多功能英语阅读12 The Last Charge（在线收听）

The Last Charge

Sergeant Davidson, the descendant of European immigrants, began to sweat

as the roaring hot sun began to bear down on him. Sweat leaked out from the

bumps of his spine and began to darken sections of his light gray Confederate

Army uniform. Davidson sighed with fatigue. Everything reeled before his eyes.

Small drops of sweat trickled down his coarse face, as well as down his back.

Davidson had his Confederate Infantry cap tilted slightly, hoping to keep the

burning sun rays in the drought from scorching his already well tanned face,

especially his nose which had begun to have dead skin peel, owing to an awful

sunburn.

As he licked his dry lips, he began to reflect on the beginning of the war.

Upon hearing of the attack on Fort Sumter, Davidson eagerly enlisted in the

Confederate army of Georgia the very next day. Growing up, ha had idolized his

grandfather for having fought in the Revolutionary war and expelling the British.

Now, he saw himself in his grandfather's position. Only, the tyrant was not

King George, but rather Abraham Lincoln. In fact, he tried his hardest to stay

out of the political situation as a whole. He never cared much for Democrats or

Republicans, tariffs or taxes.

Davidson grew up in a poor household near a swamp, the oldest of four other

children. All boys. The Davidsons were so poor, that the boys could not even

finish secondary school, but rather worked long hours on their barren field to

help the family's pitiful financial situation. All of the boys had little literacy.

Later when he joined the army in the turbulent colonial period, Davidson sent almost

all of his pay home to help his parent's debt. Since the Davidsons were so poor they

had to rely on their sons working to pay the bills. So by no means could they ever

afford a slave, even though it wasn't abnormal at all. They were like most

Southerners. Since Davidson could never possibly own a slave, like most Confederate

soldiers, he certainly wasn't fighting to preserve a practice that he would have no

chance at being a part of. But if not for shaking off the yoke of slavery, then for

what?

State's Rights? Personal hatred? Rivalry that could never be reconciled? Morality?

Fellowship? Salvation of the soul in repression? Davidson wanted one thing: Glory. He

wanted to be hailed a hero the same way his grandfather was. Yet, as most Americans

learned, no matter what side they fought on, there wasn't much glory in seeing a man's

insides blown out. Nor in seeing worms nesting in the mouths of dead soldiers and

crippled soldiers with bandages and stitches all over their bodies. And neither in

witnessing wild wolves feasting on the livers and kidneys of the corpses of Union and

Confederate dead alike. Their hearts wrenched at the horreble sight.

Yet, Davidson and his comrades managed to march on to break the siege and

reclaim a lost position in the flank. They were fueled by the belief that they would

endure until final conquest.

The young Davidson, who had absolutely no rigorous military training before

he volunteered, was dispatched to the battlefield and learned quickly the rules of

survival on the battlefield.

As he lay huddled in the trench with the other recruits, he turned his head around

to gaze up at the aky. It was a cloudless day, which only made it more unbearably hot.

Davidson's ice blue eyes focused on the sun's radiance, only to look away quickly before

they damaged. The young Sergeant began to worry. The dynamic momentrm of the war had

consumed him to the point where he truly had no idea what state they were in.

Now, he was simply a skeleton of his former self. His outline was there, but the will

for battle on the inside, was gone. The war was lost and what would happen to him? Could

he really become an ordinary civilian and go back to the lowliest, thankless jobs to pay

his debts? He had no one to really go back to. No lover. No friends, since they had all

been killed in combat. It had been with him every day he woke up and every night when he

fell asleep.

Before he could contemplate his future any longer, the Lieutenant stood up. He hoisted

a flag into the air and screamed "Charge!" And so, they obeyed. The rebel yell of slogans

rose up once again as they rushed to sweep the Union position. Davidson at last knew that

this was his destiny. To meet death in hand-to-hand combat with the enemy, as it had been

to their predecessors for centuries.

However, fate would rob even that from Sergeant Davidson. For as they neared thier

target, the Union troops unveiled a new weapon. The first machine gun. From a hundred

yards away, the bullets sliced through the vulnerable Confederate charge and the attack

was quickly repelled. Davidson along with all the rest was simply ripped to shreds. The

American soldiers slaughtered other American soldiers in the new way of war. Cold,

impersonal, and mechanized.

Davidson and his comrades were struck down in matter of minutes. Out of decency,

the Union troops buried the platoon in a separate grave for each. Then, the northern

soldiers went back to their camp and waited for the next enemy to come by.

And so, the flesh and blood of the old fashioned soldiers had come face to face

with the iron and steel of the mechanized warriors of tomorrow... only to be crushed

under the grinding wheels of the prolonged war.