The contrast is stark. The commander, in muddied tall boots, a belt load of regalia, puffing a cigar, will soon toss his match into a smoky fire of confusion. One wonders if he’s even aware of the soldier with one leg inching towards him. But these are the contrasting casualties of war- the loss of body, the loss of soul. A union hospital camp flickers in a distant ideal, and a long muddy winding road still leads to a flag flying in “twilight’s last gleaming.”