Chapter 23: The San Patritios

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It was early morning, the sun against our eyes as we stood guard on the west of our fledgling nation.
Amidst the sounds of crackling fire, and the sweet songs of native birds, came drums. Heavy drums, the sounding like when one of our locomotives heads off to get more of our lifeline.
I looked with binoculars. What I saw were the silhouettes of men, carrying a green flag dressed with shamrocks and an angel harp.
They must've numbered in the hundreds, our measly platoon numbered less than thirty.
The bagpipes sounded, men came over the sandbag wall to look at the impending force. Over the tremendous sounds of drums, bagpipes, and marching, came the sweet sound of flutes. Only now did we see, the men comeing had rifles in their hands, the dark sticks materializing into instruments of death.
Our commander came next to me, worry firmly planted on his face. We both stared to the sweet sounds of music. From a mile away, men's voices echoed through the valley.
"We are the San Patricios, a brave and gallant band! There'll be no white flag flying within this green command. We are the San Patricios, we have but one demand: To see the Yankees safely home... across the Rio Grande!"
The sounds of bagpipes roared through every soldiers ears, the song putting a sense of ease and terror in each one of them.
"Hold fast!" Our officer ordered. SSGT Mackenzie stood next to me, his presence putting me at ease.
"But when at Churubusco, we fell to Yankee hands. No court of justice did we have in the land of Uncle Sam. As traitors and deserters all, we would be shot or hanged. Far from the green, green shamrock shore, across the Rio Grande."
Now the bagpipes and flutes were accompanied by violins, SSGT Mackenzie even spotted the brass shape of a tuba. I wiped the nervous sweat off my brow.
"We've disappeared from history... like footprints in the sand. But our song is in the tumbleweed, and our blood is in this land. But, if in the desert moonlight, you see a ghostly band. We're the men who died for freedom, across the Rio Grande."
The man in the officer's uniform, who led the battalion, drew his sword. The sunlight glittering off the polished iron. The music drew into an eerie drumroll.
He shouted,"We are the San Patricios, a brave and gallant band!"
He led the charge, men came screaming down the hill.
"To arms!"
I raised my rifle, putting a bead on one of the ocean of men.
"Fire!"
I squeezed off the trigger.

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