Slaughter Pen

Rebs. Hundreds. Maybe thousands of them. Waves of them surging up the steep incline. Dirch Peters huddled behind a low stone wall, listening to the zing of bullets and the occasional gut-wrenching smack of a bullet finding its target. He clutched his Springfield rifle, wondering if this would be the final day of his life.
“The Rebs outnumber us two to one, Colonel Gütenburg, sir,” an officer told Colonel Heinrich Gütenburg, “I fear they will try to flank us. What shall w-˗,”
Dirch heard a zing and a whack with a blood-chilling scream of pain. He turned around to see the officer crumple to the ground.
“Get back, sir,” a nearby major bellowed to the colonel, “we cannot afford to lose you, sir.”
“They’re in range!” yelled Colonel Gütenburg, ignoring the major’s warning, “up, men! Up! Prepare to fire!”
Dirch scrambled into position along with the 500 other surviving Yankees. He checked to see if his rifle was loaded and the primer was firmly in place. He waited for the colonel’s order. The Rebs continued to charge up the incline. They moved closer and closer.
“Ready!” Colonel Gütenburg bellowed.
Dirch made sure his rifle was not caught in any of the thick Arkansas brush surrounding him.
“Aim!”
Dirch shouldered his rifle and used a tree for stability. He sighted down the barrel. He picked out a sergeant that leading the others by a few feet.
“Fire!”
Just before the Union regiment fired a Rebel colonel swept his raised sword to the ground. As one body the Rebs threw themselves to the ground. The Bluebellies’ volley caught some of the slower ones in the back of the line, but most of the Rebs were left unscathed. Dirch dropped his rifle butt to the ground and feverishly began to reload. The Rebels jumped and charged toward them, screaming the Rebel Yell. They halted 20 yards from Dirch and leveled their rifles. Dirch heard their commander yell “Fire!” and the entire hillside lit up with muzzle flashes. A deafening roar sounded as dozens of Union soldiers fell, dead or wounded.
Dirch felt hot lead rip through his shoulder. His eyes closed as the impact threw him back onto a pile of dead bodies. The pain was more than anything Dirch had ever felt. The Rebs were stampeding closer and closer. Dirch struggled to finish loading his rifle. After he was done, he tried to raise the heavy rifle, but he couldn’t, the pain in his arms was too overwhelming.
The second line of Bluebellies and the survivors of the first line raised their rifles at the Rebs. Their rifles thundered as the Rebs fired a reply.
“Fire at will!” thundered Colonel Gütenburg.
Dirch turned and tore at an officer's holster for the officer’s revolver. He pulled it free and looked up, ready for hand-to-hand combat. A Reb jumped the wall with the intent of spearing Dirch with his bayonet. Dirch fired once. The Reb dropped but tried to rise. Dirch fired again, and the Reb fell on his back, dead.
A nearby Reb fired and hit Dirch full in the stomach. Dirch gasped and fell to his knees. He raised his pistol and emptied the revolver into the Reb. Bullet after bullet tore into him from all directions. He dropped his pistol and grasped his stomach. He fell on his face, bleeding out into the ground. Helpless, he thought, helpless and outnumbered. The day is lost. His world rapidly shrank, then disappeared.