I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is

Hear now the voice of the past, carried across the ages by the words of William Tecumseh Sherman, the general who walked among the fire and ashes of civil strife. When he declared, “I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine… War is hell,” he spoke not as one who dreamt from afar, but as one who had trodden the smoking ruins and heard the dreadful cries of men torn by steel. His words are no idle utterance, but the testimony of a man who gazed into the furnace of destruction and emerged burdened with sorrowful wisdom.

The origin of these words lies in the American Civil War, when brother fought against brother, and fields once fertile with grain grew heavy with the slain. Sherman himself, though renowned for his ruthless march through Georgia, was not a man intoxicated by bloodshed. He knew that war was no theater for glory, no pageant of shining banners, but a descent into chaos where the innocent and the guilty alike are consumed. Thus he warned his listeners: those who clamor for vengeance are often the ones untouched by the battlefield, those whose ears have not trembled to the sound of the wounded groaning in the night.

Consider the tale of the city of Atlanta in 1864, when Sherman’s army advanced and the people fled. The sky burned red with the flames of homes set alight, and families were driven into exile. It was not merely soldiers who bore the torment of war, but mothers, children, and the aged. For them, the war was no hymn of patriotism, but the shattering of hearth and heritage. This, too, is the heart of Sherman’s words: that the cost of war is borne most heavily by those least responsible for its making.

The ancients also bore witness to this truth. Did not Thucydides write of the Peloponnesian War, where the strong preyed upon the weak, and the innocent suffered for the ambitions of statesmen? And did not the poet Homer, though he sang of heroes, show us the grief of Andromache, left widowed by Hector’s fall? Always has the chorus of history reminded us: when men praise the glory of battle, they often silence the voices of the broken.

Sherman’s cry, “War is hell,” is not merely lamentation, but admonition. He reminds us that those who call for blood should first reckon with its price. For vengeance blinds the eyes, and the sweetness of imagined triumph soon sours into bitterness when the smoke clears and graves remain. Let his words stand as a warning to those who, in the heat of anger, demand desolation without knowing the abyss they summon.

What then is the lesson for us, children of peace yet heirs to war’s memory? It is this: seek reconciliation before wrath, and strive for understanding before arms. To honor Sherman’s wisdom is to resist the seduction of empty glory, to recognize that true strength lies not in destruction, but in restraint. Let us labor to be peacemakers in our homes, our communities, and our nations, so that the horrors once endured need not return.

Practically, this means choosing dialogue over insult, forgiveness over vengeance, and compassion over indifference. It means, too, that we bear the responsibility to lift our voices against those who glorify violence, whether in politics, in culture, or in our daily dealings. We must remind one another, as Sherman reminded his age, that to unleash destruction is easy, but to bind wounds and rebuild shattered lives is the task of true courage.

So let the words echo: “War is hell.” They are a cry, a warning, and a teaching. Carry them as a shield of wisdom, that you may not be deceived by the false light of moonshine glory. For if we remember this truth, we will walk humbly, cherishing the fragile peace entrusted to us, and laboring with all our strength to preserve it for generations yet unborn.