Free Echoes of Dark and Light by Chris Shanley-Dillman Page B

spoke over his shoulder. “We’ll stop off and get your rations, then head back to the tent so you can change.”
    At the other end of the row, I filled my haversack with three days of rations, including unappetizing flat cracker squares made from flour, water and salt called hardtack, a small sack of coffee beans, a chunk of salt pork, a few potatoes with sprouting eyes, a pungent onion and a wrapped bundle of something Private Dove called baled hay. He informed me the bales consisted of dehydrated beets, carrots, turnips and other veggies squashed together.
    “It tastes exactly like it sounds,” grimaced Private Dove, “but it does help prevent scurvy.”
    I nodded, my belly already grumbling for Gran’s fried chicken, buttery mashed potatoes and flaky biscuits. With a heavy sigh, I followed him to our tent, my feet dragging wearily in the dirt.
    I vaguely took in the men gathered around warm campfires, some strumming soft tunes from banjos or humming on harmonicas. But when he stopped in front of one particular tent, no different than any of the others, I suddenly realized just how small the tents actually were. The heavyweight, stained canvas draped over a rope strung between two poles, offering barely enough room for two bedrolls.
How in the warring world will I be able to hide my secret from Private Dove in such tight quarters?
    “Not much, is it? When we’re on the move, the tent breaks down into parts so we can both carry a share. By the way, my name’s Toby.”
    I squatted down to peer inside the musty canvas. Unfortunately, it didn’t appear any bigger on the inside.
Oh fun, another challenge.
My opinion on challenges slipped a bit more.
    “Hey, I want to apologize for my uh, gruffness earlier.”
    I glanced at him curiously. So I hadn’t imagined it. I reached into my new haversack and pulled out a chunk of hardtack to nibble while I waited for him to explain.
    He dropped down on a log, using a stick to stoke the charred firewood remains. The brush of oxygen flared a spark to life, glowing bright red among the gray and black ashes. “I guess I felt a bit irked at first, getting landed with you. Nothing personal of course,” he quickly added.
    “Of course.” I sat down on another log, grimacing at the rock-solid , intense blandness of the hardtack.
    “It’s just that Frank, my last tent mate, and I had become good friends.”
    “Where is Frank?” I gave up on the hardtack and stuffed the offensive so-called food back in my haversack.
    “Killed. October 10 th in the Battle of Blue Springs. Took a musket ball right in the chest.”
    Hardtack caught in my throat and I almost choked. Reality seeped back into my brain. With my world changing so fast the past couple of days, I’d almost forgotten that thousands of people were dying. And not just nameless, unknown faces; someone’s son or brother or former tent mate and friend.
    “Anyway,” Toby continued, “you’ll learn soon enough how a guy feels torn about making friends around here. On one hand, despite being surrounded by thousands of men who are continuously in your face and you feel like you’ll never get a deep breath for all the oxygen being depleted, a guy can start to feel a bit lonely. But on the other hand, chances are better than good that the guy standing next to you will get shot or stabbed or blown up or consumed by disease, and it’s hard to open up when you know he’ll probably soon turn toes up six feet under ground. So maybe you can understand how a fellow could act a bit standoffish.”
    I nodded slowly, trying to absorb his words. “Well, don’t bother trying to making friends with me; I keep to myself.”
    He smiled complacently, as if I were some naive child.
    Grrr
. Aloud I assured him, “I like my privacy.”
    “Hmm, don’t we all. Anyway, you’d better change into uniform. I’ll show you where to put your stuff, then I’ll introduce you to a few fellows before we hit the sack.”
    I crawled into the cramped