Bitterness had seeped to the depths of the nation, both North and South, cleaving apart those who had participated in the great struggle from those who had not. The early vigor that had captivated much of the people, on either side, had since worn thin. The continent's youth, the Union's future, initially clamoring to the clever speeches of politicians, eager for duty, and in search of glory, found nothing to substantiate that beguiling political rhetoric once on the battlefield. There, many knew they had been duped as they watched row upon row of their friends and comrades scythed down like summer corn. Such brutal lessons were severe; and one never adequately appreciated from one generation to the next as youthful vigor the world over seeks to emulate the glory of ancestors. Urged on by a host of spineless politicians talking a glittering tale but never witness to the savage task or terrible result. Nor understanding that war is a mystery, stiffened with speculations, misplaced boasts, and endured at length with ardent young fear all along the line. A young encouraged individually and collectively by jokes and rousing songs designed to rally them to action before the spits of frowning cannon blasts every last semblance of youth from their souls. Leaving them afterwards staring in wooden bewilderment at the last atrocity just occurred. The dead having no chance for the heroic deeds they had dreamed, no chance other than tedious marching to the gory field, whence to be fodder to a screaming bullet and to be dead among a throng of bloody dead. Thenceforth and forever to be named Our Honored Dead.