The Edges of War

I wish I could tell you the story in its full form. What it was like to stand on the battlefield with shells exploding and men screaming. I wish I could tell you what it felt like to hold my best friend as he whispered for me to tell his fiancee how much he loved her, and that she should live happily. Then, he kissed me on the cheek and drew his final breath. I can tell you the story, yes. And I will. But words can only circle the edges of what war truly feels like.

—

I was an eighteen-year-old pimple-faced youth when the Civil War began. And I couldn’t wait to join the Union Army. My daddy told me that “War is horror, son. Even when it’s needed, like this war. It’s still a travesty.”

I didn’t know the meaning of “travesty” then. Life wasn’t always easy, but it was good enough. We lived on a farm in Pennsylvania, about a two-hour horse ride outside of Philadelphia. Our neighbors were family or friends. Summers were warm, winters harsh, but we had food on the table and a roof over our heads.

But there was no doubt in my mind about joining the Army when news reached us about the war. My best friend Charles and I had already talked it over a dozen times. He was taller, stronger, and two months older than me, which meant he liked to act the part of a wiser man. He told me, “Ezekiel, the first thing we do after enlistin’ is get ourselves some proper boots. Can’t fight in worn-out soles.” We laughed at that, because neither of us had ever worn anything that might be called “proper.”

Mama cried, however, when I told her. Her brother had died in the Mexican-American War, and she still carried that grief like a stone in her chest. She knew the sound of Army men knocking at the door to bring “news,” knew what it was to fall to your knees and cry until there were no tears left.

My parents named me after her brother. Ezekiel. Like the man from the Bible. Which I never read.

—

The first time we saw battle was near a little Virginia town. It’s funny how memory works. I can’t even tell you the name of the place where we fought.

Going into the battle was nothing like I thought it was going to be when I was still a tough-talking civilian. I understood now, as we walked on to the grassy knoll right after dawn on a warm summer morning, that I’d be shooting at another human, someone with a family, perhaps even a wife, maybe even children. That person might have the same eye color as me, might like the same jokes. Man, he might even be a cousin. I also understood now that he would be shooting at me. The bullet would whiz past my ears, I hoped. The nerves hit me hard before stepping on the battlefield for that first time. I puked twice. I like to think of it as once for good measure, once for good luck.

We had been told how important the war was. Slavery needed to end. It was a sin and a stain on our beautiful country. They were right, I agreed with them. But heroism is always easier in theory. It’s when you have to face the bullet that heroism becomes hard. And let me tell you, it was hard. Harder than any words could prepare you for.

All that was forgotten when the battle began. No time for philosophy now. War, at its simplest, is men yelling and men shooting. And then, there is the death. Boys I’d just shared bread with lying face down in the mud. Rivers of red running through what had been that beautiful grassy knoll. The field was scattered with bodies, in blue and gray uniforms alike, and I remember thinking how still they looked. The mind doesn’t comprehend that those men had been smiling only hours before.

We were told that we had won that battle. I remember thinking that was an odd choice of words. Was that really a victory? So much death. Yes, I was told. It was. Daddy’s words were beginning to make sense.

—

The war continued, each battle blurring into the next. Days of marching in the Virginia heat, sweat soaking our wool uniforms until they stank of salt and dirt. Nights spent under canvas, or sometimes with nothing but the stars for cover.

Charles stayed my anchor through it all. He’d tell me stories about the girl he loved back home, Sarah. He carried a small locket with her photograph, which he had spent his last dollar to have taken. He’d show it to me after every fight, as if reminding himself there was a world beyond smoke and mud.“If I make it home, Zeke, I’m marrying her under the biggest oak tree in Chester County,” he used to say.

But war doesn’t care about promises.

It was at Antietam that everything broke. They say now it was the bloodiest single day in American history. That morning began with dew on the Cornfield, and soon the battle began. We advanced shoulder to shoulder, rifled muskets clutched so tight my knuckles ached. Artillery roared, shaking the earth, and the air was alive with the hiss of minie balls. By nightfall, more than twenty thousand men lay dead or wounded across the fields.

I lost sight of Charles in the smoke, then found him again, crouched beside a tree, reloading. His face was pale, but his hands were steady. He grinned when he saw me. “Still alive, eh?” he shouted over the din.

Minutes later, a bullet tore through his side. I dropped my musket and caught him before he fell. Blood spread across his uniform in a widening circle. That was our goodbye.

I held him until the line pushed forward and I had to let him go in the trampled corn until the battle ended and I could come back.

—

The war continued for years after that, but part of me ended at Antietam. I fought on, yes. I marched, I fired, I survived. And I did believe in our mission. But I carried Charles with me, and the weight never lightened. The wonder of how humans could do this to one another never left.

I returned to Pennsylvania a changed man when the war finally ended. I had learned the meaning of “travesty.” I had lived it.

Mama and Daddy happened to be sitting outside on the porch of our home when I trudged up to the house from the long gravel road. I walked up to daddy, the tears flowing down my cheeks like a river’s dream. He knew, he understood. He hugged me and put his hand on the back of my head, kissed my forehead, and said, “You’re home, son. And slavery is no more.”

—

People ask sometimes what it was like, fighting in that war. I can tell them the facts of the battles, the generals, the numbers of dead. But the truth of it lives in memory: the sound of Charles laughing by the campfire, the way his face looked in that last moment, the stillness of bodies on a green knoll turned red.

I wish I could tell you the story in its full form. But words can only circle the edges of what war truly feels like.

—

Notes:

• “The Edges of War” is a historical fiction snapshot. While based on real events, the story, characters, and incidents are fictitious.
• Read another historical fiction snapshot.