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One reason it’s so moving is that the officer leading the troops into battle knows that he is the one at whom most of the muskets in the enemy lines are aimed. He’s an older man, forty or fifty. Most of the soldiers are young enough to be his sons. He, already a generation nearer to dying than they, has put himself in a position where death will probably come even more quickly. He has left home and comfort.
Before beginning the march into battle, he made his uniform look as good as he could. He spoke with the soldiers. “It’s up to us. We cannot waver. God will protect us.” As he marches, he is asking God for courage. For himself, and for his men. He knows that few who’ve been in the position in which he marches will survive the volleys that are going to come in a few more seconds, in a few more minutes. He can see the dark holes at the ends of a thousand enemy gun barrels. They are aimed at him. He is standing tall, taller than usual. His counterpart’s command echoes across the field, “Ready, . . . .”
Still, he marches. Into the coming volley. Into the maelstrom.
