He was awake before sunrise and walked through the camp where others were just stirring. The sticky humidity made him feel uncomfortable. He opened the first three buttons of his coat and the first two on his sweat stained white shirt. He was glad to see the regiment had grown some in numbers with soldiers who wandered in during the night. Reveille blew and the men managed a hasty breakfast before it was time to fall in.

He knew that for many this would be their last march, their last few hours of life -- maybe his own last few hours of life. His heart thumped. No, don't think it. Not now. He was finishing the last of the coffee Thomas had brought him and was watching the regiment assemble when Tom walked over and handed him a paper.

"Courier brought this. Orders, sir, from General Meade. All regimental commanders are to read this to their men before we head out," Tom said. Lawrence handed Tom the empty cup and took the paper. He skimmed it quickly as he walked toward the center of the assembled column. They were in for a serious fight. He was sure, now, without question. He stopped and cleared his throat.

"Men, your attention, please. This is General Meade's first order to the Army of the Potomac." His voice carried across the regiment.

"Oh, Lord, here we go again," someone said in the line.

"Old Snapping Turtle's got to justify his new position," another voice sounded further down. Lawrence ignored the sneering jests of the jaded soldiers. Most of them were giving him their full attention. He went on.

"Headquarters Army Of The Potomac, June 30,1863. The commanding general requests that previous to the engagement soon expected with the enemy, corps and all other commanding officers will address their troops, explaining to them the immense issues involved in this struggle. The enemy is on our soil. The whole country now looks anxiously to this army to deliver it from the presence of the foe. Our failure to do so will leave us no such welcome as the swelling of millions of hearts with pride and joy as our success would give to every soldier in the army. Homes, firesides, alters are involved. The Army has fought well heretofore: it is believed that it will fight more desperately and bravely than ever if it is addressed in fitting terms."

He paused, cleared his throat again. "Corps and other commanders are authorized to order the instant death of any soldier who fails in his duty at this hour ... by command of Major General Meade, Commander, Army of the Potomac."

There was silence, a stunned silence punctuated only by a few coughs and the rattle of equipment as men shifted on their feet. All felt the gravity of the situation. It was etched on their sun-bronzed faces. If they lost this one, it was highly possible they would lose the war, everyone was expected to do his part to prevent that. Then, the somber spell was broken. Captain Land's voice boomed from Company H.

"Well, boys, you know what this means. If you don't get out there and get shot, you're going to be shot by me or one of the other officers. Not that some of you don't deserve it -- like I've been threatening you for months."

Nervous laughter ran through the ranks. Lawrence knew Land liked to crack jokes to boost the spirit of the men and would probably keep it up until the bullets started flying.

"Captain Land, I want you and the other officers to inspect the weapons now. We don't want any last minute problems," he called.

"Yes, sir," Land yelled back and the officers moved quickly among the men of their companies before it was time to move out.

Under a red sun in the stifling, humid July heat, they marched the remaining few miles toward Gettysburg, reaching the hills on the south end of town before noon. At first, the division halted south of Wolf's Hill next to the Twelfth Corps. Then, the entire division crossed over Rock Creek, halting at the crossroads near the McAllison Mill and finally took up a reserve position in a peach orchard.

Lawrence had the men stack arms. They rested, cooked coffee, wrote a last minute letter home or spoke in quiet, subdued undertones as if in church. The sounds of battle grew in front of them beyond the hills. He stood beside the gelding, taking swallows from the canteen. He suddenly lowered the canteen and looked toward the hills. White puffs of exploding shells appeared above them. Close. It was very close. He strapped the canteen to the saddle and looked around. He saw the Twentieth was nestled between other regiments in the Fifth Corps along a road. Beyond and around them he could just make out the flags of the First, Eleventh and Twelfth Corps.

Too aware of his own shortcomings as a military commander, Lawrence began to worry again. More than anything, he was impressed by the great calm, the uncertainty of a beginning, the seeming lack of a tactical plan for a battle. Nothing was as he had imagined, no meetings or discussions over maps. He was too far below those who made the decisions. Everything on the regimental level boiled down to waiting. He was acutely aware of other troops coming up on either side of him, but had no idea how they would be used. He couldn't even guess where the battle would even begin in this part of the field. He wondered if the other, more experienced, officers in the regiments around him were bothered by all this uncertainty. Maybe, he thought, it was only the generals who really knew what was going on.

Then one order came down -- to hold his men ready to take part in action on the army's right. He mounted the gelding. Shortly after the order came through, an ordinance wagon showed up. The men drew 20 extra rounds of ammunition, stuffing them in their pockets or adding them to the 40 rounds already in their cartridge boxes.

Things should speed up now, he thought, and he felt his heart beat harder and a drop of sweat trickle down his back. His attention was drawn to a noisy fight for a small wooded hill on their right front. Someone said the locals called it Culp's Hill after a family that owned the ground. He was sure they would be sent toward it at any moment, found himself looking up and down the column for a mounted courier who would bring the orders.

Artillery opened up behind and to the left  of them, accompanied by the familiar rattle of muskets. Bugles sounded. The First Division of the Fifth Corps with Third Brigade in the lead pushed to the left. The men were suddenly off the road, marching through a swamp, scrambling over stone walls and through hedges while the earth shook as they moved toward the exploding shells. Lawrence's gelding, with little urging, flew over the walls and hedges as if he had wings, showing no fear of the noise. Disturbing news filtered down the line to him. General Daniel Sickles' Third Corps, whom they were rushing to support, was not where it was supposed to be. Instead it was a mile forward, desperately trying to hold off Confederates attacking its front and flank.

After crossing a road, the First Division halted on the edge of a wheat field. Lawrence sat astride his horse awaiting orders, wondering why they had stopped the advance. Ellis rode up.

"What's going on, sir?" Ellis asked with an impatient edge to his voice.

"Ellis, I haven't a clue and am tired of being left in the dark."

"You and me both, sir."

They fell silent, watching the First and Second Brigade of their division on their right suddenly break off and move into a wooded area beyond the wheat field where they immediately joined the battle. His heart began to race and breath came short. Would they be next?

To the left, the far end of the Third Corps fought desperately near a boulder-strewn corner of the valley. Some of the huge rocks were the size of a Maine barn. A bugle blew. Suddenly the brigade was forming a battle line on the edge of the wheat field. Orders were passed. When the maneuvers were completed, the 20th Maine ended up positioned between the 16th Michigan on its left and the 83rd Pennsylvania, and the 44th New York on its right. Lawrence moved his horse out in front by the colors at their center.

Colonel Vincent rode past and kept going, trailed by his staff and a mounted orderly carrying the brigade flag. Mr. Coffin was still with him. With a regiment on either side of him in a wide open field and Vincent in sight, his anxiety began to melt. He saw he had good support and any fighting would be right in the open where he could see every move and have plenty of time to react. He realized he could not have asked for a better position in the brigade line.

Firing directly ahead drew his gaze to the far end of the wheat field. He could see blue-clad troops falling back through waist-high wheat. Somewhere behind him a battery began firing, lobbing shells into the smoky woods beyond the wheat field. Vincent came riding back and pulled in his horse next to Colonel Rice. They talked for a few moments Vincent pointed to the left and behind them. Curious, Lawrence turned in his saddle to see what the brigade commander was pointing at. It was a bald-faced hill on the extreme left of the Union line.

The slope was strewn with rocks and boulders that seemed to compete with bushes, scrub oak and pine for space. Beyond it loomed a larger hill, covered from top to bottom with a thick forest of trees. These two hills dominated the land. He thought he saw movement on the smaller one. When Vincent and his staff rode straight at the hills as if the Devil himself was chasing them, he realized that whoever took those hills held the key to the whole field. When he turned his attention to his right, he saw Rice riding straight at him. The colonel hauled his horse to a skidding stop.

"Follow the 44th. We're heading for the summit of the little rocky hill," Rice shouted above the shooting to their front. "General Warren wants troops up there and we're it."  Then he rode on to the 16th Michigan with the order.

Tom was suddenly alongside. "Where we going?"

"That hill," Lawrence said, pointing. "Where's John? Haven't seen him in a while."

"He went up that same hill with General Howard's brother, Rowland, to have a look at the area. Said he'd find us. Was just coming to tell you. We'll probably run into him."

The Third Brigade marched out, following a narrow farm lane, and crossing a creek over a crude log bridge. As they neared the north end of the smaller hill, they circled behind it. They followed an old lumber trail up the east slope in the lengthening shadows of late afternoon. The rays of the lowering sun turned patches of forest to green fire. Enemy artillery opened up. Shells exploded overhead sending tree limbs down on the column as well as deadly shell and rock fragments.

John came riding up to Lawrence and Tom at the head of the regiment. John shook hands with them. "Guess you're going in. I want to wish you ...". Before he could finish his thoughts, a shell flew past right in front of them so close they felt the compressed air. It hit nearby with an ear shattering explosion. Lawrence looked at his brothers.

"Boys," he said. "I don't like this. Another such shot might make it hard for Mother. John, ride on ahead and prepare a place for our wounded. Tom, go back and make sure the line is well closed up." The two brothers left on their separate missions.

Behind him, he heard Chaplain Luther French say, "Lord, Captain Clark, did you see that. The shell slammed into that officer's horse and ..."

Captain Atherton Clark retorted, "For Christ sake, Chaplain, if you have business, attend to it!"

Lawrence looked over his shoulder and saw the crestfallen Chaplain heading toward him. He pulled the gelding to a stop off the trail, out of the way of the regiment.

"Chaplain French, please assist John and Hospital Steward Baker in setting up the aid station for the men. I expect we will have need of it very soon. I'll assign the drummer boys and other non-combatants to be stretcher bearers."

"Yes, Colonel," French said and dashed off after John.

The shelling forced the column to move below the crest of the hill. More branches and tree limbs showered down on them. In the brutal July heat, exhaustion was still taking its toll. He saw some of the men who gave out scramble for cover in the rocks while others who had been following as stragglers finally caught up. Among the returning stragglers he spotted Burk.

The reality that a fight was very near pushed through the feverish fog that threatened to cloud his thinking and reactions. As soon as Ellis rode up to him, he turned to the acting major and said, "Ellis, release the Pioneers and provost guard to their companies. Detail the drummer boys as stretcher-bearers and allow the cooks and servants, at their own request, to take up rifles. The rest can fill in and help the wounded get back to the aid station. I think we'll be needing every man we've got in this fight."

"Yes, sir," Ellis said and rode away. Riding down the line he came to the seven 2nd Maine holdouts sitting in a small group, sullen and frowning.

"We need every man in the line," Lawrence said with cold frankness. "This may very well be the last battle. If any of you would care to join us, I would appreciate it."

"Oh, hell, I'm not going to sit here and get shot at without shooting back," one young man said and stood up. "I'm with you, Colonel." He turned to his companions. "Any of you want to join me?" Three stood up.

"Go see Major Spear about rifles. As to you three, I'll expect you to be here when this is over. I can't spare anyone to guard you."

They avoided his stare. Not wanting to spend any more precious time on them, he rode on down the line. He found Vincent dismounted on the southern end of the hill sending the 44th with Rice to start the line of battle. Mr. Coffin was off to one side writing furiously on a sheaf of papers in his hand. Seeing the New Yorkers start to unroll their column, he shouted to his own regiment, "Right by file into line!"

The order was repeated and he watched the regiment uncurl from marching column to fighting order with the rest of the brigade. Arriving last, the16th Michigan took up a position in the valley between the two hills on the far left. The 20th Maine was next, about twenty feet up a spur of the hill, its left flank resting in an open level space and the rest of the third Brigade line hugging the hill well below the summit. The shape of the rough, rocky ground created a bent line causing the center of the 83rd Pennsylvania next to the 20th Maine to jut out a few feet. The line of the 44th New York ran up the slope toward the high part of the hill with its right resting in an open rocky area with a clear view of the rock-strewn valley below.

While the men moved into line, the reporter suddenly mounted his horse and rode away. Then, a somber Vincent walked over to him. "Colonel Chamberlain, there is going to be a desperate attack made over this ground. The enemy will probably try to turn our position and seize this hill. We will not let them do that. I want you to send out skirmishers so there will be no surprises. You are to hold this ground at all hazards."

"Yes, sir," Lawrence said. The order seemed simple enough. Then, Vincent was gone, walking quickly to the other side of the hill. Thomas was suddenly by the gelding's shoulder.

"Sir, the officers are sending their horses to the rear. I'll take yours."

He quickly dismounted and handed Thomas the reins. Then, he turned his attention to the regiment. As he walked past the right wing, he started thinking back on all those tactics books he read with Ames. He needed skirmishers out as ordered. He ran through the roster of company commanders in his mind, picked his most experienced, Walter Morrill and Company B to fill the assignment. He knew Morrill was cool in an emergency. He would routinely bring a musket into battle so he could both shoot and command at the same time.

"Captain Morrill," he called, reaching the edge of Company B.

"Yes, sir," Morrill replied, musket in hand.

"I want you to take Company B out as skirmishers and hook up with the 16th Michigan's skirmish line. Keep within supporting distance of us, and act as exigencies of the battle should require."

"Yes, sir." Morrill left, barking orders at Company B.

Lawrence watched them disappear in the thick foliage of the saddle between the hills, leaving his regiment forty rifles thinner. Then he noticed movement to his left. The 16th Michigan was leaving, appeared to be changing position, heading for the far right of the brigade line. It was too late to let Morrill know, but he had confidence the young captain would figure things out quickly and compensate. Far to the right, he could hear artillery fire and musketry that told of the desperate fight the Third Corps was continuing, but it was not close enough to affect them up on the spur.

He continued on and ended up standing by the color guard. He looked up and down his line. More nagging worries surfaced. This was going to be their first real stand-up fight and they were bone tired from the forced march and largely untested. Only six of his ten companies were commanded by captains. He had no field officers and that had to be solved immediately. He spotted Ellis and Captain Atherton Clark by Company E on the right end talking together and went over to them.

"Gentlemen, as you know we have no field officers. Ellis, I want you to watch over the left wing and Clark, you watch the right wing. Keep the men down. Have them pile up rocks or logs for some protection. When the shootings starts, have them aim low. Us being on a hill, the tendency will be to shoot too high."

They nodded and quickly moved off to their new positions, passing orders to the company commanders. He continued to fret. Vincent was gone, out of sight and God only knew if he'd see his brigadier again once the shooting started in these shadowy woods. He could hardly see the 83rd Pennsylvania on his right through the trees and the 16th Michigan was gone leaving only rocks, trees and Company B to hold back any Confederate attack from that direction. The haze of his lingering fever made him feel as if he were floating somewhere above himself watching events unfold. He worried about his brothers and the more than four hundred men who now looked to him for guidance, for survival itself out on this rocky ledge on this brutally hot and humid Pennsylvania hillside. Worst of all, he felt as if the entire Rebel army was about to pounce on him and his small regiment from the foreboding woods in front of him.

Colonel Rice's voice startled him.

"Will you join me for a minute to observe the approaching battle?" Rice asked.

"Yes, sir, I will," he said, feeling as though his conscious mind had been jerked back from a thousand miles away. They walked to a point below the brigade where they could see into the valley. All was a whirling, chaotic maelstrom. The Confederates had turned the Third Corps left. A huge jumble of barn-sized boulders was wreathed in white smoke. A Union battery near the wheat field was being charged while a large flanking force of the enemy was pushing toward the base of their hill and the big one next to it like a wave about to break on the shore. It was not the orderly horror of Fredericksburg with men marching in straight battle lines to their slaughter. Here, chaos reigned in a shallow valley of death. A battery fired shot and shell, cutting a bloody, ragged chasm through a convulsing mass of men and screaming horses. A close range musket volley sent a ragged battle line of men reeling in shock, muskets dropping, hands thrown in the air.

Men writhed on the ground while those not hit continued the fight, crouching amid the rocks for shelter from a terrible cross-fire where there was no safe haven. The whole wave of death and destruction advanced toward them in a powerful, smoking, force. They looked at each other, both unable to find words. Then, each quickly returned to their commands.

Upon reaching his line, Lawrence immediately noticed the artillery had stopped. He did not feel much relief in this development as he walked toward the color company at the center of his line. He had learned from Ames that artillery simply cleared the way for infantry to follow, that shelling stopped when the attackers were too close for artillery to fire without hitting its own men.

When a few hopeful faces turned his way, he called out, "They will be coming directly. Get ready."

He began to hear some high-pitched keening, moving toward them to the right. He recognized it instantly as the Rebel yell. It sent a chill through him and he braced for the shock he knew would follow; his hand reaching for the holster on his right hip to unbutton the flap, heart racing, breath coming short. Foliage to the right blocked his view of the oncoming Rebels. With a scattering clatter of muskets, the assault was coming en echelon hitting the 44th New York then rolling like an ocean wave along the coast heading right for them.

"Come to the ready," he called out, and the order was echoed along the line. "Take good aim."

Above them bullets began to clip twigs and cut branches, showering them with leaves. The bullets struck lower and lower down the trunks and slapped into the rocks sending, small shards flying. Lawrence took advantage of the little cover a six inch diameter oak trunk provided. A bullet gouged a white furrow in it, sending splinters flying inches from his head, startling him. Another whistled close past his ear. Then a few men were hit, doubled over, fell, one clutching a bloodied shoulder. The Rebel line rolled along about fifty yards out.

"Fire at will!" he yelled, aiming his pistol in the general direction of the enemy and pulling the trigger.

The sharp report of his pistol was lost in a roar as the Maine line burst into a volley of flame and smoke and the enemy's formal battle line instantly disintegrated into an uneven collection of men among rocks and behind trees who began returning fire. He quickly saw the Rebels were trying to cut up his line by fire rather than attempting to force the line in a charge. He could not stay where he was behind the oak.

Walking along right behind his line only a few yards from the color guard, he felt his own fear and uncertainty boiling within, but realized he must hold these emotions back, maintain his composure and do so it despite his inexperience, fever and fatigue. He thought of how Ames was so cool under fire, knew how the men had looked to Ames for certainty at Fredericksburg in that futile assault on Marye's Heights. Now, they looked to him. He must not fail them. Above the sporadic clatter of muskets, he yelled loudly and firmly, "Boys, hold this hill!"

"We're gonna have a problem on the right. Clark can't find the end of the 83rd's line!" someone called close by over the shooting.

"Where the hell did Morrill get to? We'll need someone on the left," Ellis' voice barely reached him above the firing to the left. Then, Lieutenant James Nichols ran up to him.

"Sir, there's something unusual happening behind the Rebs in front of my company. You better come see, sir."

Lawrence holstered his pistol and followed Nichols to the left behind the engaged line, dodging trees and rocks, ignoring the bullets that whistled past. He stopped with Nichols at Company K, looked around, and hopped up on a large boulder behind the middle of the company to see over the men and into the woods beyond. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of a thick group of the enemy moving towards his unprotected flank behind those engaged. They were now outnumbered two to one by the looks of it. He climbed off the rock to find Ellis next to Nichols.

"I can bend back two of my companies to cover the flank," Ellis shouted above the din.

"With what they are about to throw at us, we've got to do better than that," he said.

"Nichols, get Clark from over on the right wing and any of the other company commanders you can grab on the way." Nichols ran off and in moments returned with Clark and Land.

"We are going to be flanked and have to move fast," Lawrence shouted over the din to the four officers with him. "I want the firing to be kept up on the enemy to disguise what we are about to do. Have the men in the right wing take side steps to the left when they can and stretch the line. I'm moving the colors to the new center. Ellis, you'll take the left wing and refuse the line at that point. We're going to be stretched thin in spots, but it should save our flank and give the enemy a nasty surprise. Do you all understand?"

They all nodded and said, "Yes, sir."

"God be with you. Go!" he said.

They scattered to their commands. He headed for the color guard as orders went out and the line slowly began to shift and stretch. The second he reached the color guard, he called out, "Sergeant Tozier and the rest of you, come with me."  They followed him to the extreme left where a rotted tree had fallen over. Its moss and lichen-covered trunk and a boulder ledge next to it made the position unassailable from the front. Taking a position about two dozen feet back from the ledge, he said,

"This is your new position."  Then he saw Ellis and yelled, "Refuse the line here."

Masked from the flanking enemy, the men scrambled through brush and vines around rocks and trees, some tripping and cursing as they took advantage of the cover and battle smoke. The line shifted under fire, forming a rough ell around the crest of the rocky spur. He stood marveling how admirably the hazardous maneuver was carried out, knowing he had Ames to thank for the discipline that allowed it all to happen. He even thought how proud Ames would be if he could see them. The firing from the enemy slackened on the right.

"They're moving off down the hill," Thomas called as he ran toward him, finally catching up after taking the horse to the rear. He turned toward the orderly. "Thomas stay with ..." he did not get the chance to finish his thought. At that instant, a bullet slammed into a rock by his right foot and something hit his instep hard enough to trip him.

Thomas grabbed him to keep him from falling. "Sir, you all right?" He froze and looked down at his right foot. There was a small gash in his boot and a tiny trickle of blood. No, not now, not here, he thought. He put some weight on it. Pain shot up his leg. When he took a step, pain shot up again. "I'll be all right. It must have been a rock fragment." He pulled the sword from the scabbard. "Can't let a scratch stop me. Stay close in case I need you."

"Yes, sir." Thomas said and fell in alongside, ducking twigs showering down from a tree next to them. Lawrence hobbled closer to the color guard using the sword as a cane. The support helped take some of the pressure off and the pain became a dull, annoying throb.

"Here they come again!" Ellis yelled to his left.

He and Thomas moved behind a couple of stout trees. From where he stood he could see a few men on his left running from rock to rock to find better cover as over two hundred gray and butternut clad troops walked, then rushed straight at what had been an exposed rear only moments before. The muzzles of more than a hundred Maine rifles blasted in a fiery volley that tore through the ranks of the horrified Confederates. They halted where they stood. This blow inflicted scores of casualties, suddenly evening the odds. When the Rebels recovered from the shock and returned fire, Lawrence and the rest of the men were grateful for the rise in the ground, boulders and trees that provided protection. The brisk firing at close range forced the Confederates back among the low trees and rocks of the valley. Some of them took up a position among rocks below the left wing and began an effective fire that created havoc in his ranks. Many of the Maine men on the left were forced to scramble back to the shelter of larger rocks and trees, where they held. Then, the Rebels burst forth again with a yell, firing as they came. But, the galling fire from the left wing compelled them to break and take cover again.

Lawrence could see both sides had settled in for a prolonged fight in the deepening forest shadows. In many places, the lines were only seventy feet apart and the roar of the muskets was so loud it drowned out the commands of the officers. He observed many of his men dumping their cartridges out in easy reach and sticking the ramrods into the ground between shots, making it very plain they did not intend to be driven back. Through battle smoke as thick as fog Ellis ran over to him.

"Sir, my line is scattered because of the ground. The enemy has crept forward and is firing from behind boulders by the ledge. I'm afraid they're going to overlap my left. Something's got to be done, sir. Could you possibly send over two companies from the right?"

"I'll go over and see what I can do, Ellis." he said. Ellis nodded and disappeared in the smoke. He turned and limped toward the right wing with Thomas right beside him. Bullets whistled by, too close, and hit the trees around him. Men were dropping, some, who could, were heading back to the aid station. As he reached the right wing, it seemed to not be as heavily engaged. He went to Companies E and I, found Captain Fogler and Lieutenant Linscott their commanders.

"Fogler, Linscott, take your companies off the line and go reinforce the left wing," he yelled.

Orders were shouted. The two companies began to fall back toward the left and nearly created a stampede for the rear, though Company K, the third in line, held their ground, looking confused. This move was all a bad mistake; a serious lapse of judgment.

"No! Halt!" Lawrence yelled, waving his sword. This was not going to work in the confusion of combat. "I countermand the order!"

Captain Clark joined him and yelled, "For Christ sake, get back in line! Move it! Move it!"

The companies returned to their original positions and continued to fire into the withdrawing enemy. As much as he hated to, he knew it was best to leave Ellis and the left wing to their own devices. He had faith that Ellis would hold on any way he could. Through the drifts of battle smoke to his right, a young lieutenant he did not know came running toward him, dodging around rocks and fallen men. "Colonel, sir," the lieutenant yelled once he was close enough. "I'm Adjutant Gifford of the 83rd." He quickly saluted and it was returned. "We had bullets come over our heads from the rear. Captain Woodward, our commander, sent me to see if the 20th had broken."

"Well, Lieutenant, we haven't yet. But, we could sure use the aid of a company or two if you can spare them," he said.

"I'll see what we can do, sir." The lieutenant ran off into the smoke, dodging and ducking as trees were hit around him. Lawrence hobbled toward the left to check on Ellis. Immediately, another assault hit.

This time the yelling Rebels surged forward to seize the spur, slamming into the center and right of his line, the attack itself taking the form of chaotic brawls, often between two men swinging rifles, bayonets or even fists. Peripherally, he saw Thomas a few yards to his left fire his rifle quickly, then swing it to block and fend off a bayonet attack by a young Rebel. He turned in time to see Thomas deftly bring the rifle butt up sharply against the youth's head and drop him in a twitching heap. He turned away, kept heading left. Don't think. Don't look to close. Keep moving. The Twentieth held and the Rebels withdrew down the slope to regroup, a few continuing to fire as they went.

In the lull, he caught sight of Lieutenant Gifford scrambling back through the rocks and drifting smoke in the pools of the late afternoon sun that filtered through the scarred trees. "Sir," he panted upon catching up. "Captain Woodward regrets we cannot spare any men, but he will extend his line to yours and this should provide some relief."

"Good. Tell him that will be much appreciated," he said.

"I will, sir." The lieutenant scrambled away again. Thomas caught up. He had recovered from the bayonet attack as if nothing had happened .

"We're starting to run low on ammunition, sir. Thought you should know."

"Send a couple of runners to the rear and right to see what you can get up here. See if anyone else in the brigade can spare us a company."

"Yes, sir."

Lawrence watched Thomas run along the line and pull a couple of men out. Then the drifting smoke blanketed the scene. He paused, leaning on the hilt of his sword, and he wiped the sweat out of his eyes with his coat sleeve. He looked out at the depleted regiment. It was an exaggeration to call it a battle line. Men, individuals and in groups were scattered behind every available tree, rock and stump, pile of logs or rise in the ground that made a useful or safe position from which to fire. He knew the officers that were left could hardly tell where their company lines began or ended. In any further attacks like this last one, commands would be almost useless in the noise and confusion.

Tactics by the book would be virtually impossible. This whole fight was quickly coming down to scattered groups of men doing what they could to hold the spur. All he could hope for was to keep moving and hold his regiment together. He continued limping toward the colors, past the groups of men behind rocks and trees and the stretcher bearers removing the fallen. Many looked momentarily over their shoulders at him.

"Keep it up, boys. We'll hold them off. You're doing fine," he said to encourage them. Movement in the woods out in front of them caught his eye.

"Christ, you'd think they'd have learned their lesson by now," he heard Captain Land's fog horn voice rise above the first shots of another assault.

The scattered shots from both sides quickly became deadly volleys as the Rebels pressed home another charge. He saw the rough lines collide in confusion and hand-to-hand fighting. Maine men swung rifles like axes, crushing skulls with a sickening crack. A few close shots by Confederates took more men down. A soldier no more than eighteen ran past him for better cover and was shot down. When he went to the boy, he saw spreading blood on the shirt and the light of life leaving his eyes. It sobered him to think the boy had, unknowingly taken a bullet meant for him.

A fog of battle smoke drifted around him. Violent shadows grappled, gray forms cut their way through dark blue forms. He saw more of the enemy around him than his own men. His men were being forced from their original position. On the rocks, blood stood in puddles. On the ground, the wounded of both sides called for help. Men prayed or sang snatches of Sabbath songs or cursed. Then, just as suddenly, the gray forms drifted back down the hill, firing as they backed away.

Sergeant Thomas reached him. "Sir, no one can spare any ammunition and the whole brigade has been having a hot time of it on the other side of this hill. Heard Vincent's down," the sergeant panted.

"Vincent down?" Lawrence found himself repeating in disbelief.

"Don't know any details, sir. The other men I sent couldn't get help either."

Tom came over, pistol in hand. "I ain't had any better luck and our left wing is about out of ammunition."

"Go back along the line and tell them to get cartridges from the boxes of the dead and wounded," he said, "Let's hope we won't be at this much longer. They've got to be as tired as we are."

"Let's hope so, sir," Thomas said. Both men left. Lawrence limped on past the colors to the beleaguered left wing. The men were taking cartridges from the dead and wounded and dropping their Enfields in favor of the more reliable Springfields. Others were piling up more logs and stones to provide better shelter. Among them, he found a soldier who had received a severe wound across his forehead. Lewis was with him, helping him to stand. With prompt medical attention, he felt the soldier might survive or at least go back to die in peace.

"Lewis, see if you can get him back to the aid station."

"Consider it done, sir," Lewis said, helping the man move off to the rear. He continued hobbling toward the left of his regiment, passing Company H, checking the men. He came upon Private George Washington Buck, the young sergeant that the bullying Quartermaster had wrongly demoted in winter camp. Buck was on the ground, his back leaning against a tree. He had his coat open and was bleeding badly from a wound in his right shoulder. The amount of blood left little doubt in Lawrence's mind of the young soldier's fate. A major artery had been hit or nicked. Buck's eyes focused on him and the boy reached out a blood-stained hand. Lawrence went to him, kneeling over him.

"My dear boy, it has gone hard with you. You will be cared for." Buck struggled to reply in almost a whisper.

"Tell my mother ... I did not die a coward." Deeply moved, he felt his own throat go tight.

"You die a sergeant. I promote you for faithful service and noble courage on the field of Gettysburg!" A couple of stretcher bearers arrived at that moment, gently lifted the sergeant to the stretcher and carried him to the rear. He stood slowly, watched them leave, feeling emotionally drained.

The firing began anew and the Confederates started up the hill again, the slaughter resuming along the left. In the confusion of smoke and embattled soldiers, he spotted Captain Land not far from Ellis, helping him keep the line intact. In front of Land, Sergeant Issiah Lathrop, the easily recognizable six foot giant of Company H, suddenly doubled over, hit in the stomach, and went down. Right next to him the first sergeant of the company, Charles Steele, managed to stagger up to Land despite a severe chest wound.

"My God, Sergeant Steele!" Land's voice boomed.

"I am gone," Steele replied and dropped dead at Land's feet.

"Pour it into them!" Ellis yelled from down the line and a return volley exploded from the shrinking line. Increased fire from the center drew his attention and he turned to hobble back in that direction. He found a desperate yet inspiring scene. The two companies on either side of the colors had been badly cut up by the Confederates at the foot of the spur. From what he could see through the battle smoke, hardly a platoon was left to hold the center.

Bullets still tore through them in three directions. When the smoke drifted away some, he glimpsed Color Sergeant Tozier. The sergeant had the staff of the colors firmly planted in the ground at his side, the upper part clamped in the crook of his elbow as he fired a musket with cartridges taken from a fallen comrade at his side. All the while, he coolly chewed a piece of cartridge paper as he fired.

Tom and Sergeant Thomas appeared through the smoke, back from their mission.

"Tom, go fill that hole," Lawrence yelled, pointing at the colors, and saw Tom turn and run for the center. Realizing suddenly that his brother would probably not reach the center alive he looked at Thomas. "Go help him."

The sergeant ran after him. He watched for a moment, his feverish mind slowing his reactions. He must do something. Move, fool, before you are over run. He drew his pistol and fired at the shadowy forms of the enemy moving toward him in the drifting smoke, hobbling along as the center of his line pulled back under tremendous pressure to a stronger position. He saw one Rebel drop, felt no remorse, felt no anger, only a will to survive. Other men from surrounding companies helped fill the gap soon masked by smoke from the continuous firing. He looked through breaks in the smoke and, to his horror, saw the Confederates had the spur. Then, the assault stalled. They could not keep it and began to slip down into the valley.

He holstered the pistol, turned, and limped on towards the right that was also under a steady, heavy fire. He had not gone far when something slammed into his left thigh with the force of a mule kick, knocking him down hard, stunning him. Suddenly, two men were bending over him. He looked up at them, seemed to be focusing through fog. It was Tom and Captain Clark.

"Are you hit, sir?" Clark asked.

His senses came back. You've been shot, fool, his feverish mind registered. The next thought, no, I can't go down. Not now. "I don't know," he said thickly and slowly sat up, feeling along his thigh with his hand. The steel scabbard of the sword hanging from his belt was bent. He touched the point of impact on his thigh and flinched at the pain, but there was no wound. The bullet had hit the scabbard and bent it against his leg leaving it badly bruised, but he was all right.

"I'll be damned," he said and held up the scabbard. Then, he moved to get up, but was unsteady in the attempt.

"You're damned lucky, sir," Clark said as he and Tom each took him under an arm and hauled him to his feet.

"Lord, you gave me a fright," Tom added.

They continued along the embattled right wing. Lawrence limped with a new source of pain and started wondering if any of them were going to get off this hill alive. Tom and Clark went on ahead, disappearing in the thick drifts of battle smoke. Lawrence kept hobbling along behind the embattled men on the right wing, thinking of Ames, trying to provide the confidence he knew his men needed to hold on, while trying just as desperately not to let his pain or fatigue or inexperience show.

The shooting began to slacken. This attack had fallen shorter than the others on the right. The smoke was clearing from the crest of the hill and he finally got a good look at what was left of his command in the deepening shadows. He could easily see the last assault had been the fiercest. Half the left wing was down and half the men he had brought to the spur were no longer in their places. There was no way on God's earth they were going to hold off another enemy attack like the last one.

Some of the men glanced back at him with beseeching looks on their sweaty, powder stained faces. Others grabbed the hot barrels of their muskets and prepared to use them as clubs. Still others busied themselves with piling up more rocks or with one last desperate search through the cartridge boxes of the fallen.

"Sir, I'm out of ammunition," called one man with a bloody rag tied around his head.

"Me, too, sir," said another.

"I got only a couple of rounds left," someone else called from down the line. Their words and looks told him they needed him to tell them now, at their most desperate hour, what to do to make it through this hell.

Nick Korolev has been a serious student of the Civil War since age 12.  He is  a professional published writer and artist and his interest in the Civil War has provided many subjects for both.  He is author of a Civil War novel entitled Silver Eagles,  about Cols. Ames, Chamberlain and the 20th Maine from the formation of the regiment to Gettysburg.  Silver Eagles was nominated for the 2003 Michael Shaara Award for Civil War Fiction.  He is currently working on a novel about McClellan and Stanton titled The Sword and the Lightning  and a screen play about Brig. Gen William Averell's Salem Raid in December of 1863 currently titled  Averell and the Raiders of the North Wind (winner of the 2004 Screenplay Award at the Appalachian Film Festival).  He is a member of the Civil War Heritage Foundation for whom he portrays Gen. George McClellan and the First  Regiment of West Virginia Cavalry, for whom he portrays Gen. William Averell.  Nick is Secretary for the local Sons Of Union Veterans of the Civil War and recently joined the Falling Waters Battlefield Association.

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