I kind of give away the war's ending with the title. Following other Great War scenarios, this time I'll be taking more a political look at the war. Namely, the end of it, the dissolution of the CSA, how is ended and why it ended. I'm just outlining it at the moment.
Prelude
Sergeant James Rutherford, son of a North Carolina shipwright, spent the past three years regretting not taking his father’s advice. When the war broke out, Rutherford’s father tried to convince him to enlist in the Confederate States Navy. Growing up along the Carolina Coast, it was almost a given that all the young men would volunteer for the Navy when war came. Instead, he enlisted in the Confederate States Marine Corps when he turned eighteen at the start of 1914. Little did he realize that the disaster at Grand Bahama, coupled with the Yankee blockade of Cuba, would mean he would not be fighting in some exotic paradise. Instead, the 8th Regiment was sent to the Potomac Front, a desolate piece of Earth that was his home for the past two years.
As August 1916 arrived, he expected it to be a month like any other. The Yankees push south, the Confederates push them back north. Little changed in Virginia since the Union pressed all the way to the Rappahannock early in the war. Rutherford was present during the blood letting at Fredericksburg, a battle that made him a non commissioned officer. In the trenches just south and west of Chancersville, his unit awaited orders for another push. With so many officers dead, the Sergeant from North Carolina found himself in effective command of his platoon, a unit with twenty-four combat ready Marines.
He was awaken on August 8, to a loud commotion in the trenches. He woke quickly, grabbing his rifle and donning his gas mask, expecting yet another raid by the Union. Instead, as he left his make-shift barracks, he encountered an unimaginable scene; entire platoons packing up their gear and climbing out of the trench. Climbing out, in the wrong direction. He managed to catch a buddy of his, Gregory Milton from the 37th Tennessee Division. When he asked what was going on, all Milton said was that the war was over.
Over? Rutherford might not be privy to all the strategic conferences in the Army of Northern Virginia but he would like to think himself smart enough to know when a war ended. When he pressed, his friend explained. Governor Harold Wilson asked for an armistice with the Union and under the terms, all Tennessee units were to return home and disarm. The news struck him like a fist wearing brass knuckles. Tennessee quit the war? Just like that? Part of Rutherford was furious over the seeming betrayal of the Confederate States. Another part of him was envious his friend; no matter how vile the politics in Tennessee, the man survived the Great War and gets to go home. There was little he could do except shake the man’s hand and wish him the best of luck. Not all soldiers around Chancersville were as understanding as Rutherford.
Prelude
Sergeant James Rutherford, son of a North Carolina shipwright, spent the past three years regretting not taking his father’s advice. When the war broke out, Rutherford’s father tried to convince him to enlist in the Confederate States Navy. Growing up along the Carolina Coast, it was almost a given that all the young men would volunteer for the Navy when war came. Instead, he enlisted in the Confederate States Marine Corps when he turned eighteen at the start of 1914. Little did he realize that the disaster at Grand Bahama, coupled with the Yankee blockade of Cuba, would mean he would not be fighting in some exotic paradise. Instead, the 8th Regiment was sent to the Potomac Front, a desolate piece of Earth that was his home for the past two years.
As August 1916 arrived, he expected it to be a month like any other. The Yankees push south, the Confederates push them back north. Little changed in Virginia since the Union pressed all the way to the Rappahannock early in the war. Rutherford was present during the blood letting at Fredericksburg, a battle that made him a non commissioned officer. In the trenches just south and west of Chancersville, his unit awaited orders for another push. With so many officers dead, the Sergeant from North Carolina found himself in effective command of his platoon, a unit with twenty-four combat ready Marines.
He was awaken on August 8, to a loud commotion in the trenches. He woke quickly, grabbing his rifle and donning his gas mask, expecting yet another raid by the Union. Instead, as he left his make-shift barracks, he encountered an unimaginable scene; entire platoons packing up their gear and climbing out of the trench. Climbing out, in the wrong direction. He managed to catch a buddy of his, Gregory Milton from the 37th Tennessee Division. When he asked what was going on, all Milton said was that the war was over.
Over? Rutherford might not be privy to all the strategic conferences in the Army of Northern Virginia but he would like to think himself smart enough to know when a war ended. When he pressed, his friend explained. Governor Harold Wilson asked for an armistice with the Union and under the terms, all Tennessee units were to return home and disarm. The news struck him like a fist wearing brass knuckles. Tennessee quit the war? Just like that? Part of Rutherford was furious over the seeming betrayal of the Confederate States. Another part of him was envious his friend; no matter how vile the politics in Tennessee, the man survived the Great War and gets to go home. There was little he could do except shake the man’s hand and wish him the best of luck. Not all soldiers around Chancersville were as understanding as Rutherford.