EXCERPT:
In the silent darkness, spread out in the night across the Maryland fields, I look upon thousands upon thousands of little points of light — small brown bags, each with a flickering candle. One for every dead or wounded soldier both North and South. On this first Saturday in December, volunteers have risen early, as they have for the past 15 years, to prepare this one-night citizen ceremony. Elderly widows, retired generals, and entry-level clerks place the bags across the Antietam battlefield and light each candle by dusk. The tiny flames float in the dark, their twinkling pattern undulating across the gentle hills; it is a haunting image, profoundly moving.
Most Americans think of D-Day as our nation’s benchmark for carnage. Yet that most massive amphibious assault, the product of months of planning by the greatest armies ever assembled, does not begin to compare to the moment-of-opportunity battle fought in a few small farm fields with mostly single-shot muzzle-loaders and horse-drawn cannon.
It was called the Battle of Antietam. The name derived from Antietam Creek, a beautiful winding stream with wooded banks. Because the Union named battles after geographical features, and because the North won, the name stuck.
Publication History: Attaché SEPTEMBER 2003
