Free The Battle of the Crater: A Novel by William R. Forstchen, Newt Gingrich, Albert S. Hanser Page B

tossed in with his barely understandable English, “they see an officer’s hat, and they go bang.”
    He made the gesture of shooting, then stabbed at his forehead with a finger and crossed his eyes.
    Pleasants chuckled, nodding his thanks. Unlike some of the officers, who were all full of fight, even when it was little better than murder—which was how he defined sharpshooting in a place like this—he had no problems with the informal truces the men might strike up.
    “I hate to tell you boys this, but we’re stuck on the line for at least another week,” he announced, his statement met with groans and curses.
    “Sorry, lads, orders from on high. All the regiments of the division are like us, half strength or less, and there’s no reserves to replace us on the line for now.”
    “Then let’s just blow the bastards up and be done with it,” Michael interjected.
    “Blow them up?” the colonel looked at him quizzically.
    Michael grinned.
    “Me and the boys have been thinking on it, sir. Take a peek through my hole for a second or two, sir.”
    He gestured for the colonel to come over to his sharpshooting position. The men around him fell silent.
    “Suggest you take that hat off, sir,” Johann interjected, and Pleasants forced a smile and handed his wide-brimmed officer’s cap to Captain Conrad.
    “Just eyeball the fort up there, sir, but not for too long.”
    Pleasants leaned up against the narrow hole, ventured a look for several seconds. A minié ball snapped overhead, sounding like an angry bee, followed by laughter from the Rebel line as Pleasants ducked down.
    “No peeking there, Yank!” came a taunt.
    “Thought we had a deal, Reb!” Johann cried.
    “One of the boys changed his mind. Damn officer here said we gotta shoot ya.”
    “Tell that son of a bitch to go to hell.”
    “Sorry, Yank, but he said you is on our land, trespassing like, so it’s back to shootin’. Just gave your boy over there a warning, but next time it’ll be for real.”
    Johann sighed.
    “So much for the truce.”
    He looked over at Pleasants, who was squatting by his side, handkerchief out, trying to clean his spectacles, sweat beading down his brow.
    “Well, at least he gave me a warning,” Pleasants offered with a smile, and the men around him laughed good-naturedly.
    “It’s that damn fort up there, sir,” Michael said. “You saw how it sits up on that ridge.”
    “Yes, and?”
    “Blow it up.”
    Pleasants sat silent, one of the men uncorking a canteen and handing it to him. He soaked his handkerchief, wiped his face, and then wrapped it around his neck.
    A bayonet was sticking out of the wall of the trench, serving as a candleholder. He pulled the bayonet out and started to scratch the ground.
    “The Rebs call it ‘Pegram’s Battery,’” he said, as if to himself. “A battery of six Napoleon cannons, garrison of a full regiment, anchored to either flank by at least two lines of trenches. We could throw the entire corps at it, and…” his voice trailed off.
    “And we all die,” Michael replied coldly.
    Pleasants drew it out on the ground as he spoke.
    A thump echoed.
    “Mortar,” someone announced. Johann looked up, but Pleasants continued to sketch in the dirt, not even bothering to raise his eyes.
    “Long but it’ll be close,” Johann announced, eyes heavenward, tracing the line of flight of 4.5-inch mortar shell, fuse sputtering, passing just overhead and slapping into the ground ten yards to their rear, to detonate a second later.
    “Hey, Reb, cut the fuse a mite shorter, and you’ll kill us all next time!” Michael shouted.
    Pleasants stared at his sketch for several minutes; Stan, kneeling by his side, added a few comments about distance.
    “You the new recruit?” Pleasants asked.
    “Yes, sir, joined two weeks ago.”
    Pleasants smiled.
    “Heard you had a year of college.”
    “Yes, sir, my brother and father said they wanted me in the front office, not down in the