Time Heals All Wounds [Punk-Closed]

[Mac Bargett]

Before the battle had began, the enemy made a costly blunder. Although there had been heavy bombardment and counter-battery fire among the forward infantry positions, they didn't cover the sound of sporadic volleys from the enemy cavalry's cannon trying to soften the left flank. But instead all it did was announce the cavalry's presence, and give the defending boys in blue time to prepare.

As friendly cannons zeroed in and silenced the enemy's guns on the other side of the farmland's hilly landscape, 1st Lieutenant Mac Bargett rode with his unit to a small farm in the middle of the battlefield. They were there to relieve the main cavalry regiment. Armed with brand new rifles that were faster and more reliable than the standard cavalry carbines, let alone anything the enemy could dream of, they planned on advancing through the enemy attack, shredding through it like wolverines.

Just as the wolverines started to move towards their new position, the enemy attacked, pouring over the ridge towards the farm. Quickly Lt. Bargett relayed the Colonel's order for his men to dismount and take cover behind the farm's fence. Mac had joined up because he was a patriotic young man who believed in the cause, but now as his men started taking potshots from the other side of the white wash stained farmhouse, he realized that if they didn't stop the enemy's advance and rout them here and now, one day very soon there would be a troop of men using his family farm, only a few miles away, as their defense.

And by the Grace of God, he wasn't going to let that happen.

[PuNk! ™]

Sergeant Major Sharpe straightened his tunic with a slight annoyance, as he observed the battlefield below from atop of a nearby cliff-side; it seemed as if the volleys of fire weren't having the desired effect, perhaps the men's morale on the frontline were wavering? Yet the battle had only just begun and the element of surprise seemed ineffective.

Yanking out his telescope he observed the line, the enemy line, watching as their rifles popped shots from amidst the fog of war. The enemy were accurate, incredibly accurate and their shots precise. Were they using new weaponry? The Sergeant Major gritted his teeth uncontrollably, he heard talk through the ranks that newly designed rifles had sought their way onto the battlefield. No wonder the line was faltering if the enemy had better equipment.

Slamming shut his telescope the Sergeant Major looked to his fellow Sergeant alongside him. "We'll show them bastards Sergeant - ready the men, MOUNT UP!" he hollered, as the Sergeant repeated his words to mount-up down the ranks of the cavalry troop. The Sergeant Major was in charge of the troop; with the Captain and Lieutenants mounting separate attacks elsewhere.

Climbing atop of his horse, Sergeant Major Sharpe began to rally his troop as he rode along the front rank of his troop making a quick study of his men. "Sergeant! ARMS READY!" - "ARMS READY!" the Sergeant repeated as the men readied their carbine rifles - shorter in length than the standard rifles, but the Cavalry would be getting up close soon enough. "ADVANCE!" he bellowed, as he moved the cavalry forwards atop of the ridge in one long rank,with their rifles at the ready. Unsheathing his long saber that glinted in the sunlight like a beacon of hope, he raised the sword and in one swiping downward motion yelled "FIRE!" motioning for the first volley to erupt like a crackle of thunder.

Although the rifles were shorter in length and range, the Sergeant Major knew they were close enough to get a few lucky hits on the flank. Besides the cannons had opened fire to help weaken the flank by now. Lunging his saber forwards and digging his heels into the sides of the horse he heartedly shouted "CHAAAARGGGGEEE!" and lead the assault down the hillside as his troop burst into life with harmonious war-cries of their own, their own sabers at the ready as they followed suit, heading straight into the side of the enemy like the spear that pierced Christ's heart.

They were met with sporadic rifle shots that knocked men from their horses during the charge, the Sergeant Major himself catching a bullet that grazed across his left arm holding the reigns to his horse, but only strengthening his virtue to carry on going forwards. Ploughing through the enemy line like a hot knife through butter, the Sergeant Major swiped his sword across anything resembling a blue uniform along the right-side of his stallion; that was until someone shot his horse at pointblank range, sending the Sergeant Major toppling head first over the falling stallion and onto the ground with an almighty thud. Dust and dirt bellowing skywards as he rolled across the ground like a lifeless sack of potatoes, his saber digging into the dirt several feet alongside his body like an early gravestone to where he laid limp, face first in the dirt.

[Mac Bargett]

Bargett's platoon, like the regiment around them, poured fire across the farm, but the enemy wouldn't stop rushing towards it, retaking any firing position that was vacated. Fortunately, just as the regiment was running out of ammunition, another regiment of 'wolverines' arrived to take their place at the stone fence.

From atop his bay horse, Mac heard the thunder of hooves and the howl of men as the enemy descended down the ridge. The Colonel ordered the unit to fall back, and Bargett rallied his platoon back to a second farm. From there, Mac was able to watch from relative safety as the wave of gray barreled down upon his old position. Even with their advanced weaponry, the wolverines had trouble holding back the horde, and they too had to fall back, but that only allowed friendly cannons free reign to decimate the remaining enemy, preventing them from advancing past the farm.

Although the enemy had been checked and their assault stalled, Mac frowned. He had come to fight, not just direct a platoon around a field like some formal dance. But them came a ghoulish howl across the ridge as cannon fire, hooves, and the screams of hundreds if not thousands of men blended together into a roar that rivaled a hurricane as almost 10 cavalry regiments flooded the hills to reinforcement the enemy. The extra troops allowed the horde to seemingly fill any hole in their ranks from downed man or shelled horse as they restarted the charge.

Unfortunately, Bargett's unit was still rearming, so he could still only watch as the Wolverines prepared to counter attack, with their General at the head, gallantly standing in his saddle, blue uniform gleaming brightly even through the smoke, with silver saber raised high to rally his troops as they rushed forward to meet the enemy. Mac was interrupted in thinking that everyone but him would be able to fight for his home by a Colonel's aide, a young Captain he had gotten to know very well throughout his deployment, and the Captain knew Bargett was the man to go to when he was tasked with leading a charge to protect the Wolverines' flank. So they quickly gathered as many prepared men as there was available. They only numbed 20 but it was deemed enough and off they galloped towards the enemy forces.

The Captain first had them fire their carbines into the mass of gray, but once the rifles were out of primers they moved to their dragoon pistols and sabers and dove into the fray. After emptying his pistol into a rider that had unloaded his shotgun towards him, Bargettt tossed the gun away and pulled out his saber. Only then to notice a enemy standard bearer readying the sharp point of the spear like staff to pierce into the Captain. Rushing through the fierce melee and wildly slashes at the gray around, Lt. Bargett tried to protect his friend, but could watch as the Captain was stabbed through the face and knocked off of his horse. Mac called out but his voice was silence among the frenzy and the flag bearer did not have time to react as Mac smashed his horse into the enemy's and he leaped upon the man, knocking both soldiers onto the ground.

Unwilling to trample their ensign, the enemy cavalry parted to let the two men grapple around in the dirt. The flag bearer tried to use the long staff to knock Mac away, but he wouldn't give up that easiest, using one arm to try and hold the man down as he continued to slash with his broken saber, which had snapped in two upon impact with the ground. Eventually the man stopped breathing and with the enemy charge finally passed by them, Mac was able to lay for a moment and catch his breath.

[PuNk! ™]

Coughing the Sergeant Major expelled the dry dirt that invaded his lungs, his face raising ever so slowly from the ground he'd buried his face into as he groaned under his breath before feeling the need to cough some more as the taste of soil made it's way down his gullet. Spitting the taste from his mouth, he shook his head, his ashen blonde hair whipping around his face like a rugged dry mop; his hat had fallen from grace, along with his general sense of direction and function as he took a moment to look around himself and gather his senses once more.

Pressing his hands into the ground and burying his foot into the dirt, he climbed to his knees and watched as carnage passed him by. The charge was still in full effect as horses rushed passed him, a miracle almost that none of them even touched him as they shot on by. Reaching for his large black officer's hat, he quite calmly twisted it back onto his head, but he wasn't sure why he even bothered doing that - perhaps it was the shock? Either way he'd not attained his headdress once again and winced as he climbed to his feet, feeling a little disorientated as he watched soldiers fighting around himself. Then it dawned on him where he actually was.

Like a frigate on the water springing to action, he snapped his head into the direction of an incoming and quite frightening growl coming from a blue-uniformed enemy soldier with his rifle above his shoulders, bayonet fixed and ready to plunge it like a spear straight into him. Immediately the Sergeant Major went to reach for his sabre in it's sheathe but realised it was gone "Oh bloody--" was all he could muster of a curse as he bounced backwards, reaching out to defend himself against the pointed blade that slashed through his forearm, adding yet another wound to his growing list of injuries, causing the Sergeant Major to cry out in pain, before realising he could grab the barrel of the rifle as it protruded into his forearm.

Gripping tightly he took the initiative to unpin the bayonet and as the enemy soldier withdrew the rifle to make another stabbing lunge, the bayonet came free from both the end of the rifle and the Sergeant Major's forearm, simply spinning to the ground with a thump at the Sergeant Major's feet. Not even bothering to look at his arm, he grabbed the bayonet and once again stepped back on the defensive as the enemy soldier now used the stock of his rifle like a club and swung it wildly towards the officer; keeping his calm the Sergeant Major countered after a long swing of the rifle that missed and in a frantic manner of his own, stabbed the bayonet continuously into the soldier's throat and chest, even as the man fell to the ground he kept stabbing, his hand slipping on the blade as they became blooded very quickly.

Catching his breath he pressed his once polished boot into the man's shoulder and yanked free the bayonet that was wedged under his collarbone and swallowed hard as if his stomach turned slightly. The fighting was still going on, but it seemed as though there was a little distance between him and the main bulk of fighting that was occurring several yards away, so it gave him a little time to sort himself out; wiping the wet blade and his hands down his red tunic, he hastily ripped some fabric from the dead soldier's sleeve and tied the blue cloth around his forearm to makeshift bandage the open wound. His earlier bullet graze was simply a mild scratch however, so he paid no diffidence to that wound and took the time to grab the dead soldier's rifle, fixing the bayonet back on. There wasn't enough time to load a round into the chamber however as he watched his Sergeant perilously fighting an enemy officer, whom happened to be quite the swordsman. He had to help his friend and took off running towards the conflict like a madman with the fixed bayonet rifle.

[Mac Bargett]

As Lt. Bargett's adrenaline high was quickly replaced by immense pain he did his best to mutter out a quick prayer asking for victory as he laid on the field, surrounded by gray bodies. Their counterattack had succeed in driving the enemy away from the farm, so although they were smashing themselves against the Wolverines just yards away, Mac's position was relatively safe and he would have continued to lie there, but over the thunder of the battle, he heard a cough beside him, and turned.

The lieutenant was amazed when he saw that his friend the Captain was still alive. Spitting blood out of his mouth, he tried to jump to his feet, but the burning in his stomach forced him back down, so he had to slowly crawled towards his superior. The Captain was unconscious but reflexively coughing up blood that poured down this throat from the nasty gaping wound that ran from his neck to his nose. Mac pulled a strip of muslin from his pocket and did his best to tie it around the large gash as he promised the avid sportsman that he will bowl again, and slowly flipped the Captain over onto his stomach so he didn't choke on his blood, and onto the enemy flag that had caused the laceration.

Fighting through the pain and using the remaining half of his saber as support, Mac slowly started to balance on his knees, but the pain became too much and he gripped his side, only realizing that his uniform was ripped and wet from where the shotgun blast had peppered his gut. Aside from the pain it didn't seem too bad, and by focusing on his goal, the friendly position on the other side of the farm, he was able to grab enemy standard and pull himself onto his shaky feet.

Time had lost all meaning as Bargett slowly waddled towards the barn that minutes ago gave the enemy protection from his men's fire. If he wasn't sure it would cause him to fall down, Mac would have laughed as he dragged the damned enemy flag through the dirt after every step as he pulled the Captain along with it. Aside from the petty act of revenge, the only thought in Mac's mind was getting past the barn and up the hill to safety. He didn't know if it had took minutes or hours, but eventually he got to the barn, but that was as far as he got, collapsing onto the side of barn, and he knew he wasn't getting up. But at least sitting against the barn gave he the perfect view to watch the Wolverines break through the enemy and force them to flee back up the ridge. It made him smile, as his pain drained away and he started to feel lighter and

lighter.

[PuNk! ™]

He could hear his heart beating within the drum of his ear; a pressure weighing down on his head as he took deep long breaths, attempting to keep a pace as he ran towards his fellow friend and Sergeant failing to keep pace with a very good swordsman toying with him. Adrenaline, lack of oxygen, shock and pain all reverberated throughout his body as the Sergeant Major clenched his teeth together trying to fight through the barriers quite abundantly making themselves known to him now.

"Urrghhh! The Sergeant bellowed as spit flew from this mouth, swinging his sword like a lump of heavy wood. The exhaustion on the Sergeant's face was clear and the enemy officer was dancing around him on his toes, so elegant and so deadly. But why was he toying with him? There was a battle raging on and the officer was just taking his time? No - wait... The battle...

Sergeant Major Sharpe slowed his pace, his eyes drifting over the conflict that once was raging on. His men were in full retreat, the entire battalion was in full retreat and trumpets echoed in the distance hailing the men to fallback. How could this be? They'd never lost a battle so large before, it was unknown, it was impossible. "Bastards" was all he could mutter under his breath as he stood there watching the retreat take full effect, the enemy cheering and picking off the stragglers with pot shots from their rifles; that's why the officer was toying with his Sergeant, the battle was over, they were dead men now. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Surrounded by blue tunics as far as the eye could see in each and every direction.

Looking back towards his Sergeant who dared not surrender, he continued to fight, exhausted and outmatched by his opponent with superior swordsmanship. Dropping the rifle at his feet, Sergeant Major Sharpe began to casually walk towards the fray taking place and simply yelled "Oiii! Pick on someone your own size..." the enemy officer heard him, infact a lot of people heard Sharpe as they looked towards him. It didn't save his friend however as the enemy officer in one swoop finished off the Sergeant with an effortless flick from his wrist; the blade slicing across his friend's throat. The Sergeant Major looked away, he knew he couldn't save his friend.

The enemy officer approached the Sergeant Major, wiping his blade with a handkerchief and waved his hand at the several soldiers following him - telling them to lower their rifles. "We're not taking prisoners today" the enemy officer bluntly stated as he nodded to one of his goons who threw a sword at the Sergeant Major's feet. "Let's see how long you last" and without warning he sped towards the Sergeant Major with his sword raised; grabbing the sword at his feet, Sergeant Major Sharpe parried the oncoming aggressive swings from the enemy officer, his feet wobbling a little as he was being pushed backwards, but then in the smallest of openings the Sergeant Major plunged his sword forwards and felt his sword become slowed, stuck almost, but he kept pushing and before he knew it he was digging his cheek into the enemy officer's shoulder and driving his blade straight through the man's torso, as he gazed over his shoulder to see the blade protruding out of his back.

Letting go... The enemy officer fell to the ground lifelessly. The fight hadn't lasted a minute or two, perhaps he'd gotten lucky, he wasn't expecting to win the fight. Now he stood lonesome, facing several bewildered soldiers with rifles who glanced at each other a little astounded. One by one they raised their guns, knowing they couldn't let him go free and the Sergeant Major wasn't complaining. Without a word exchanged between any of them, he simply grabbed the hilt to his sword protruding out of the officer's chest and yanked it free. Nodding to the soldiers he muttered "Right ya' bastards, one last time!" and ran at them with his sword held high; muskets fired, smoke bellowed, flashes of light came at all directions as he squinted and flinched awaiting to be hit several times by bullets but...

Everything was white. Silent.
Then it all went dark.

[Mac Bargett]

Bargett abruptly woke up to a man trying to drown him in an unnaturally blue liquid. Instinctively he lashed out at his perpetrator, but as his hands slapped against a hard curved surface before him he realized it was his own reflection in the wall of some odd circular container he was trapped in. Mac tried to float to the surface to get some air, but it was perfectly sealed and all he could do was gag on the liquid and pound on the floor and ceiling, trying his best to get out.

Whatever Bargett did, it must have worked, because the liquid began to drain away, and he swam up to take a deep breath, only for the air to feel like fire as it quickly replaced the liquid in his throat and lungs. Mac collapsed in a choking fit as the last of the liquid sank into the bottom of the tank, followed by the tank itself sliding into the floor. Only once he regained his composure did he realize something incredibly strange. He felt good, great even, better then he had felt in years. He groped at his side, and although his suddenly dry uniform was still tattered, his wounds had completely disappeared. Whatever force had brought him here, it might not be malignant, but actually helpful. He would need to learn more to solidify his opinion.

So, after giving himself a quick personal examination, he checked out the area around him, a very dark room with it's main light source and apparent only feature being rows upon rows of tubes similar to the one he had been in, their dim blue glow revealing little aside from where the nearest containers were.
"H...hello?" Mac cautiously called out, but there was no response. "Anyone there?" Again silence. "Saint Peter? He yelled one last time, just in case this bizarre landscape was Catholic Heaven.

Unsure what to do next, Bargett stood up, and carefully walked towards one of the tubes to peer inside, but the cloudy liquid successfully hide whatever secrets the structures contained. Each and every one he examined was the same, as he wandered through the aisles, calling out occasionally to see if he was truly alone.

[PuNk! ™]

"Richard!" A demanding womanly voice beckoned, his mother's stern voice that was. "Get OUT of the lake! What have I told you about going into that cesspool!" she berated him, as little Richard couldn't have been anymore than five or six years old stood on the sloped embankment to a very large fishing lake; his trousers rolled up to his knees, with his once white shirt now muddy and dirty. "But mum - look" he said ignoring her stern tone, as he pointed into the water where a large group of tadpoles swam and squirmed just beneath the surface.

His mother shook her head and grabbed by the wrist, attempting not to get her elegant sandles wet as she leaned over the with her feet stood firmly upon the dry grass a good few feet away. "Enough Richard, now OUT!" she demanded once more but Richard pulled against her tight grip, his toes curling into the wet mud as he pulled back. "NO! You can't tell me what to do! I'm the man of the house now!" he shouted back at her, but his mother ignored him and began pulling harder, but young Richard pulled back just as hard - using both his hands to clasp around her forearm and wrist - it was a tug of war between David and Goliath for the briefest of moments until his mother's grip slipped and Richard flew backwards into the lake with an almighty splash that sent the startled wildlife from the trees above.

A muffled cry from his mother could be heard from the surface of the water on the bank of the lake as Richard sank, everything slowly going dark as his body drifted downwards; he didn't know what to do, but hold his breath - he didn't know how to swim. Lashing out around himself he began to panic, his eyes looking upwards to the surface as he watched the silhouette of his mother on the bank, watching helpless, as he sunk deeper and deeper into the darkness; the fight in him began to diminish as he somehow made peace within himself. This was it.

Gasping for air Richard coughed up watery slime, his body becoming heavy once more as he fell from out of a large glass container and onto the ground. He squinted through the darkness and dim lighting as he looked to the contraption he'd just been released from. "What... What the..." was all he could muster as he climbed to his feet, feeling the dry clothing on his body, yet he was just soaking wet!? He was still wearing his red military uniform, blood stains, dirt and musket-burns from the gunpowder still tattered the fabric upon his body, as if... As if... As if he was still in battle. His memories came flooding back all at once, yes, he was in the middle of battle and now he was here. Had he died? Was this heaven? Or more the latter - hell?

Peeling back the makeshift bandage on his forearm he observed a healthy arm, no wound, yet he'd been severely wounded just moments ago or what felt like moments ago. What on earth was happening!? A sudden panic began to come over him as he heard a voice echo in the distance of what seemed like a very long aisle of weird glass contraptions and dim lights - none of which he'd ever seen before. He must've been captured by the enemy. It was the only reasonable explanation. They already had superior weaponry, perhaps they had new methods of torture or imprisonment? Then he saw a lonesome figure come into view, it was hard to judge whether he was friend or foe at first as Richard ducked down against one of the glass contraptions and hid, just watching the person gaze into the contraptions and wander along aimlessly.

As the man came closer he noticed the blue uniform. He was a dirty French bastard! He was probably one of the prison guards guarding this place and he must know the way out too or at least have the keys to a door somewhere; remaining silent in the shadows Richard waited and as the Frenchman was within grabbing distance he sprung from out of the shadows and grabbed the man, shoving him against an adjacent fluid filled vat. "You bloody French bastard!" he yelled as he went to punch him.