By DON HOWELL
Ringgold, Georgia is another of the scores of quick stops on I-75 near the Tennessee state line.
In 1945 it was a rather indolent little town with no real claim to fame other than the fact that it was on the fringe of Chickamauga battlefield. You history buffs will recall that the battle of Chickamauga was a rather bloody campaign that raged on for days. There were literally thousands of fatalities on both sides and even more injuries.
In 1945, my aunt and uncle lived in Ringgold in an old ante-bellum two-story house. It was built just prior to the beginning of hostilities, somehow endured, and survived the civil war. During the bloody days of the battle of Chickamauga the house had been commandeered for a hospital.
In early summer of 1945 we attended a family gathering at this old house. I was four years old, just before turning five in August. However, I still recall seeing grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins from whom I have long since been separated.
I remember hearing the grownups talk and recall the phrase “haunted house.” I asked my older cousin, Jerry, what they meant and he matter of factly said, “We have ghosts upstairs.”
He then proceeded to lead all the cousins up the rickety stairs to the second floor. He took us to “the room.” The room was unused and empty; no boxes, no furniture, no discarded clothes; nothing.
We stood as he narrated how this room was where they brought soldiers to die. He showed us dark bloodstains on the wood floors and initials and dates carved into the walls. Neither the stains nor the initials held our attention for long.
The other kids lost interest and scampered back down the stairs. For whatever reason, I stayed behind, somehow magnetically unable to tear myself away from the walls and stained floor.
As I stood staring at the North wall, images began to appear. Suddenly men who appeared old and tired filled the room. Some were lying on thin, narrow mattresses with no sheets. One man lay on a single wooden bed again with a thin mattress with neither pillow nor sheet. Others lay about the room.
As I stood watching the scene unfold the man on the bed pushed himself up on one elbow and seemed to look straight at me. He didn’t speak but I still can feel his hopelessness.
I recall the tattered pants and torn shirts. Some wore no shirt at all while others appeared to be dressed in long underwear. Some had no teeth but only the hollow cheeks and gaunt stare of those accustomed to hunger and thirst.
What stands out though is the look on the face of each man. There was a pervasive sadness and loneliness. Even then I knew they wanted to go home but were resigned to never again seeing the face of loved ones. The sense of despair and helplessness was palpable, even to a four-year-old boy.
Over the ensuing years, I have wondered about that scene. Was I somehow permitted to see the horror of what men on both sides endured? Or, did I enter a time warp and suddenly find myself transported for a few minutes back to the atrocities of the civil war?
Or, did an over active imagination just concoct such a dramatic scene, but if concocted, from what was it constructed? I sure wish I knew! Also, I wish the old house had never been torn down.
