Camp

Army life was not at all what Jaris Adams had thought it was going to be. He had been in camp now for just over a week, and he hated every minute of it. Though he was raised on a farm, he could not get used to sleeping on the ground, using a latrine, eating hardtack. And he hated the noise. The men all seemed to be in high spirits, which he knew was a good thing. But they were up playing music, gambling, carousing, until all hours of the night. As an officer, one of his duties was to try to enforce curfews, but it was damn near impossible at this point in the war effort. They had word that Franz Sigel’s men were headed toward them and that there could be a skirmish, maybe even a full-blown battle, any day. That was enough to keep morale—and noise—at an indescribable high.

His days consisted mainly of drilling the troops. As a lieutenant, he was in charge of a certain number of men. Of course, he had officers above him as well. A good portion of the day was s