Hills of West Virginia
The sky gave no warning.
At first, it was a gentle rustling—leaves whispering secrets above—but then came the thunderous report from the heavens, and the hail descended with the fury of a thousand Redcoats. Not from the sky, as would be expected, but from the very trees themselves, as if the forest had turned traitor and sought to bombard our encampment with icy shot.
The first volley struck Private Mullins square on the helmet—he spun twice and dove headlong into a thicket. Our dogs, good loyal beasts until that moment, fled the scene with our saddlebags still strapped to their backs. I watched helplessly as Corporal Bixby’s setter disappeared over a ridge with half our powder and what remained of the jerky.
It was chaos.
Men cursed, slipped, and slid across the slick terrain, trying to fend off the frozen artillery with canvas tarps and shouting. Sergeant Wheeler declared it “a damn ghost storm” and attempted to parley with the woods. The woods answered only in silence and shattered ice.
When at last the storm passed, the forest stood still again, save for the steam rising from broken limbs and a scent—so strange and beautiful—fresh sawn wood, like the aftermath of battle where trees had been felled by cannon, not cold.
We buried no men, but the damage to morale—and provisions—was severe.
If this be war, may I never see peace again.
— Journal of Thaddeus Elias Finch, 3rd Militia, Monongalia Regiment