The War on Christianity

Taking the Fight to the Christian Right

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The Taking of Atlanta

Prelude

It was in one of Ceanne DeRohan's Emotional Release workshops. She was the author of the "Right Use of Will" series of books. She professed to be the "Mother of Everything" physically incarnate, and I believe she was. She wrote seven books, channeling God, and I have read them all. She was a lovely being, a lighted lady, a sweet woman, and a remarkable person. And in her presence, I could believe she was in fact, "The Mother of Everything." God's Right Mate. God's Wife.

I had done several of her workshops. I felt myself fortunate to have been invited at all. It was always a small group, fifty or sixty people maybe, in these workshops. An intimate experience. I felt privileged just to be there, and to have been invited.

At one of the workshop experiences, I think it was in Denver in the attic of some Church. I met some woman I had never seen before. But something happened between her and I, she glared at me projecting hatred. It was a zing, it was like an electrical charge that hit me like a lightning bolt, just looking at her across the room. And at the time, I didn't know why. It just shocked me.

Now she was a pretty woman and I could have been attracted to her, but that's not what this was about. No, this was about some unfinished business.

I didn't see much of that woman in the workshop, but the experience stuck with me. When I got home to San Bernardino, I remember sitting on the balcony, alone late at night, and the memories began to come forth. So, that's where this story came to be, it's a past life memory.

The Taking of Atlanta

John T. McCormick was a Captain in the 21st Michigan Regiment, and a no-fear fragment. He had broken away long ago, because he wanted to experience life without the ever-present fear that seemed to always be here holding him back. He hated the fear and the terror, and saw it as a form of cowardice. He was bold and brilliant, very charismatic, likeable, and valued honor and duty above all other things. The name I have given him is just a name. It came through at one point in the process and I just decided to use it. I am not sure if that was his real name or not.

Although he was without fear, for he had broken off from it, he was not without feeling. In fact, all the really clear memories that I have from that lifetime come from the pictures literally jam-packed with emotion.

* * *

It was the middle of the Civil War. Our Company was assigned to hold the line close to a bend in the river. It was a place that was shallow enough to ford. Three days of fighting back and forth across the river had cut our forces in half. The dead were left laying where they had died, or been hurriedly moved out of the way and been dumped. The wounded moaned, some with bandages over their wounds made from ripping apart the clothing of the dead. Those that could still fight lay in the muddy ditch with their rifles poised ready to shoot, and those that could not, lay there waiting to die.

And the Rebels advanced again.

"Get back on the line," I screamed, as young Jeremy threw down his musket in stunned horror of the reality we were facing. Hal Johnson had just been hit in the face splattering his blood and brains all over Jeremy's chest, shoulder, and face.

"Get back on the God Damn line!" I shouted, watching him standing there shaking in terror, in full view of the Rebel guns a hundred feet away.

Jeremy, screaming, turned to run, and I could see that others might follow. I pulled out my pistol. "Stop!" I shouted, taking aim. "Stop!" He didn't stop, and I shot young Jeremy Edwards in the back. He fell face down, and lay still there in the mud of the battlefield.

Then I looked down the line, pistol in hand, at the others who I thought might decide to flee. "Back on the line, you lily-livered bastards!" I screamed. And the men turned again to face the Rebel charge.

I leaned forward to review the advancing Rebel line. The tears tried to flow, but I stuffed them down. Jeremy Edwards was only sixteen years old. And I had promised his mother that I would look after him and keep him safe.

The fight raged on and we held the line and drove the Rebels back. It was a place called Shiloh.

Young Jeremy Edwards was so alive, so enthusiastic and so gung-ho. He really wanted to be a part of this, and I had stepped in on his behalf. And then I killed him.

So, that's how McCormick became a Captain, the third to hold that title, because he'd killed a boy he had sworn to look out for, and held a line that was ready to fall.

* * *

Jump forward. The year is 1864, August or thereabouts. The city of Atlanta is under siege, and our company is assigned to hold another line somewhere outside the city.

The Rebels charge our line and this time it comes to hand-to-hand fighting with bayonets and rifle butts. When my pistol was empty, I pick up a musket from one of the dead before me and joined the fray. At one point, a Rebel soldier charges straight at me and I shoot him in the chest from four feet away with a single round musket.

Then I catch some movement out of the corner of my eye to my right. I spin around to avoid getting stabbed and bat the bayonet down and to my right. I'm looking down watching the rifle and return with a vicious swing that catches the Reb in the groin and guts him like a fish. He falls and I stab him in the heart pinning him to the ground. Only to gaze into the dead eyes of a fourteen-year-old boy.

I was shocked and stunned, absolutely horrified, that I had killed another kid, another boy. I was so stunned I almost died in the next moment. It was my Sergeant who save me from the next attacking soldier.

* * *

After Atlanta fell, I was ordered to set up security for a rather well-to-do residential area of the city. I lead the motley remnants of my company up the street in the middle of the section we were to guard. Looking down the muddy street, I noticed a large two-story house about halfway down.

I turned to Sam Carlson, my second in command, and pointing said, "we'll make that house our Headquarters. See that the men are billeted in the houses along this street, and set up a guard schedule. I want round-the-clock patrols." I looked over the troops, "Baths would be nice for those that aren't on duty. See to it."

 Carlson smiled, "A bath would be nice at that. Yes, Sir. I'll get on it right away," he said, in a tired voice.

"Oh, and Carlson, post a couple of guards on the headquarters, and send Cookie on over too. It would be nice to have a hot meal, for a change."

"Sure thing, Captain." He replied.

I waved the other three officers, Hanson, Alberts, and Martin, to follow me, and we started for our new Headquarters.

Hanson took the lead as we approached the door and knocked politely. An older black maid answered the door. "Is the Mistress of the house available? We should like to have a word with her," he said. The maid stuttered and hurried off, leaving the door open, and we walked on into the house. We were standing in a large hallway about eight feet across. To the right was what appeared to be a library, to the left a sitting room. A wide stairway leads up to a second-story balcony.

A well-dressed Southern Lady entered the hall from a room at the far end. She had a grim expression on her face. "I'm Angela Perry. How can I help you Gentlemen?" She said, cautiously.

"We'll be taking over this house for our Headquarters Ma'am," Hanson said. "And we would appreciate your cooperation."

"You can't do that!" She exclaimed. "This is my house! You have no right!"

"This is war Ma'am." I said. "And we have every right, as of right now this is the Headquarters for 'H' Company 21st Michigan Regiment, and you are our guests."

"No! You can't do this. This is my house. Get out!"

"No," I said firmly, tossing a bundle of dirty laundry at her. "See that these are washed by morning."

She began to quiver in her rage, holding the soiled clothing to her chest and stalked off down the hall, muttering something like, "God Damn Yankee Bastards."

"Always did like a feisty woman," I said, shaking my head. Hanson smiled.

"Okay, Martin, take a couple of men and search the house. And see what kind of bath arrangements can be made."

"Sure, Captain."

"Albert, check the houses along this street, and see if you can find some desks. We'll need five. Put two in the library, and three in the sitting room."

"I'll get right on it, Sir," he said, turning to go.

"And Hanson, get some men to clear out this furniture. Oh, and have Cookie work us up some lunch."

A few minutes later Martin came back. He reported that Mrs. Perry was living in the house with her maid and two daughters ages 14 and 16. Her husband was off fighting the war with the Rebel forces. He also let me know that a bathroom was available in the house, and I had my first real bath in a month.

Cleaned up, shaved, and with a fresh hot meal in my belly, I sat down at my desk in the library to deal with the ugly part of being in command. By the light of two oil lamps at the corners of the desk, I began to write:

Dear Mrs. Jacobson,

I am sorry to have to inform you that your husband, Pvt Carl Jacobson, is no longer with us. He died during the final days of the battle for Atlanta.

Pvt. Jacobson was an exemplary soldier, a courageous young man who never knew fear and never failed in his duty.
He will be remembered fondly by all those that knew him. There are many men in this company who owe their lives to
the courage and bravery of your husband.

God bless Carl Jacobson. May he rest in peace.

Sincerely,
Capt. John T. McCormick
21st Michigan Regiment

I took a sip of whiskey. Jacobson was a young fool. He had not taken proper care of his rifle, and when it failed to fire, he simply stood there in shock while a Rebel soldier shoved a bayonet into his chest. So, sad.

Dear Mrs. MacNelly,

I am sorry to have to inform you that your son, Cpl. Robert MacNelly, is no longer with us. He died during the final days of the battle for Atlanta…

I hated writing these letters. But it was part of the job. The whiskey helped. During the battle for Atlanta several men had died, I wrote fifteen of those letters that night.

I had seen a lot of death and a lot of men die, and it was time for a little pleasure. So, I capped the bottle and strode up the stairs and into Mrs. Perry's bedroom.

As the door opened and I stepped in, she sat up in the bed, and said, "What are you doing here? Get out! Right now!"

"Sorry Missy," I said. "But I can't do that."

"Can't, or won't?"

"Suit yourself," I said, with a smile, sitting on the bed. I began taking off my boots. "This is war, little Missy, and Atlanta has fallen. You know what that makes you?" I asked.

She glared at me, pulling the blankets up to her neck and shook her head. "That makes you the spoils of war," I said, as I let the second shoe drop.

Now, McCormick saw this as a gentle persuasion. But I cannot be so self-deceiving; it was a rape. He came out of there the next morning with an understanding that she would be free with her sexual favors, and he would offer her and her daughters his personal protection while the Army was in Atlanta.

While it wasn't ever stated so clearly as this, the communication was that if she would not cooperate, he would not be responsible for what might happen to her daughters.

On the other hand, the Captain was neither mean, nor cruel, nor brutal. He was just commanding, insistent, and not taking "No" for an answer.

So, we carried on a "relationship" for the three or four weeks that the army was in Atlanta. It was a continual war of wills, and McCormick enjoyed the constant bantering back and forth with this feisty and passionate woman. While he derived pleasure from the sex, he saw to it that she did also. Angela was fiercely passionate and 100% committed to getting her own pleasure while having sex, though her public persona was quite different.

One of the things I recently noticed was that she had been celibate for two or three years, while her husband had been off to war. He was probably dead by that time, but I don't know, and I don't think she knew either.

However, the social mores in Atlanta at that time were such that she could not seek another lover. If she did, well "People Would Talk." So, the only way she could allow herself to have sex at all, was to have it appear that she was forced. In that way, she would not be held accountable if anyone found out. And the Captain was happy to play the Fall Guy in these circumstances.

So, over time we came to have a grudging respect for one another, and yes, even love, and it turned into a true affair. If that was as far as it had gone, nothing would have come of it. And the affair would have been long forgotten, long ago. Unfortunately, that was not all that happened in September 1864.

In late September Mrs. Perry's sixteen-year-old daughter was raped by a soldier under my command, despite my orders. She was hurt pretty badly, not physically, but emotionally.

The soldier responsible was someone who had saved my life in battle, and I owed him. Not only that, but we were moving out soon, and I chose not to press charges. Though, I chewed his ass out and stuck him on extra duty, this was nowhere near enough to satisfy Angela. She wanted his God Damn head on a pike. And I could not, or would not, do that.

Then the ultimate tragedy occurred. Two days before we were to leave Atlanta, the young girl went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife from the counter and plunged it into her heart. The noise caused a number of people, including myself, to rush to the kitchen door. Standing in the doorway, I saw this young girl laying on the floor, a knife in her chest, in a puddle of her own blood.

Angela then rushed through the door, horror stricken, kneeled by her daughters' side, cradled her head, and keened out her grief and loss. "My baby! My baby!" she cried. Then she looked at me and screamed, "YOU KILLED MY BABY!"

I was in shock, horrified, heartbroken, and felt tremendous guilt. I had not killed her daughter, but I was in command, and I was responsible. And there was nothing I could do to bring back her daughter.

McCormick, being the Captain, did not cry openly then. Though, of all the death's that he had seen in four years of war, this one touched him more deeply than any other. He had loved Angela, and he did care about her children. So, the Captain took charge and arranged a burial for Angela's daughter.

Angela Perry then became quite vocal in her hatred of me and her charge that I had killed her daughter. After consulting with my Commanding officer, it was decided that we needed a diversion to avoid a local uprising over the incident. So, that afternoon, on the eve of our departure, several men from the 21st Michigan Regiment set fire to the cotton bails surrounding the railroad station. And when the fire trucks arrived, they were told to go away.

And Atlanta began to burn a day early, because of a young girl's suicide, on my orders.

Rumors then flew around the city that Atlanta was to be burned to the ground. This was close to the truth. The next day, as the union soldiers left the city, the order was given to burn every shop, every warehouse, and any building dedicated to commerce of any kind. The Churches were spared. Atlanta would never again be a major supply point for the Rebel armies.

* * *

A regiment at that time was a thousand men, eight companies of 125 men. McCormick started off as a platoon commander, because he was a businessman and owned a hardware store. A thousand men left with the Michigan 21st. Two-hundred and thirty-nine returned home alive. It was war, and many men had died.

After the war we returned home to Michigan and received a hero's welcome. There was a parade complete with a marching band, and onlookers filled the streets cheering the returning troops, those of us who had survived.

I remember standing outside a tavern holding a brew, and reminiscing with others who had been through the war.

As I stood there, a young girl, perhaps twelve years old raced up to me and began pounding on my chest crying and screaming, "You KILLED my brother! You promised! You promised!" She was young Jeremy's sister.

Epilogue

I have been working on my perpetrator for about two years now. And I realized I had an immense amount of self-hatred over the things that I have done, as perpetrator.

One day I was standing on my balcony reflecting on what had happened in the workshop, when I looked at the heavens and cried: "God, why is it that xxxxx hates me so much?" I really, REALLY, want to know!" This story is the answer to that question. Angela Perry was a fragment of xxxxx.

For some time, I had noticed xxxxx's unreasoned hatred of me. And since I could not understand why, I could not acknowledge the validity of it. I now know why. Xxxxx needs to have the opportunity to express her hatred for me, for the right reasons. I had loved Angela Perry, and I owe her that much.

Notes:

This story came out of several very emotionally laden pictures that I have been working with for about a year now. The battle scenes, the bedroom scene, the kitchen scene, and the letters are all pretty accurate to the memories. Names and dialogue are, for the most part, made up to dramatize the story, with the exception of a few key phrases that came through clearly.

After reading back through this, I see that this story does not begin to communicate the shock, the horror, grief, heartbreak, or guilt that was present in these pictures. I'm sorry, but I did not have the time to rewrite it several times. It's more like a first draft. But it does provide the basic facts, and it is sufficient to fulfill its purpose.

Completion

I wrote this story back in the 1990's, and I sent it to Ceanne, asking her to forward it to Xxxxx. I don't know, it was maybe a year or two later, when I was invited to another Emotional Release Workshop. This time it was just outside Santa Fe. Xxxxx was there that day. I noticed her immediately. Holy shit.

There were fifty to sixty people doing this workshop, and they came from all over the country. I was living in Arizona at the time, but I made time to be there.

At one point we had a group meal, it must have been catered. It was outside, on a lovely day. I sat down at this long table that could seat fifteen other people. Xxxxx came up, smiled, and sat right next to me on my right. Other people filled out the table.

Then she spoke. "I got this letter from a man about a past life memory. It was the Civil War and Atlanta. It touched me, so I went to Atlanta and stayed for a week in a hotel there. And many memories came back to me. I remembered being a Plantation Owner, and having slaves."

I broke in at that moment, "I wrote that letter," I said, looking into her eyes. It was a total setup, Ceanne and she had conspired to produce this moment. But is was right time, and proper. I was on the hot seat, but okay, time to clear the air.

Then I had to tell the story to the fifteen other people sitting around that table. I gave them a synopsis, I had taken over her house, extorted sex from her on the promise to protect her daughters, the elder daughter was raped by someone under my command, and chose to suicide in the kitchen. Everyone around that table was glued to the story. I just told the story, as best I could, being totally truthful to my memory. I came totally clean that day, for everyone to see.

Then I said to her, "Look, I am so, so sorry about the death of your daughter back there and then. Will you forgive me, please?" She nodded, and I felt so relieved.

Then I said, "But you know, the sex was really good." She started to blush. "You have to know that you are one spectacularly great lay, when you want to be. Your husband is one lucky man to have you in his bed," I said, in all seriousness.

With that she blushed beet read. I've never seen a woman blush quite like that. Nobody laughed, but everyone around that table smiled knowingly, as if to say, 'yeah, I can believe that about her,' and half the people there were women.

She smiled and took it, as the compliment it was meant to be. And after that experience, she no longer hated me. A healing had been produced.

 

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