Wednesday, April 9, 2008


None of us have ever heard it. None of us ever will. There's no one left who can give it. Tho you may hear its echo still.
You may hear it up near Manassas, and down around Gaines Mill. In December it echoes in Fredricksburg, in May around Chancellorsville.
It's the "pibroch of Southern fealty". It's a Comanche brave's battle cry. It's an English huntsman's call to the hounds. It's a pig farmer's call to the sty.
It's a high-pitched trilling falsetto. It's the yip of a dog in flight. It's the scream of a wounded panther. It's the shriek of the wind in the night.
It was yelled when the boys flushed a rabbit. It was passed man to man in the ranks. It was cheered when they saw their leaders. It was screamed when they whipped the Yanks.
But none of us will ever hear it. Tho some folks mimic it well. No soul alive can truly describe the sound of the Rebel Yell.
-Monte Akers

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