"Whoever has found this basic diary now reads the story of George McClellan. Having lived 80 long but blessed years, I've outlived my wife and children. I suspect that God will call me home soon, in this, the year of our Lord 1926. Before I go, I find it necessary to relate to you a part of my life that must not be forgotten. By reading this account, you have been selected to pass on a piece of history that would otherwise be lost. Hear my words well."

Seventeen. Such a young age to kill, seventeen. Seventeen years seemed little preparation for watching my friends shot at my left and right and, rather than mourn the tragic losses of these fine young men, hit the ground and come back swinging. No thoughts. Only instinct. Duck, roll, load, fire. Dodge, jump, kill. All at seventeen.

The road there might have been long, but time was endless in this eternal war. I didn't know what war we were fighting back then. What happened to the ninety days war? I remember signing up for a short and decisive victory, my friends and I all eager to escape the confines of school. The schoolgirls were swooning over us for our bravery. We loved the

Dawn approached, and the sun rose over the eastern hills as we lay claim to the final trench. Having secured the location, we transferred to a Virginian company to aid them in defending against an expected confederate charge. We had a quick breakfast of hardtack, a hard biscuit made only of flour and water. The stuff lasted absolutely forever. So did the taste, unfortunately. Reports and rumors flew in from every direction. Spotters estimated about 15,000 rebels preparing for battle. I walked along the line with a life-long friend, William Molander, to secure a mental picture of our line, miles wide and uphill from the rebels. This leisure would have been granted to few at the time. My reputation preceded me, but I would accept no promotions. I felt at somehow at home on the frontline by this point.

Three years passed. We were stationed in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. It was late at night and the third day of this, the bloodiest battle of the civil war. Nearly 35,000 men had died just in the previous two days. Now I was twenty and a skilled veteran. Somehow, a few of my closest friends and I had managed to survive. We were together in the in the federal 12th corps. It was late that night that we attacked rebel forces to regain abandoned trenches and thus reduce Lee's chances for collapsing the side as he tried to pierce the center of our line. The reb's had taken the trenches when we left for supplies and reinforcements. Most of the men in the 12th were skilled, distinguished, and experienced. The reb's were just boys. Fresh from their southern homes, the warmth of their beds was still in their bones. We thought to ourselves, "So they're sending in the youngins, huh? Well, let 'em send every last one. Don't matter none." Somewhere inside of me the seventeen year-old boy cried out. I stifled him.

When the charge was within 200 yards of our position, our cannons opened up again, tearing holes out of their mile-wide l

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Approximate Word count = 1303
Approximate Pages = 5 (250 words per page double spaced)