Before too much time had passed, we had all changed our minds, had given up on dreams of glory and were fighting only to win. And not too much longer after that, all that was on our minds was a good cool drink of water; and before it was over, all any of us wanted was simply to get back home. How much of it was hate, and how much love? In our expedition, there was plenty of both. Our commanders, Thomas Jefferson Green (named for his great-uncle in Virginia) and Captain William S. Fisher, were adept from the start at braiding the two together, love and hate, in such a fashion as ultimately to possess us. We became a rope that they kept coiled, and then used for their purposes—Thomas Jefferson Green pursuing love, I think, while Fisher was intent on chasing down his hatred. It’s a miracle that any of us got out alive, and though I was only sixteen when they came riding through, asking for volunteers, I do not hold them accountable for my own free-will choice. They were just passing through: one counseling patriotism, the other vengeance.
