Deserters? Northerners? Southerners? Though the Confederate flag sits ragtag in the shambles of a dead tree trunk, does it matter for which side a man fights? Every soldier battles that “enemy’ deep inside that rips at his humanity far more than any torn flag. These men to variant degrees have crossed the fence, that fence which separates a man from the sunlit warmth of the company and camp of other men. Though they sit in a cluster of four, they are yet each alone. Consider the shell-shocked man at far left who mumbles to himself. Disgust and quiet anger possess the rebel boy. The old man has grappled with his mortality for some time now. Better he go than these boys. The green horn young officer has displaced his dreams of glory. Fear remains. Over what, we are not sure- the enemy or maybe it is us, the observer, that poignant reflection of “the enemy within.”