Carl and I must make twenty trips back and forth carrying wounded to those who can offer comfort and medical aid. Each time I look at our litter-now covered with blood and gore-and wonder whether we've done our bit in time. Others scurry about clearing the aftermath of the battle. Burial details are already working to inter the dead before daylight and scavengers descend on this killing ground. The smell is worse than any hog butchering I was ever a party to. Already I can hear the buzz of flies and see the beady little eyes of small animals drawn to the smell of fresh blood. We stand over one soldier writhing in this "sacred ground" as the sergeant called it and lift him ever so gently onto the litter. These men's blood may make the ground sacred, but by now I can see this place for what it actually is-a sea of Virginia mud trying to clutch and claim the dying. This wounded boy wears the blue of the Feds. He's calling out a name and reaching toward me, grasping at me with his trembling fingers as I lean closer. A strange feeling of comradeship comes to me when I realize how like my own fellow soldiers this Yankee fighter looks-just another man doing his duty, whatever his beliefs may be.