ANDERSONVILLE, Ga. - The Georgia preacher flailed his arms - not out of zeal, but self-defense.
It was Easter. The just-risen sun was burning through the morning mist. Birds chirped. And the mosquitoes, sensing easy prey, converged on the sparse crowd attending sunrise services at this former Civil War prison camp.
"We're going to `a cappella' this one," the Rev. John P. Drake said, waving bugs away as congregants, who had been quietly passing around a can of bug repellent, stood to sing.
Up from the grave He a-rose
With a mighty triumph o'er His foes;
He a-rose a victor from the dark do-main,
And he lives for-ever with His saints to reign.
He a-rose! He a-rose!
Hal-le-lu-jah! Christ a-rose!
Back in their folding chairs, seats wet with dew, the congregants listened as Drake, pastor of Andersonville Methodist Church, spoke about Easter - the pain, suffering and torture of the crucifixion, followed by joyful rebirth. It was a message of faith and hope, particularly fitting on this, the first day home for the seven American ex-prisoners of war in Iraq.
But Drake made no mention of them. More surprising yet - though he read from Ezekiel about the valley of dry bones, though he referred to Auschwitz - he said nothing about the significance of the ground on which he stood. For lined up not far from the folding chairs - and squeezed together even more closely - were the tombstones of thousands of Union soldiers who, during the Civil War, died in Andersonville, a Confederate-run prison camp in which disease was rampant, cruelty was customary and escape was rare.
Death and brutality were common at all Civil War prison camps, Union-run camps included, but Andersonville, now home to the National Prisoner of War Museum, was, and remains, the most notorious.
The camp's commander, Capt. Henry Wirz, was the only Civil War soldier convicted of war crimes. He was hanged in Washington on Nov. 10, 1865. In 1908, in an attempt to clear his reputation, a monument proclaiming him a hero and a martyr was erected in the center of Andersonville.
Wars, final as they are, rarely come to tidy ends. After the "war criminals" (generally those on the losing side) are sentenced, after the history (generally written by the winning side) is put down on paper, sorting the facts from the myths, the heroes from the villains, the right from the wrong, can go on for centuries.
Even removing Wirz from the equation, though, Andersonville, as with prisoner-of-war camps from Bataan to Baghdad, remains a shameful saga - one that, fully confronted, reflects a side of humanity most humans would prefer not to admit exists.
Too depressing, perhaps, for an Easter Sunday sermon in a Civil War cemetery, or maybe too contrary to the theme; none of these bones came back to life. The sunrise service concluded with no mention of Andersonville, with the congregation smelling of insect repellent and, as it began, with song.
Death can-not keep its prey, Jesus my savior
He tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord!
There are only so many things you can do with an indelible stain on your nation's history.
You can scrub, in hopes of removing the worst of it, or whitewash, in hopes of covering up most of it. You can pretend it doesn't exist, or divert attention by pointing to almost-as-tarnished spots elsewhere. You can explain it away as unavoidable, attempt to find some good in it, even invite the world to pack a picnic lunch and come see it.
Underneath it all, though, it's still a stain - distinctive as the red clay of southern Georgia, persistent as mosquitoes on a muggy morning. And of all the non-battlefield stains left on American soil, by Americans, this one is probably the worst.
Nearly 13,000 Union soldiers died here, not in battle, but as prisoners of war, all within the confines of a 26 1/2 -acre Confederate gulag, all in a span of 14 months.
Today, thousands of tourists a year come to visit, some by the busload.
In the National Prisoner of War Museum, they can see shackles, cages and lonely letters written home; view the flight suit, boots and arm cast worn by Army Maj. Rhonda Cornum, taken prisoner in the Persian Gulf war; and watch an introductory film, Echoes of Captivity, narrated by Secretary of State Colin L. Powell.
They can stroll the undulating green hills that - once surrounded by a 15-foot-high stockade made from hewed pine logs - served as a muddy and overcrowded home to 45,000 Union soldiers during the Civil War.
And, in the cemetery, they can walk among the tiny white gravestones of Civil War prisoners, many of which are less than a finger's width apart, because, with scores of prisoners dying each day, coffins weren't used and prisoners were buried on their sides to save space.
