- Joined
- May 18, 2005
- Location
- Spring Hill, Tennessee
"How One Feels in Battle—By a Soldier."
"People often wonder how one feels in battle. All men are not affected alike. Some are cool, determined, and courageous; some lose all judgement, and will, single-handed, rush upon hundreds; others are entirely unmanned, tremble like aspens, seem dead to every emotion of honor or feeling of shame, and will slink into coverts, or run from the field. Lord Forth in the Crimean war is an instance. If skirmishers engage prior to a general battle, and a desultory firing is kept up for a while, one becomes used to it, and, as the battle warms, it frequently becomes exciting, and men that trembled at the first few shots, now rush on like heroes.
I remember well my feelings during the first battle in which I was engaged. The night before, we received orders to prepare to attack the enemy early on the morrow. All was now bustle, hurry, and anxiety. Guns were cleaned, ammunition inspected, straps adjusted, canteens filled, knapsacks lightened, letters written. We had several in our company who had always boasted of their bravery and prowess, men who had been "spoiling for a fight," as they said. These were now as still as mice; they didn't peep. One of them, who had taken a master's degree in all kinds of profanity, now borrowed a Bible, sat down and read it for some time, and intimated to his messmate the propriety of praying before going to sleep that night. It is not your blustering, profane bravado that is the brave man on the field of battle; it is your quiet, patient retiring man.
I confess a feeling of dread and anxiety stole over me. Battle was certain, the enemy was strongly posted, and we had desperate work before us. I wanted to go into battle; yet I dreaded it like death. I slept but little that night. The morning came, and our columns moved quietly and sternly forward through a wood. The first intimation we had of the enemy was the skirmishing between his outposts and our vanguard, the former falling back as the latter advanced. We passed out of the wood, and rapidly deployed into line of battle, a gentle sloping hill hiding the enemy from our view. A part of our force had been sent around to make a flank and rear attack on the enemy; and, while so doing, it was of the utmost importance that we should hold his attention in front. We marched steadily up the hill till the whole line of the enemy burst upon our view; there we halted, and for some minutes not a gun was fired on either side. There stood the two armies, each waiting for the other to begin the work of death. The faces of our men looked pale and determined; some of the stood like statues. Others were nervous and uneasy. It was the time to test their courage. A line of cannon was bearing directly upon us. Death to many of us was certain. Who will it be? Thought I. A singular feeling came over me; a confused image of a mother and sister appeared flitting and floating before my imagination like dissolving shadows, while the tremendous reality in front oppressed me with dreadful forebodings.
A few moments passed, like those that intervene between drawing the cap over the criminals face and letting fall the drop, when a puff of smoke from one of the cannon, followed by a crash, and a bomb went streaming over us. Our men ducked down their heads like geese. Fire, was now opened on us all along the enemy's entire line. The first shots were aimed too high. They gradually lowered them. Every discharge brought their balls fearfully nearer. We were impatient to return fire, but dare not until the command was given. Our Colonel passed along in front of the line, and urged us to stand firm until the proper time, and the day would be ours. It is a task to hold men exposed to an enemy's fire without allowing them to return it. They will soon run, one way or the other. The enemy's shot now began to howl around us, plough through our ranks, and tear up the earth about our feet. A six-pound ball cut off the bayonet of my messmate on my left; a moment more and one stuck him in the breast, severing him almost in twain. He reeled and fell like a log. The hot blood from his heart spirted full in my face. Great God, how I felt! A faint sickening sensation came over me. I stooped down over him. He smiled faintly, spoke my name, gasped and expired. He was frightfully mangled. I was maddened to desperation. All thought of fear vanished; I could have fought thousands. The command, "Fire!" ran along the line, and a tremendous crash of musketry answered the command. We now loaded and fire for life. Dense volumes of sulfurous smoke hung like a pall over us and shut out the enemy from our sight. The battle grew warm and bloody. The rattle of musketry, the screaming of shells, the thunders of the artillery, the whistling of bullets, the shouts of command, commingled with curses, prayers, and groans of the wounded and dying, filled the air. Our men, black with smoke and powder, looked like devils incarnate, as they plied their work of death.
At length a breeze rolled away the smoke that shrouded us, and disclosed our other columns bearing down upon the enemy's flank. Now was the decisive moment. "Charge bayonets!" rang out; and with loud shouts we rushed forward to the assault. A storm of grape and canister was hurled against us as we neared the batteries. Like maddened tigers, our men leaped forward with the cold steel. The struggle over the guns was desperate. It was butchery savage in the extreme. The enemy soon broke and fled, leaving us masters of the field. Since that time I have not felt the least dread or hesitation on entering a battle. After the first few shots, I fire away as coolly as when hunting squirrels."
"People often wonder how one feels in battle. All men are not affected alike. Some are cool, determined, and courageous; some lose all judgement, and will, single-handed, rush upon hundreds; others are entirely unmanned, tremble like aspens, seem dead to every emotion of honor or feeling of shame, and will slink into coverts, or run from the field. Lord Forth in the Crimean war is an instance. If skirmishers engage prior to a general battle, and a desultory firing is kept up for a while, one becomes used to it, and, as the battle warms, it frequently becomes exciting, and men that trembled at the first few shots, now rush on like heroes.
I remember well my feelings during the first battle in which I was engaged. The night before, we received orders to prepare to attack the enemy early on the morrow. All was now bustle, hurry, and anxiety. Guns were cleaned, ammunition inspected, straps adjusted, canteens filled, knapsacks lightened, letters written. We had several in our company who had always boasted of their bravery and prowess, men who had been "spoiling for a fight," as they said. These were now as still as mice; they didn't peep. One of them, who had taken a master's degree in all kinds of profanity, now borrowed a Bible, sat down and read it for some time, and intimated to his messmate the propriety of praying before going to sleep that night. It is not your blustering, profane bravado that is the brave man on the field of battle; it is your quiet, patient retiring man.
I confess a feeling of dread and anxiety stole over me. Battle was certain, the enemy was strongly posted, and we had desperate work before us. I wanted to go into battle; yet I dreaded it like death. I slept but little that night. The morning came, and our columns moved quietly and sternly forward through a wood. The first intimation we had of the enemy was the skirmishing between his outposts and our vanguard, the former falling back as the latter advanced. We passed out of the wood, and rapidly deployed into line of battle, a gentle sloping hill hiding the enemy from our view. A part of our force had been sent around to make a flank and rear attack on the enemy; and, while so doing, it was of the utmost importance that we should hold his attention in front. We marched steadily up the hill till the whole line of the enemy burst upon our view; there we halted, and for some minutes not a gun was fired on either side. There stood the two armies, each waiting for the other to begin the work of death. The faces of our men looked pale and determined; some of the stood like statues. Others were nervous and uneasy. It was the time to test their courage. A line of cannon was bearing directly upon us. Death to many of us was certain. Who will it be? Thought I. A singular feeling came over me; a confused image of a mother and sister appeared flitting and floating before my imagination like dissolving shadows, while the tremendous reality in front oppressed me with dreadful forebodings.
A few moments passed, like those that intervene between drawing the cap over the criminals face and letting fall the drop, when a puff of smoke from one of the cannon, followed by a crash, and a bomb went streaming over us. Our men ducked down their heads like geese. Fire, was now opened on us all along the enemy's entire line. The first shots were aimed too high. They gradually lowered them. Every discharge brought their balls fearfully nearer. We were impatient to return fire, but dare not until the command was given. Our Colonel passed along in front of the line, and urged us to stand firm until the proper time, and the day would be ours. It is a task to hold men exposed to an enemy's fire without allowing them to return it. They will soon run, one way or the other. The enemy's shot now began to howl around us, plough through our ranks, and tear up the earth about our feet. A six-pound ball cut off the bayonet of my messmate on my left; a moment more and one stuck him in the breast, severing him almost in twain. He reeled and fell like a log. The hot blood from his heart spirted full in my face. Great God, how I felt! A faint sickening sensation came over me. I stooped down over him. He smiled faintly, spoke my name, gasped and expired. He was frightfully mangled. I was maddened to desperation. All thought of fear vanished; I could have fought thousands. The command, "Fire!" ran along the line, and a tremendous crash of musketry answered the command. We now loaded and fire for life. Dense volumes of sulfurous smoke hung like a pall over us and shut out the enemy from our sight. The battle grew warm and bloody. The rattle of musketry, the screaming of shells, the thunders of the artillery, the whistling of bullets, the shouts of command, commingled with curses, prayers, and groans of the wounded and dying, filled the air. Our men, black with smoke and powder, looked like devils incarnate, as they plied their work of death.
At length a breeze rolled away the smoke that shrouded us, and disclosed our other columns bearing down upon the enemy's flank. Now was the decisive moment. "Charge bayonets!" rang out; and with loud shouts we rushed forward to the assault. A storm of grape and canister was hurled against us as we neared the batteries. Like maddened tigers, our men leaped forward with the cold steel. The struggle over the guns was desperate. It was butchery savage in the extreme. The enemy soon broke and fled, leaving us masters of the field. Since that time I have not felt the least dread or hesitation on entering a battle. After the first few shots, I fire away as coolly as when hunting squirrels."
Bringing the