It was 1862, at least here it was. And by the looks of things late January-early February. I should have been in Hawaii, an island in the Pacific Ocean of that time, between Asia and old America. Obviously, I was not. The vegetation was definitely not tropical, nor was the cimate. Quite inhospitable, in my opinion. I was no expert on old world geogrpahy, but I had studied enough to know that I was in the United States of America in the states of perhaps Kentucky or Tennessee.

I wandered about a bit, feeling sorry for myself and wondering what God had put a curse on me this time. It was 1862--but how could it be? I was 32 years old and had been born in 2273. Let me attempt to explain.

For the millionth time in history, a democracy had been taken over by a dictatorship. Indeed, who was to say which was better? Unfortunately, I had been the leader of the democracy (The Democratic Republic of Millard--ORM) and when the dictatroship took over I became the most wanted man on earth. My escape was an experiment--one that men had been working on since, well since right around now. A time machine--however imprecise. The transporting mechanism was apparently out of order and so my position remained unchanged. But no one would ever follow me here--that was the most important thing.

I could enjoy myself in a time of peace and quite--before even the automobile had been invented. And perhaps after a time I could travel to Hawaii. Such were my thoughts on that day. It never occurred to me that history might interrupt my vacation. Or that this was the beginning of a new lifestyle--one that no one had ever tried before.

My first sign was a distant rumble, an unusual one as the sky was a deep blue. I often wonder why I did not run when I suddenly realized where I was--and what the rumble was. Perhaps I had a premonition that I was needed, perhaps I wanted to get in on the action. In any case, I his and watched.

This was the civial war and the most important battle of the whole conflict. As some say, it was being played out before my eyes. And I was on the losing side.

A young man of eighteen or twenty fell into the underbrush where I was. The Confederate, the Johnny Reb, wasn't even dead. In my time he wouldn't have been eve near it, but with only the instruments of the nineteenth century, he had no chance. But I did, and under his painfilled eyes, I stripped him and put on his clothes.

"Pa," he cried deliriously. "Tell me I done good. Y'aint never--Pa . . ." his eyes rolled back inside his head.

I knew he couldn't hear me, he'd never hear anyone again, but something in me demanded I answer his plea.

"Ya done good, son, ya done good."

A tear dropped fomr his eye.

The smoke blurred my own vision for a minute, then I entered the battlefield. This was no battlefield I had ever fought on. The rules had changed, but somehow I survived. Dusk fell. I followed my comrades in arms back to camp amidst stray Yankee bullets. My hand clutched the ancient rifle determindely. I had shot no one all day, but I was ready to do so now, if need be.

I slept at Ft. Henry with General U.S. Grant very probably no more than a rifle shot away.

I awoke with a start. Something had changed. It took several moments to figure out what. All was quiet. I sat up and wiped the newly acquired sweat away from my forehead.

A fire was flickering two feet away. I walked over to it and found myself considerably cramped.

"Comes from sleeping on the ground, in a uniform all night, Private," said a voice behind me as I stretched.

"Armstrong," I said. An old pseudonym of mine. "Private John Armstrong." A good safe name. "My friends call me Jack."

"Sergeant William Brett. My friends call me Brill."

I nodded.

"when was the last time you had some good old grits and honey?" Brill was more dreaming than asking, I think.

I couldn't recall that I had ever eaten honey and grits. I said, "too long."

"Me, too. Have some hardtack." I dubiously took the piece of charcol he offered me. I don't think anything quite matched my mood as that hardtack.

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