Little jacket little jacket little jacket.
This phrase sounded in our head.
A star flickered off, then on.
Same one he is wearing back in there, now.
Huh.
Same little jacket. But he who is wearing it is—
(I so want it not to be true.)
Broken.
Pale broken thing.
Why will it not work. What magic word made it work. Who is the keeper of that word. What did it profit Him to switch this one off. What a contraption it is. How did it ever run. What spark ran it. Grand little machine. Set up just so. Receiving the spark, it jumped to life.
What put out that spark? What a sin it would be. Who would dare. Ruin such a marvel. Hence is murder anathema. God forbid I should ever commit such a grievous—
hans vollman
Something then troubling us— roger bevins iii
We ran one hand roughly over our face, as if attempting to suppress a notion just arising.
hans vollman
This effort not proving successful— roger bevins iii
The notion washed over us.
hans vollman
XLVII.
Young Willie Lincoln was laid to rest on the day that the casualty lists from the Union victory at Fort Donelson were publicly posted, an event that caused a great shock among the public at that time, the cost in life being unprecedented thus far in the war.
In “Setting the Record Straight: Memoir, Error, and Evasion,” by Jason Tumm, “Journal of American History.”
The details of the losses were communicated to the President even as young Willie lay under embalmment.
Iverness, op. cit.
More than a thousand troops on both sides were killed and three times that number wounded. It was “a most bloody fight,” a young Union soldier told his father, so devastating to his company that despite the victory, he remained “sad, lonely and down-hearted.” Only seven of the eighty-five men in his unit survived.
Goodwin, op. cit.
The dead at Donelson, sweet Jesus. Heaped and piled like threshed wheat, one on top of two on top of three. I walked through it after with a bad feeling. Lord it was me done that, I thought.
In “These Battle Memories,” by First Lieutenant Daniel Brower.
A thousand dead. That was something new. It seemed a real war now.
In “The Great War, as Described by Its Warriors,” by Marshall Turnbull.
The dead lay as they had fallen, in every conceivable shape, some grasping their guns as though they were in the act of firing, while others, with a cartridge in their icy grasp, were in the act of loading. Some of the countenances wore a peaceful, glad smile, while on others rested a fiendish look of hate. It looked as though each countenance was the exact counterpart of the thoughts that were passing through the mind when the death messenger laid them low. Perhaps that noble-looking youth, with his smiling upturned face, with his glossy ringlets matted with his own life-blood, felt a mother’s prayer stealing over his senses as his young life went out. Near him lay a young husband with a prayer for his wife and little one yet lingering on his lips. Youth and age, virtue and evil, were represented on those ghastly countenances. Before us lay the charred and blackened remains of some who had been burnt alive. They were wounded too badly to move and the fierce elements consumed them.
In “The Civil War Years: A Day-by-Day Chronicle of the Life of a Nation,” edited by Robert E. Denney, account of Corporal Lucius W. Barber, Co. D, 15th Illinois Volunteer Infantry, combatant at Fort Donelson.
I had never seen a dead person before. Now I saw my fill. One poor lad had frozen solid in the posture of looking down aghast at his wound, eyes open. Some of his insides had spilled out and made, there on his side, under a thin coat of ice, a blur of purple and red. At home on my dressing table was a holy card of the Sacred Heart of Jesus, and this fellow looked like that, only his bulge of red and purple was lower and larger and off to one side and him gazing down at it in horror.
In “That Terrible Glory: A Collection of Civil War Letters from the Men Who Fought It,” compiled and edited by Brian Bell and Libby Trust.
And Mother fire had swep through the frozen dead and hurt where they lay. We found one still kicking among them and was able to bring him back still alive not even knowing which side he was on, so burned was he, and naked except for one leg of his pants. I never did hear how he made out. But it did not look hopeful for that poor divil.
In “Letters of an Illinois Soldier,” edited by Sam Westfall, account of Private Edward Gates, Co. F, 15th Illinois Volunteer Infantry.
Two or three of us would grab a fellow and haul him away just as we found him, as it was cold and the bodies were completely froze. That day I learned a person can get used to anything. Soon it all seemed normal to us, and we even joked about it, making up names for each, depending on how it looked. There was BentOver, there was Shocked, this was Half-Boy.