His name was Andrew H. Tullock. He's a great great uncle, the baby brother of my great great grandfather Samuel who hid out in the Missouri woods rather than fight for the Union or the Rebels in a war he didn't believe in. But Andrew took up a gun. He fought for the South to try to keep those dang Yankees from invading the family farm in Missouri. He lost a leg in the war, and ended up living with my great grandpa Samuel for a few years, until he died in 1869 as a result of his wounds. He was 31. Never married or had any children. I found his grave stone a few years ago. The graveyard is in the middle of someone else's cow pasture now. The stone had fallen over and was buried, overgrown with grass. But I scraped away enough to read the name. So on Memorial Day I think of Andrew and all the soldiers who died in wars not of their making. And I think about that song, "Where have all the flowers gone?" about the futility of war. "When will they ever learn? When will they ever learn?"