A Fictional Interview Across Time: Sergeant Elias Grant
Dan Blanchard:
Thank you for sitting down with me, Sergeant Grant. You’ve been gone a long time, but your story feels more alive than ever. I have to ask—when you look at that memorial in Willimantic, the one that looks like an old jail cell, do you think it represents you and your fellow soldiers?
Sergeant Elias Grant:
Well, now, Mr. Blanchard, I appreciate the company. Most days, it’s quiet where I am. That little structure—sure, it may fool some into thinking it’s where wrongdoers once paid their debts. But to me? It’s a symbol of something else entirely. We weren’t locked up behind bars… but we sure felt confined at times—by duty, by the battlefield, and sometimes by the silence that followed our passing. That memorial is less about holding bodies and more about holding memories.
Dan:
You were just 21 when you enlisted, barely older than some of my students. What would you say to young people today who walk past that structure without a second glance?
Sgt. Grant:
I’d tell them to stop—just for a moment. Not out of guilt or obligation, but out of respect. You see, every soldier whose memory that place honors had dreams, heartbreaks, jokes we never got to tell twice. We were young once, just like them. I didn’t pick up a rifle to become a hero. I did it because I believed the world could be better, and sometimes, better takes sacrifice.
Dan:
There’s a lot of talk these days about freedom—what it means, who has it, who doesn’t. You fought for it in one of the most defining chapters in our nation’s history. What did freedom mean to you back then?
Sgt. Grant:
That’s a mighty fine question. To me, freedom was the chance to live a decent life, to marry my sweetheart, to raise children who didn’t have to march through mud with a musket on their shoulder. Freedom meant responsibility. And it still does. It’s not just about doing whatever you please—it’s about doing what’s right, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.
Dan:
You weren’t famous. You don’t have monuments or museums dedicated to your name. Does that bother you?
Sgt. Grant:
(Laughs gently.) Not one bit. Fame was never the goal. I didn’t go to war for a statue. I went because I felt I had to. Most of us did. If my story can live on quietly through a place like that memorial—or through a man like you telling it—well then, I suppose that’s more than enough.
Dan:
What would you say to someone today who feels like they’ve made mistakes—maybe even been behind real bars—and thinks their story is over?
Sgt. Grant:
Now that’s the kind of question that hits home. We all stumble. I had friends who weren’t saints, but they were good men. One thing the war taught me is that redemption is always possible. A second chance ain’t something you wait to be given. It’s something you earn—day by day, deed by deed. That old structure may look like a jail, but I see it as a place where stories turn around. A symbol that says, “You’re not done yet.”
Dan:
Sergeant, some people say war memorials are relics—outdated reminders of conflicts we’d rather forget. What would you say to them?
Sgt. Grant:
I’d say, be careful what you forget. Memory’s a funny thing—it fades easily, but it holds our best lessons. If we forget the price of peace, we may find ourselves back at war, paying it again. That memorial isn’t about war. It’s about honor. It’s about sacrifice. And yes, it’s about hope. A country that remembers its past has a better shot at building a worthy future.
Dan:
Before we wrap up, if you could stand beside a young person staring at that barred memorial today—one who’s struggling to find their place in the world—what would you tell them?
Sgt. Grant:
I’d put a hand on their shoulder and say:
You matter. Your choices matter. This country ain’t perfect, but you’ve got a say in where it’s headed. And maybe, just maybe, part of your journey starts right here—by realizing that freedom’s not something handed to you, it’s something you carry and pass along. And you don’t have to wait to be older, richer, or wiser to do it right. You just have to start.
Dan’s Reflection:
Though I never really met Sergeant Elias Grant, I feel like I’ve heard his voice in the silence of Memorial Park. That jail-like building doesn’t imprison memories—it protects them. It’s a vessel of valor, a monument to second chances, and a call for all of us to lead with responsibility, honor, and heart.
Bio: Sergeant Elias Grant
Name: Elias James Grant
Born: August 17, 1840 — Windham, Connecticut
Died: November 2, 1864 — Petersburg, Virginia
Affiliation: 21st Regiment, Connecticut Volunteer Infantry
Rank: Sergeant
Occupation before War: Blacksmith apprentice and mill worker in Willimantic
Family: Son of Lydia and Caleb Grant; one younger sister, Ruth
Brief Life Story:
Elias Grant grew up in the industrial heart of Willimantic, Connecticut, where the hum of the mills and the hammer of the forge filled his childhood. By age 14, he worked beside his father shoeing horses and repairing farm equipment. Like many in Windham County, Elias was deeply moved by the Union cause after the firing on Fort Sumter in 1861. Despite being just 21 and recently engaged, he enlisted in 1862.
He served bravely in the 21st Connecticut Volunteer Infantry, a real regiment that fought in campaigns from North Carolina to Virginia. Elias saw combat at Petersburg, where he was mortally wounded during the Union’s aggressive push toward Richmond in late 1864.
He wrote letters home, many of which expressed his hopes that future generations might live without the burdens of war. Though he was never officially decorated, his fellow soldiers remembered him for his quiet leadership and unshakable sense of duty.
Legacy:
Elias Grant’s name is not inscribed on a famous statue. But his spirit—like that of countless others—is honored in Memorial Park in Willimantic, a place where locals might mistake a somber, stone structure for an old jail. But Elias would tell you: it’s a vessel for remembrance.
In our Travel in Time interview, Elias speaks for the thousands who never got a chance to come home, whose memories live on in granite, iron, and the stories we choose to pass on.
