A visit to Gettysburg is certainly sobering. The main attraction of this small city in south central Pennsylvania (no matter what the tourist literature says about “fun activities for the whole family”) is following crawling traffic through a bucolic countryside to gawk at an endless series of soaring monuments commemorating men killing each other.
That is cynical, I realize. But realistic. The artwork and craftsmanship that went into these monuments is impressive. Standing among the tortured angels and stalwart fallen soldiers and officers on horseback, you are all too aware that thousands upon thousands of men (and some women too I suppose) died horrible deaths all around you.
War is hell, that is clear, and the Civil War battles fought in Gettysburg on July 1 – 3, 1863 were among the most hellish. Fifty thousand dead. Fifty thousand – dead.
It’s difficult to know what to feel. Proud of those who fought? In despair of so much loss of life? Glad that the Union was victorious in the end, and the States united once again? All – or none – of the above?
When we got to the towering Pennsylvania Monument, despite the number of people ambling around the fields and climbing the stairs to view the vista, it was relatively quiet. Until a thundering boom resounded through the staircase; a cannon fired by a park interpreter. Just one boom, but it shook the building, and the psyche of the assembled visitors. For one awful moment, pride, despair and victory seemed irrelevant. Survival seemed foremost.
Maybe, in the end, that is the lesson we take away from a visit to Gettysburg. The deep, basic struggle for survival, and empathy for those who didn’t.
