On the lighter side...

[dawna]

I've discovered that John West Haley of Company 1, 17th Maine Volunteers Regiment, kept a journal from June, 1862 until June 1865. Mr. Haley speaks of the horrors of the war, but he also manages to keep his sense of humour in tact...an amazing feat. Although John Haley was not injured during his three years of service, he did suffer greatly from liver disease and dysentry. Below is an excerpt from Mr. Haley's first day with the 17th Maine:

Mustered into Service as an Infantryman

August 18th and 19th

The 18th was the day of our muster into the United States service for three years. The mustering officer was Major Gardiner, a full-blooded West Pointer who has a crushing hatred for all volunteer troops. How we lived through this day, I know not. Somebody surely has formed a conspiracy to see how much the back can carry and not break, how much the flesh can suffer and not die. Several men fainted and fell from the ranks of dress parade but we managed to stand for hours while one company at a time was inspected. We found mustering into the service by a West Pointer a slow, painful performance. Red tape stuck out all over him like porcupine quills. It was with difficulty that he could get near enough to hand us our guns. He stood off and threw them at us. This, we learn, is not intended as a special token of disfavor; it is simply the West Point style.

The inspection continued, every detail undergoing the closest scrutiny. Our West Pointer was determined to find fault with something or somebody. By the time the first three companies were inspected, the rest of the regiment was flat on the ground, except for Jim Jose. He stood as a monument of endurance and folly. If it be not folly to thus punish oneself currying favor with some official snob, then I don't know what constitutes folly.

The ordeal was finally over and only one man was given permission to retire from service, but he has declined. He enlisted to escape domestic tyranny and has no desire to return.

We engage in drilling and otherwise preparing for the business before us. We have some company from Saco—wives, mothers and sisters who come in on some pretense or other almost daily. On Sunday the ladies of Portland made us a dinner of pies, cakes, cold meats, and other luxuries not mentioned in commissary supplies. We have not suffered for anything thus far, due to our Saco friends, but does not prevent us from appreciating the Portland ladies' attentions. In the afternoon the Reverend Lovering of Park Street Unitarian Church came out and gave us a flowery discourse in which he was pleased to inform us that "all who died in defense of the flag had a sure passport to heaven." This is all very well for talk, but the Reverend evidently doesn't care to try it on. I feel that death is one of those things to which distance lends enchantment, so notwithstanding Mr. Lovering's bland audacities of speech and fine-spun theories, I don't care to cultivate a closer acquaintance with the hollow-eyed monster. It never does furnish much satisfaction to listen to these cowards who talk of pluck but are so destitute of the quality themselves. Why shrink from that which is so desirable as the glory of war? I am just perverse enough to want to share it.