“I can’t believe they’ve done this to us. I really can’t.” Gerald paced back and forth in front of the fire gnawing on his fingernails as he spoke. “We’re putting our lives on the line for Southern Independence and those bastards won’t even let us have a damned drink!”
“Sober man makes a better shot.” Retorted Clarence from inside their tent.
“Dammit all, Clarence!” Gerald shouted back. It’d been less than a day since the general order came down banning all beer sales in Memphis, and he was well into the throws of withdrawal. “It’s not like I’d be walking across the field of battle lit up like a Christmas tree!”
“Really? Because I sure would be. That’d be the only way it’d make any sense to me.”
“Pffft.” Gerald scoffed at Clarence. “What I wouldn’t give for a good beer or some corn whiskey or maybe, maybe even some of that gin the captain’s always sippin’ on.”
From inside the tent, Clarence could see the sweat standing out on Gerald’s brow.
“I think you might have a problem, Gerald.”
“And I think you might just need to shut the hell up, Clarence.” He said, just before throwing up again.
General Order #7 issued by the Provost Marshall of Memphis in the summer of 1862 forbade the sale of beer in Memphis. Apparently the enlisted men stationed here were doing little but drinking themselves into the gutter, and the Confederate Army had had enough.
(Beer is a four letter word, by the way.)