As Veteran’s Day approaches, I find myself reflecting not only on the sacrifices of those who served, but also on the human cost of division and war. This poem, “Brothers in Arms,” was written to honor the courage of young soldiers and the grief borne by families who endured their loss. It is a reminder that beyond uniforms and battle lines, there are bonds of blood, memory, and love that war can never truly sever. I share these lines in tribute to all who have served, and in remembrance of those who gave their lives.

Brothers in Arms

Preparing for brutal battle
Fearing it could be their last,
They pray to God to keep them safe,
Beg the butchery to pass.

Each check his shell and musket
Weapons needed for the fray.
Bayonets, they’re sharp and ready,
Close quarters predicted today.

No want for breakfast on this morn
A bite of tack will do,
For neither feel like eating much
Savage battle begins soon.

Adrenaline flows, senses peak,
The bugler trumpets his call.
Before sun sets on this battlefield
Both youthful lads may fall.

Orders echo down the line,
Get ready, heave to lads, let’s go.
You’ve been buildin’ all your life for now,
Muster up me boys, let’s roll!

The Yankee lad, his breath cut short,
The Rebel bites his nails.
The Yankee charges up the hill
The Rebel cries out his yell.

The boys meet atop the rocky knoll
What happens next ‘tis so.
Peering deep into each other’s eyes
Immediately they know,

Brothers born sixteen years before
But parted only two,
Unite in deadly combat
Poised to run each other through.

The Rebel lad lie on his back
Gazing skyward with a frown,
He recognizes his brother’s face;
He throws his musket down.

But the Yankee boy is in full thrust
His bayonet is fixed,
Aimed for the heart of the Rebel lad
His mind races, his thoughts mixed.

He recalls events past, yet not long ago
When fleeing his boyhood home,
He abandoned this twin brother
As he struck out on his own.

Forgotten memories of days gone by
Pass swiftly through his mind.
He knows he can not kill this brother,
The twin he left behind.

He wants to scream out he loves him
And their mother he dearly missed.
‘Tis wrong to meet on the battlefield
Ruthless savagery in their midst.

He starts to speak; a shot rings out
From which side it’s not quiet clear,
But at this decisive instant
Both lads’ dreadful fate is near.
 
The Yank’s body quakes and shivers,
Yet he holds his bayonet high.
The Rebel lies in disbelief,
Watching his brother die.

The Rebel shrieks in horror.
As his brother begins to fall.
The Yankee succumbs, shot through his head,
The blade stills his brother’s yell.

Both boys born and reared together
Only separated by war,
Are joined again for eternity,
Lying on the rocky floor.

Their mother receives two letters,
One from the blue--one from the gray.
She reads empty words in silence
There is nothing she can say.

Now a mother grieves in anger
As time passes through the years.
Yes, the Great War has been ended
But never will her tears.

Yankee Doodle is still a dandy,
But the boy in blue is dead.
Johnny will never come marching home,
As the same ‘tis true of the Reb.

A mother’s grief endures beyond the war

A Word Before The Tale

Years ago, I wrote a poem called Brothers in Arms. At the time, I thought I was done. But poems are stubborn creatures—they like to whisper secrets long after you’ve put them away. While rummaging through my poetry files, I realized this one had been holding back a story. The pages that follow are me finally giving in to its persistence.

The poem spoke softly of arms entwined; the story speaks of the enduring cost carried within them.

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Brothers in Arms

Serialized Part 1 of 3

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*I dedicate this first part to all who left home too soon, carrying with them both pride and regret.*

“TO THE YOUNG WHO MARCHED AWAY BEFORE THEIR TIME, AND TO THE BROTHERS WHO NEVER SAID GOOD‑BYE.”

— ANONYMOUS, 19TH‑CENTURY LETTER

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Prologue

In 1863, the country was in the midst of a civil war, or the WAR of REBELLION, as it has often been referred to.  From the very Northern tip of New England to the most Southern tip of the Florida peninsula, from heavily populated New York City, to the small Western outpost of Santa Fe, New Mexico, people were affected by the strife and sorrow brought on by a war that bloodied the very fabric of our nation.

What follows is but one long-forgotten chapter of that bloody conflict.

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I.

A young boy shifts restlessly on the chilled, dank ground. Waking sluggishly from deep slumber, eyes still shut, he senses the soothing radiance of the first shaft of sunrise kissing his manchild face.  Scarcely sixteen years old, yet incapable of growing chin stubble, he could pass for a much younger lad. 

Reluctant to liberate himself from the ecstasy of the moment, he tugs the thin blue blanket tighter around his scrawny body.  His eyelids remain closed as he breathes the humid air into his lungs.  Fresh blood pumps through his veins and aids in sweeping the early morning cobwebs from his head.  He lies peacefully listening to the robins warbling harmonious melodies while scratching at the soil in search of a juicy breakfast worm.

Fond memories of better times–events of a lifetime ago–drift through his young mind.  A sad grimace crosses his face.  He remembers the sunrise back home, the home he left without saying good-by.  He departed on his own terms, unfavorable terms to be sure, after a heated argument with his brother.  Leaving abruptly as he did at the time, he had no notion of looking back.  It was a decision he has regretted ever since.

Tediously managing to open his eyes, he attempts to capture the immense beauty of the surrounding landscape. He focuses on the sunrise weaving its way through a tall grove of aromatic conifers towering just beyond the meadow to the east.  Through the low, thin, feathered clouds, he imagines he sees a halo around the early sun.  This thought brings with it a sense of tranquility.

Across the fertile, green pasture and atop a near-by ridge no more than a thousand yards from this young lad, another boy begins to stir from his modest slumber.  He stretches fully appreciating one of life’s tiny pleasures, the first yawn of the day exchanging the stale air in his lungs for the fresh air of the early morn.  Before opening his sleepy eyes, he too is soothed by the sound nature’s orchestra provides.  Ultimately succeeding in prying his sleep-encrusted eyelids open, he focuses on a pair of raccoons swaggering mischievously through the underbrush.  Beyond the ‘coons he spies a half-dozen squirrels scampering into the scrub pine.  Wildlife of all species is scurrying about, scavenging their morning meal.  All is right with the world . . . or so he believes!

Back down the ridge and across the field, the first boy finds the strength to rise off the ground.  He stretches and wags his arms about as he tries stimulating the stiff, sore muscles of his scrawny frame.  Satisfied, he pulls a pair of ragged britches over his tattered and dungy red union suit.  To keep the britches secure, he ties a deteriorating piece of hemp round his slim waist.  He next begins his morning ritual of searching for the vermin that took up lodging over the past evening.  Slowly and deliberately he plucks them out of his hair, his ears, and his clothing.  

He again stretches his arms towards the heavens and pounds his sunken belly forcing a slimy belch out of the deepest hollow of his stomach.  He not only releases stomach gasses built up since last evening’s meal, but a mouthful of burning, uncongealed fluid.  He abruptly spits this mixture of caustic stomach acid and stale morning drool towards a grasshopper innocently squatting on a leafy patch of clover a few feet away.  Missing his mark, he cracks a smile and watches as the ‘hopper escapes to live another day. 

He unsuccessfully runs his lanky fingers through his greasy locks attempting to untangle the mop of thatch on his head.  He gives up and reaches over to a near-by-decaying tree stump and plucks up a ragged fragment of cloth.  After brushing off any dormant bugs and slugs seeking refuge in the shoddy fabric from the previous eve he shakes it fiercely, loosening the more stubborn gnats and no-see-ums yet residing there.  Satisfied with his work, he proudly dons this rag, his cherished coat of blue.

His counterpart, unaware of the other’s activity down the bluff, rises off the damp ground, stretches, and yawns again oblivious to the frantic activities around him as others prepared for the expected events if the day.  He rubs his bloodshot eyes clearing the milky film that covered them during his now forgotten dreams.  This lad is similarly dressed in stale, unwashed britches strewn with mismatched, frazzled patches.  A short, discarded length of leather, once part of a cavalry officer’s bridle, is used as a belt to prevent the loss of his trousers in the middle of battle.  He quickly lashes the worn leather around his slim waist.

He picks up a matching, musty, soiled piece of wool. Thoughtfully he brushes and shakes the worn cloth looking for any tiny inhabitants until satisfied they had departed, then proudly dons his precious coat of gray.

Through the innocence eyes of youth, the two boys observe the natural wonder of their surroundings.  But, through all of nature’s bustling activity, through all the awe and splendor of this majestic rural setting, both young lads sense there is more to be observed in this pastoral theater than can be observed with the naked eye.

They have both been on the back lines of this war for a time and have not yet tasted any true grit and grime–the mixture of flowing blood blending with earth flying through the air as men clash in deadly hand to hand combat.

With more experience, the boys should be able to smell something other than the morning’s fresh fragrance wasping on the breeze. 

The smell of death is traveling on the winds this day.

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II.

The boy in blue pauses long enough to take up one long, deep breath of crisp morning air.  In an attempt to appear much older than his years, he throws out his chest as if he were the cock of the roost.  He is an amusing sight to the attentive, grizzled, old warriors.

An old Yankee named Caleb cackles at the sight of the kid.  Brown spittle born from an enormous hunk of “chaw” secreted in one flabby cheek pouch of his toothless mouth meanders unnoticed down his pocked chin. 

“Don’t try ta grow up to fast sonny boy.  Ya should be home playin’ soldier ‘stead of bein’ here and bein’ one fer GO’s sake!” 

As Caleb wrinkles his whiskered, leathery brow it takie on the appearance of the underbelly of an aged, furry saddlebag.  He reaches over and gently rubs the lad’s messy hair for luck.

The boy sits on the stump that only moments before held his worn coat of blue.  He reaches down to slip on his hobnailed brogans.  He stops as he notices a worn spot of leather in the sole of the right shoe. 

“Got any old newspaper, Caleb?” 

“Reckon so sonny.  Seein’ how this here New York Journal is two months old come yestiday, I’m guessin’ ya can have it.  Here ‘tis boy.  Say boy, ya told me ya couldn’t read?

“I ain’t gonna read it ol’ man, I’m fixin’ on puttin’ it ta better use.” 

Ripping off the front page, he neatly and deliberately folds it four times adding to it’s thickness, then stuffs the wad into the crusty leather shoe.

After slipping his foot into the shoe and tying its worn lace, he stands erect and remarks, “There, a might fine better than havin’ all the pesky rocks creep in and givin’ me a pain.  Thank you kindly, Caleb.”

“Sure sonny, ‘twern’t nothin’.”

Meanwhile, up the bluff.  “Hey boy, didn’t yer ma tell ya not to go off to a war wearin’ britches with holes in ‘em?” joked Rufus, an old Reb from the back woods of Virginia.

“What?  Another one?” the boy replies in disgust.  He reaches into his haversack looking for his sewing kit.  Pulling it out he fumbles for his spool.  It’s empty.

“Hey Rufus, got any gray thread?  Or any thread at all?  I guess I can’t be particular ‘bout what I ask fer now kin I?”

“Hey boy, ya think them thar’ Yankee folks down yonder are gonna care a hoot if’n ya got teeny holes in yer britches?  They is more than apt ta try to put a few more holes in ‘em anyways.

“Well, my dear ma always told me to look my best even if no one was lookin’.  She said ya just never know when you might meet someone special.”

“The only someone special we is gonna meet out here is our Maker if them Yanks have any say in it sonny-boy.” Rufus answers the lad as he reaches into a haversack older than the kid. 

He pulls out a wad of cloth tied with baling twine.  His arthritic fingers endure the full ache of his 63 years as he slowly unties the knotted, twisted, twine.  Picking through a multi-colored, tangled wad, he carefully separates the mess.  Pulling out a length of gray thread he passes it to the boy.

Playfully patting the boy’s shoulder in a gentle, fatherly manner, Rufus remarks, “We’ll be needin’ a lot more thread come nightfall kid if the feelin’ in my gut comes about.”  His eyes go blank as he carefully stares out over the bluff at the scene below. 

Under his breath, so the kid doesn’t hear, he woefully remarks, “I’ve never had a stranger, nor more sickinin’ feelin’ than this here one now.”

At that moment, something very dark flies high over the field that separates the two boys.  It catches their attention simultaneously as it begins to soar on currents in the expanse over head.  It appears to be floating freely on the air currants.  Gracefully it rises higher.  This exhibition allows the boys an opportunity to escape their thoughts of war for a moment and replace them with a more pleasant option.  The soothing movement they witness mesmerizes them.  While watching this feathered creature they can experience the majesty of its flight.  They feel, in their muscles and their bones, the uplift, the glide, the soaring movement of the bird.

As suddenly as it began, the soaring ceases.  Wings stop fluttering.  The feathered creature heads downward, not in a graceful spiral such as “tumbling” pigeons are trained to do, but in a deliberate, wanton, suicidal descent. 

The boys remain visually locked on the scene expecting, at any moment, the bird to pull up and resume its serene flight.  Instead of a last minute life-saving maneuver, the bird continues its flight straight into the ground.  Both boys, although hundreds of yards from the point of impact, easily hear the deafening thud as it crashes into Mother Earth.

The boys are shaken.  They know immediately it is an omen.  But of what?  That they don’t know.  They both had been raised as good Christian boys.  They are both God fearing and take the omen seriously, believing it to mean that the battle before them on this day may be their last.  They tremble.  The hand of God is absent today.

As if of one mind, they both drop to their knees, not caring if the many non-believing old-timers in their camp aim taunting jeers or heckling barbs their way. 

Begging God to keep them safe from harm, they plead that sooner, rather than later, the ugly war will conclude and allow them to move forward with their lives.

Rufus, the old rebel, interrupts his young friend, “Ain’t ya never heard that God helps them that helps themselves, sonny?” 

“Whatchya mean old man?” the kid responds defensively.

“Why, I means that you’d do a might better with yer time by checkin’ yer ammo pouch and seein’ if ya got enough cartridges and caps fer shootin’, that’s what I mean, boy.  I sees ya keep yer musket clean, you been oilin’ it fer most of the last five days.  But you most likely won’t be usin’ her too much, no sir.”  The old man picks up a bayonet.

“Best you spend time sharpenin’ yer pig sticker real good too.  And check that socket lock on the end of yer musket.  You want ta make sure the bayonet locks on that there musket real good, sonny.  Ya don’t want ta end up havin’ ta use yer musket as a club, now does ya?  It’s a might easier ta jab and ram that pig sticker than it is ta swing a club in close quarters sonny.  ‘Member that real good now ‘cause ya don’t want ta end up on the front page of the newspaper in the butcher’s bill, right sonny?”

“What’s that old man?”

“I forgot, ya never got the newspapers back home, kid.  The butcher’s bill is the daily section of the newspapers where they list all the freshly kilt dead boy’s names.  That’s one newspaper article no one wants ta get their name in.  “Member that good now boy!”

“Yes sir, old man.  I’ll ‘member that.”

Down the bluff, the Yankee lad was already busy checking his bayonet, musket, and cartridge pouch along with those of the others close by.  He wanted to make sure his back was covered during the heat of the struggle ahead.  He sensed that this day would be like no other.  Unlike the many long-range skirmishes he had been involved in since enlisting in the Yankee forces, he feared that today he would be facing off with the enemy in a great contest so savage he desired every advantage.  If he was to meet up with the enemy face to face all weapons must be prepared and at the ready.

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The smell of death was traveling on the winds this day — and neither boy could yet imagine how close it already was.

*The next section of Brothers in Arms will arrive shortly — watch your email for its posting.*

—Michael P Boyle