(This, they say over and over) it is the thought Of being buried as they bury us here After a battle. Sometimes they barely cover us. I feel sick when I think of getting buried like that, Though if nothing except our death will rescue our Union, You can trust us to die for it.” And, through it all, the deep diapason swelling, “It is cold. We are hungry. We marched all day in the mud. We could barely stand when we got back into camp. Don’t believe a thing the newspapers say about us. It’s all damn lies. We are willing to die for our Union, But I wish you could all of you see what this is like, Nobody at home can imagine what it is like. We are ready to fight. We know we can fight and win. But why will they waste us in fights that cannot be won? When will we get a man that can really lead us?” These are the articulate that write the letters. The inarticulate merely undergo. There are times of good food and times of campfire jokes,