Forgotten under a Tropical Sun: War Stories by American Veterans in the Philippines, 1898-1913

FORGOTTEN UNDER A TROPICAL SUN

FORGOTTEN

UNDER A

TROPICAL SUN

War Stories by American Veterans

in the Philippines, 1898–1913

JOSEPH P. MCCALLUS

The Kent State University Press

Kent, Ohio

© 2017 by The Kent State University Press, Kent, Ohio 44242

All rights reserved

ISBN 978-1-60635-319-6

Manufactured in the United States of America

Cataloging information for this title is available at the Library of Congress.

21  20  19  18  17      5  4  3  2  1

To the memory of my mother, Margaret McCallus

CONTENTS

List of Illustrations

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1 First Encounters

2 Heroes of the New Frontier

3 Brutality

4 The Good Father

5 The Pioneers’ Club

Conclusion

Notes

Bibliography

Index

ILLUSTRATIONS

Fig. 1. USS Olympia

Fig. 2. George Dewey

Fig. 3. Bradley A. Fiske

Fig. 4. Herbert O. Kohr

Fig. 5. Uncle Sam: Now That I’ve Got It …

Fig. 6. Funston’s Charge

Fig. 7. Lawrence Benton

Fig. 8. Jack Ganzhorn

Fig. 9. Lawton’s Funeral Procession

Fig. 10. L. J. Van Schaick and Ward Cheney

Fig. 11. David Potter

Fig. 12. James Parker

Fig. 13. The Church at Catubig

Fig. 14. Littleton Waller

Fig. 15. Map of Moroland

Fig. 16. John R. White

Fig. 17. Hugh L. Scott

Fig. 18. Hugh L. Scott and the Sultan of Sulu

Fig. 19. Sydney Cloman Interrogates the Suspects

Fig. 20. Moro Trench at Bud Dajo

Fig. 21. William Oliver Trafton and Wife Lena

Fig. 22. The Pioneers’ Club, Christmas, 1939

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book began in the American Historical Collection at the Ateneo de Manila University. There, among the memorabilia of a century of Philippine-American relations, I found a complete collection of an obscure pre–World War II journal, The American Oldtimer. The journal was the product of an old soldiers’ club in Manila, and it was dedicated to preserving the memories of men who took part in the often forgotten war between the United States and the Philippines. Many of their recollections were vivid and detailed. Some were humorous. All produced, at least in me, a sense of melancholy: here were the memories of veterans in the last decades of life. The Japanese would shortly incarcerate many of them. Some would never leave the internment camp alive.

The stories I found in The American Oldtimer interested me, and I began to collect other memoirs of the conflict. Most of these narratives were by soldiers and sailors who were little known in their lifetime, or if they did have notoriety, it was fairly forgotten over the years. Forgotten or not, the stories offered a detailed and intimate view of Americans serving in a faraway place during a fascinating time.

I am grateful to many people and organizations on both sides of the Pacific. In the Philippines, Leslie Ann Murray of AmCham Philippines and the Bulletin of the American Historical Collection was supportive in many ways. I am thankful to Bezalie Bautista Uc-Kung of New Day Publishers for allowing excerpts of We Thought We Could Whip Them in Two Weeks to appear here. As he has for decades, John Melvin offered friendship and encouragement. Like the American Historical Collection at the Ateneo, the Filipinas Heritage Library in Makati was instrumental in the completion of the project.

In the United States, Columbus State University extended several grants that allowed me to gather research. The good people at the university’s Simon Schwob Memorial Library have always been receptive to my research endeavors. In particular, Bessie Bussey of the interlibrary loan department worked tirelessly to get me rare materials.

A number of scholars graciously looked at the manuscript and offered their advice. Patrick Jackson, Richard Meixsel, and Jim Owen read early versions of the work, and I am thankful for their suggestions. Alex Vernon and David Silbey offered wonderful recommendations, and the work is much better for them.

I am deeply indebted to Charles L. Borskey, grandson of William Oliver Trafton, for providing me with papers, photographs, and a copy of the original manuscript of his grandfather’s memoir. I am also appreciative to Michael Warner for giving me information on his ancestor, Lawrence Benton, and to David S. Stieghan for bringing my attention to William Macy.

As with previous books, this one could not have been completed without the understanding and support of my wife, Juliet Adolfo McCallus.

INTRODUCTION

Memory has not been kind to the Philippine-American War and the even lesser known American military campaigns in Moroland. Today, as it has been for generations, few Americans know the details of these conflicts and their aftermath. American children usually hear nothing of them in school. There are almost no memorials. The fighting produced no great works of literature. Out of the nameless battles came no icons like Sergeant York or Audie Murphy. John Wayne never played a Philippine-American War hero.

Why has the American experience in the Philippines at the beginning of the twentieth century been largely forgotten?¹ There are a number of possible reasons. Because it followed on the heels of the Spanish-American War and because there was a political and cultural connection between Spain and the Philippines, many have lumped the two wars together under the title of the former. This is unfortunate because there are obvious discrepancies between the two: the Spanish-American War lasted a few months, while the war in the Philippines lasted from 1899 to 1902, by some accounts to 1905, and still by others to 1913. In terms of casualties, in the first war there were far fewer combatants on both sides to die than in the second. Philippine civilians suffered substantially higher death rates than in Cuba or Puerto Rico.² Not the least difference concerned America’s intent: the United States fought the Spanish to free Cubans of European tyranny; the United States fought the Filipinos so that they would not rebel against American rule.

Historical amnesia might be attributed to the anxiety the war produced. Unlike Britain, there was no imperial tradition in America, and the idea of foreign conquest shook notions of national identity. Inflamed by a sometimes hysterical press, the American populace became divided on the war. The anti-imperialist movement viewed the Philippines as an inglorious exercise in colonial conquest, a hypocritical act of self-debasement. The movement did have highly visible supporters, such as Mark Twain and Andrew Carnegie. Doubtlessly, many Americans felt uneasy about the war, perhaps even guilty. But most saw the taking of the islands as a national right, or from a different perspective, a responsibility to help the Filipino people. It was manifest destiny, a celebration of American prerogative. Despite anxious misgivings about hypocrisy, Americans sent their soldiers off with cheers and supported them until they came home. And then quietly moved on.

Then there is the angst of nation building, a now familiar term not known at the time. With the capture of Philippine political and military leader Emilio Aguinaldo in 1901, the war quickly ran down. Save for several highly publicized events, such as the incident at Balangiga and the battles in Mindanao in 1906 and 1913, the Philippines became a relatively quiet place. Under the Philippine Organic Act of 1902, the United States began to slowly, and at times unevenly, prepare the colony for independence. Relations between Filipinos and Americans became largely relaxed and cordial. The memories of a brutal war were pushed aside for the idyllic notions of tutelage and development. In short, seeing a new nation emerge, both peoples washed their hands of the bloody affair as quickly as they could.

There are other reasons. One is, quite simply, that the United States won the war. Because of the military victory in the Philippines, and one with comparatively few casualties, no great cultural introspection was necessary. Another reason was the American economy. During the first years of the twentieth century, the United States saw great national prosperity. A nation flush with victory in good economic times need not wring its hands. Under these glad tidings, the Philippine war quickly evaporated from the American consciousness.

Perhaps the crucial event in this disremembering is World War I. The Great War began in 1914, and the United States entered the war in 1917. By November 1918, after names such as Belleau Wood and the Meuse-Argonne arrived in the national lexicon, America had sent two million men to Europe and suffered over 116, 000 dead.³ With such numbers in little more than a year and a half, it is not surprising that the events in the Philippines twenty years earlier quickly faded from memory. The hostilities in Luzon, Samar, and Mindanao—replete with carabao baggage trains and an enemy equipped largely with knives—would have seemed remarkably anachronistic set against the trenches, tanks, and airplanes of Europe.

The problem of memory has caused problems of interpretation. For the first fifty odd years after its end, little attention was paid to exploring the war. It was usually viewed as a disagreeable but necessary exercise by the United States to save the Filipinos from Aguinaldo’s elitist Tagalog dictatorship. References to the affair usually contained terms as the Philippine insurgency or ideas such as the compassionate uplifting of the people and the creation of the Philippine nation. The key operating term was progress. By 1960, Philippine independence, the heroic role of Filipino guerrillas in WWII, and the election of pro-United States Ramon Magsaysay during the Cold War, all reinforced the notion that the Philippines was a successfully developed American democracy. The Philippine-American War was thus retrospectively an ineluctable catalyst for the birth and growth of a country. Few writers or academics in the United States or the Philippines saw any real problem with this.

But the 1960s ushered in a new interpretation of Philippine history, and in particular the role of the United States. Some Philippine scholars, championed by Renato Constantino, viewed the United States as an imperial aggressor, robbing the Filipino people of not only their land but also their identity. The war became a testament to American speciousness and barbarity. Thousands of Filipino students read and believed Constantino, who claimed that objectivity must come only after Filipino history was liberated by nationalist thinking—in short, a people’s history.⁴ Constantino’s influence has been pervasive: Philippine studies throughout the 1980s and 1990s are rife with postcolonial works that put Philippine nationalism and anti-U.S. sentiments before critical analysis. The war, when discussed, was now seen through an entirely new political lens.

Postcolonial thought has created an appreciation of the war based largely on several assumptions and images, references that are repeated in virtually all discussions of the war. An image that is seemingly mandatory is that of the U.S. soldier torturing Filipinos, usually by way of the water cure. The American practice of forcing civilians into guarded localities—strategic hamletting in a later war—is often cited as well. Perhaps most evocative is the story of Brig. Gen. Jacob H. Smith’s order to kill all males on Samar over the age of ten and turn the island into a howling wilderness; this, too, has been a centerpiece of any recent treatment of the war.

The first view of the war—that of American sacrifice, generosity, and patronage—has long since been debunked. The second view of the war—that of American brutality and hegemony—is still firmly in place. Somewhere between the historical counterpoints is another way of experiencing the conflict.

For over a half century after the military operations in the Philippines ended, American veterans published their memories of the experience. Their work is the subject of this book. The study surveys sixty-two memoirs and autobiographies of veterans of the Spanish, Filipino, and Moro wars. Members of the army, navy, and marines, both officers and enlisted, wrote this material, much of it published from 1900 through the 1930s. A few of the authors were luminaries when their works appeared, such as George Dewey and Frederick Funston. Most were and remain obscure. It is through these writers, famous or not, that the American enterprise in the Philippines is commemorated.

The aim of the book is straightforward: to reach an understanding of how these veterans remembered their Philippine service. This goal is accomplished through two lines of inquiry. One is how the writers interpret historical events. Among others, the following pages contain eyewitness accounts of the Battle of Manila Bay, the fighting in Luzon, and the massacres at Balangiga and Bud Dajo. In conjunction with such events, this book also attempts to grasp how the writers dealt with the topics that concerned them at the time. Did they feel the war was conducted appropriately? How did they feel about reports of American atrocities? What were their thoughts on the anti-imperialist movement in the United States? What did they do when they returned home?

The second line of inquiry explores how these publications function as stories within the tradition of war memoirs. The study carefully examines the makeup of the narratives. Attention is given to the thematic characteristics of the stories, such as the graphic battlefield descriptions, the idea of manliness, the idealized suffering and death of comrades, the differing portrayals of the enemy, and the personal revelations that result from the war experience. In particular, the study highlights the American frontier theme that appears throughout many of the stories.

Why should the narratives by these veterans receive attention? There are plain answers. The military memoir is a personal exercise in remembering, but it is also a cultural construct. These written memories were formed by a life lived but also by the idiosyncrasies of a particular culture. Collected memories of the past critically influence activities in the present and expectations of the future. And this is why the Philippine stories are important to read. The Philippine experience formed America’s first truly overseas military endeavor. It was an imperialistic enterprise, one that tested America’s righteous paradigm. And the details of the war would be echoed in following U.S. military actions: civilian casualties, claims of torture, the role played by the media, and heated political debate at its inception and through its process. The stories told by the American veteran of the Philippines preface American stories told throughout the twentieth-century wars and most recently in Iraq and Afghanistan. To read the soldier’s story of 1900 is to read what is happening at the moment.

Life Narratives and the Personal War Story

Life narratives or life writing is a broad literary genre that includes diaries, journals, letters, autobiographies, and memoirs. It is, in a most basic sense, personal storytelling. But it is a problematic literary form in that questions arise regarding memory, factual reliability, and authorial intent. In addition, this type of writing sees the uneasy merging of several different disciplines, creating difficulties with genre identification.

Autobiographies and memoirs are especially knotty. Although the traditional distinction between them is that the former is a document that recounts an entire life and the latter but a portion of that life, both are personal stories created by the need to remember something.⁵ Unlike journals and letters, they are written sometime after—and often long after—a phase or event has occurred. Because of this gap in time, the author’s memory is the ultimate source of information. Obviously, memories are anything but accurate. Memories are records of how one experienced something, not the historical occasion. Full memories of an event can never be recovered, and these partial recollections are subject to change over a person’s life. Memories are never stable; they are constantly being unconsciously revised. One of the reasons memories change is that they are contextualized: events are remembered differently at different points in life. And, as Sidonie Smith and Julia Watson discuss, a person organizes these sliced up and ever-changing fragments of memory into a complex construction of personal narratives.⁶ The organizational strategy is selective: scenes are incorporated or discarded in a manner to build the narrative structure.

The act of selecting different memories impacts the factual reliability of an autobiographical narrative, and it generates an intersecting of disciplines, as well. Northrop Frye, whose work would influence a number of critics important to this study such as Martin Green and Paul Fussell, sees autobiography as essentially a romantic confession, stating that autobiography is another form which merges with the novel by a series of insensible gradations. Most autobiographies are inspired by a creative, and therefore fictional, impulse to select only those events and experiences in the writer’s life that go to build up an integrated pattern. This pattern may be something larger than himself with which he has come to identify himself, or simply the coherence of his character and attitudes.⁷

Life writing is thus nonfiction created by acts of literary selection. Albert E. Stone furthers this point by declaring the writer’s whole consciousness remodels the past into a narrative shape which necessarily resembles chronicle, fiction, fable, dream, and myth, as well as history. He continues by saying that the result of remembering, creating, or recreating one’s past and putting it into words is both deliberate artistry and a more or less trustworthy account of the past, a history.⁸ In reading autobiographical material, then, one encounters a historicized personal story that uses literary devices to propel the narrative; it is a dramatic, subjective account of real people and real events that may or may not be factually reliable.

Not only is this subjective account largely literary, it also, as Frye suggests, suits a rhetorical goal: to allow the reader to see history or himself from a particular perspective. There could be any number of reasons why the author is motivated to write this material. One might be to build or uphold a public reputation. Another might be to justify some action that happened in the past or may happen in the future. It might possibly be to dispute opposing accounts concerning an event or person, or it might be the need to present some type of information on a controversial topic. It might be to commemorate. It might be to confess. Finally, it might simply be that the author does not want his or her experiences to fade from the collective memory.

Whatever the author’s reason, an important mechanism within these narratives is the readers’ submission to authority. In this literary form, readers recognize the narrator as an authority figure; they tacitly agree that the experience of the writer is authentic and accurate. This is done simply because of the commanding identity of the author: the audience perceives that the narrator is a historical personality and that an autobiography or memoir is the inside story given from a privileged vantage point. Writers infuse their discourse with authority in order to dominate the reader, saying, believe me, because I experienced it; trust me, I was there, you were not. This audience-author power dynamic is especially true of war stories.

Personal war stories fall into the life narrative type. Like life narratives, war stories, as a specific genre, have been surprisingly difficult to define. As World War II veteran and Edwardian literary scholar Samuel Hynes points out, The stories that men tell of war belong to a curious class of writing.⁹ A war story is something like a memoir in that it is a personal narrative. A war story is something like travel writing because the writer has gone into a foreign land and immersed himself into an alien environment. A war story is something like history in that it deals with real events and consequences of those events. War stories seem to be a hybrid of several types of narratives, which, as a whole, tell a personal tale of someone taken outside of their everyday existence at a significant juncture in time.

Published war memoirs go back to Thucydides and Julius Caesar. The Crusades offered numerous military memoirs, and the Renaissance even more. Until the mid-eighteenth century, noblemen and commanders wrote these stories, but the Enlightenment saw the rise of accounts by junior officers and enlisted men. In the decades following the Napoleonic wars, the number of military memoirs exploded in France and Great Britain. In America, the Civil War produced a wealth of documents, many of which are only now coming to light. During the last century, especially after the Great War, such publications continued to be extremely popular, with works by Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Philip Caputo, Tim O’Brien, and many others. Today, as U.S. troops return from Iraq and Afghanistan, the war memoir is still a popular, if only marginally studied, literary genre.¹⁰

Historians have frequently preferred journals and letters, battle reports, and administrative documents rather than memoirs. This is unfortunate for a number of reasons. Journals and letters, while reporting an event or personal observation, provide immediacy—written close to the moment—but they normally do not allow the author or reader to see a wider view of the experience. Letters are sometimes censored. Both journals and letters are written for a narrow audience: the journal to the self and letter to one person. Furthermore, unlike a memoir, they often do not illustrate the inner changes a veteran undergoes throughout the war and afterward. Battle reports and administrative accounts of combat have two inherent weaknesses. One is that the records can be inaccurate and the other is that the experience is not personalized.¹¹

The main objection by historians to war memoirs is factual unreliability. This is not unreasonable. Two Vietnam veterans turned writers, Tim O’Brien and William Broyles Jr., declare that truth in war stories is a secondary component, or even an irrelevant one. Broyles explains that every good war story is, in at least some of its crucial elements, false. The better the war story, the less of it is likely to be true…. I have never once heard a grunt tell a reporter a war story that wasn’t a lie, just as some of the stories I tell about the war are lies. Not that even the lies aren’t true, on a certain level. They have a moral, even a mythic, truth, rather than a literal one.¹²

That lies are true—what does this paradox mean? If a war memoir is essentially unreliable, why read it?

It must be emphasized immediately that military memoirs are critical to historical studies, despite their unreliability. These narratives open a window to actual events, and they can complement other documents, such as battle reports. For example, memoirs do something that administrative records could never hope to accomplish: they shed light on the personal experience of battle—the fear, horror, and sadness of war. This allows the historian a privileged insight into the event. And because war narratives involve real characters, the historian is able to view military culture, and especially—if written by an officer—the intricacies of command.

Because they are personal narratives that rely on literary selection, war stories are beneficial to the study of writing, as well. Hynes suggests that war narratives are important to read not because of historical accuracy, but because they are, simply, stories that enthrall us. War stories are

responses to that primal need we all have to tell and to hear individual experiences, and so to understand our own lives and imagine the lives of others. Stories answer the questions that we ask of any experience, whether our own or somebody else’s: What happened? What was it like? How did it feel? The soldier asks those questions of his war life and answers them in the telling of his story, and so discovers its meaning and gets his war straight in his mind. We, his readers, ask those questions, too: they are our motive for reading.¹³

The passages above identify key elements to appreciate war stories. In both, the two veterans state that war stories are attempts by an individual to come to terms with the experience and how the experience fits into wider frameworks: the meaning of war and the mythic truths connected to it. War stories, as the following pages attempt to show, provide examples of confidential meditation, and in doing so posit larger ideas on the idiosyncrasies of American culture and its national self-image.

Modern war narratives are usually dramatic examples of personal introspection. The mechanism for achieving this examination is usually a simple one. The literal journey away from the security of home to the intensity of combat and the safe return from war—the innocence to experience to reflection progression—allows the writer to see his life, society, and country from different perspectives. Sometimes this experience is a positive revelation in that the activities in the war sanction personal growth, or that now, after this experience, the writer understands better the concepts of self-worth. But sometimes the writer undergoes disillusionment, either with the military adventure itself or with the return to a peacetime existence. And sometimes there are combinations of both: initial disillusionment gives way to a positive development. What is fascinating about war stories is that they allow both the writer and the reader to intersect the personal, subjective experience with that of the public, historical moment.

War stories also contain individual expressions of the abstract ideas and beliefs of culture. Actually, war narratives are more than just expressions of these things; they are applications of them. In these stories, one sees time and again the presentation of a cultural constellation: values, attitudes, and trends that existed at a certain point in time. Because foreign travel is often the engine that drives the war narrative, the writer remembers himself as a cultural emissary, wittingly or not. Through this contact with foreign stimuli, a reflected definition of the writer’s culture takes shape. In this fashion, war narratives are akin to exploration literature: the author, an individual and an authorized agent of the nation, ventures into an unknown land and sees its strange inhabitants, allowing both writer and reader to appraise their own culture. The writer often describes the enemy in dehumanizing language, which validates the moral correctness of his comrades and his nation. He is both evaluative and (perhaps unknowingly) instructive, for in presenting such descriptions he is asking the audience to share his convictions. War stories are thereby an epistemology of sorts: an investigation of what it means to be a representative of one’s own people.

The war story stands at the junction of life writing and national writing in another way. The memory of all wars manufactures myths of national identity, and war narratives play a role—and many times a huge role—in establishing these myths. As Broyles seems to suggest, war stories are national stories because they articulate the ideals of the nation, splitting the universe into absolutes of good and evil. This is done through discourse that connects specific symbols with ideology. In this metaphoric environment, readers are encouraged to respond to a situation by referencing common ideas or events from history. It can be a subtle process. As Richard Slotkin notes, national myth does not argue its ideology, it exemplifies it. It projects models of good or heroic behavior that reinforce the values of ideology.¹⁴ Furthermore, a national myth has two identities: the historical context into which it was born and the national memory in which it continues to operate. The first identity can soon become forgotten, misconstrued, or extraneous, but the second is remembered and powerful. Readers of a war story, perhaps removed decades or longer from either the event or the publication of the memoir, find the story comprehensible because of the long-standing common metaphors. By traversing this symbolic landscape, the reader has self-hood and national identification explained and underpinned. Ultimately, the war story, the discourse of an individual experience, finds its way into the vast matrix that constitutes the collective memory of a nation.

The Writers and Their Works

This book looks at sixty-two publications by sixty writers. The authors present a mixed bag of backgrounds, but there are number of shared points that offer insight into the group as a whole. Very few of the veterans did much writing of any type outside military administrative work. The two major exceptions are George Brydges Rodney, who wrote at least thirty western novels, and Bradley A. Fiske, who published a number of naval technology and strategy books. Edward S. O’Reilly worked as a journalist in Texas. Jack Ganzhorn wrote several screenplays for Hollywood westerns. Expatriates Irving S. Hart and Percy A. Hill produced a few Philippine histories and short stories. Aside from these few, most of the men here published nothing but their memoirs.

Not only were these persons not writers, most were little known throughout their entire lives. There are exceptions, here, too: George Dewey, Frederick Funston, John J. Pershing, Hugh L. Scott, and Charles Judson Crane were all military personalities when their works were written. Ganzhorn, as well as O’Reilly, acted in early Hollywood movies. Some of them, notably Hart, Hill, H. R. Andreas, and Louis J. Van Schaick, settled in the Philippines after the war and became well-known expatriates. But most of the writers were private men who served their country and then returned to an ordinary existence. It was during the decades of unassuming life that they felt the need to remember and chronicle their war experiences. They did so and then faded into obscurity.

Famous or not, these memoirists offer a reflection of the overall characteristics of the armed forces of the time. Army, navy, and marine writers—both officers and enlisted—are present. Some of the works are products of men with advanced educations, such as those from West Point and Annapolis. Other writers had little formal education. Nearly all areas of the then United States are represented. There are a number of men who were in the Civil War, American Indian wars, or the Spanish-American War in Cuba and Puerto Rico, but for many it would be their first military experience.

The works they produced exist in a number of forms. Some are complete books addressing the author’s experiences in the Philippines—Fiske’s War Time in Manila, an example. In other cases, the Philippine experience is imbedded within an autobiography or memoir, such as James Parker’s The Old Army and Scott’s Some Memories of a Soldier. There are shorter pieces as well, most notably those from The American Oldtimer, a journal published in Manila during the 1930s by and for retired Philippine veterans.

In order to address the creation of the author’s narrative, there are a number of significant factors external to the text that demand attention. Important considerations exist regarding the author’s environment at the time of writing and publication. Information on these subjects is sometimes available, but, more often than not, it is either sketchy or nonexistent.

One topic concerns authorial intent. Was there a rhetorical objective? There seems to be a number of answers. Many of the works are commemorative in nature, monuments to the survivors of the war. John H. Clifford, for example, states he wrote his memoir for the benefit of those who served in the marine battalion with him. Some writers have tendentious objectives. Both Dewey and Fiske certainly attempted to remind the public a decade after the Battle of Manila Bay of the importance of the navy. Funston wanted not only to champion the role of the Kansas Volunteers he commanded but also to clear his name of controversy regarding the execution of prisoners and the desecration of churches. Herbert O. Kohr, who was blinded and crippled in an explosion less than five years after serving, wrote because he needed the money.

Temporal issues are also a factor. The writer’s age when composing is important because it seems to distinguish between an immediate and meditative account. For some, the book came out within a decade of their service; they were relatively young men reporting recent events. These writers produced prose laced with unmediated and exceptional detail. Most of