Father just left a few hours ago. He said that there is a war going on, and that he must fight to preserve the honor of our nation. Half the men of our town joined him. They call themselves the 3rd Ohio Regiment. Johnny and I got to watch them try on their new blue uniforms and shiny black boots. We wish we could be soldiers too.

Before Father marched away, he gave me this little red diary. He told me to write in it whenever I missed him. So that's what I'm doing.

Your friend, Bobby

March 3, 1861. Dear Diary,

Yesterday afternoon, Johnny and I were playing Hide and Seek in the barnyard when my big brother and some of his pals walked in. Good thing they didn't see us spying! We heard them say that the war has divided the country in two -- the North and the South. Since we live in the North, everybody in the South is our enemy. Now, I've never met a Southerner before, but Father once said that people in the South believe in slavery. And I know that ain't right. Later, when it was just us two again, Johnny told me that he wants to join real bad. He heard that the Union Army sometimes lets kids like us play the drums or the fife. So I whittled me a little flute out of a piece of wood and Johnny stole one of his Mama's pots and we had fun playing like we were Union Soldiers.

Your friend, Bobby

April 22, 1861. Dear Diary,

It's nearly 11 in the evening. Mama would paddle me good if she knew I was up this late, but I have a big decision to make.

It all started last week when Johnny and I asked the commanding officer of the 3rd Ohio Regiment if we could join the Army. We begged and even played the drums and fife for him, but when he learned we were only 9 years old, he told us to go home. "This is a grown man's war."

Then three days later Johnny saw in the paper that the 22nd Michigan regiment is looking for recruits. He plans to run away the Sunday after next and try his luck there.

What should I do? Johnny is my best friend in the whole wide world - and best friends stick together, don't they? Plus, maybe I could find Father out there. It's been such an awful long time since I heard from him. And I do want to be where the action is.

Your friend, Bobby

May 5, 1861. Dear Diary,

Well, we did it. I packed a canteen, some salted pork, my bag of marbles and my wooden flute into a bedroll and met Johnny down by the river at dusk. We've been sleeping in hidden places during the day and walking by moonlight for three days now. I wonder how Mama is doing. I left her a note, promising her I'd be safe and brush my teeth. Hopefully she won't notice I forgot my toothbrush.

Your friend, Bobby

July 6, 1861. Dear Diary,

Oh boy, oh boy! The 22nd Michigan Regiment commanding officer has let me and Johnny join! We can hardly believe it! For weeks, he kept saying no, but Johnny and I were real persistent. We don't get paid or nothing, but that's okay. It's going to be just like playing Cowboys and Indians - only this time, it will be real!

As Drummer Boy and Fifer, Johnny and I are the first to wake up and the last to fall asleep in the whole camp. We also call everyone to meals, keep the beat during drills and marches and help cook. But our biggest responsibility is keeping up the men's spirits by pretending to be soldiers. They get a big laugh when Johnny and I try to lift their muskets. They must weigh a ton or two!

Your friend, Bobby

Winter, 1861. Dear Diary,

I'm shaking so bad, I can hardly hold my pencil straight. Even if I live to be 100, I'll never forget the things I saw today.

Early this morning, Johnny and I sounded the reverie, just like always, and marched out to a meadow - just like always. But instead of a row of trees, there was a line of men waiting on the other side. These were the Southern Rebels I'd heard so much about, and they looked just like us - except they were wearing gray instead of blue. And their muskets and cannons were pointed straight at us.

I suddenly had a terrible feeling in my stomach. Then the officer gave his command and it seemed like the whole meadow caught on fire at once. Cannon shots, gun powder, screaming, smoke and blood everywhere. I dropped my fife and started running in the opposite direction. I wanted to run all the way home to Ohio, but I didn't know the way. So I climbed a tree instead. I must have been up there a century or two crying before Johnny found me. He shouted out that our men were hurt and needed help. I couldn't let Johnny think I was a sissy, so I climbed down and followed him. All the men that had been standing just a few hours before were now lying on their backs, covered with wounds, splattered with blood. I wanted to run away again, but my legs felt like lead. The head medic gave us supplies and told us to clean the men's wounds. So off I went. I thought about how I ran away and hid at the first sound of gunfire and felt very ashamed. These are the real soldiers. I am but a boy. So I did all their crying for them.

Bobby

April 10, 1862. Dear Diary,

This last week has been the worst ever. They say we won the battle here at Shiloh, Tennessee, but we lost so many men it sure doesn't feel like a victory to me. Even Johnny had a brush with death. An artillery round missed him by inches and smashed a hole through his drum. Everybody has been calling him "Johnny Shiloh" ever since - even the newspapers. He's been doing real well in this war. He's even planning on applying to West Point when it's all over. Not me. I just want to go home to my marbles and Mama.

I've been burying men and mules all day and am so numb that nothing feels real anymore. I haven't written in so long because I feel awful recording all of these terrible things. I should bury this diary in the dirt, along with the dead. That way, there would be no proof that I took part in this war, and I could go back to being a boy again. But deep down, I know that my purpose in life is to record the ugliness so that it will never be forgotten. Maybe that way, it will never be repeated.

Bob

Please Note:

While there was, in fact, a John Lincoln Clem who served in the Union Army, Bobby is a product of my overactive imagination. The events that I have described, however, are not. Little boys played just as important a role in the Civil War as the generals themselves. Isn't it time they be remembered?

Stephanie

Please email me at: stephanie@ustrek.org