It is the most horrific battle that lasts the least amount of time.
The woods were quiet, save for the occasional moan of a dying man. Here the cold and storm were a blessing as wounded and traumatized men fell asleep, never to wake.
Lying with his back to a tree trunk, Anders waited for death and listened as it claimed man after man in ragged final breaths
Before him stood Colonel Beltram, regarding the wounded man without emotion, as a man might watch the death throes of a fly, an event of momentary interest.
Slowly, painfully, Anders loaded the rifle that lay across his lap, his right arm only partially capable of the task. Despite the pain, only detectable as a grimace, Anders poured the powder down the barrel, then the wadding and finally the bullet, pushing it all home with the ramrod.
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He looked at the shade of Colonel Beltram; it followed his efforts with interest, as if learning to load a rifle.
“I know you’re real,” Anders said weakly. “I just don’t know how real you are.”
With difficulty he placed a percussion cap on the lock nipple, then cocked the rifle and raised it to take aim.
The shot was loud, echoing in the woods, a chunk of bark the size of a man’s fist gouged from the tree behind the colonel.
Anders could see the creature smiling through dissipating smoke.
He threw the rifle at the shade; the bayonet driving deep into the wood of the tree, leaving the rifle hanging three feet off the ground. Colonel Beltram stepped aside, the rifle sliding out of its body with no effort.
“Well, that worked like shit,” Anders gave a low rasp, his head lowering slowly down until he hung motionless.
Beltram melted into something none of the men had seen, but the transformation stopped when the creature’s attention drew to the south with a sudden jerk of its head.
With a growl, it raced away, a shadow flitting among the trees.
One last breath rolled from Anders’ open mouth, then he, too, joined the legion of the dead.