Corporal Bradley Bookman wiped the sweat from his brow as he marched on the dirt road beside his buddy, Private Frank Swift. "How far is it from US Ford to Guinea Station?"

Frank chuckled. "I'm a Georgia farmboy, how would I know? I just want a decent seat on the train. It's a long way to Chickamauga."

"Did General Benning say Longstreet ordered all of Hood's division to the train station?"

Frank glanced around at the numerous rows of marching soldiers. "Looks like it." He grinned. "We'll call it the September 7, 1863 exodus of Virginia."

"We have four days of supplies. It'll take longer than that to get to Chickamauga. Think we can find some food on the way?"

Frank tapped his Enfield. "If you see a rabbit or squirrel, let me know."

"You'd need about a thousand. Look at all those hungry soldiers." Bradley glanced down at his feet. "I'd like a decent pair of shoes." He laughed. "My feet are getting plenty of air."

Frank pointed to a hole in his left sleeve. "Our clothes ain't much better."

"At least we have our blankets and Enfields. We don't need anything else, do we?" Bradley chuckled. "It'll be enough to scare Rosencrans' men away from that railroad."

"Our stomachs not growling would be nice. I hope those bluecoats are deaf or they'll hear us coming."

After a two day train ride to Richmond, Bradley stretched stepping off the train. "My poor back's ready to desert me."

"If I had to sit any longer on that floor, my ass couldn't handle it." A young private rubbed his rear-end.

"After we left Guinea Station, how many times did we switch trains?" Frank removed his ragged floppy cap, scratched his scraggly brown hair, before replacing it.

"I lost count after three." The private glanced back at the train.

"Benning said we had to switch because the rail gauges are different. He also said he thinks we'll surprise Rosencrans. He won't figure we'd be arriving by train." Bradley cringed when he saw Hood.

"Load them up," shouted Major General Hood. "We need to get to Raleigh!"

"I hope I get a decent seat," muttered the young private.

After a short stop in Petersburg, the train reached Raleigh on September 11. A few hours later the soldiers loaded another train.

Corporal Bradley Bookman adjusted himself on the hard floor of the crowded flatcar and wrote to the pregnant wife he'd left in Savannah, Georgia.

Dear Alice,
We're headed to Atlanta by steam engine. We hope to get rations and find some way to procure shoes, before we get to Chickamauga. It seems Ol' Rosencrans thinks he can take over the Chattanooga railroad. I can't wait to eat one of your home-cooked meals again, cornmeal and make-shift coffee's getting pretty old. I heard the Army's a little behind in sending out our pay. You'd think $11.00 a month isn't that much. I'm glad my younger brothers are helping you with the cotton and the ship building business. I'm sure you're doing all right. Keep saving your chamber pot contents. It helps make good gunpowder and we need plenty of that. I can promise you them blue bellies won't get to Savannah. I know you heard about Gettysburg. No matter what the rumors say, Longstreet isn't to blame. If Stonewall Jackson wouldn't have gotten himself kilt at Chancellorsville, we probably would've won at Gettysburg. Rumor says he actually died of pneumonia at Guinea Station. If the baby is a boy, I think we should name him James Bradley Bookman. I like the sound of that and it pays tribute to the great confederate Lieutenant General James Longstreet. I heard tell some of our boys tried to sack a newspaper office, 'The Raleigh Standard.' They say they didn't do it and blamed it on some North Carolina boys. I believe them. The owner was a Yankee sympathizer. Some ol' conductor tried to get us to pay for our train ride. We aimed our Enfields at him and said, "We paid our fare at Gettysburg." I'd better finish up. After Atlanta we go to Resaca, then hope to be at Catoosa Station by September 17. We're going to meet up with Bragg's Army there. The men are coiled like snakes ready to strike. I'm sure we'll win this battle.
My love and prayers are with you.
Your loving husband
Bradley

When Benning's brigade marched into Chickamauga, Lieutenant General Braxton Bragg's Confederate Army of Tennessee had already arrived. They met up and started toward Reeds Bridge, across the west branch of Chickamauga Creek.

Frank stared at his toes peeking through his boots. "I thought we'd get to rest after marching from Catoosa Station. It wouldn't be so bad if we had decent shoes."

"We may not have shoes, clothes or food, but we have pride, spirit and forty rounds of ammunition. Let's kill some blue bellies." As the skirmish began, Bradley released a deep breath and gave out a rebel yell as the raw Yankee troops high-tailed it into the woods.

They pushed the enemy back as they continued to Alexander's Bridge. Frank tripped over a vine and Bradley caught his arm. "We must've walked through two and half miles of thick woods."

"My feet are drenched from those creeks." Frank glanced ahead. "It looks like this is where we're going to bivouac."

"Good, there's light from that burning house. If I move closer, I'll have enough light from the coals to write Alice."

"I wonder if we set it on fire or if them bluecoats did?"

"Don't know. Think we'll get any decent food?"

Frank shook his head. "Nope."

After a dinner of beans and make-shift coffee, Bradley sat on his tattered blanket. It's hot. He wiped his brow. They haven't seen rain in probably six weeks. No wonder that house burnt fast. He proceeded to write his wife.

Dear Alice
Did you know that Chickamauga is a Cherokee word for River of Death? I'm writing this by some remaining coals of a burnt house. There really isn't much to write about. We had some skirmishes today but nothing serious. Them bluecoats are scared and ran. They were jumping up from every sort of cover, trees, logs, stumps, and clumps of bushes. I'd better get some sleep. I really miss you. I'll try to write more tomorrow. Maybe after this battle, I can find some way to mail it.