Gettysburg, July 4, 1863

James R. McClellan is in the thick of the fighting, along with his son, a waterboy. Their friend, Flanagan, becomes wounded and they are all taken to Andersonville Prison. How will they survive?

James R. (known to his fellow soldiers as Jimmy) was flat on his back and off his horse, with all the air knocked out of his lungs and no breath left to catch. He had been hit, hard, in the shoulder and the blood was everywhere around him. His son, William, shouted so loud his young voice broke and he could barely choke back the tears. "Medic! Medic!" He did the basic first aid, pushing a rag on his father's wound, trying to compress where the blood now gushed. "Man down! Man down, you bloody blighters!"

His older brother, Jim Jr. had come up next to him. "Pops! Tell me he's gonna be okay."

"He will be A-okay. But we need to load him up onto his mount and bring him to the aid station."

As the projectiles ripped the air around them, they loaded their father on the horse and helped him by stages over to the aid station. The doctor was a harried man, and covered in the blood of at least a dozen men. As he struggled hard to bring James back from the brink of oblivion, William suddenly saw the doctor crumple and fall. The Rebs were taking over the camp. His father would have no chance. What could he do to save his father? He took the doctor's revolver and began shooting down the oncoming confederates. William lost sight of his brother, lost sight of his unit. All was chaos. He would stay with his father to the end, and suddenly, Mike Flanagan came in from the thicket.

"We may have a way out, boy," said Flanagan, and promptly turned around and led William through the confused woods, bark and bullets everywhere, to a bristling line of Rebel guns pointed at them. "Oh no," Flanagan said. "I swore this was the right way."

A Southern gentleman named Thomas tipped his hat at William and his father. "Let us take care of this man before too long. He be a noble warrior for all accounts. But his time for glory on the battlefield is over."

"Who are you?"

"I am Lieutenant James Thomas, commander of the Southern artillery that holds these hieghts. You poor Feds ran right into our lines, ran right up the hill and into our cannon. It is amazing that the lot of you are not dead."

"Please, if you could just find a doctor to take care of my pops. I sure would appreciate it."

"Well, I wish I could tell you you were headed for fine accomadations, that the beds waiting for you are inviting and soft. But no. It is hard ground and hard tack, with a filthy trickling stream for a water source. All who stay there risk disease and an hundred forms of unnatural death. I have seen it with my own eyes. I am sorry to say, but unless there is a chance for you and your friend and your father to be in an exchange, and soon, you may never find your way out of this war alive."

"Discouraging words, to say the least," said Flanagan. "I suppose the one good thing about this place is that we won't have to travel far to it, eh? Where is it located?"

Thomas cleared his throat. "It is called Andersonville, and it is in the Deep South, in southern Georgia. Even if by remote chance you manage to excape, you will be so far behind the lines that nothing could be done for you. Face it. Your time in this war is over, for good or ill. Now here. Have the last of warm bread and savory stew that you will be feeding on for a long time, if ever."