History suggests that battles were often in gloomy weather fought, beneath glowering skies and chilling rain or falling snow. On rubbled fields they fought, devoid of tree or bush, blasted by a thousand booming guns. In craters of mud they hid, where organisms ate their flesh. Thoughts of hearth and home they had, each breath could be their last, fitfully slept with hellish dreams, survived to fight another day, 'twas all the warrior’s lot.

It was not a good time, or good place, to stand, to fight, to die. Yet stand and fight and die they did, grandfathers of us all, a legacy they left behind for all of us to share. Every warrior in his own way stood firm against the foe, fought and bled and died, drove their enemies from the land. For country, king or home, exchanged their lives for lasting peace.

Yeah, in the distant past of yore, that first warrior seized an eagled staff, clutched a rock, or club or sword or lance, from fallen comrade's hand, plucked their colors from the earth and raised their flag above the muck, honored symbol of their vow. Forward they rushed with grim resolve, drove their enemies from the field, and lived or died the warrior's death.

Forward for ere they marched to death, or lived to rule the day. And more were they than ghostly shapes, charging into the fray, or names upon a wall. In honor they lived and in honor they died, gave us better life.

Across the chasm of history wide and on some quiet night, you may hear their voices still, for us alone to hear, "Please forget us not."

We encourage you to remember your Rutledge ancestors who served in any capacity during any Amercian War by first completing the War Memorial Submission Form

Visit the War Memorial Pages for our Rutledge Ancestors