Sometimes it really feels like the wheels are coming off. The States, unable to rely on the Federal Government, begin to band together to manage that which our usual leaders will not. Conversely, those deemed responsible to help only work to their own ends, taking from others for unknown reasons, all the while directly opposing their charges at every turn. It is times like these that whispers of war float through the political threads on sites like reddit and twitter from both the left and the right (not to mention crazy uncles on facebook). Even those who's office should be the last place for such talk have done so in the past, and those who are determined to cosplay their insecurities were listening.
To all those I only offer one thing. A short story by one of America's greatest writers, a man who's name means the measured depth of the river is two fathoms, Mark Twain recounts his experience during the last Civil War in the short story The Private History of the Campaign that Failed. I was only able to locate this one copy of the story on-line, so please forgive the obvious transcription errors in the text. I imagine there are other copies available on the web somewhere and I know I've encountered it on other sites in the past, but my google-fu is weak. All the same, I encourage you to take a read. For those too lazy to do so, here's the crux...
Presently a muffled sound caught our ears and we recognized the hoof-beats of a horse or horses. And right away, a figure appeared in the forest path; it could have been made of smoke, its mass had such little sharpness of outline. It was a man on horseback, and it seemed to me that there were others behind him. I got a hold of a gun in the dark, and pushed it through a crack between the logs, hardly knowing what I was doing, I was so dazed with fright. Somebody said "Fire!" I pulled the trigger, I seemed to see a hundred flashes and a hundred reports, then I saw the man fall down out of the saddle. My first feeling was of surprised gratification; my first impulse was an apprentice-sportsman's impulse to run and pick up his game. Somebody said, hardly audibly, "Good, we've got him. Wait for the rest!" But the rest did not come. There was not a sound, not the whisper of a leaf; just the perfect stillness, an uncanny kind of stillness which was all the more uncanny on account of the damp, earthy, late night smells now rising and pervading it. Then, wondering, we crept out stealthily and approached the man. When we got to him, the moon revealed him distinctly. He was laying on his back with his arms abroad, his mouth was open and his chest was heaving with long gasps, and his white shirt front was splashed with blood. The thought shot through me that I was a murderer, that I had killed a man, a man who had never done me any harm. That was the coldest sensation that ever went through my marrow. I was down by him in a moment, helplessly stroking his forehead, and I would have given anything then, my own life freely, to make him again what he had been five minutes before.
Here's a low-budget 1981 dramatization of the story for those who are not too lazy, but still cannot be obliged to read.
I haven't watch the whole thing, but it does have that "movie the teacher puts on while nursing a hangover" feel to it. It would need a couple robots and a straight guy for me to finish it.