//------------------------------//
// Act I, Chapter III 
// Story: The Kingdom and the Leviathan 
// by beckoning devil 
//------------------------------//

Fort Bliss, Texas
August 2nd, 1851

It was the week before graduation that we had our first training accident. 

The company was training in rank firing, a drill in which the first rank fires their muskets, then kneels, enabling the second line standing behind them to fire over their heads. Following this, the second rank kneels and so on down the line, depending on how many ranks we were deployed in.

Standing in the third rank, I didn't get a good view of what happened, since I had two other soldiers standing directly in front of me.

"Alright, one more time, and we'll go to dinner. Make ready!" Drill Sergeant Mondale was standing off to the side, possibly to prevent us from hitting him. There were a few men in the company that would like to do just that very much, the same kind that complained about nearly everything. 

I held my musket in front of me, and pulled back the hammer, adding to the symphony of clicking and clacking as the 150 men did it at the same time. Though I was not in the first rank, it was necessary for everyone to prepare, so that when it was your turn to fire, you didn't waste valuable seconds.

"First rank, take aim!"

"Fire!" The 50 muskets gave off a piercing, near synchronized, series of BANGs.

These were live rounds, so several of them struck the pots and pans in front of us with an audible CLANG, as the metal musketballs struck the metal pans. Smoke drifted from their weapons, and headed off to the east.

"First rank, kneel! Second rank, take aim!" 

"Fire!" More CLANGs and BANGs.

"Second rank, kneel! Third rank, aim!"

The soldier in front of me kneeled, and I tried to calm myself, to make my aim better. Deep breaths, deep breaths...the pans aren't out to kill you, nothing to be afraid of.

"Fire!"

"Sergeant I've got a-" Some Recruit had raised his hand, a practice done on the firing range to indicate a jam or misfire. It would've been fine, except he was in the first rank. That meant that, oh no...

He began to wail, or at least I could begin to hear him after I had fired, as had the other 50 men. He was now looking at his hand, blood spurting out of it.

"Break formation! MEDIC! MEDIC!" Sergeant Mondale was already pushing us out of the way.

We began to step away from him. Those who couldn't see him now got a clear view, and we saw that there was gaping hole right in the middle of his right hand, oh God you could see there was another hole...this one a bit lower in his right arm, where the blood from that was spilling onto his white recruit uniform...then spilled onto the ground...

"Snap out of it! One of you, uh, you! Help me stop the bleeding!" Recruit Greene walked forward, his hands trembling as he held down the wound, all the while avoiding the wounded man's eyes.

If you had told me that the war was over, if you had told me I could go home, if you had told me that this was all a dream, I wouldn't have moved an inch. The sight of blood, and this man's pain, simply froze me in place, as it did to the other 148 men, standing in a circle around the scene, all our eyes fixed on what we were sure to become. 

We were going to die. In some way or another, at least one other person in the company was going to wind up just like this Recruit, his eyes producing tears, as he knew, as well as we did, that his hand, no, his arm, was going to be amputated. But this time, he would be begging for life, not just him arm. 

"WHY! WHY! WHY!" He was screaming, wailing, calling for his mother, calling for God to tell him that this was a mistake, that he wasn't actually wounded.

The medics finally arrived creating a path through the circle around him, they knew this man's fate as much as we did, and didn't say a word.

As they loaded him away, I swear that, even though his face was contorted in pain, that he was staring right at me. Almost like he was whispering the words, "Carter...help..."

The circle of us simply stood there, either looking at the ground or looking at each other. We must have looked like schoolchildren discovering a new type of bug, contemplating whether to step on it or not. 

I noticed that Tom had his back turned from the circle, so I simply patted him on the back, as he looked at me, his face red from tears, as he made out the words, "Why?"

The only answer I could give was a sad, slow shaking of my head.

That night, there were no after-dinner drills or activities. We simply retired to quarters, and it was there I cried myself to sleep, as did the rest of the company.