"Since I am writing this as a heirloom for Benson 1963 which I hope will go down amongst my descendants for a long time, and since amongst those there will be many who will go through life without ever experiencing the excitement of battle, and who, unless they imbibe very different ideas of these things from what I did in my boyhood, before I had seen for myself, may get quite false notions in regard to it, I want to try to tell something of how the fighting really goes on. I supposed a battle was carried on in the order and style of first-class drill, knees all bent at the same angle and at the same moment, guns leveled on a line that was even as a floor, and every trigger pulled at one moment making a single report.
"For a battle is not a drillroom, nor is battle an occasion for drill, and there is the merest semblance of order maintained. I say semblance of order, for there is an undercurrent of order in tried troops that surpasses that of the drillroom; — it is that order that springs from the confidence that comrades have in each other, from the knowledge that these messmates of yours, whether they stand or lie upon the ground, close together or scattered apart, in front of you three paces, or in rear of you six, in the open or behind a tree or a rock, — that these, though they do not 'touch elbows to the right,' are nevertheless keeping dressed upon the colors in some rough fashion, and that the line will not move forward and leave them there, nor will they move back and leave the line.
"A battle is entered into, mostly, in as good order and with as close a drill front as the nature of the ground will permit, but at the first "pop! pop!" of the rifles there comes a sudden loosening of the ranks, a freeing of selves from impediment of contact, and every man goes to fighting on his own hook; firing as, and when he likes, and reloading as fast as he fires. He takes shelter wherever he can find it, so he does not get too far away from his Co., and his officers will call his attention to this should he move too far. He may stand up, he may kneel down, he may lie down, it is all right; — tho' mostly the men keep standing, except when silent under fire — then they lie down.
"And it is not officers alone who give orders, the command to charge may come from a private in the line whose quick eye sees the opportunity, and who's order brooks then no delay. Springing forward, he shouts 'charge, boys, charge!' The line catches his enthusiasm, answers with yells and fallows him in the charge. Generally it is a wild and spontaneous cry from many throats along the line, readily evoked by the least sign of wavering in the enemy.
"A battle is too busy a time, and too absorbing, to admit of a great deal of talk, still you hear such remarks and questions as 'How many cartridges you got?' — 'My gun's getting mighty dirty.' — 'What's become of Jones?' — 'Looky here, Butler, mind how you shoot; that ball didn't miss my head two inches.' 'Just keep cool, will you; I've got better sense than to shoot anybody.' 'Well, I don't like your standing so close behind me, nohow.' — 'I say, look at Lieut. Dyson behind that tree.' — 'Purty rough fight, ain't it Cap'n?' — 'Cap'n, don't you think we better move up a little, just along that knoll?' — all this mixed and mingled with fearful yells, and maybe curses too, at the enemy.
"And a charge looks just as disorderly. With a burst of yells, a long, wavering, loose jointed line sweeps rapidly forward, only now and then one or two stopping to fire, while here and there drop the killed and wounded; the slightly wounded, some of them, giving no heed but rushing on, while others run hurriedly, half-bent, to the rear. The colors drop, are seized again, — again drop, and are again lifted, no man in reach daring to pass them by on the ground. — colors, not bright and whole and clean as when they came fresh from the white embroidering fingers, but since clutched in the storm of battle with grimy, bloody hands, and torn into shreds by shot and shell."
Bringing the