On to Richmond, in the name of God and Country!

The spirit of '76 is there - or perhaps, the spirit of '61, when America was awash with righteous indignation, confronting an unjust foe, and ready to loose the forces of righteousness awash with wrath, with God on our side.

In the name of God and Country.

At a time when bravery was cheap, and honor was the thing shouted over beverages to admiring throngs, and blood was the thing seen in the flushed faces, but not clotted about icy rocks, YES!

In the name of God and Country!

All things horrible and desperate begin this way. These brave warriors do not think of Stalingrad, or death from consumption at Valley Forge. They do not know Andersonville, or Gettysburg, or the Hornet's Nest.
ON TO RICHMOND!
The men and women who once shouted this lie long dead in their quiet graves. We know from their words, and from inference about their human decency, that they were long shamed by those words, and hoped never to hear them again; unto the very moment when their last breath passed. And they were the lucky ones.

Yes, we are brave! Yes, we are true - for we know it in our hearts! And righteous wrath shall prevail, in the Name of God!

They carried their Sharps rifles, and were outfitted in the most modern manner for any combat soldier - part Special Forces Ranger, part GI Joe. Even the Armies of the World could not equip a combat soldier in the manner these proud American volunteers were rigged out - a complete contrast from their fore-fathers with their fowling pieces, a ragged commissary sack, and home-made shoes.

And so they died, in the Virginia mud, covering a retreat. For this was war.

During the moments of honor, the words NO RETREAT! NO SURRENDER!! peal from the lips of the brave. No doubt, these words were shouted from the Congressmen's carriages as they trundled down the road to Manassas, to set out for a picnic and jolly good show for a languid July summer's day. Perhaps not a shot will be fired, and the Rebels will run - and we'll chase those rabbits to Richmond, so don't let the horses over-graze and get lazy, for there's a sprint a-coming!

That day, it became a war. For the skeedaddle happened, and it was the skeedaddle of the fortunate, who still had legs, and it was a run towards Home and Mother, because, by God, the Hand of the Lord did not smite the enemy, as the proud fire-breathers promised in the whiskey houses and taverns. This was war.

War sucks. Careful what you say.