I am not American so I actually had to do quite the research for this. Please don’t penalize me
“What do you mean no?”
Alexander furrowed his eyebrows at your figure, placing the quill pen down. He seemed genuinely confused.
“Why…?” He blinked. “I’m sorry, Y/N, but was this an actual serious question?”
You scowled at his indifference. “Yes, I’m serious!”
His face remained passive. “Are you asking me to give you permission to fight in the war, Y/N?”
“Yes,” Your hands remained slammed on the desk.
Alexander looked like he was still not comprehending. “Are you feeling ill?”
You sighed in irritation, anger slowly simmering. “No, Alexander. This isn’t a joke, I am not mental, nor am I sick.”
Alexander seemed to finally understand and his face morphed into an unimpressed expression.
“If you’ve finished entertaining yourself with your delusions Y/N, please shut the door behind you-”
“I can fight!” You blurted. “I’ve even been taking shooting lessons. I am more than prepared for this.”
His mouth opened in surprise, and anger. “Who-?”
“Unimportant,” You interrupted, knowing that if you told him who had taught you such things you were literally signing their death sentence yourself.
“And I suppose you would hide your weapon underneath your dress?” There was a thick mocking tone in his voice as he rested his chin in his palm.
You flushed. “Of course not. A dress would be a ridiculous garment to wear in battle, not to mention impractical. I would wear a uniform.”
“A woman in pants? A woman in war?” Alexander laughed in mirth, his tussles of hair moving with him. “I begin to wonder if I am dreaming.”
“Alex please,” You said. “I cannot merely sit by! This is my country as well!”
“What you are asking is the heights of insanity, Y/N!” He lost his composure as well, hotheadedness butting yours.
“I’m your friend-”
“Which is why I am cutting your idiocy from now. Now go.”
“That is an order Y/L/N.”
You balked at the use of your last name, clenching your jaw. “Yes, Hamilton, sir.”
You turned swiftly and walked through the door, fists trembling.
You were not throwing away your shot.
“Sir!” The collective voices rang out, a deep sound, soldiers lined up in every row.
Your chest heaved.
A cold bead of sweat slid down your neck as your voice was lost in the thousands. In your far-sight you could see the esteemed General walking with purpose, belting out orders.
Stay out of sight, stay out of sight, keep your head low, the words repeated over in your mind.
You bit your lip hard, sharp iron flooding your mouth. Your cap was low over your eyes, your bust bounded tight against your chest.
This was it.
After everything, this was it. The risk to steal a uniform. The expense of smuggling your way into the ranks. The nagging of your conscience as you knocked out a man to take their gun.
Fortunately, you hadn’t been detected. In all the rushed preparation and chaos, there was no real order. And if anything, the more soldiers the better to fight, so you had managed to slip in undetected.
“Take the bullets out your gun!” A voice all too familiar rang out. You cringed more into yourself, making sure to blend into the mass human fodder. “We move undercover and we move as one!”
Except this wasn’t the haughty, intelligent voice of the man you knew as your friend. This was the cold cut, demanding command of a war general. Alexander was no longer Alexander in that moment.
You already knew the plan. The troops were to fix bayonets and to unload their muskets, in fear that an accidental discharge would alert the British. You would move through the night to launch the surprise on the enemy, accompanied by the French on the other side of the Bay to sandwich the British.
And you would head straight into the enemy ranks.
The first explosion lit up the night, ripping through the silence.
For a second your breath hitched in the calm as you registered exactly what that meant. The signal. The battle had begun.
Then everything went to chaos.
Gunfire exploded all around, vibrating through to your very soul. You froze, watching every sense of sanity unravel before your eyes. Someone bumped into you, making you almost fall over, but it knocked you out of your daze. You had no time to be scared. This was it.
Your fingers rapidly loaded the chambers of your rifle, slipping due to the sweat covering your entire body. The fatal explosions never let up, as the very earth itself was shaken. You rolled to the ground, gravel hard and scraping underneath your palms. It was lucky you did, as several detonations tore apart the very spot you had been standing on. Your heart leapt into your throat but you forced down any and all inhibitions, ice running through your veins.
The only sound you registered was your heartbeat pounding away at your skull, your breathing shallow. You peered over your cover, vision tunneling in on the other side, the uniforms easy to distinguish even among-st all the fighting. Only one word flashed in your mind.
You drew the hammer back into full-cock position before pulling the trigger.
You’d been at it for three weeks.
Your clothes were in tatters at this point, and you found yourself glad there were so many layers to the outfit. One of your legs had lost all feeling, and you were sure you needed medical attention for a gash in your abdomen, but this was all insignificant, the adrenaline keeping you going.
The troops had driven the British back, capturing the redoubts one after another. The column lead by Laurens had rushed to the rear and cut off British retreat.
Yorktown had been fully bombarded. Like promised, the French cut off the British’s escape by sea, blocking Chesapeake Bay, led by commander Lafayette.
Artillery was used day and night, the battlefield littered with rotting corpses, red bathing almost everything you could see. Showers of blinding sparks rained from the cannons.
You ducked into another trench, wincing as a shot grazed your ankle, but continuing nonetheless.
“Grenade!” The cry sent your blood cold. “Move!”
And move you did. Nearby soldiers scattered like ants. You ran as fast as you could, but the damage to your ankle was worst than you thought and you stumbled along. Just as you thought hope was lost, a firm hold took grip on your arm, and you were roughly dragged westwards.
You hit the floor with your savior, the grenade exploding somewhere long behind you, accompanied with horrid screams. Tears blurred your vision as the hand on your arm tightened.
“Are you crazy?” The voice demanded, rough. “Just standing there? Get up soldier! Now!”
You lifted your head only for you to go breathless for the thousandth time since the battle had begun. But this time for a completely different reason.
Alexander stared, eyes wild emotionless in a state of war. There was a cut extending from his hairline to his jaw, his eyes a swirl of bitter coffee and lips set in a firm line. You watched his face slowly morph, those detached eyes filling with raw emotion.
“Y/N??” He said, choking. You had cut your hair to your ear length and there was dirt and matted blood all over both of your features, but it wasn’t nearly enough for him to not recognize you.
His shock turned to utter confusion but it wasn’t long before both were traded with a burning fury. You didn’t wait for him to possibly kill you, using his surprise to escape his hold.
Your name was yelled behind you but you didn’t look back once, hugging your gun close to your chest and rushing to help load more cannons.
You couldn’t believe it.
Another day had passed of firing artillery at the British fort. The sun had just peaked over the horizon, when something caught your eye that made you stop in your tracks.
A young man in a redcoat stood on top a parapet, frantically waving a white handkerchief.
A hush washed over the city as an officer from American lines ran and met the other, and tied the handkerchief over his eyes.
Firing ceased totally.
What went next went by so quickly you almost didn’t catch it.
George Washington negotiated terms of surrender, his large figure seeming almost reverent as he stood before the ruins.
“We won,” you murmured.
Then pure elation flooded your senses.
We escort their men out of Yorktown
They stagger home single file
Tens of thousands of people flood the streets There are screams and church bells ringing
And as our fallen foes retreat I hear the drinking song they’re singing…
And everything had been worth it. Everything had been entirely, absolutely worth it - oh god you had won!!
You joined in the celebration, losing yourself to the sensation of togetherness and ultimate victory, streams of tears running down your face.
And yet again, a hand gripped your arm.
The next shout got caught in your throat. You tilted your head back only to meet inflamed brown eyes.
Alexander Hamilton gritted his teeth. “Y/N.”
Your mouth opened but nothing came out. He dragged you out from the main crowd to the side of a building.
“What were you thinking?”
His voice was low, calm. You grew even more terrified. Alexander was easily provoked, easy to blow up. Except now he wasn’t.
And again, you were terrified.
“I-” Your voice broke and you grimaced as his unwavering stare pinned you to the wall. The celebration was still going on, voices of joy that were oblivious to your plight.
“What could you possibly have to say to me?” He simmered. “Y/N, I could put you in jail. There are strict penalties for this.”
“Not only did you go against a definite order from a commander,” He counted off on his fingers, each one making you cringe further into yourself. “You impersonated a male soldier - knocked out one mind you - and stole a weapon of the government.”
“You wouldn’t let me go,” You said defiantly and even you knew that was a weak argument.
“And why do you think?” He rebutted. He gestured to your state, your injuries and the way you could barely stand on your feet. “This is exactly what I didn’t want to happen!”
“I can take care of myself, Alexander!”
“Well clearly you can’t!”
“We won,” You bit out. “Can’t you just accept that fact? Why are you so obsessed with control??!”
“Because you’re hurt!”
You blinked at that, chest heaving. “What?”
Alexander hissed, grabbing his hair roughly and looking away from you to glare at the air. “You’re hurt Y/N.”
You pursed your lips. “We were just in war, Alexander.”
“One you should have never been involved in!” His nails dug into his palms, drawing blood. His eyes were going all over now, and you could sense him panicking. “If I had just kept a better watch - If I had been better I could’ve prevented you from going-!”
“Alexander,” You hesitantly put a palm on his shoulder. He locked eye contact with you abruptly. You took in a breath to dissipate your remaining anger.
“What?” He was still riled up.
“I’m breathing,” You said slowly, cautiously reaching for his hand. When he didn’t move it, you took it in one of your shaking ones, pressing his finger tips to your diaphragm where he could feel the breath entering and leaving you. “I’m breathing. I may not be in the best of shape, but I’m still alive. In fact, from what I remember, you saved my life back there. You’ve done more than enough.”
His eyes searched yours, as if looking for something there. You didn’t know what he could be searching for but couldn’t break yourself from his intense stare.
And you had no idea who leant in first, but the next second you were kissing. His hands cupped your cheeks as his lips moved harshly with yours. You had no complaint, returning the affection with just as much passion, tangling your fingers in his hair.
The rough, open mouthed exchanges took a turn after that, turning to something sweeter, softer. It slowed down as well, and you found that there was something more there than just an exchange of lust.
His lips brushed yours now lightly, over and over before breaking off with a breath of relief between your mouths.
“Don’t do that again, Y/N,” He said tiredly, resting his forehead to yours.
You couldn’t help the exasperated laugh. “I don’t think I’m planning on joining another war anytime soon, Alexander.”
He chuckled. “You better not.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, mind rolling over the recent events, repressing the images of war for now, only focusing on how Alexander’s hand felt interlocking with yours.
Lafayette had never before been under fire, but he behaved like a veteran. Jumping off his horse, he did all he could to make the men around him charge. The Frenchmen among them fixed their bayonets; and Lafayette urged them forward, pushing some of them by the shoulder. The Americans were not used to this kind of fighting and refused to obey. They did, however, staunchly stand their ground, while Stirling reformed his brigade slightly to the rear. Here they fought until the enemy were within twenty yards of them.
Lafayette in America by Louis Gottschalk. The Marquis’ first battle was at the Battle of Brandywine, five days after his 20th birthday.
Orthodox tradition holds that the Holy Fire is a miracle that happens annually on the day preceding OrthodoxEaster,
in which a blue light emanates within Jesus Christ’s tomb (usually
rising from the marble slab covering the stone bed believed to be that
upon which Jesus’ body was placed for burial) now in the Holy Sepulchre,
which eventually forms a column containing a form of fire, from which
candles are lit, which are then used to light the candles of the clergy
and pilgrims in attendance. The fire is also said to spontaneously light
other lamps and candles around the church.Pilgrims and clergy claim that the Holy Fire does not burn them.
While the Patriarch is inside the chapel kneeling in front of the
stone, there is darkness but far from silence outside. One hears a
rather loud mumbling, and the atmosphere is very tense. When the
Patriarch comes out with the two candles lit and shining brightly in the
darkness, a roar of jubilation resounds in the Church.
The Holy Fire is brought to certain Orthodox countries, such as Greece by special flights, being received by church and state leaders.
The Orthodox hegumenDaniil (Daniel),
who was present at the ceremony in 1106 AD, says that traditional
beliefs “that the Holy Ghost descends upon the Holy Sepulchre in the
form of a dove” and “that it is lightning from heaven which kindles the
lamps above the Sepulchre of the Lord” are untrue, “but the Divine grace
comes down unseen from heaven, and lights the lamps of the Sepulchre of
Thousands of pilgrims gather in Jerusalem to partake and witness this annual miracle.
The historian Eusebius writes in his Vita Constantini, which dates from around 328, about an interesting occurrence in Jerusalem
of Easter in the year 162. When the church wardens were about to fill
the lamps to make them ready to celebrate the resurrection of Christ,
they suddenly noticed that there was no more oil left to pour in the
lamps. Upon this, Bishop Narcissus of Jerusalem
ordered the candles to be filled with water. He then told the wardens
to ignite them. In front of the eyes of all present every single lamp
burned as if filled with pure oil.Christian Orthodox tradition holds that this miracle, which predates
the construction of the Holy Sepulchre in the fourth Century, is related
to the Miracle of the Holy Fire. They admit that the two differ, as the
former was a one-time occurrence while the Miracle of the Holy Fire
occurs every year. However, they have in common premise that God has
produced fire where there logically speaking should have been none.
Around 385 Egeria, a noble woman from Spain, traveled to Palestine.
In the account of her journey, she speaks of a ceremony by the Holy
Sepulchre of Christ, where a light comes forth (ejicitur) from the small
chapel enclosing the tomb, by which the entire church is filled with an
infinite light (lumen infinitum).
Despite these previous instances, the Holy Fire is believed to have been first recorded by the Christian pilgrim Bernard the Wise (Bernardus Monachus) in 876.
In 1099, the failure of Crusaders to obtain the fire led to street riots in Jerusalem.
On May 3, 1834, the Muslim governor Ibrahim Pasha of Egypt
exited the packed church by commanding his guards to slice a way out,
the Church was so packed that a stampede added to the deaths which
totaled four hundred. This was reported by Robert Curzon.
On April 26, 1856, James Finn watched Greek pilgrims battling Armenians with concealed sticks and stones. The pasha was carried out before his soldiers charged with fixed bayonets.
Part of the Union II Corps defending Cemetery Ridge from Confederate assault, the 1st Minnesota charges with fixed bayonets during the second day of Gettysburg. Taking grievous casualties, their action nevertheless bought vital time for the rest of the Corps to reform and reinforce their lines and stave off the Confederate onslaught.
SILENT DRILL PLATOON
The Marine Corps Silent Drill Platoon is a 24-man rifle platoon that performs a unique precision drill exhibition. This highly disciplined platoon exemplifies the professionalism associated with the United States Marine Corps.
The Silent Drill Platoon first performed in the Sunset Parades of 1948 and received such an overwhelming response that it soon became a regular part of the parades at Marine Barracks Washington, D.C.
The Marines execute a series of calculated drill movements and precise handling of their hand-polished, 10-and-one-half pound, M1 Garand rifles with fixed bayonets. The routine concludes with a unique rifle inspection sequence demonstrating elaborate rifle spins and tosses. Semper Fidelis!