Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain
1828—1914
Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain
1828—1914
Adaptive equipment, Civil War edition.
Because sometimes you just have to pick a hill to die on, as long you can get up there.
EXT. PETERSBURG, BATTLEFIELD—DAY
The air smelled like gunpowder, and the worst idea the South wanted to fight for. The screaming came in waves, the kind that meant someone was losing something important. A limb. A friend. Their nerves.
COLONEL JOSHUA LAWRENCE CHAMBERLAIN stumbled through the mud, bleeding from everywhere that mattered. He looked like a half-eaten Thanksgiving turkey in army boots. A bullet had torn through him, but not his pride. His gait looked like he was trying to out-dance death with one shoe nailed to the floor.
DRUMMER BOY (panicking, waving arms)
Sir! You’re hit! You need to fall back!
CHAMBERLAIN (gritting his teeth)
Fall back to those assholes?
FUCK THAT!
I’ll fall forward.
CHAMBERLAIN (using his Springfield rifle as a crutch)
USE WHAT YOU HAVE! KEEP MOVING FORWARD!
The men looked at him, half-standing, wholly insane, and charged. Because if this guy can fall forward, they damn well could too.
⸻
A cannon fires in the distance.
Pitch black.
CUT TO: FIELD HOSPITAL TENT—LATER
The tent sweltered with heat thick enough to chew. Flies had already reported for duty. Two surgeons leaned over CHAMBERLAIN, unconscious and marinating in his own suffering. The stretcher smelled like piss-warmed bandages and bad luck.
NURSE (nonchalant)
Chamberlain. Gunshot. Leg amputation scheduled.
DOCTOR #1 (sharpening bone saw)
Give that man some whiskey.
DOCTOR #2 (staring, frowning)
Sir… he’s got two intact legs.
Awkward silence.
DOCTOR #1
You read the chart wrong.
NURSE (checking papers again)
Nope. Chamberlain. Leg amputation.
It’s him.
They glance under the bloodied blanket.
Long, stunned silence.
DOCTOR #1 (softly)
That’s a… Springfield Model 1861.
DOCTOR #2 (quietly, almost impressed)
It really does look like he still has two legs.
CHAMBERLAIN (eyes half-open, wheezing, bloodied grin)
Tell that racist motherfucker, Jeff Davis…
It takes more than a bullet to stop a man with fifty-six inches of Union steel.
⸻
EPILOUGE—VOICEOVER
Minié ball through both hips. Bladder ruptured. Pelvis shattered.
Grant promoted him to general because the newspapers already printed his obituary. He lived another fifty years. Urinating through a hole in his perineum. He was the last man killed in the Civil War.
Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain
1828—1914
Adaptive equipment, Civil War edition.
Because sometimes you just have to pick a hill to die on, as long you can get up there.
EXT. PETERSBURG, BATTLEFIELD—DAY
The air smelled like gunpowder, and the worst idea the South wanted to fight for. The screaming came in waves, the kind that meant someone was losing something important. A limb. A friend. Their nerves.
COLONEL JOSHUA LAWRENCE CHAMBERLAIN stumbled through the mud, bleeding from everywhere that mattered. He looked like a half-eaten Thanksgiving turkey in army boots. A bullet had torn through him, but not his pride. His gait looked like he was trying to out-dance death with one shoe nailed to the floor.
DRUMMER BOY (panicking, waving arms)
Sir! You’re hit! You need to fall back!
CHAMBERLAIN (gritting his teeth)
Fall back to those assholes?
FUCK THAT!
I’ll fall forward.
CHAMBERLAIN (using his Springfield rifle as a crutch)
USE WHAT YOU HAVE! KEEP MOVING FORWARD!
The men looked at him, half-standing, wholly insane, and charged. Because if this guy can fall forward, they damn well could too.
⸻
A cannon fires in the distance.
Pitch black.
CUT TO: FIELD HOSPITAL TENT—LATER
The tent sweltered with heat thick enough to chew. Flies had already reported for duty. Two surgeons leaned over CHAMBERLAIN, unconscious and marinating in his own suffering. The stretcher smelled like piss-warmed bandages and bad luck.
NURSE (nonchalant)
Chamberlain. Gunshot. Leg amputation scheduled.
DOCTOR #1 (sharpening bone saw)
Give that man some whiskey.
DOCTOR #2 (staring, frowning)
Sir… he’s got two intact legs.
Awkward silence.
DOCTOR #1
You read the chart wrong.
NURSE (checking papers again)
Nope. Chamberlain. Leg amputation.
It’s him.
They glance under the bloodied blanket.
Long, stunned silence.
DOCTOR #1 (softly)
That’s a… Springfield Model 1861.
DOCTOR #2 (quietly, almost impressed)
It really does look like he still has two legs.
CHAMBERLAIN (eyes half-open, wheezing, bloodied grin)
Tell that racist motherfucker, Jeff Davis…
It takes more than a bullet to stop a man with fifty-six inches of Union steel.
⸻
EPILOUGE—VOICEOVER
Minié ball through both hips. Bladder ruptured. Pelvis shattered.
Grant promoted him to general because the newspapers already printed his obituary. He lived another fifty years. Urinating through a hole in his perineum. He was the last man killed in the Civil War.
Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain
1828—1914
Adaptive equipment, Civil War edition.
Because sometimes you just have to pick a hill to die on, as long you can get up there.
EXT. PETERSBURG, BATTLEFIELD—DAY
The air smelled like gunpowder, and the worst idea the South wanted to fight for. The screaming came in waves, the kind that meant someone was losing something important. A limb. A friend. Their nerves.
COLONEL JOSHUA LAWRENCE CHAMBERLAIN stumbled through the mud, bleeding from everywhere that mattered. He looked like a half-eaten Thanksgiving turkey in army boots. A bullet had torn through him, but not his pride. His gait looked like he was trying to out-dance death with one shoe nailed to the floor.
DRUMMER BOY (panicking, waving arms)
Sir! You’re hit! You need to fall back!
CHAMBERLAIN (gritting his teeth)
Fall back to those assholes?
FUCK THAT!
I’ll fall forward.
CHAMBERLAIN (using his Springfield rifle as a crutch)
USE WHAT YOU HAVE! KEEP MOVING FORWARD!
The men looked at him, half-standing, wholly insane, and charged. Because if this guy can fall forward, they damn well could too.
⸻
A cannon fires in the distance.
Pitch black.
CUT TO: FIELD HOSPITAL TENT—LATER
The tent sweltered with heat thick enough to chew. Flies had already reported for duty. Two surgeons leaned over CHAMBERLAIN, unconscious and marinating in his own suffering. The stretcher smelled like piss-warmed bandages and bad luck.
NURSE (nonchalant)
Chamberlain. Gunshot. Leg amputation scheduled.
DOCTOR #1 (sharpening bone saw)
Give that man some whiskey.
DOCTOR #2 (staring, frowning)
Sir… he’s got two intact legs.
Awkward silence.
DOCTOR #1
You read the chart wrong.
NURSE (checking papers again)
Nope. Chamberlain. Leg amputation.
It’s him.
They glance under the bloodied blanket.
Long, stunned silence.
DOCTOR #1 (softly)
That’s a… Springfield Model 1861.
DOCTOR #2 (quietly, almost impressed)
It really does look like he still has two legs.
CHAMBERLAIN (eyes half-open, wheezing, bloodied grin)
Tell that racist motherfucker, Jeff Davis…
It takes more than a bullet to stop a man with fifty-six inches of Union steel.
⸻
EPILOUGE—VOICEOVER
Minié ball through both hips. Bladder ruptured. Pelvis shattered.
Grant promoted him to general because the newspapers already printed his obituary. He lived another fifty years. Urinating through a hole in his perineum. He was the last man killed in the Civil War.
Accessibility is the
innovation engine.
Build for edge cases first; the mainstream will follow.
Meet my partners who are part of making the future inclusive.
Accessibility is the
innovation engine.
Build for edge cases first; the mainstream will follow.
Meet my partners who are part of making the future inclusive.
Accessibility is the
innovation engine.
Build for edge cases first;
the mainstream will follow.
Meet my partners who are part of making the future inclusive.
