many are the weak

There was a battle, some surprise skirmish with the Confederates, just outside of…whatever town they’re in. Stiles can’t remember — it’s been weeks since he could remember the name of any town, let alone what state he’s in; they’ve been moving what seems like every other day. But the battle had been short, or at least, it had been for him. He had just been raising his gun to shoot across the field at the other side when something had crashed down on the back of his head, shutting down any further action.