After a battle, there had always been an unwritten armistice between the two armies while the men from both sides moved into 'no man's land' to bring back their dead and wounded. Today was an exception.

All morning long the battle had raged on as men on horseback and on foot had moved forward, then retreated, then advanced yet again. It had been the bloodiest battle of the war so far, and tempers on both sides were frayed to the breaking point.

Men who moved into 'no man's land' in search of wounded comrades were themselves fired upon. The firing came from both sides as men crazed by anger and anguish thought only of revenging their fallen friends and neighbors. The field where so many lay dying was now a death trap for anyone fooolish enough to enter.

Thirty minutes went by and the cries of the wounded on either side were enough to drive a man mad. It was only then that a wagon was seen to move through the Union ranks and approach the front lines. Pulling the wagon was an old mule, spavined and gaunt. The mule seemed to have difficulty walking, much less pulling the wagon. Walking alongside the mule, was a boy, no more than twelve or thirteen years of age.

Several shots were fired as the boy moved out beyond the front lines, but the boy never faltered. After those few random shots, the battlefield fell silent as the boy and his mule continued their slow march across the field.

"Over here, boy" came a plaintive cry from one wounded soldier. "Help me, boy. For God's sake, help me." called out another. The boy stopped and began to help first one, then another man into the wagon. An unearthly silence lay over the batlefield as the boy moved from one body to another, looking for signs of life.

Suddenly, there were men from both sides, first slowly walking, then running to help the boy in his efforts to save these brave young men whose lives would be forfeit if left there to die. Other wagons were quickly driven onto the field and the armistice was again honored by both sides in the conflict as hundreds of wounded were taken from the field and brought back to field hospitals at the rear of the armies.

His name was Johnathan McHale, but they called him Johnny one shoe because he had appeared one day, wearing only one shoe. No one could say for sure where he came from. He himself didn't seem to know. He was more or less adopted by the men in Company 'C' and was given the job of helping take care of Army mules.

One of those initial random shots had pierced one of Johnny's lungs. Maybe it was watching the boy continue to help others while his life's blood drained away that brought an end to the firing from both sides. Maybe it was the horror of realizing what they were doing to one another that made both sides lay down their arms that day.

It was a Confederate wagon that brought Johnny back to their lines where he died on a surgeon's wooden table later that day. Under a white flag of armistice, it was a Confederate wagon that drove his body across 'no man's land' that evening and returned him to the commanding General of the Union Armies.

General Grant was said to have spoken often of that battle. The name of Johnny one shoe was whispered with awe by the thousands who survived that terrible day.

Perhaps the most horrible thing of all was the discovery made by the surgeons who fought to save young Johnny's life. Maybe others don't see it as horrible, but I do. You see.............little Johnny one shoe was a girl. A litle girl lost and caught up in a horrilble, senseless war. A war of brother against brother and father against son. A war that took the life of a little girl who could not bear to listen any longer to the cries of wounded men left to die.