To the Last Man: A Novel of the First World War

by Jeff Shaara

For so much of his life he had enjoyed the forests, had sought out the peace and isolation of the dense sanctuaries in every part of the world. But this land offered no sanctuary, had not known peace now for three years. He could not help feeling that out there, in the upheaval of the tortured ground, bodies were scattered, most never to be identified, death covered over by more death. It will change one day, he thought. Eventually, this land will be green again, the trees will come back, the farmers will return. But the death will remain, the bodies feeding the soil, until one by one they are disturbed by the innocent work of some yet unborn farmer. It will be the plow, probably, exposing the bones, revealing the history of this place, a shocking reminder to every man who ever works this land that no matter how much you bury the past, what happened here can never truly be forgotten.

Temple had been shocked by the old man’s lack of respect for the preacher, all the Sunday school lessons, but the old man had insisted that if a man could look into a mirror and respect what he saw, then he would never fear to stand tall in front of God, and God would feel just fine about that.