corporal Amol Fletcher, part of a three-man team assigned to artillery, had been standing at his post when the first of the four Confederate shells exploded. Fighting two cannons away, the blast sent shrapnel through his team, decapitating one private and missing the other, while he himself took a large fragment to his lower leg, nearly severing his calf from the bone. Instantly, he dropped to the ground in agony. As he cried out in pain, he clutched the dangling flesh, irrationally trying to reattach it to the bone. In his delirium, his world seemed to slow. No one noticed him as he lay sprawled on the ground between the cannons. As bullets passed over his head, he heard their whistle, and for a moment forgot about his injury as a sense of self-preservation overtook him. He rolled on his belly and began to crawl. Pulling with his arms and pushing with his uninjured leg, he slowly worked his way through cannon and soldier, dragging a trail of blood behind him.
As hypovolemic shock began to develop from the loss of blood, the pain from his gaping wound became less noticeable. He moved faster and with more determination. Suddenly, a soldier lay in his path, face down. Corporal Fletcher grabbed his shoulder to roll him over as he felt the sting of hot lead graze his forearm and impact the back of the soldier’s head. Instantly, the soldier’s skull exploded, covering Corporal Fletcher's face with blood, bits of brain and bone. He jerked away in reflex and cried out in fear, only to feel the mind-numbing pain of his own injury. As fear enveloped him further, he quickly crawled around the deceased soldier and continued on his path.
Up ahead, several yards away, he spotted a boulder for protection. Fear and anxiety coursed through his veins as he struggled to stay alive. Desperately, deliberately, he stretched his hands out in front of him, clawing at anything he could use to further his escape. As he crawled, the elevation dropped off slightly, allowing him more protection from the bullets passing above. With grass and mud embedded in his fingernails, he reached the larger boulder and pulled himself around it to safety
Lying on his stomach, he rolled over and sat up against the smooth granite rock. He heard the sound of bullets ricocheting off the boulder and deflecting into the trees around him as he instinctively ducked from the sound. With his adrenaline pumping, he reached down to his grass- and dirt-stained shirt and ripped off a strip from its bottom edge. Taking the strip in both hands, he lifted the hanging flesh and secured it to the bone with the cloth, tying a loose knot to hold his calf in place as the pain caused him to scream in reflex.
A short distance away, a private pulling a horse-drawn ambulance heard the painful shriek of Corporal Fletcher over the thunder of war. This was his first pass through as he searched for casualties. Hearing the horrific screams, he snapped the reins to the team of horses and quickly located the suffering Corporal, barely conscious but still feeling his agony. He leaped down from the buckboard and ran to his side with a canteen of cool water. Kneeling, he placed the canteen to the corporal's lips and slowly poured a few swallows into his mouth.
Corporal Fletcher, in his grave state, choked and coughed as the water entered his mouth, causing him to cry out in pain once more. Instinctively he pushed the private’s hand away and opened his eyes.
In a weakened voice, he said, “They've killed me. The Rebs have killed me.”
Looking down at Corporal Fletcher's blood, which had pooled under his leg, the private quickly realized the gravity of the situation. As he reached to lift the fading corporal, he replied, “Nonsense. Doc Morgan will have that leg off in no time. You'll be good as new in a just a few days.” He smiled as he spoke, hoping to lift the Corporal's spirits.
Even in the Corporal's deteriorated state, he knew the grisly torture that awaited him once back at the makeshift hospital. He stiffened a moment and looked down at his maimed appendage. He envisioned the painful procedure, then the disfigured remnant that would be left as a sad reminder of the reality of war. Disheartened, he slumped into the arms of the private, who struggled to lift him into the waiting ambulance. Moments later, laying in one of the hard, wooden gurneys, he was reminded of his agony as the private snapped the reins, abruptly jarring the wagon, sending excruciating pain through his gaping wound and up his spine.
“Sorry,” the Private responded sincerely, although there was little he could do to improve the comfort of the wounded.
Moments later, through his own screams of agony, he heard the cries of another wounded soldier being loaded into the wooden ambulance. He glanced over to see a young boy of sixteen, thin, with wavy yellow hair, being roughly hauled into the gurney on the opposite side of the wagon. With the ghastly wound in his stomach, he didn't have long to live. His blues eyes were sunken and dulled from the loss of blood, a good deal of which completely saturated his shirt and pants, as well as his hands, as he had tried in relieve the pain with pressure to his wound. Lying there in his agony, he cried out to God to end his suffering. Corporal Fletcher could almost feel the young boy's despair as he irrationally waited in vain for a higher power to answer his dying prayer. With the realization that he was all alone, he retreated into the far recesses of his mind, his last haven for solace. Rolling his head from side to side, he murmured under his breath, "Mama, mama." At the end of his consciousness, unable to speak, Corporal Fletcher mustered the last bit of his strength as he stretched out a weak, shaking hand, and gently laid it upon the private’s shoulder.
The young private’s eyes widened a moment as he quietly spoke in a receiving tone, "Mama. I love you."
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