I wore my uniform home, not because I was so proud but because I didn't have anything else to wear. I'd been away with Walker's Greyhounds since July of 1862, so near on three whole years, ever since we formed up Camp Nelson. That's in Arkansas. Whole unit of Texans, under General John Walker, well we figured we'd whip the Yanks on our own.

Not that it made a difference to me, though. I mainly joined up because everyone else was, and I didn't have much holding me home in McAllen. That's where I'm from, and where I come home to after we got released from Hempstead. Never did surrender, but that don't mean much, I guess, once Lee surrendered it was all just about over for the rest of us.

But like I said, I never really was excited by the prospect of a Confederate States of America, and no one in McAllen was rich enough to have slaves anyway, so if Lincoln wanted to free them I didn't see how that affected me or anyone I knew. But I didn't have much else to do, and it seemed at least I'd get steady money and meals with the Army. They put me and Marcus, he's also from McAllen, into something called Commissary Store House.

The Commissary Store House was where all the food was kept and passed out to the different units and such. We'd travel with the men, but I can count on one hand the number of times I saw anything more exciting than a cow running loose from our herd.

Oh, there'd be Union artillery that would sometimes land closer than we woulda liked, but that was probably the most danger I'd faced, personally.

I remember Pa driving me to the enlistment post in town, me and him in the little one-horse wagon. He'd fought in the Mexican War but didn't talk about it much. "It's sort of exciting, isn't it?" he asked me. I told him it was sort of scary but also exciting, like I was going off on an adventure. He used to read me stories about knights and dragons and King Arthur, when I was little, and I felt like this would be my chance for an adventure of my own. That's about all we said on that ride, but it was a good ride, all the same.

Ma and my little brother Carl stayed back home, I reckon she didn't want to see me go and being with all those military men might have made her awful sad, so she stayed back. That suited me, too. I didn't want to see her sad, and I was glad Carl was with her to keep her spirits up.

But looking back, there wasn't anything for her to be worried about at all. I never even got close to the front, like I said, and sure those artillery shells sounded loud but they never got close enough to hurt me. They put the fear in me, though, I'll admit that freely.

A couple times stick out more than others, as far as them Yank cannons went. I always wanted to act tough, look brave in front of the other guys, even though they were as far from the real danger as I was and none of us were what you'd call hard men. But I wanted to be brave, and I read once some soldier, an Indian fighter I think or in the Mexican War, said you never hear the one that gets you.

Well that makes sense, I thought to myself, even though I had no reason to think it made any more sense than anything else. But I carried it around with me in my head, and I tell you what, the first time I heard them big cannons go off, everyone ducked for cover but me. No, sir, I stood straight up like it was nothing more than a light rain. Then my Sergeant yelled at me, "Woodson, get down!" and next thing I heard was a BOOM that rocked the camp and I'm not ashamed to say I hit the ground right along with the rest of my company. Something about horses crying always got to me, after that. Can't get it out of my ears.

There were more shellings, of course. I had to jump out of a wagon and hunker down in a ditch once, luckily the mules didn't run off from us. One time I was even sitting in the outhouse for my morning constitutional—I've always been fairly regular—when the BOOMS started going off and I had to skedaddle, ain't no way I was gonna die sitting on the throne like that.

But that's as exciting as it got. Met some interesting folks and got around to different parts of the country I probably would have never gotten to. Not that they were all that nice but at least I could say I'd gotten out of McAllen for a spell.

I was happy to come home, looked forward to it the whole time I was gone. And I had Marcus to keep me company on the way back, and a few of the other McAllen boys. Before they turned us out they gave us our train passes, so I got to ride the train home. We got plenty of stares along the way from other passengers on the train and at the stations we'd stop at. Not all of them were friendly, I think maybe they thought we didn't do enough to whip the Yanks and blamed us for losing. They were right, of course, in a way. We didn't do much to whip the Yanks, we just passed out supplies and tended to the horses, nothing exciting like charging across the field or shooting off the big cannons. So it didn't bother me.

What bothered me was when people were excited to see us. I know that don't make sense but it's just how it is. Sometimes they'd want to buy us a meal, or a shot of whiskey. They'd call us heroes, even though we'd lost. They thought just because we were in uniforms back from the war we must have been in some of the big battles like the other soldiers. They'd clap us on the back and say, You did your best or It's a shame what them Yanks done. I didn't know how to tell them I never done anything worth a clap on the back, nevermind worth dinner or a shot of whiskey. I wasn't a hero, and I didn't like pretending I was.

Once we were grabbing breakfast at the train station along the way home. This was the last meal on the trip, I remember, we would get home that evening.

Anyway, we're eating the fried cornbread balls and sausage, washing it down with bulltermilk. We paid first, before we set down on a bench to eat, but this fat old man in a bowler hat carrying a carpetbag come over and bends down to talk to us, right in our faces, and says he wants to thank us "for our service," is what he says. Fine, that's bad enough but we're used to that and start to nod our welcome for his thanks, when he says, "I was gonna pay for your meal but didn't get a chance to." Well what good is that? I could tell anybody I was gonna pay for their meal. I didn't know what to say so I just said something like "thanks" or "that was nice of you." I hope he walked away feeling good for himself. People are strange.

Pa, Ma, and Carl must have been keen on the railroad schedule because they were at the McAllen station waiting for me when we pulled in. Reverend Wheeler was there too. Marcus's father was there too. Me and Marcus just about ran over any old ladies or young children in our way as we were getting off the train, we were so excited to be back home. I introduced Marcus to my family, and I met his father, then we split off.

I was glad to be home but I didn't know what to do with myself. I didn't have a job waiting for me so I helped Pa on the farm, we grew wheat and corn and had a few cows that we'd milk but that was just for us, we didn't sell any of it and we didn't take any cows to market. But I had trouble filling my time, you see. Wake up, chores, breakfast, chores, lunch, chores, dinner, was how I spent my days. Sundays we'd go to church. I'd read when there was light, but then I'd sit up all night in the dark, sometimes until dawn. I had a chair in my room I'd sit in to put on my socks and shoes. Sometimes I'd be taking them off to get ready for bed and I'd sort of doze off for awhile. I wouldn't fall asleep, but I'd just go black for a bit, then snap back to real life. I'd be thinking of people I knew when I was away, and wondering what they were doing. Sometimes I'd think about that shelling.

Ma and Pa, and I suppose Carl, they knew that I wasn't in none of them big battles that were famous. Gettysburg or Manassas or Antietam. Never met any of the great generals neither, Lee or Jackson or Jeb Stuart. But the neighbors must not have known, because they all had questions about these things they'd heard of, and wanted to know what someone who had been in the War thought of it. I told them the truth, that I hadn't met any of the famous fighting men, but I couldn't bring myself to letting them down when it came to the battles. I didn't want to lie, though, that'd be worse, letting them think I was some hero. So I just said, "I don't like to talk about the battles."

Was that a lie? No. I didn't like to talk about the battles, mainly because I wasn't in them. But I did let them believe what they wanted, which was that what I'd seen was so bad I couldn't talk about it. Lie of omission, maybe. But Pa and Ma and Carl knew the truth, and that was all I needed.