You’d marched a long way, Johnny, before I met you at a place called Gettysburg. How you lived coming across that big open field I’ll never understand; the artillery cut huge gaps in your lines, but on you came. You had fired your one round, and on you came with only a bayonet to face me — I looked in your eyes as I fired that mini ball into your heart and saw the lights go out and that you looked a lot like me.

We might have been friends, you and I; I doubt that you were over 18, but I was infantry and our job was to kill you. God help me, I’ll see those eyes all my life on Earth; though I never knew you, I’ll always remember you.

I understand that in later years, they will tear down that little memorial to you and thousands like you, or seek to do so. I hated the memorials to the so-called “lost cause,” but why should you not be remembered? Didn’t the mothers cry whether Union or Confederate? I would fight again that all men should be free, but Johnny, let them remember you and your courage. I hope we meet before our Lord Jesus Christ, where I will find peace.

Written for a Union infantryman by a friend.