Read an Excerpt
Gettysburg Revisited
A Novel of Time Travel
By Shand Stringham
iUniverse, Inc.
Copyright © 2010 Shand Stringham
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4502-7833-1
Chapter One
Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania, Wednesday, June 30, 2010, 4:45 a.m.
Colonel Bill Parker arose early at 4:45 a.m., as was his custom, put on his jogging suit and running shoes and quietly went out the front door of his quarters so as not to disturb the rest of his family. Parker was one of those rare individuals who ran not just to keep fit, but for the sheer joy and exhilaration of running. He had been an avid runner everywhere he had been assigned, even in Kuwait during his deployment there during the first Gulf War. Running in Kuwait was dicey at times but he managed to get in his daily road workout throughout the buildup.
At Carlisle Barracks, running was especially good. Parker enjoyed his early morning runs mostly because at this hour he usually had the road to himself—no traffic, no vehicle fumes, no other people. Carlisle Barracks was a relatively small installation, just a little over 200 acres, four fifths of a mile long and half a mile wide, located about two hours north of Washington, DC, in South-central Pennsylvania. Founded in 1757, the post reflected an eclectic mix of building construction that had accumulated gradually during almost 250 years of history. The installation was thickly forested with stately old deciduous and pine trees. Parker enjoyed running the road network on the periphery of the installation. It gave him the feeling of running through a national park.
Parker was feeling particularly exhilarated this morning. He had had a great night's sleep and he was looking forward to a full work day ahead of him once he got to his office at the War College. His mind wandered ahead to the seminar lesson he was to conduct later that morning but he stopped himself short and came back to the present to enjoy the moment in the calm of the morning. As he came to the corner, he decided that for a change of pace, he would run the installation counter-clockwise and maybe even take a turn around the post golf course. He ran down Forbes Avenue, passed in front of Root Hall and Bliss Hall and turned north toward the Ashburn Gate. Just short of the gate, he veered off to his left and ran on down Lovell Avenue passing the Jim Thorpe Gymnasium on his left. He could just make out the outline of the Wheelock Bandstand by the light of several street lamps arrayed along the far sidewalk at the top of the commons. He glanced over to his right at the front entrance to the Letort View Community Center and continued on down the road. Passing Coren Apartments, he turned left at the intersection and headed up Guardhouse Lane.
The asphalt roadway surface was slippery with leaves and crushed chestnuts that had shaken loose and fallen some days earlier during a thunderstorm and had been crushed by traffic. The musky odor of decay filled his nostrils. As he moved up the street, he started pumping harder to increase his pace up the slight incline. The morning was cool but muggy. There was a strange energy in the air and the odd smell of electricity that he usually experienced when he played with his boys and their electric train set in the basement. The hair on his arms and legs began to stand on end as if in warning of some perilous threat. He slowed down as he came up adjacent to the statue of Frederick the Great on his left at the top end of Coren Apartments. Suddenly, a blinding white light enveloped Parker and he disappeared from view as if he had fallen into some unseen excavation in the middle of the street. One second there.... next second gone—out of sight.
Chapter Two
Carlisle Barracks, Pennsylvania, Wednesday, June 30, 2010, 5:00 a.m.
Colonel Barton Stauffer rolled over in his bed. He had been startled into semi-wakefulness by a bright flash of light through the small bedroom window that faced Garrison Lane and the Hessian Guardhouse. He waited for the noise of thunder that he thought would follow shortly so he could judge the distance of what he thought was an approaching storm.
Nothing.
Nada.
The lightning had been extremely bright—there should be some kind of thunder accompanying it. Puzzled, he slowly swung his legs out from under the covers and over the edge of the bed as he sat up. He stood up and shuffled over to the window, parted the white lace curtain and looked out. It was still quite dark but he sensed that the sky was clouded over and that rain was in the air. Odd—there weren't any flashes in the distant sky—no thunderstorm. He wondered what the light might have been. He turned and walked back to the bed with the notion of getting another hour of sleep, but a large mixed breed German shepherd bounded up to him and pulled excitedly on his pajama bottoms with his teeth.
"Klondike, settle down. It isn't time to get up yet," he whispered, trying not to awaken his wife.
But the dog wouldn't have any of it. He kept tugging at the pajama bottoms and swiping his paws at Stauffer's feet and legs. Finally, Stauffer gave in and opened the door to the bedroom and softly padded down the hallway to the staircase. He shuffled sleepily down the wooden stairs to the front entryway. The over-sized shepherd puppy bounded past him, almost knocking him over on the last step. The dog had impossibly large paws in contrast to the rest of its still-developing body. He raced back and forth and finally jumped up placing his huge paws on the breast pockets of Stauffer's striped pajama shirt.
"You're going to be one humongous dog when you finally grow into these paws," he laughed, "... that is, if you live long enough." And then he added more audibly making sure the dog could hear, "If you don't get this urinating-in-the-house problem fixed fast, you're going to be a former dog." He emphasized his last words ... "former dog" ... and directed them in a slow, stern voice pausing on each syllable as if to increase the dog's awareness, pressing his face up close to the dog's muzzle, now almost directly at his eye level. The dog happily lashed out with its tongue in response and Stauffer just barely got his head turned in time to catch the long wet tongue lick on his ear.
"Auggh, stop that." He pushed the dog's paws back down to the ground and, wiping the side of his face with the sleeve of his pajamas, fumbled for the deadbolt lock. Finally getting the door open, he stepped out onto the front porch into the brisk morning air. A thick gray mist hung over the broad expanse of grass in front of the Stauffer quarters. The sky was still quite dark. He could barely make out the tree line along the roadway leading over to the post medical clinic. The dog bounded happily past him down the cement steps and around the iron grating and out onto the patio stones. He scurried around excitedly sniffing trees and shrubs and assorted spots on the wet grass.
Stauffer stood impatiently on the porch. A sudden chill sent a shiver through his body and he trembled slightly in the cool dampness of the morning. "Get it over with Klondike," he subvocalized, projecting his voice into the dimly-lit patio. "Don't make a major production out of it."
The dog paused and looked over at him quizzically for a brief moment. Then, he turned away and continued his olfactory tour of the yard, energetically sniffing everything there was to be sniffed. Colonel Stauffer waited for several minutes for the dog to complete his morning ritual and then finally lost patience. He stomped down the cement steps and out onto the flagstone patio. He ignored the wet stones and grass on his bare feet and crossed over to the edge of the patio where the dog was intent on checking out the ivy.
He whistled softly and the dog bounded over to him, looking up into his face. Stauffer put on his military command voice. He was exasperated by this time. "You're tougher to train than a new recruit," he said, adding, "... or even a ... a .... teenager," for emphasis. "It just isn't all that tough, troop. The first rule that all soldiers learn in boot camp is to never pass up the opportunity to urinate." He paused and the puppy looked up at him questioningly. Stauffer continued more slowly in a flatter, more impatient tone, "Look soldier, all you have to do is take a leak so we can get back in our nice warm house and I can get back into my nice warm bed. You do not have to sniff out every new smell in the yard for inspiration." He raised his voice as he emphasized the word not. "Just pee and get it over with." The dog just stood there watching, clearly not getting the gist of his remarks.
Stauffer had an out-of-the-box thought. It was time for some puppy boot camp training. He assumed his sternest military command voice and with a clipped monotone voice said, "Demonstrator ... front." Stauffer moved forward two steps with kind of an exaggerated mock military marching step and stood next to a tall arborvitae bush in the hedge on the border of the patio. The dog followed him and sat down at his side expectantly. Stauffer pulled down the top of his pajama bottoms and looked down at the dog. "Demonstrator.... by the numbers ... one ... raise your leg." Stauffer mechanically lifted his right leg up off the patio flag stone and looked to see if the dog was watching. Satisfied the dog was somewhat attentive, he continued, "Demonstrator ... pee," and began to relieve himself into the hedge. He continued talking to the dog, "You see ... by the numbers ... there's nothing to it ... all you have to do is sidle up to your spot ... spread your legs ... and pee. It doesn't require a complete yard inspection with your nose first to do it. It's a waste of time. Just pee." He spoke to the dog as if he was speaking to a group of soldiers on the art of laying down fields of fire in a defensive perimeter. "You've been holding it in all night. You don't have to smell every blasted blade of grass on the place before you get the inspiration to pee."
The puppy stood there observing intently the demonstration of what his master wanted him to do, and then, walked over to the hedge and raised his right leg and began to urinate. Stauffer was elated. "Good job! Great job! Smart dog!" He finished his business and straightened his pajama bottoms, then leaned over and patted the puppy on his head to reinforce the training. As he turned to go back into the house, he heard an unexpected voice calling from the roadway on the other side of the trees across the green expanse of lawn.
"Yo.... that you Bart?.... Out for your morning constitutional?"
Out on the road that ran past the quarters, he could just make out the figure of a man jogging around the curve coming in the direction from the post clinic. Stauffer immediately recognized the voice. It was one of the guys from the War College faculty, Colonel Garner Stuart Wilson, IV. Wilson had been in Stauffer's graduating class from the Army War College a few year's back. He always thought that anyone who habitually used three names and a number when he introduced himself was just a little pretentious. Wilson was one of those rare officers who had actually been born and raised here in Carlisle. He had received his commission through the Military Academy at West Point and, following a highly successful career as a Special Forces officer, came back to the War College as a student and stayed on as a member of the faculty. Stauffer thought that Wilson had an ego the size of Montana. He hadn't liked Wilson much back then in the War College class and he didn't particularly care for him now.
In fact, Stauffer considered Wilson a genuine pain in the butt. He annoyed Stauffer because he frequently encountered him when Stauffer was out hitting the pavement for his own lackluster PT run. Wilson would stealthily run up behind him, startling him from his reverie, and then pass him by with some smart remark about his leisurely "old man's pace." "Nope," he thought. "Garner Stuart Wilson, IV, is clearly a butt head." Stauffer had a sudden thought. He wasn't sure if Wilson had seen him urinating on the hedge. "If he has," he muttered, "he'll probably tell the whole blasted school."
He mustered up a pseudo-positive response, "Hey Garner, run an extra lap for me this morning ... I've got to get to the office for an early meeting."
"Ah, you're working way too hard—can't get the job done in the time allotted?" Wilson needled him and then without missing a beat, he added, "Later," disappearing out of sight down the road around the corner of the house. Stauffer could hear his footsteps fading in the distance as the runner came up on the intersection with Garrison Lane and turned down Guardhouse Lane toward the Community Center.
* * *
As Wilson passed the old Hessian Powder Magazine, he felt a strange tingling sensation. He passed under a street lamp that flickered as he passed and then went out, leaving the street in darkness. He ran on ahead and stumbled as he stepped in a slight depression in the center of the street. It seemed to be filled with something sticky and slippery and Wilson lost his balance and fell backward. He landed on top of the depression and rolled over on his side. The black liquid in the depression was boiling hot and stuck to the front, back and sides of his warm-up suit. He brought his hand up to the thick black stain and touched it. It burned his skin and he yelped in pain. He was trying to stand up as another brilliant flash of light consumed him and he disappeared from sight.
* * *
Meanwhile, on the other side of Quarters 17, Stauffer called to his dog to come and follow him back into the house. He scampered on past his master up the steps to the front door. As he turned the handle of the screen door, a bright flash lit up the early morning sky. Stauffer thought that it must have been lightning somewhere off to the north on the other side of the house. He paused and looked up at the sky for threatening clouds. "I didn't think it was supposed to rain today ... I better remember to take my raincoat," he muttered. Then, as an afterthought, he realized that if it did rain, Garner Stuart Wilson the Fourth just might get drenched before he could get back to his own quarters. "Maybe there's justice in the world after all," he mused. He pushed on the door and reentered his house. As he paused on the landing to shut the door and reset the deadbolt lock, he was vaguely troubled by the fact that the lightening flash hadn't been followed by a clash of thunder. "Storm must be pretty far away," he thought absently as he closed the door.
Stauffer climbed the stairs with the dog hot on his heels, walked down the hallway and back into the master bedroom. His wife, Gwen, was sitting up in bed. "Did you get Klondike out in time?" she asked, "or do I have another cleanup mess to take care of?" The hint of a smile on her face let Stauffer know that she had awakened in good spirits.
"I didn't mean to wake you," Barton spoke softly as Klondike bounded past him and up onto the bed covers where he began wildly licking Gwen's face. Gwen rolled backward in a fit of giggles, hugging the big dog and scratching him behind the ears.
"Oh, you didn't wake me up," she replied between fits of laughter. The radiator started banging again and it woke me out of a sound sleep. After that, there was no dozing off again. I've just been lying here waiting for you to come back up. Was that lightning? It lit up the whole room."
Stauffer walked over to the window on the Garrison Road side of the house and looked out. "I don't know," he acknowledged. "I thought it was lightning but I didn't hear any thunder. Maybe there's a thunderstorm over the ridge in Perry County." As an afterthought, he added, still staring out the window, "I don't see any storm clouds coming at us from over the ridge though." Stauffer turned back to his wife and laughed, "So the radiator clatter got you again. You probably need to wear earplugs or headphones to bed."
"No," she responded. "The Garrison Commander sent out a newsletter earlier this week saying that they were working on a contract to upgrade the whole heating system ... maybe within a month or two."
"Yes," he answered back skeptically over his shoulder as he headed for the bathroom to get cleaned up. "And I believe in the Tooth Fairy and the Great Pumpkin too."
Gwen's reply was a well-aimed pillow in the back of his head.
Meanwhile, across the street, halfway down Guardhouse Lane, a flume of steam rose up slowly from the center of the road. The asphalt surface of the roadway was still bubbling in a small circular puddle....
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Gettysburg Revisited by Shand Stringham Copyright © 2010 by Shand Stringham. Excerpted by permission of iUniverse, Inc.. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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