ASSPg1

You cannot qualify war in harsher terms than I will. War is cruelty, and you cannot refine it; and those who
brought war into our country deserve all the curses and maledictions a people can pour out - William Tecumseh
Sherman, on the American Civil War.

Olin Fitzgerald flung his gun over his back and fell in with his regiment when they heard the call to pull out. Fire
raged all around him and it looked as though he had been swallowed down into the bowels of hell. He covered
most of his face with his shirt so he could breathe easier, blocking out the putrid odors from the smoldering
belongings of those who once called this wasteland home. Thick black smoke hung heavy in the early morning
air and he could see nothing unless it was right beside him. Ash rained from the sky and blanketed his clothing
and hair, turning them a ghostly gray. The earth trembled beneath his feet and downtown Atlanta moaned in
agony as Sherman laid waste to all that was once prosperous and beautiful.

He had been a soldier for over a year now, serving in the Ohio Army under General J. M. Schofield, enticed into
service by heroic tales of soldiers at Gettysburg and gallant acts of bravery at Petersburg. All the grand visions
were fading with each step he took South, leaving him feeling mislead, cheated, and overwhelmed. There were
no heroics, no noble deeds. It all seemed poison to Olin - the unanswered cries of despair lifting up to the
heavens, the annihilation of righteous men and a senseless destruction of all that was good in this land.

He refused to join the others as they sang some song about John Brown. Olin didn't know the words and didn't
want to know them.

'Olin, look," Avery said and pointed to a mass of old men, women, and children heading east out of the city. 'I
heard General Sherman told them to get out. Damn Confederate devils."

Olin pitied the ash-covered refugees as they carried, pushed or pulled all they owned to walk God knows where
and for only God knew how long. He could hear children crying and women praying. He was glad he didn't have
look them in the eyes.

"They don't look too much like devils to me," Olin said. "Where do you suppose they're going?"

"Damned if I know," Avery said. "To hell most likely. Ain't that where devils live?"

"But there are children," Olin said. "And some women."

"Why do you always have to be so uppity?" Avery asked. "They started this whole damn mess. They deserve
what they get."

Olin was tired of talking to Avery, even though for once he made sense. He was tired of walking with Avery,
tired of eating with Avery, tired of being dirty with Avery, and most of all, he was tired of being in Georgia with
Avery. He missed his books, Sunday Church meetings, and especially his mother. At last he understood why she
kept him in school when the other boys were home, working in the fields. He didn't want to seem uppity, but
when compared with the rest of the group, he was. Avery was his only friend, if developing actual friends was
possible on this infernal march. Sometimes another soldier would ask Olin to write a letter home for them, but
other than those infrequent requests, any conversations he had were with Avery.

It was unbearably hot - a kind of hot Olin never felt before, and although he tried to describe the intense
lung-scorching heat in letters to home, he never quite found the right words - and that was before the fires
started.

They'd camped in this Godforsaken state for two months and had only encountered sporadic Confederate
defensives since they seized Decatur back in July. A shell had grazed his shoulder and he'd spent a few hours in
the infirmary to get patched up. That's were he met Avery, the tall, lanky boy from somewhere in Northern
Ohio. Avery had said the name of the town many times but Olin didn't care enough to remember. He was just
trying to be polite, but ever since they met, it was as if they were attached at the hip.

He stepped cautiously over the charred rubble that blocked his path. The land was still hot and smoldering in
some spots and sometimes those places couldn't be easily seen until it was too late. The chimneys and smokes
stacks were the only reminders of a grandeur that was no more. They jutted out of the smoky earth as though
pushed from the netherworld by Satan himself, monuments to a new hell on earth.

As they left the center of the city, more dwellings appeared unscathed by the flames but were still covered with
ash. A strange feeling rushed through him when he passed a church. The vacant building with its magnificent
stained glass windows now broken reminded Olin of his faith, which faltered more and more with each passing
day, replaced by repulsion for this war and his fellow man.

He didn't know how long they walked until they reached camp on the edge of town, but those long rows of tents
were the best thing he'd seen all day. He ate his dinner of potatoes, boiled cabbage and bread and wondered
what his ma was fixing for dinner.

* * *
The anticipated defensive by the Confederate army never materialized and Olin's sergeant called out the orders
to pack up and move out. He told them they were heading east, but gave no explanation for the decision.

"I heard where we're going," Avery whispered once he caught up with Olin.

"Where?"

"Savannah," Avery answered. "I heard say it's near the ocean. I ain't never seen the ocean. Have you?"

"Nope," Olin said. "What's in Savannah?"

"I don't know," Avery answered.