This is the story of a ring.
A simple piece of jewelry that has journeyed through time, connecting the lives of men (and a woman) who wore it spanning a century-and-a-half.
The origin of this gold and amethyst ring remains a mystery, though one may safely say it was crafted around the mid-1800s. That’s because it makes its first appearance against the backdrop of the U.S. Civil War, a turbulent period when Union and Confederate soldiers faced off in brutal bloody battles that pitched friends against friends and family members against family members.
The toll of this war was staggering. It claimed the lives of over one million soldiers and left countless others wounded and scarred, physically and emotionally.
In fact, more American lives were lost during the U.S. Civil War than in World War I, World War II, Vietnam and Korea all put together. Yet despite the thunder of cannons and the fury of battle, the single biggest killer was not the battlefield but within the human body itself: dysentery.
Some of the fiercest fighting occurred through five days in mid-December of 1862 during the Battle of Fredericksburg, which resulted in a grim Union retreat across the ice-cold Rappahannock River in Virginia. (“Seeing the elephant,” is what soldiers on both sides called battle, on the basis that Americans killing Americans was, for them, an extraordinary and unsettling sight.)
It is in the aftermath of that blood-soaked battle, in early 1863, that our story begins in earnest.
As the cries of the wounded faded (if etched forever) into memory, the “bluebellies” and “graybacks” found themselves entrenched on opposite sides of the Rappahannock. These warriors, a stone’s throw apart, faced each other while each side’s commanders were determined to hold their troops at bay in a stalemate that lasted for months.
That river, once a tranquil natural boundary, now served as a somber demarcation line that bitterly divided a nation.
Until something very strange happened; something too peculiar to find mentioned in the many histories written about that devastating war—and much too uncomfortable for those who held the reins of command.
For in defiance of the prevailing animosity, a bond formed between foes; an unsanctioned truce that endured for weeks without authorization from high-ranking officers.
Indeed, infantrymen on both sides, those who bore the gravest burden of that cruel conflict, blatantly ignored the “ordinances” imposed upon them by Union and Confederate generals alike who were horrified by the news that troops under their command were… “fraternizing.”
A little context: In the midst of the Civil War, coffee from the North, and tobacco from the South, became highly sought after commodities. So, in a peculiar twist of irony, these simple pleasures were swapped between soldiers from opposing sides until that dark elixir flowed southward while the fragrant aroma of tobacco wafted north.
Alongside these transactions was another currency of exchange: Newspapers from either side of the Mason-Dixon Line. Each nation pushed propaganda that suited their wartime narratives, and now mere infantrymen could seek some semblance of truth by balancing both accounts—and by reading between the lines.
The fraternizers continued their peaceful interaction, trading jokes, singing songs and trading things one side had in abundance and the other did not—a precious respite from the violence and the killing of one another that had previously consumed their lives.
Perhaps on some level these soldiers understood they were expendable pawns dispatched to do the perilous bidding of political and military masters, of generals with lofty ambitions and monumental egos; sent into battles that exacted a heavy toll and sacrificed a generation of Americans.
Certainly, these “fraternizing” soldiers realized they had more in common than with distant generals who ordered them to kill each other.
As Union soldier Francis Strickland wrote, summarizing the shared sentiments of both sides: “We would bring Lincoln and they would bring Jeff Davis and meet in the river and let them fight it out and let the soldiers go home.”
On one of these daring, prohibited trading excursions, John Bennett, a Union soldier, wore a distinctive gold amethyst ring that had come into his possession.
Whether he’d stumbled upon this ring on the blood-soaked battlefield or had removed it from the finger of a fallen soldier is unknown. In any case, finders-keepers, a minor spoil of war.
This was a chunky ring, its gem a rectangular block of amethyst devoid of any intricate faceting or cutting. It snugly fit onto Bennett’s middle finger and he wore it on his right hand. Truth be known, it was the perfect ring for hand-to-hand combat when no other weapon was available.
As Bennett and his fellow Yankees shot the breeze (instead of people) with their southern opposites, a soldier of the Confederacy named Thomas Roberts recognized the ring Bennett wore—most certainly one of a kind—as having belonged to his best friend. There was no animosity, no resentment, soldiers on both sides having already come to terms with the complexities of war, of the battlefield, and the haphazard distribution of personal effects with the understanding that finders were indeed keepers.
But Roberts felt compelled to tell a gut-wrenching story, as he knew it, about his fellow soldier and buddy, who had once proudly worn that 15 carat gold-and-amethyst heirloom. It had been a wedding gift to the soldier’s father, who later suffered a fatal heart attack upon learning that both his sons had been conscripted to fight in a war that divided the nation.
The ring passed first to the man’s elder son, one of the first soldiers killed—at the Battle of Bull Run—in July of 1861. A buddy retrieved it and, when personal effects were returned to the bereaved family, the ring got handed down to the surviving son, the soldier who’d recently met his fate—death by bayonet—on the battlefield at Fredericksburg.
This tragic story pulled at Bennett’s heartstrings. He on the spot removed the amethyst ring from his finger, handed it to Roberts and requested that it be returned to the soldier’s grieving mother.
Roberts sought to compensate for the cherished heirloom with an extra tranche of tobacco but Bennett would not have it, steadfastly refusing to barter the solace of a mother who had endured unthinkable loss.
Thomas Roberts kept the ring safe in a leather belt pouch, which he never let out of his sight, and returned to his hometown, minus one leg, painfully amputated by a field doctor after the Battle of Chancellorsville. Back home, he discovered that his buddy’s mother had passed, most likely from a broken heart having lost her husband and two sons to a war that enriched uniform manufacturers, undertakers and embalmers, but mostly financial speculators like the Wall Street investment firm J.P. Morgan.
So Roberts placed the ring on the middle finger of his left hand and wore it in memoriam of lost buddies. He treasured that ring his whole life, and it was long one, since he lived to the age of 88.
As he grew older, Roberts watched with incredulity as the country for which he’d fought turned its back on the saloon he’d opened upon returning from the war. He had to shutter his saloon, along with his livelihood, when Prohibition was legislated into law. (This was the 1920s version of political correctness, undone when Prohibition was repealed in 1933.)
Roberts’ grandson, Jed, was a teenager when World War I erupted and, though it looked unlikely that the USA world enter a violent squabble between ruling members of an extended European royal family, President Woodrow Wilson reneged on his promise of neutrality and dispatched his “doughboys” to assist the Allies in the struggle against the Central Powers.
Caught up in the patriotic fervor of “the war to end all wars,” Jed, despite his grandfather’s objection, signed up and shipped out.
The night before Jed’s departure for the Western Front, his grandfather presented him with the amethyst ring, a gift intended to serve as a lucky talisman for returning home safely, as Roberts had (albeit minus a leg).
But fate had other plans. Plans that deprived Roberts from ever seeing the ring or his grandson again.
The Meuse-Argonne Offensive (in northeastern France), where 26,000 soldiers were killed, saw to that, as the purge of another generation was underway.
Jed’s boyhood buddy, serving in the same division, hugged him, and begged him not to die. But that’s what Jed did, right there and then, on a cold, muddy, blood-saturated battlefield.
So his buddy, James, tenderly removed the amethyst ring from Jed’s finger and quickly slipped it onto his own. Having survived the battle, and the rest of World War I, James kept the ring as his own—and felt bad about the rest of his life.
He felt especially bad when he had to pawn the ring just to put food on the table after the stock market crashed in October 1929 and he lost his life savings. Or maybe it was his just desserts for keeping the ring.
Let down by the American Dream, like Thomas Roberts before him, James eventually shot himself with his wartime Model 1905 Springfield rifle.
The amethyst ring was by now cursed.
Cursed by war, by death; cursed by humanity at its worst. Or maybe humanity just doing its thing.
The ring sat in that pawnshop throughout the depressed 1930s.
It was eventually purchased by a man named William Stratton, who had played a significant role in manipulating stock prices prior to the crash and had liquidated his investments shortly before the economy collapsed. Stratton bought the ring as a graduation gift for his son, Bill Stratton, Jr., who was nearing the end of his studies at Duke University in Durham, North Carolina.
Eighteen months later, in December 1941, the Japanese Imperial Navy launched a massive surprise attack on Pearl Harbor, sending shockwaves across the nation and thrusting the United States into World War II, despite President Franklin’s 1940 campaign promise to keep America out of the war while secretly determined to find a “back door” for getting involved.
Feeling a deep sense of duty, Bill Stratton, Jr. enlisted in the U.S. Army, was assigned the rank of First Lieutenant and deployed to the European Theater of Operations to confront Nazi forces.
Again, those who profited from the Second World War, in addition to the copper barons (whose companies produced a much needed metal for weapon production), were Wall Street firms such as J.P. Morgan, which financed the war effort, along with defense contractors including Boeing, General Motors and Ford.
Alas, young Bill Stratton lost his life in early January 1945 at the densely wooded Ardennes region of Belgium, Luxembourg and Germany in the grueling Battle of the Bulge, the deadliest single battle for American troops—and where 19,000 of them perished.
Billy, who was gay, had developed a deep bond with fellow soldier Joseph Reynolds, to whom he bequeathed, should he die on the battlefield, his most cherished possession, the amethyst ring he wore.
Back home in Chicago after the war, Joe Reynolds grieved the loss of Billy and treasured the amethyst ring.
But when Joe’s younger brother, David, got fired up about serving his country after North Korean forces, backed by the Soviet Union and China, launched a surprise invasion on South Korea, he gave David his ring, believing it was the amethyst that had safeguarded his own life during several brutal battles and, ultimately, allowed him to return home safely when World War II came to an end.
But Joe had misunderstood the haunting curse attached to this amulet.
On the night of September 6-7, 1950, David’s 1st Marine Division found itself ensnared in a treacherous battle near the Naktong River, as North Korean forces launched a relentless assault. In the confusion of darkness and fog of war, a tragic misfortune befell the American troops. For in a grave error, U.S. artillery units inadvertently unleashed a devastating barrage upon their own positions, an unfortunate incident of “friendly fire” that resulted in numerous casualties, young David among them.
Again, those who made big money while young men lost their lives were defense contractors, including Lockheed, Northrup and Boeing, and financial institutions, along with companies that manufactured weapons.
(You beginning to see how this works?)
David’s personal effects, among them the amethyst ring, found their way back to Joe, who had settled into a reclusive existence, concealing his authentic identity as a gay man from the outside world.
Unable to wear a ring that, in his revised perspective, had taken out the love of his life, Billy, and his younger brother, David, Joe scoured antique markets until he found the right inlaid wooden box. In it, he placed the amethyst ring along with a handwritten note that poignantly described the torments of war this ring had witnessed along with his own personal torment.
You see, Joe’s knowledge of the horrors of modern warfare extended far beyond his experiences in the European Theater. His expertise as an electrical engineer had earned him a place in a top secret military assignment, prompting a transfer from Europe in the early spring of 1945 to the desolate landscapes of New Mexico.
A few months later, on 16 July 1945, Joe stood witness to a momentous and chilling event that took place in the desert near Alamogordo, New Mexico: The detonation of the first atomic bomb, codenamed Trinity.
At the relatively young age of 41, Joe succumbed to leukemia, a merciless cancer of the blood that had likely taken root due to his being exposed to hazardous radiation from Trinity.
The solemn duty of sorting through Joe’s possessions landed in the hands of his nephew, Daniel Mitchell, the only child of Joe’s sister, Sarah. As Daniel uncovered the wooden box containing an amethyst ring and the accompanying handwritten note, he found himself deeply moved by the revelation of his uncle’s hidden truth as well as the solemn legacy attached to the ring.
Daniel had the distinction of being among the pioneering members of the Peace Corps when it was inaugurated on March 1st, 1961. On the very day he joined up, David removed the amethyst ring from its wooden box and, with a sense of purpose and irony, placed it on his finger, determined to transform the ring’s destiny from one associated with war to a symbol of peace.
In 1962, when the first wave of Peace Corps volunteers landed in South Vietnam, Daniel Mitchell was among them. They were involved in activities related to education, public health, agriculture and community development. Daniel found himself in a remote village, devoting his energies to enhancing the health and overall welfare of the local populace.
The primitive living conditions and constant exposure to tropical diseases exacted a toll on Daniel’s own immune system. One day he fell gravely ill. Unfortunately, the nearest medical facility equipped to provide specialized care was a considerable distance away. Daniel’s condition worsened during the journey, and it was with heavy hearts that his companions witnessed his passing.
Daniel’s personal belongings, among them the amethyst ring, were returned to his grieving parents, John and Sarah Mitchell. To them the ring became a cherished memento, symbolizing their son’s commitment to making a positive impact on the world. They placed the ring inside a special keepsake box with a photograph of Daniel at work in Vietnam, making a difference, along with his Peace Corps service medal.
Two decades passed. And then one day the Mitchells’ house was burgled while they were away on vacation. The unknown thief made off with a cachet of valuables, among them the treasured amethyst ring.
The thief, never caught, needed money for his drug addiction. He sold it for cheap to a local jeweler, who quickly fenced it to an antique store in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia.
That is where Margaret Johnson, on a leisurely day trip from McLean, Virginia, happened upon the ring. Quite delighted by her “lucky” find, she added it to her growing collection of antique jewelry and historical artifacts.
Margaret was so taken by the ring, she occasionally wore it on her forefinger, and decided to bring it with her on a business trip to Beirut. Margaret’s business was intelligence, and she lived just down the road from her office in Langley, Virginia, where she served on the Middle East Desk at the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency.
Margaret had been concerned about her upcoming trip to the Lebanese capital, her first time abroad—and her anxiety is what compelled her to take along the amethyst ring, which she perceived as a lucky talisman and guardian angel to ensure her safety.
But tragedy struck on 18 April 1983 when a suicide bomber launched a devastating attack on the U.S. Embassy in Beirut.
Sixty-three lives were lost that day, among them, Margaret Johnson.
The amethyst ring, still firmly affixed to Margaret’s finger, though not connected to a hand, was uncovered by an FBI special agent, part of a forensics team tasked to sift through rubble at the embassy crime scene.
The ring was sent back to Washington, D.C., cataloged, traced and eventually returned to Margaret Johnson’s grieving parents. However, the tragic loss of their only daughter was too painful for them to bear, and the ring, a reminder of her misfortune, was too painful for them to keep,
So the Johnsons donated their late daughter’s ring to a fundraising auction at the private high school in Potomac, Maryland, that Margaret had so happily attended.
The winning bid for the ring was placed by Richard Anderson, whose son, Andrew, was in his final year at the same school.
Andrew was a shy, sensitive student with an introspective nature during his high school years. Following graduation, he spent a couple years in college before dropping out. He was in the midst of trying to find himself when 9/11 happened.
Driven by a surge of patriotic fervor, Andrew allowed himself to be recruited by the U.S. Marines and, soon after, found himself serving within the ranks of the 1st battalion, 23rd marines. It wasn’t long before this battalion got deployed to action.
Their mission?
The invasion of Iraq with the purported goal of eliminating weapons of mass destruction—weapons that, it would later be revealed, Iraq did not possess. The intelligence findings that had preceded their mission had been artfully, and perhaps intentionally, misconstrued by political leaders who were determined to engage in military confrontation.
Did it matter to them that thousands of young American lives would be snuffed out?
Apparently not.
The company that profited most from this war—to the tune of $39.5 billion dollars—was Halliburton, whose former chairman Dick Cheney, as Vice President of the United States, orchestrated the war on Iraq.
Stationed in Fallujah, Andrew was tasked with clearing buildings that had been identified as insurgent strongholds, in an area known for intense urban warfare. At one such building, Andrew was first through the door—and cut down by intense enemy fire. His comrades provided medical aid and evacuated Andrew from the building, but the severity of his injuries proved overwhelming.
As had been the fate of others before him who ‘d worn the amethyst ring, Andrew was laid to rest at Arlington National Cemetery.
Let us pause here for a moment to honor those mentioned above. And to consider the heartache their untimely deaths caused parents, spouses, children and friends.
Today I find myself in possession of the amethyst ring.
It was an inheritance bestowed upon me by the mother of a college acquaintance whose life was tragically cut short at a tender age. I don’t know what I did to deserve it, other than comforting a mother who’d lost her only son with the occasional phone call on Thanksgiving and Christmas.
But life is like that.
This ring is locked away in a safe place, not worn, and never going to war again.
I know better than to gift it to one of my grandsons—or to anyone else.
My advice to them—and to everyone—is simple: Never, ever sign up for a war, no matter what patriotic pap is preached by politicians.
Because unless our nation’s political and military leaders are prepared to personally lead troops into battle (along with sending their own children or grandchildren into the fray), my advice to everyone is just say no and don’t give it a second thought.
Never make your lives expendable—in the guise of nationalism or religion—for satisfying the hubris of narcissists and the greed of compatriots who would profit from the blood shed by those who represent the future of their country.
The amethyst ring, to the best of my ability, will be kept locked away and will never again grace the finger of a young innocent whose leaders so willingly and callously (and sometimes erroneously) send our youth to be slaughtered in foreign lands just to bolster the corrupt foreign regimes they endorse.
There is no glory in war.
Only horror.
And now onto Veteran’s Day, also known as Armistice Day, which was created when the so-called “war to end all wars” came to an end on the 11th minute of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month after 9,700,000 military personnel and 10,000,000 civilians were killed.
Far too many veterans have been left disillusioned by this nation, whose citizenry are too often ungrateful to those who made unspeakable sacrifices, having relinquished their limbs or their sanity so that Americans might sleep sounder at night.
Should you encounter a veteran today, or any day, extend a warm embrace as a token of gratitude for their willingness to step into the harrowing abyss on your behalf.
And if that veteran you meet happens to be among the homeless, a sadly common plight in these tragic times, consider dipping into your wallet and offering a meal. If their preference leans toward a pack of cigarettes and a pint of whisky, so be it, don’t hesitate to provide small comforts for easing their pain.
Above all, be respectful.
Each and every veteran who has borne the weight of war deserves a measure of your esteem far beyond the politicians and bureaucrats who sheltered themselves behind desks while issuing orders for yet wider and ever-bloodier conflicts.
Note: While the amethyst ring in my possession genuinely dates from the U.S. Civil War, the story I crafted around this heirloom is a work of fiction based on factual wartime battles.