Richard Schrandt was considered a peculiarity among the men of the Tennessee militia. He kept mostly to himself, rarely taking an active part in any conversation. But while he didn’t often speak, he heard and absorbed everything said, and when he occasionally did throw in a brief comment, it was obvious that he understood as much about any topic as any man in the company. He was a strong, sinewy man, just under six feet tall, with sandy hair and soft features that belied his supreme, but at the same time realistic, confidence in anything he attempted. While some in the company who hadn’t seen him in battle viewed him as a weak person, most of the men saw him in a light of admiration and respect. He was a crack shot with any type of firearm, and he seemed always to know the best course of action in any given situation.
On a particularly dark evening, the sun having just set and the moon and stars obscured by a thick layer of clouds, a man appeared at the doorstep of his private cabin, a luxury afforded to all officers in the militia base camp. The man’s uniform was worn to the point of threadbareness, a mild discomfort in the warm Tennessee summer. Of dark complexion, the man seemed to be part Indian. But his most arresting feature was his enormous bulk of muscle. He was easily over six and a half feet tall, and probably over two hundred fifty pounds. But on this particular night, he was anything but a menacing presence. The expression on his face as he looked down at Captain Schrandt was one of intense uneasiness bordering fear.
Schrandt hesitated only briefly. “Please, come in and make yourself at home.”
The large man nodded his thanks and, still obviously uncomfortable, made his way to a wooden chair at the far end of the one-room cabin and awkwardly lowered himself into it. Obviously not one to mince words, he bluntly spouted, “I need your help.”
Schrandt nodded and waited for the man to continue. His steady gaze made the much larger man even more acutely uncomfortable.
“I received word by telegram yesterday that my father’s on his deathbed, and I’d like to be there with him when he passes. We always been close, and I think he’d be a mite happier if I was there with him during his last days. But the blamed staff officer won’t give me my leave! He says he’s short on men and needs everything he can get, and I understand that’s fine and good, but I’ll just be gone a few days! I know he likes you, or pretends to like you ‘cause he’s sweet on that sister of yours, and I was hoping you could help me out here.”
Richard contemplated the matter for a short time, then replied sympathetically. “First of all, I’d like to extend my deepest condolences on the matter of your father, Private Connor. I can vaguely understand how you must feel, as I lost my father in the war against the Confederates ten years ago, and we were extremely close. I’m not sure what I can do about obtaining your leave, but I’ll talk to the staff officer about it. I realize he can be a bit difficult to deal with. If I should succeed, you’ll hear from an aide first thing in the morning.”
Haven't finished the story yet . . . It's for an English class, and I was planning on finishing it at home, but the damn school's filters block e-mail and file storage sites and I left my flash drive at home. So, sorry if this is against the rules or anything. :P
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That. . . that was just unnecessary. =.=
