Hurrah for Dixie (Part III)

	That letter given to Dixie was General Stonewall Jackson's responding telegram. Much to the Colonel's surprise, Jackson was enthusiastic at the idea of "Yankee technology being used to usher them to their graves", and he gave Sam approval to let her carry the regimental flag. However, no explicit permission was given to hand her a musket.
	On the second day of training, she was formally introduced to the new recruits as well as the surviving veterans of the original 12th. Both groups were confused, but couldn't protest her new position, as Jackson was likely expecting to see her when the regiment finished basic training and transferred back to Virginia.
	About a week later, you were issued your own musket, but no uniform aside from a gray kepi and a belt that went over your beige coat. "Something the Union has going for it," you thought, "their men look more official."
	After numerous more days of exhausting marching, target practice, bayonet drills, and learning from the already trained soldiers, Sam franticly rushed over to your company during drilling to relay some urgent news.
	"Men, General Jackson just sent us a telegram. He needs the 12th and various nearby regiments boarding trains to Virginia right away! Several battalions in his division engaged a force of Yankees far stronger than he anticipated!"
	"But sir," Captain McCroskey interjected, "these men still need another month before they'd be efficient enough to-"
	"Captain, the General stressed how important it was that we get there NOW! If they can fire a musket properly, I trust they'll do just fine at this engagement."
	Thus, you found yourself and your fellow men crammed into foul-smelling boxcars going at breakneck speeds through North Carolina. To pass the time, (and delay the inevitable sense of terror) you sat against the rattling wall, and made small talk with the only non-officer you knew. About an hour into the trek, the topic of the imminent battle came up.
	"Are you scared at all, Anon?" she asked anxiously.
	"Me?" you replied, purposefully avoiding her question, "You won't be holding a weapon. I'm more concerned about you!"
She smiled at you and put her hand on your cheek. "Don't be. Besides, I don't think the Yankees'll aim for an unarmed nandroid, anyway."
	When you broke your gaze from Dixie and looked forward, at least four other privates were staring at you two with looks of mild disgust. You had to remind Dixie later not to show public displays of affection, if you both lived to see "later".

	The train slowly came to a stop, and as the captains and lieutenants were ushering you out of the boxcars, you unmistakably heard musket and cannon fire not far away. The large clearing in the woods where the train halted was at the end of a wide dirt path leading up a hill you couldn't see over.
	"COLUMN OF FOURS, BOYS!" Sam shouted to the battalion.
Watching yourself and the other men form into a long line made the unavoidable dread finally settle in.
	"BATTALION, FORWARD..." Sam continued, leading the commanders of each company to parrot him.
	"MARCH!"
You started with the wrong foot by accident, but quickly corrected yourself. Glancing at the three men to your left, you wondered how much more comfortable they were about facing death than you.
	Reaching the top of the hill revealed the current state of the battle. In the distance, the Yankees had the high ground atop a small, yet steep slope just opposite of a shallow creek, where the blood of countless dead Confederates painted the flowing water red. There was a wide empty space between two other Southern regiments, where the 12th would take its place. Your body started to shiver in fear, but you couldn't stop marching closer to the ends of those Union rifles. Being struck with several bullets at once, falling instantly, and darkness overpowering your vision now seemed very likely.
	God wouldn't be pleased if you died chasing the envy of your brother.
	"BATTALION... HALT!"
The rows in front of you stopped as ordered. You were then instructed to reform into lines of battle, which found you standing right next to Dixie, holding the colors with a grim face you rarely saw her use. She didn't even acknowledge you when your shoulder pressed against hers.
	"LOAD IN NINE TIMES!"
While you performed the nine necessary steps to load your musket in rhythm with the company, Dixie must have felt you trembling, because she ever so slightly turned her head towards you.
	"Don't be scared, Private Anon," she quietly said with a soothing, motherly tone, "I'm right here. You're goin' to do just fine."
	"...Thank you, Dixie," you whispered, nearly on the verge of tears.
	"FIX... BAYONETS!"
Every soldier, (except for Dixie and the bearer of the national flag) unsheathed their bayonets and attached them to their rifles in a synchronized motion.
	"SHOULDER ARMS! RIGHT SHOULDER SHIFT ARMS!"
Your musket now rested on your shoulder, which you knew meant you were about to march faster than usual.
	"AT THE DOUBLE QUICK, FORWARD... MARCH!"
It wasn't much of an improvement to go from trudging to running towards your demise. "Trembling in fear" was not a strong enough term to describe how you felt as you were at last within range of their guns. You made a grave mistake by enlisting, you believed. In a poor attempt to distract yourself, you noticed one Union soldier elbowed his comrade next to him and pointed in your direction. Of course, he wasn't pointing at YOU, but rather who was holding the flag at your side.
	"BATTALION... HALT!"
This was it. Moments away from finding out if you'll live to see tomorrow.
	"READY!"
You heard that last command echo from the Yankee's side as well. You would fire a second before them, hopefully limiting the amount of bullets coming your way.
	"AIM!"
"Forgive me, Lord, for letting envy cloud my judgement," you mumbled to yourself.
	"FIRE!"
With a bang and a cloud of smoke on your end, the rest was in God's hands.

	"Fire!" you heard a colonel on the other side of the shroud yell, and suddenly, something struck your right shoulder. The immediate pain combined with your already panicking mental state caused you to drop like a dead man, similar to a few soldiers around you.
	"CHARGE, BAYONETS!" you heard Sam shout over the screams of agony close by. Your rifle was promptly grabbed from your arms as you lay there on the ground, hyperventilating and clutching where you were shot.
	With a bugle call from behind, the whole line charged forward, stepping over you and the dead. You could see that Dixie was the one who grabbed your musket, holding the flagpole beside the barrel so she could use the bayonet without dropping the banner. When you took a few deep breaths, the pain from the wound seemed to mostly subside, and watching the other men charge without you appeared to calm you down.
	The first charging soldier to cross the creek and reach the slope wasn't even a man. You could see from the ground that a couple of the Yankees she ran towards didn't know how to react. Half a second before being stabbed in the chest, one Yankee made a futile attempt to deflect the incoming blade. Once the rest of the regiment reached the incline, the carnage blocked your view of Dixie's performance.
	Oddly enough, your shoulder didn't hurt when you moved it, as if a bullet ingrained in there suddenly vanished. Aside from a bit of bleeding, you now felt completely fine, but were afraid of being reprimanded for feigning an injury just to get out of combat. You promptly got on your feet, picked up a musket from the nearest corpse, and executed a delayed charge through the creek and up towards the chaos.

	Hours later, at dusk, you were released from a hospital tent with a tourniquet wrapped under your armpit to cover your shoulder. You were correct in your assumption that you basically received nothing but a scrape. At the very least, you couldn't be called a coward for sitting out the rest of the battle. Spirits were high at the encampment, as the charge overwhelmed the Union force and made them withdraw from the area. However, all within the 12th weren't thinking about that, as they were busy praising their new flagbearer, who, at the cost of an arm, bravely skewered over a dozen Yankees with another soldier's bayonet.
	Your cheerful little angel was now your bold little killer.