EXCERPT:
In the darkened silence the endless line of cars moves slowly forward, and no one honks. No one breaks the line. Spread out in the night across the Maryland fields are 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 the first Saturday in December since 1988, volunteers have risen early to take part in this one night citizen ceremony. Elderly widows, generals, and entry level clerks have made sure the bags are lighted and in place by dusk. Now the tiny lights float in the dark, a twinkling pattern undulating across the gentle hills; a haunting image, profoundly moving.
Most Americans think of D-Day as our nation’s benchmark for carnage. Images from Saving Private Ryan newly fixed it in our collective mind. Yet the most massive amphibious assault in history, the product of months of planning by the greatest ground armies ever assembled, does not begin to rise to a moment-of-opportunity battle fought in a few small farm fields with single-shot muzzle-loaded long guns, and mostly smooth-bore horse drawn cannon.
