Hurrah for Dixie (Part VI)

	Everyone loses something during war. The very definition of war is connected with death. Nobody's survival is guaranteed at every engagement.
Repeating these sentences in your mind, it still didn't make the loss of Dixie any easier to bear. Over the course of a year, she became your closest friend, and her intimate connection atop the hill last week made you view her as more than that. You had even found your forgotten copy of Macbeth in your knapsack, which you "borrowed" from the library before you enlisted. You wanted to read it to her, but never got the chance.
	Entering the busy hospital tent, you searched for Sam among the countless dead and wounded. After the loss yesterday, every hit soldier that could make it off the field was admitted. Amputation after amputation took place, and with a shortage of chloroform, their screams kept you awake for almost the whole night. The displeasing sight of bloody men missing limbs provoked no emotion from you, not even the most minor of disgust, as Dixie's death had torn off a big chunk of your soul. You had become a husk of a man in Rebel uniform. You didn't care if you got shot very soon. You didn't care about the outcome of the war. You didn't care if General Lee himself sat in a photograph with you as he shook your hand. Nothing would make you feel whole again.
	There he was, staring at you with those piercing green eyes, which now evoked misery instead of determination. Walking down the rows of equally traumatized men, you could now get a close view of his leg. It had been cut off just below the left knee with his red-stained pant leg tied underneath. Without even saying "Hello" first, he started right into his story.
	"He... said the bullet hit the bone, and that he had to remove it, but he had no chloroform", he shakily ejected. "It was urgent that he amputates it before an infection starts, he said. Several of his aides held down my arms and legs, like I was some kind of wild animal. That saw went into my shin, ...and I can't describe how painful it felt, Anon. I couldn't reproduce the screams I made. I begged him to stop cutting and he wouldn't. I COMMANDED him as Colonel to stop cutting, and he still wouldn't. I'm being discharged because of this, and I'll get to see my family again, but I won't ever be the same inside or out."
	"Yeah, I know the feeling. You also upset about leaving the 12th?" you asked in a depressed tone. He adjusted his posture and cleared his throat.
	"No, I'm leaving it in good hands. Major Dunn was killed yesterday, and since we have no Lieutenant Colonels, I'm promoting Captain McCroskey all the way to Colonel to lead in my absence. Speaking of which..."
He leaned up and tried his best to form a smile.
	"For saving my life, you'll find your new coat, hat, and gun holster in your tent later today, First Lieutenant Ardwick. You won't have to carry a musket no more."
You could have been promoted to General of the army of Northern Virginia just then, and you wouldn't have blinked twice. With Dixie and Sam out of the picture, you had no motivation to keep fighting. You had no dear friend to fight beside, and no high rank to chase.
	"Okay. Is that all, Colonel?" you apathetically mimicked the stiff attitude of the military.
His weak smile quickly faded.
	"You don't have to call me Colonel anymore, Anon. Actually, I don't give a damn what you call me. It's not like I'll be here much longer."
	"Is that it, Sam?" you repeated.
"I guess so," he grumbled. You were in the process of turning around to leave before he spoke up again.
	"Anon, I'm sorry about what happened to Dixie, I really am, but don't go around thinking I'm responsible for it, okay? As a soldier, your life is gambled at every skirmish, no matter the scale. I may have not been as close to her as you, but as God as my witness, I shed a few tears when she didn't return from the field yesterday. A scout I sent this morning told me he couldn't see her body with the dead, which must mean the Yankees have her."
	"The Yankees have her?" a voice exclaimed from the other side of the bed, surprising you both.
It was General Jackson who had snuck up and waited for the appropriate moment to talk to Sam about his discharge. When that last sentence was uttered, it sparked a wave of anger within him.

	"There you are, Lieutenant! We have a bit of a special order for you, if you don't mind."
	The officer looked up from reading his recent citation. His small "hospital tent" for repairing the Union's nandroid nurses was frequently considered to be a waste of resources by his superiors, but it never deterred him.
	Every so often after a battle, a nandroid's body would be laying in the dirt, completely mangled and beyond salvaging. To make sure their remaining parts would be put to good use, he would pay infantrymen to return them to his tent, where they would be broken down and the scrap used to fix surviving bots.
	Upon seeing the private and sergeant holding a completely limp nandroid, he was intrigued. He tossed aside the notice and stood up to examine her closer. Neither of the soldiers were among those he paid to bring back bodies, so he knew this case was different.
	"She's not dressed like one of our nurses. Where did you-" He stopped himself upon seeing her belt buckle, which had the letters SC engraved.
"We found her within a group of dead Rebs last night," the private exclaimed, "she has a stone sticking right through her chest."
	"A Southern droid? I've yet to see a nonhuman nurse on their side!" the lieutenant was amused as he lifted her from their arms and carefully set her down on a large table, cluttered with tools and scrap metal.
	The sergeant quickly added, "She's not a nurse. She was a part of their firing line and was clutching a rifle when we saw her."
Regardless of allegiance and role, he felt he it was his personal duty to repair every broken bot he could. He pulled out a saw from under her back and set it down in front of him. To get an understanding of her condition, he started to unbutton her gray woolen coat.
	"Gentlemen, ...I usually repair arms and legs. I'll take a look at her, but I can't promise anything."
	The sergeant gave a salute. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Come on, Jones," he turned to the private, "let's let the man do his work."

	Most of the 12th was disappointed at the death of their unofficial mascot. Only disappointed.
You and Sam were the only ones really affected, and even he appeared to pass the grieving process quickly. Unlike you, he was experienced enough to get used to the toll war takes. You felt there was certainly at least one unmentioned soldier he became friends with that was unexpectedly torn from him. Comrades like that were typically revealed during a slurred ramble after a night of heavy drinking.
	It was not even 2 o'clock in the afternoon, and you lay in your tent staring at the canvas ceiling and mindlessly spinning the cylinder in your new revolver. The conversations and distant fiddle playing outside were muffled by the sound of your own heartbeat filling your eardrums. At first, you were angry at God for taking her, but after hearing what Sam said, you focused your hate on those bastard Yanks that operated the cannon which struck her.
	Half your mind tried to play Devil's advocate. "From their perspective," a silent voice argued, "she was just another Reb in your firing line. That Yankee private you shot yesterday could have been someone's childhood friend, but you didn't know."

	Gently stripping her torso bare, as to not tear her clothing, revealed her slender frame. The rock was protruding from the right breast, "if those small hard bumps could be considered breasts," he thought. In order to get her to function again, he would have to remove the stone and replace the destroyed cogs. Mumbling this to himself, it sounded much easier than it really was. Carefully removing the front wooden panel so it could be neatly reattached would be enough of a challenge without the other tasks. He sighed and firmly grasped the piece of shrapnel.

	"Did you expect those artillery boys to know she was your droid?" it continued, "At their distance from the wall, could they even tell she wasn't human?"
	"Shut the Hell up..." you muttered, still playing with the pistol.

	With one strong jerk, the stone came loose, revealing a pointed, but short tip. The small hole it created was too dark to see into without a light, which was what the saw was for. To replace the broken gears and inspect if any other cogs were damaged, he positioned the saw just above where the naval should be.

	Nothing is worse than being angry and realizing you are the one in the wrong, and that voice in your head wanted you to know.
"Don't blame those Yanks. Blame war itself for making man so willing to murder!"
In one angry motion you whipped your arm up to the ceiling and pulled the trigger.
	Click. The gun wasn't loaded, but pulling back the hammer and squeezing the trigger repeatedly felt so soothing.
	Click.
	Click.

	After several minutes of careful cutting, he held the sturdy wooden panel in his hands. He placed it on the foldable chair he was previously sitting in, and peered into the bot's internal workings. Aside from two shattered large gears that the shrapnel struck between, the other cogs and wires seemed intact. As he fished his hand in to remove the broken wheels, something occurred to him.
	"If I successfully fix her, would she be our prisoner of war?" he stopped and considered, "And if so, could she still be returned to the Rebs if I lie and say she was a nurse?"
	He looked up at her closed eyes and slightly agape mouth. The thought of her, as well as every other nandroid in the country, happily seeing their owners again, he hoped would be a reality after this war ends. With the damaged cogs now resting on the table, he looked up at the headless, grass stained, one-armed body of a nandroid in the corner, whose parts he was in the process of repurposing.

	You took a deep breath and set the gun back down to your side. Lifting your head up, you saw your belt with its equipment laying at your feet. The bayonet was still in its scabbard, you noticed, and you instantly knew what you needed to do. You sat up, unsheathed it and took it to the butt of your revolver. Committing to this army was the only way to make what remained of your service any easier to get through, and you never wanted to forget who best embodied the spirit of the South. After a few minutes of attentive carving, "FOR DIXIE" was neatly inscribed on one side of the handle, and "12" on the other.