In the thick of battle we recall the cries of the wounded, the thunder of cannon, the rattle of drums, the thoughts of our loved ones so far away.
Antietam, Gettysburg, the Fall of Vicksburg and bloody Cold Harbor; we haunt them all. Brother against brother, father against son, after all of the fighting, what have we won?
Now we are doomed to fight our battles again, wandering over the blood soaked ground, phantoms in the thick, creeping fog.
All of us lonely, all of us tired; we march, counter match and fall again.
We die, then rise and recall.