[ WP ] `` Through river , root , and stone , the distant call of home ... ''

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 The camp was nestled deep within a narrow canyon, years of water erosion having worn the walls smooth. A few stubborn trees and shrubs clung to the sides of the canyon, their gnarled roots sunk deep into the sandstone cliffs. It was currently the world's dry season, any danger of flash floods a distant concern. Bandits and raiders being a far more pressing issue. 
 
 Here and there scattered campfires burned, their flames fueled by collected deadfall and the endless trash generated by soldiers. Pallets, broken crates and cardboard were in ample abundance, more than enough to last them several weeks. The men around them were well dressed for the cool desert night, thick coats and long trousers with knitted caps to cover their heads. None of them went unarmed. Tents were raised under the sheltering overhangs, camouflage netting draped in front of them to disguise them further. 
 
 *'' Twas better to die,'neath a Dixie sky. Than at Tharkad or Promised Land* 
 *Where the brave men fell all heroes bold,'neath the drone of the Wolves' death knell* 
 *And had I died by those brave men's sides, I would not be here at all, * 
 *But rather sleep the heroes sleep, and keep watch over Dixieland... * 
 
 Major Lucas Singleton Terry sat with a cup of coffee, the stuff untouched by cream or sugar. The remains of fried bannock and salt pork sitting comfortably in his stomach. He had been roaming through the camp, talking with a fellow here and there, making sure the watchmen were alert and prepared. Now was the time of rest, a last few hours before lights were ordered out and fires banked. The song finished, some took the chance to stretch their legs or relieve themselves but the rest continued, the fiddle player striking up another sad, mournful tune. 
 
 *Let us close our game of poker, take our tin cups in our hand* 
 *As we all stand by the cook ’ s tent door* 
 *As dried mummies of hard crackers are handed to each man. * 
 *O, hard tack, come again no more! * 
 
 * ‘ Tis the song, the sigh of the hungry: * 
 * “ Hard tack, hard tack, come again no more. ” * 
 *Many days you have lingered upon our stomachs sore. * 
 *O, hard tack, come again no more! `` * 

