In May 1865, after the major Confederate armies had surrendered, Sherman wrote in a personal letter:
“i confess, without shame, I am sick and tired of fighting—its glory is all moonshine; even success the most brilliant is over dead and mangled bodies, with the anguish and lamentations of distant families, appealing to me for sons, husbands and fathers
... tis only those who have never heard a shot, never heard the shriek and groans of the wounded and lacerated ... that cry aloud for more blood, more vengeance, more desolation.”
It’s good to know Sherman, one of the most brutal of commanders, was tired of war. I’m tired of war too, and I’ve never waged one. Not against flesh and blood, anyway. But for the first time ever, I was able this year to picture, in a small way, something of what it must have been like to be out on the battlefield for the soldiers in the Civil War. Just realizing in the past few days that I have 3 great great grandfathers who fought in that war, brought it to life for me.
Dan and I went to a Memorial Day service put on by a Civil War reenactment group in the Morris Hill cemetery. That’s where Jordan is buried, and where we will be interred someday, alongside him. We arrived for the event freshly showered and shampooed, dressed in clean, comfortable clothing. I thought of how sweaty, and grimy, and hot, or cold, and hungry, and frightened the soldiers were as they marched and camped, marched and camped, day after day, sometimes for months on end! Three times yesterday, the crowd watched and heard the soldiers load, then fire their guns in a three gun salute. They had to reload after each shot, which took a surprisingly long time. They would have been defenseless during the time they spent reloading those one-shot muzzle loaders. There were 12 to 15 men who fired their weapons yesterday, and it was plenty loud. We commented on how overwhelming the din would have been with thousands of soldiers firing their weapons, of the smoke that would have hung over the battlefield, and of the resulting screams of pain that would inevitably have followed. I thought of my three grandfather soldiers, who were far from grandfathers at the time, as I read the following: In the four years of war (1861-1865), over six million men joined the fight, and more than half a million never made it home. Historian Shelby Foote wrote, that for every two men who marched up Pennsylvania Avenue in the Grand Review, the ghost of a third marched with them. In a letter home, spectator Ellen Hooper said "It was a sad day too--you felt as if there were another army--larger and finer--marching above them." Two of my ancestor-soldiers, James Henry Smith and John Chason made it home safely after the war. Young John Sims, however, did not. He was killed in the Battle of Gaines’ Mill, in Hanover, Virginia, on June 27, 1862. His wife, Priscilla, was left to raise their son, John Samuel Sims, born in 1861, without him. No longer oblivious to their sacrifices, I am willing to make some of my own, in an effort to greet them in the future on an equal footing. Thank you, to all my loved ones who have gone on before. I hope to honor you in a special way, by seeing that your temple ordinances are complete. I’m also grateful to the Baird family for sharing their annual Memorial Day gathering with Shane. Their example inspires us to build more meaning into this day as well.
