Gettysburg Revisited

iUniverse, Inc.

Chapter One

Colonel Bill Parker arose early at 4:45 a.m., as was his custom, put on his jogging suit and running shoes and quietly went out the front door of his quarters so as not to disturb the rest of his family. Parker was one of those rare individuals who ran not just to keep fit, but for the sheer joy and exhilaration of running. He had been an avid runner everywhere he had been assigned, even in Kuwait during his deployment there during the first Gulf War. Running in Kuwait was dicey at times but he managed to get in his daily road workout throughout the buildup.

At Carlisle Barracks, running was especially good. Parker enjoyed his early morning runs mostly because at this hour he usually had the road to himself—no traffic, no vehicle fumes, no other people. Carlisle Barracks was a relatively small installation, just a little over 200 acres, four fifths of a mile long and half a mile wide, located about two hours north of Washington, DC, in South-central Pennsylvania. Founded in 1757, the post reflected an eclectic mix of building construction that had accumulated gradually during almost 250 years of history. The installation was thickly forested with stately old deciduous and pine trees. Parker enjoyed running the road network on the periphery of the installation. It gave him the feeling of running through a national park.

Parker was feeling particularly exhilarated this morning. He had had a great night's sleep and he was looking forward to a full work day ahead of him once he got to his office at the War College. His mind wandered ahead to the seminar lesson he was to conduct later that morning but he stopped himself short and came back to the present to enjoy the moment in the calm of the morning. As he came to the corner, he decided that for a change of pace, he would run the installation counter-clockwise and maybe even take a turn around the post golf course. He ran down Forbes Avenue, passed in front of Root Hall and Bliss Hall and turned north toward the Ashburn Gate. Just short of the gate, he veered off to his left and ran on down Lovell Avenue passing the Jim Thorpe Gymnasium on his left. He could just make out the outline of the Wheelock Bandstand by the light of several street lamps arrayed along the far sidewalk at the top of the commons. He glanced over to his right at the front entrance to the Letort View Community Center and continued on down the road. Passing Coren Apartments, he turned left at the intersection and headed up Guardhouse Lane.

The asphalt roadway surface was slippery with leaves and crushed chestnuts that had shaken loose and fallen some days earlier during a thunderstorm and had been crushed by traffic. The musky odor of decay filled his nostrils. As he moved up the street, he started pumping harder to increase his pace up the slight incline. The morning was cool but muggy. There was a strange energy in the air and the odd smell of electricity that he usually experienced when he played with his boys and their electric train set in the basement. The hair on his arms and legs began to stand on end as if in warning of some perilous threat. He slowed down as he came up adjacent to the statue of Frederick the Great on his left at the top end of Coren Apartments. Suddenly, a blinding white light enveloped Parker and he disappeared from view as if he had fallen into some unseen excavation in the middle of the street. One second there.... next second gone—out of sight.

Chapter Two

Colonel Barton Stauffer rolled over in his bed. He had been startled into semi-wakefulness by a bright flash of light through the small bedroom window that faced Garrison Lane and the Hessian Guardhouse. He waited for the noise of thunder that he thought would follow shortly so he could judge the distance of what he thought was an approaching storm.

Nothing.

Nada.

The lightning had been extremely bright—there should be some kind of thunder accompanying it. Puzzled, he slowly swung his legs out from under the covers and over the edge of the bed as he sat up. He stood up and shuffled over to the window, parted the white lace curtain and looked out. It was still quite dark but he sensed that the sky was clouded over and that rain was in the air. Odd—there weren't any flashes in the distant sky—no thunderstorm. He wondered what the light might have been. He turned and walked back to the bed with the notion of getting another hour of sleep, but a large mixed breed German shepherd bounded up to him and pulled excitedly on his pajama bottoms with his teeth.

"Klondike, settle down. It isn't time to get up yet," he whispered, trying not to awaken his wife.

But the dog wouldn't have any of it. He kept tugging at the pajama bottoms and swiping his paws at Stauffer's feet and legs. Finally, Stauffer gave in and opened the door to the bedroom and softly padded down the hallway to the staircase. He shuffled sleepily down the wooden stairs to the front entryway. The over-sized shepherd puppy bounded past him, almost knocking him over on the last step. The dog had impossibly large paws in contrast to the rest of its still-developing body. He raced back and forth and finally jumped up placing his huge paws on the breast pockets of Stauffer's striped pajama shirt.

"You're going to be one humongous dog when you finally grow into these paws," he laughed, "... that is, if you live long enough." And then he added more audibly making sure the dog could hear, "If you don't get this urinating-in-the-house problem fixed fast, you're going to be a former dog." He emphasized his last words ... "former dog" ... and directed them in a slow, stern voice pausing on each syllable as if to increase the dog's awareness, pressing his face up close to the dog's muzzle, now almost directly at his eye level. The dog happily lashed out with its tongue in response and Stauffer just barely got his head turned in time to catch the long wet tongue lick on his ear.

"Auggh, stop that." He pushed the dog's paws back down to the ground and, wiping the side of his face with the sleeve of his pajamas, fumbled for the deadbolt lock. Finally getting the door open, he stepped out onto the front porch into the brisk morning air. A thick gray mist hung over the broad expanse of grass in front of the Stauffer quarters. The sky was still quite dark. He could barely make out the tree line along the roadway leading over to the post medical clinic. The dog bounded happily past him down the cement steps and around the iron grating and out onto the patio stones. He scurried around excitedly sniffing trees and shrubs and assorted spots on the wet grass.

Stauffer stood impatiently on the porch. A sudden chill sent a shiver through his body and he trembled slightly in the cool dampness of the morning. "Get it over with Klondike," he subvocalized, projecting his voice into the dimly-lit patio. "Don't make a major production out of it."

The dog paused and looked over at him quizzically for a brief moment. Then, he turned away and continued his olfactory tour of the yard, energetically sniffing everything there was to be sniffed. Colonel Stauffer waited for several minutes for the dog to complete...