July 4, 1777
In 1777, British officers noted the firing of 13 guns, once at morning and again as evening fell, on July 4 in Bristol, Rhode Island. Colonel Dirk McMasters sat at his writing desk, quill in hand, composing a letter home to his wife Caroline.
My Dearest Caroline,
I hope this letter finds you and the children in good health. This last year away from you has seemed like the longest year of my life. A career in the service to King George means sacrifice, and being away from you for such long periods is the most difficult part.
I expect this rebellion to end soon. The ragtag bunch of rebels cannot hold out much longer against the combined might of His Magesty's Army. The rebels cannot properly even be called an Army. They lack uniforms and in some cases military arms. They would more properly be called a band of brigands.
These colonials are an odd lot. Just a few years ago I found myself fighting along side many of them in our battles with the French and Indians north of here in Canada. I found the colonials to be undisciplined, but adequate fighters. What they lacked in military bearing, they made up for in determination and grit. That they would not turn against their own government is difficult to understand.
A strange occurrence took place today. As I was performing my morning ablutions, a series of shots rang out. They did not take the form of a volley, or of random firing, but a measured one after another firing of muskets. There were thirteen shots in all.
We immediately mustered out the troops, but there was no attack, and in fact, we saw no evidence of any attack throughout the entire day. Then again, just before dusk, the entire scene occurred again. Thirteen measured musket shots rang out.
It was only then that I realized that today is the day that the colonists declared their independence. The thirteen shots represented the thirteen colonies that are rebelling against Mother England. Short of muskets, short of shot, low on powder, these colonials are wasting what supplies they own on some sort of celebration. A short lived celebration, let me tell you. I expect to be home with all of you by next July 4, with the rebellion put down.
Always in love, until my return,
Dirk
July 4, 1863
The stench of battle around Vicksburg, Mississippi was still strong at Milliken's Bend, across the river and Northwest of the city. Bodies of fallen soldiers still lay unattended in the summer sun. The survivers of the Battle for Vicksburg found little in victory for which to rejoice, as their neighbors and family members lay unburied upon open ground.
As Confederate General Pemberton surrendered with his 30,000 troops to General Grant, the seige of Vickburg became the turning point of the Civil War.
The free black troops of the Louisiana Ninth and Eleventh Regiments had fought bravely, first with muskets, then, as their ammunition failed, with bayonets, rifle butts and hand-to-hand. Made up of former slaves, their victory at Milliken's Bend was crucial to Grant's victory in the seige of Vicksburg.
My Dearest Amelia,
The good lord has seen fit to see me through another campaign, unscathed in yet another battle. Even as I witnessed friends and comrades felled beside me, providence has seen fit to stand beside me and carry me through unhurt.
Unhurt in body, that is, but not in spirit. How could my spirit not be damaged in witnessing such senseless killing of my fellow countrymen. I have witnessed the deaths of friends I have known since childhood, some wearing grey, others wearing blue. And for what have they all died? An ideal? A principle? On what principle does a dead body stand? I can attest, a body that has laid in the sun for three days knows no principle. It knows no ideal. It merely stinks.
I am told that I will be interned in a prisoner of war camp somewhere up North. General Pemberton sued for peace, asking that we be allowed to return to our homes. Union General Grant would have none of that, demanding that we surrender unconditionally and be made prisoners of war. With little choice, General Pemberton agreed.
This has been a most illuminating loss. Vicksburg was thought to be impregnable. We thought the Union Army would dash itself to pieces on our ramparts. We beat them back twice in recent weeks, but the seige became to much for our troops to bear.
Most surprising to me was the Negroes the Union Army recruited into their service. When we saw their regiments defending Milliken's Bend we thought they would turn and run when faced with a determined attack. They did not. Dare I say that they fought bravely, even gallantly? Is it possible that we have been wrong about the abilities and the character of these negroes all along? Do they deserve their freedom? But what will become of the South and our way of life if they are given their freedom?
I will attempt to write again, as soon as I have been interned in whatever prison camp the Union Army has selected for me. I hope for your safety, and for the safety of our children. I fear that the tide has turned against the Confederacy, and that the war is now lost. Rumor has it that Grant will now attempt to take this war deep into our land. No place will be safe from the Union Army. Be safe, and take care of our children.
Until the end, I remain your devoted husband,
Derrick
July 4, 1942
Charles sat in the shade of the bamboo hut, a dirty sheet of paper cradled in his lap. In his gritty, dirt encrusted fingers he held a one-half inch stub of pencil. The temperature stood at 114 degrees. His body, wracked with Malaria, stood only a few degrees cooler.
The buzzing of insects seemed to never end. Charles was dying. He knew, in those infrequent moments of lucidity, that he was dying. It was during these moments that he tried to pen a final letter to his beloved wife.
Dear Mary,
I don't know if you will ever be able to read this letter, but if you do, I want you to know just how much I love you and Johnny. By now you have probably heard that we were forced to surrender to the Japanese at Corregidor.
Before he left, General MacArthur promised all of us that he would return. We were ordered to hold the stronghold at Corregidor, but the Japanese were too much for us. We had to surrender. We failed the general, and for that I am sorry.
I am sick with fever. The doctor here at the prison camp says it is Malaria. We do not have enough medicine, we don't have any medicine, so I guess it will be just a matter of time for me.
I cannot describle to you the horror of the death march we endured in getting to this prison camp. The Japanese drove us unmercifully without food and water through the jungle. I have no idea how many of my friends died in getting here. I guess I wll never know. Nobody will ever know. Nobody will ever hear about it, I am sure, because the Japanese will never allow the news to get out.
Do you remember Peter Wilson? I have told you about him before. He had a wife and three children living in Topeka, Kansas. Well, he is dead. I saw him struggle to keep up on the march, finally falling beside the trail. I tried to move toward him, to help him to his feet, to support him. But the Japanese guards held me back, while one of them beat him with his rifle butt until he stopped moving. I do not know if he was still alive when we marched on, but I know that he had stopped moving.
Mary, I regret that I will not be there for Johnny as he grows up. I regret that we did not have many more years together. That we did not have the chance to grow old together. I am sorry that I will not be there for you as you struggle to raise him alone.
I regret also that I will not live to see the General make good upon his promise to return to these islands. I know that without medicine that I cannot survive. I also know, that America will return an army, that we will push the Japanese off these islands. I have faith that we will not allow this evil to exist in this world.
Because the Japanese are evil. The things that I have witnessed, the abuse and the torture, these things cannot be allowed to take place. I have faith that America stands for all that is good in this world, and will return freedom to the Phillippino people. We will prevail, I am just sorry that I will not live to see it happen.
I miss you and Johnny, and will take the memory of you both to my grave.
With all my eternal love,
Charles
July 4, 2008
A group of American soldiers engage in a soccer game with Iraqi children, mostly in their early teens. The Iraqis, most of whom have played the game since birth, laugh and smile as they deftly play keepaway with the soccer ball from the American troopers.
With the enthusiasm of youth, they run circles around the Americans, mostly in their mid-twenties. For their part, the American servicemen are enjoying the freedom of playing with the local children, free from the worries of war, with little thought, of what freedom really means in this country, and around the world. The soccer game is of no importance whatsoever, and yet it is one of the most important changes to come over the nation of Iraq in decades.
Dear Peg,
July is always hot in Falluja. Heck, it is hot in Falluja all the time, July is no different. I sure miss you and the kids. I only have access to the computer for a few minutes, so I will have to make this note brief. With luck I will be able to arrange to call home sometime next week. I will try to send you a quick e-mail to let you know what time.
It is difficult to realize sometimes that this is the same city that only a few years ago saw the bodies of our people hanging from that bridge over the Euphrates River. What a transformation has come over the city. The marketplace, once deserted and pockmarked with bulletholes is now bustling with energy and commerce. The people smile once again.
The difference between Iraq today and my last tour is striking. I can't claim that it is entirely safe everywhere. We still need to be vigilant. There was a roadside bombing about 20 miles from here just the other day, but you can feel the difference in the air.
There is now an optimism with the people that I have not seen before. It is a pity that you don't hear about it back home, but I believe that we are winning -- the Iraqi people are winning.It was easy to see the Iraqi people as our enemy the first couple of tours I served here. Every time we went out we were under fire. The people avoided us, they dared not approach us, knowing that as soon as we left, the terrorists would return. Return, hell, the terrorists were right there among them. We never knew who was going to try to kill us and who was just caught in the middle.
But it isn't like that now. The people have come to realize that we are serious about helping them. They realize that we are not going to abandon them like so many others have done in the past. We have earned their trust. It is no wonder that they did not greet us a liberators when we first came here -- they have been conquered and then abandoned so many times before, that they learned never to trust anyone.
Don't believe what you read, we are winning in Iraq, and one day soon, I will be able to return home with a free and independent Iraq left behind. I know that you did not understand why I felt it necessary to volunteer for this, my fourth tour in Iraq, but I feel strongly that what we are doing is the right thing both for the Iraqi people and for our own country.
I love you and the children with all my heart. I know I don't tell you that often enough, but I do. Soon I will be returning home, and I promise, this will be my final deployment. When I return home this next time, the job will be done, and we can get down to the job of living our own life again.
All my love,
James
