When Bradley filed in line with the rest of Benning's brigade, a false dawn lit the sky. The battle line stretched north to south, facing west. The view of the battlefield brought on a familiar gut-tightening to the young corporal. Benning had 850 battle-weary men.

As they initiated advances, Frank swatted a vine. "Is this whole area full of vines? I wouldn't be surprised if them damn Yankees didn't spend the night planting these pesky vines just to slow us down."

Bradley held his weapon ready with bayonet pointed forward. "This ain't no woods, it's a dag burn jungle." He chuckled. "Yesterday they retreated so darn fast, we'll be slipping and sliding through their trailings."

Again, skirmishes prevailed as the Confederate soldiers pushed the Northerners back. The sound of guns popping, bayonets clashing, and men's last dying moans filled the woods.

That night Bradley laid his blanket on the dusty soil and fingered a new hole. "If this keeps up, there won't be nothing left." He stretched his five-feet-eleven body across the blanket. Today, I bet we lost a third of our men. I bet they lost more. Yanks would have to be fool to face us riled up Southern boys. He wiped his eyes. Tomorrow's September 20. I should write Alice, but I need sleep. He moaned softly with all the aches and pains making themselves known. He was too tired to toss and turn. Exhaustion and the soft sound of his buddy playing a harmonica brought on sleep. Periodic gun shots didn't disturb his deep slumber.

Early the following morning, Benning's regiment advanced to the Chattanooga Road and veered right. They crossed over to the Brotherton House. The volume of fire produced by the Northerners was heavy, but on Glenn-Kelly Road, the Union fell to Benning's brigade and their bayonets.

Frank grinned. "Hot damn, I bet we be the best colonic them yanks ever had. We may be low on supplies but not on courage."

Bradley scratched his scruffy face. "You're right about that. It must be around noon. Most good people are sitting in church, but not those blasted-heathen Yankees. They're trembling and praying right there in the fields. I hear tell most of them are green. Hell bells, my sick ol' granny could whip them without working up a sweat. She'll probably quote from the Good Book while she's doing it. They'd be begging, 'Daddy Lincoln' let us go home."

Union Colonel John Croxton's men were on the outskirts of the woods. They returned and met the volleys of gunshots.

A three men scout team ran back to the line of confederate soldiers and the oldest of the three reported, "Down the slope about one hundred and twenty yards we saw six cannons and a line of infantry, triple our numbers, almost enough of them to make a good fight. Them Yankees were hiding behind a breastwork made of logs. It's gonna be root hog, or die to get them damn bluecoats to run back home to their mammies."

Bradley stood waving off flies and slapping mosquitoes. He swiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his dirt-filled ragged sleeve. About three hundred yards away, by that yonder tree I saw something.

The sound of a bugle and the yell, "CHARGE!" set the line in motion, spurring the troops on. Bradley ran halfway down the slope before a volcano of fire burst out in the front line. Enemy cannons unleashed a torrent of grapeshot and bullets whizzed through the ranks.

Corporal Bradley Bookman fell. Some from behind jumped over while others stomped on him. Trying to crawl to the safety of the trees, he felt someone pull his rifle from his weakened hands and tug at his ammo sack. The man rolled him on his back, doing a quick body search. He yanked Bradley's hat off the ground and noticed a half written letter stuffed inside. Half conscious, the corporal watched him wad it up and throw it down. The soldier put on his newly acquired hat and ran toward the fighting. Bradley felt around for the letter, smoothed it out the best he could before placing it inside his shirt. "Alice, you'll always be in my heart." He tried to stand, but his legs betrayed him. Blood seeped from wounds up and down each leg.

*****
The unmistakable stench of mutilated bodies assaulted the wounded man's nose. He lay alone under the hot steaming sun. His head bare. Flies and other insects covered his bleeding face and body. As they kept him company during the last hour of his life, he faded in and out of consciousness. I see Alice. She's in labor. I need to get to her. He reached out his hand. Alice, I'm sorry. A halo of light shined on him and he felt a warm glow surround him. "Please take me to Alice. She needs me, and I need her."

*****
*****
Alice Bookman's screams pierced the humid air as another contraction took hold. After it subsided, she took deep breaths. "I need Bradley's strength. He'll help me through this. It has gone on all day."

"Now, Miz Alice, plenty a women had babies without their husbands, ever since Eve dropped hers. This ain't no place for a man. Master Bradley done done all he can do. He's the reason you're lying on that bed feeling like you're being ripped apart." Beatrice, a heavyset black midwife, wiped the sweat from Alice's forehead, then her own. "You can do this by yourself. I'll help. It ain't gonna be much longer."

Moments later, another strong contraction overtook Alice. She cried in agony, stopped mid-way, then calmly asked, "Bradley, is that you? You look exactly the same as the day you left." She paused. "Hold my hand." She held it up. "I can feel your strength. Thank you, Lord. You sent him here just in time."

"We better get that baby out fast. Miz Alice is a seeing things." Beatrice patted Alice's arm. "The next contraction you need to push as hard as you can."

Alice didn't have to wait long. After a few pushes Beatrice announced, "It looks like a healthy baby boy. He's a big one too. He's gonna be bigger than Master Bradley. What's his name, Miz Alice?"

Alice paused and glanced to her left. "Bradley wants to name him James Bradley Bookman. I'm glad he made it in time for his son's birth." After taking a few deep breaths, she asked, "Beatrice, what's today's date?"

"Why Miz Alice, it's September 20, 1863. The sun's a just going down."