Chapter III: Part 3

The writer, the youngest of four brothers, was mustered into the volunteer service, Aug. 5, 1862, at the age of 16 years, having been rejected the year before on account of age and an over supply of men. His regiment, the Twenty-second Mass. Vol. Infantry (Henry Wilson Regiment), was a fighting regiment from Boston and vicinity. Only 45 Union Infantry regiments lost 200 and upwards in killed and died of wounds on the field during the Civil War. The Twenty-second lost 216 and stands 27 in that list. In a list of all Union Infantry regiments that lost over 10 per cent in killed on the field, it stands number 13--with a percentage of 15.5 per cent--and, based upon a maximum percentage of enrollment (1393 men), it stands number 16--("Fox's Regimental Losses")-- Its service was in the First Brigade--First Division--Fifth Corps, Army of the Potomac. We recruits arrived on Arlington Heights to join this fighting regiment, en route (whereabouts not located) from the "seven days' battles" on the Peninsula. The officer in charge of us had given us no drills--no training of any kind. He was returning from leave, and spent most of his time _rusticating_ around the "Old Willard". We joined the regiment at Halls Hill, Va. (near Falls Church), bivouacked in a battle line as it was marching into the defences of W---- from the second battle of Bull Run. The noise of battle was on; a spluttering picket firing was in evidence a few hundred yards from us. During our stay here of two days--a first class drill sergeant gave us an hour each day in the "facings" and the use of our guns, which had been issued to us at midnight of Aug. 29--in a terrific thunder storm, during which we were soaked--and in a bivouac without shelter. This consisted of instructions in taking them apart, cleaning, assembling, rapid loading and sighting. We remained in reserve in the fortifications of Washington, marching hither and thither until Sept. 12--when we started, in a temperature of 98 deg., after a drenching night's storm, on the Antietam Campaign-- There was no time for further training. We were put on the battle line--sandwiched between our Peninsula veterans of seven battles. The lines were so close that our range was practically point blank. There was no adjustment of sights--no wind guages--none of the usual methods for work on a target range. It made little difference whether the trajectory was flat or otherwise. Any boy who had ever used a shot gun could load and blaze away into the close lines. The line officers and file closers were veterans. The battle discipline was flawless-- We touched elbows with men who had acquired the battle sense and instinct in the hell of rifle fire--shell--shrapnel and close up canister guns of the 12 pdr Napoleon type. A few days after a bloody reconnoissance across the river, in which one of our regiments lost 289 men killed, wounded and missing in 20 minutes, we had a few days' drill--and that _was all we ever got_. We were as good soldiers as ever marched the roads or ever went in under our battle flags--at Fredericksburg--Chancellorsville, Gettysburg--and on to the Seige of Petersburg. We needed no long, drawn-out intensive training--because there was no time to give it to us-- Our superb officers all recognized that--and, as soon as we had got our _balance_, and recovered from the battle shock--we fitted into the bloody game of war without any waste of time, effort or lost motion. Our manual of arms would not have undergone the critical scrutiny of a "_yearling Corporal_" at West Point--or a "color man" "throwing up" for colors at guard mount--nor would our crude attempts have excited much pride in the tactical officers at a perfect West Point dress parade. Our shooting in the open at from 150 to 500 yards might also have aroused the merry laugh of a target range sharpshooter with all of his implements for making a record score. But we were _not striving_ for a _record score_--just shooting into massed formations and closed up battle lines to kill--and we got there just the same with the official record as cited. That record tells the story-- At midnight on May 8, 1864, near Spottsylvania C. H., in a hand to hand fight with the Sixth Alabama, the regiment captured their colors and more prisoners than were in the ranks of the Twenty-second Massachusetts. Two of these brothers, on account of their youth, refused commissions, although their father, who had spent two years at the Mil. Academy in the class of 1836, was then Chairman of the Mil. Com. of the Mass. Senate; was in daily conference with John A. Andrew, the great war Governor--and could, by a "pull" have easily secured them. One was "specially commended" for good conduct at the Battle of Fredericksburg, Va., while the other untrained brother, (Walter Carter) as Sergeant Major of the regiment, was specially mentioned in the report of the Commanding officer of the regiment for "_coolness under fire_, and _personal bravery in all battles of the campaign_"; (Reb. Rec--Ser--I--40: 459) this Campaign, May 4 to June 18--1864--from the Wilderness--Laurel Hill--Spottsylvania C. H. (May 8-22--under fire day and night), Jericho Mills--North Anna, Totopotomoy Creek, Bethesda Church--Cold Harbor--Jerusalem Plank Road (Norfolk and Petersburg R R--later, the spot where the Battle of the "_Crater_" was fought). If there was ever any better soldier than this untrained but not _world-advertised_ Sergeant-Major of one of the best fighting regiments in the Army of the Potomac--the writer, in nearly 60 years since those old days, has not met him. On May 10, 1864, while acting as liaison officer for the Major--commanding the left wing of the regiment, which was cut off from the right wing and in a cul de sac swept by a frightful cross fire--he was directed to cross the Brock Road (about a mile or more from Spottsylvania C. H.) and communicate to the Colonel the perilous position of the left wing. He crossed this sunken road--swept by rifle and canister fire, at close range. His blanket roll was cut in several places; his eye was burned and closed by a _hot bullet_--for several days-- The next morning he took in on his back, from a rifle pit to save his life, a wounded comrade and friend under fire. Being a non-commissioned officer, he received no brevets--no medal of honor--no Legion of Honor, or Croix de Guerre--etc. So much for this battle-trained, but not _intensively_ trained--volunteer Sergeant-Major of an Infantry fighting regiment in the old battle swept Army of our youth. And he wears nothing to indicate his record of valor--not even the "Little Bronze Button" of the G. A. R.; nothing more than the satisfaction or consciousness of having done well his part in helping to preserve the Union and making it possible for the present generation of soldiers to have a country in which to exist, and looking on with a certain degree of smug complacency at the smiling assurance with which these present day trainers of men declare that it takes from six months to a year, or even more, to fit the average American boy to be an effective battle-service soldier-- So much for this so called "_Intensive Training_" as a fine art.

The writer trained for three boat races at West Point in the '60s, rowing as "stroke" in one. He was urged to take up "_intensive training_" in the gymnasium. He did nothing of the kind, but simply used the dumb bells and Indian Clubs in his room to limber up and harden the muscles, and after a morning plunge, took a brisk walk and run of about two miles every morning for wind. There was no "training table", and he simply took care not to take on any extra flesh when eating the "hash" and "Slumgullion" of our plainest of plain Mess Hall fare. We consulted the famous Ward brothers of Cornwall-on-Hudson--"Hank", "Josh" and "Ellis" (who has been a famous Coach for years) as to our style and effectiveness of stroke. They were simple Hudson river shad fishermen--long, lean, lank and spare as greyhounds, sinewy as whip cord--and as hard as steel nails-- Every muscle was taut and tense as a racing oarsman's should be. I doubt if they ever saw the inside of a gymnasium--and laughed to scorn the idea that they had got to train in one. Rowing all day, for months, had, without developing their muscles into Sandow monstrosities--hardened them like steel--and they were, after pulling a long, swinging stroke, with quick recover, ready at all times to row for their lives. I do not recall of their ever being defeated--either abroad or in our own waters. _They were our trainers._ They were the finest oarsmen America ever produced. The writer saw them row the Harvard "Varsity" crew on the Charles River, and after passing them as though they were almost standing still, play with them and "_loaf home_". William Blaikie, Harvard's famous stroke, and later their professional "Coach," wrote after graduation, a book, "How to Get Strong". He advocated the gymnasium--the fatal trainer's paradise that has killed so many men. He died, when he had just passed his 50th year, of dilation of the heart superinduced by _intensive training_. He believed in enormous muscles and brute strength, rather than skill, endurance, and good form. He had overtrained and had an overworked heart. The writer was pitted against a man who was almost a duplicate of Sandow. He could have pitched me over his head. He could, with a twist of his immense arms, break a spruce oar in a racing shell. When the last few boat lengths of the long three miles loomed up--and victory for him was almost in sight--his sand gave out--his heart was almost broken and he lay down and threw up the sponge in defeat. He was "pumped out"; he had overtrained and "gone stale". He pulled "too much beef", and lacked the courage--sand--nerve and guts that wins at the most critical moment. He weighed 180 pounds. He could have been better utilized as a battering ram on a foot ball team to fall down upon some smaller player and break his back or neck. Our stroke weighed 140 pounds. Some men may train for a prize fight until they can run 15 miles without breathing hard, and then, inside of three or four minutes after entering the ring begin wheezing like an old wind-broken horse. This is due to a _nervous contraction_ of the pulmonary region, caused generally by nervous fright. They are too tense and rigid to fight effectively. The writer has seen the same thing in battle with over trained men--perfectly tense, dazed--almost speechless--from fright and nerve shock alone before they could get it under control. This does not imply that they were cowards-- A man's supreme or best mental and physical efforts does not depend upon his size, his huge muscles abnormally developed by a long period of intensive training, or through his intellectuality acquired by years of school, college and university education, but, largely through the _spirit_, _force_, _courage_, _discipline_ and _morale_ which are behind his purpose--that purpose which must furnish the mainspring of his action.

This refers particularly to the soldier in his _intelligent_ (and by this the writer does not mean the intellectual) application of that power and those resources to the actual conditions of the problem with which he is hourly, even momentarily, confronted when on a battle line under the hell of fire. This he has got to face, not as a highly organized or perfectly educated human being, trained, or over trained to the last limit for a specific purpose, but, on his _individual initiative_, and his _combative instincts_ or _fighting senses_--without which no highly educated or purely intellectual human machine could long withstand the strain, for, until a man goes in under fire he cannot know, or even guess at his power and resources--his balance and morale which iron discipline combined with moderate, common sense training alone has inspired.

Many a soldier has gone into battle, and proved his bravery and battle efficiency under fire, without being a highly intellectual or even an educated man, and with no previous training that approaches any where near perfection, or that was given in these Cantonments, or, with any other feeling or inspiration than the patriotic motive which has led him to fight for a great principle, or the incentive in the performance of a duty in strict obedience to the orders of his superior officers who, if they are true, and loyal leaders, with the right stuff in them, will supply all the deficiencies that any long drawn-out intensive training so often fails in.

It is now that his _real intensive training_ has begun without his spirit and enthusiasm having become impaired, and he is better able to fully grasp its meaning than he would had it been daily, weekly and monthly crammed down his throat by rule, and by some theoretical trainer who had never seen a battle field--never been on one--or under fire, and who would scarcely know one if he should see it.

Our intensive training in most of these cantonments was begun backwards. Teaching men to shoot--and to shoot straight, preferably under conditions of noise, after a few days--closely simulating a real battleracket--is much more effectual as a starter--after he has been taught to knock down, clean, assemble and quickly load his rifle--and the proper use of it, than a manual of arms "by the count" (as the writer saw it) or any attempt at a perfect knowledge of the intricacies of the School of the Company, etc.

A man, unless he has been designated as a sharpshooter, or for "sniping"--or, has been ordered to remain under permanent or semi-permanent trench cover--is not satisfied to fight at from 1000 to 1200 yards--the range of a high power rifle,--for, under most atmospheric conditions and when in the smoke and confusion of battle, he cannot pick up his target, or see the object aimed at, or determine whether his fire is effective, therefore he is going to push forward to from 300 to 500 _yards_--the range of our old muzzle loading Springfield rifles. There, _in the open_ he can see the enemy he is fighting--almost the whites of his eyes--and how effective his fire should be. _There is the place to fight_--and that was where our American lads after the Hindenberg lines were destroyed--or turned--and the Huns were driven out into open ground--in their forward rushes--were so effective in cleaning and mopping up the best troops Germany had. They could not resist close fighting. They had not been trained that way, and we ought not to dream even of training our men in _long range_--_trench cover fighting_--except under certain conditions which are clearly indicated. Circumstances will govern those conditions.

A Brief Summary--A Record "Round-Up"

While this was not the concluding chapter, or the end of my dealings, either by way of experience or adventure with these deserters, or all that was likely to grow out of it, I felt that much of the burden had been lifted. The long chase in the howling "Norther". The novelty of our night at "Rhodes Ranch"--with seven people, including the crying baby, and the three dogs in a one room "shack" to keep us from perishing; sliding and skating over the desolate solitude, wind-swept and ice crusted; the two long, weary nights among the dens, dives and slums of Weatherford and Cleburne with my optimistic, jovial, joking--Musketeer Corporal; the all night study of the map--the one-legged, "_Johnny driver_" with his friendly Gettysburg battle-field reminiscing that came so near losing me the fruits of a night's hard labor--and uncertainty of plans in the early morning at the latter town;--the exciting, thrilling--almost spectacular capture of the men in the brush near Hillsboro; the bluff and threat of the wagon master; the novelty of a Texas log jail with its forbidding exterior and interior, but sheltering walls; the little, panic-stricken wagoner; the indictment of all the citizens implicated in their escape and temporary release under the stimulus of "blood money"; the "squealing" of Crafts on the concealment of the arms; the identification of the raw recruits;--the encounter with the fighting termagants at Hardin's Ranch; the hasty return of the carbines by the "old man" who would "lick you uns outen yer boots"; the commendations and warm personal thanks of Generals Mackenzie and Hardie; the letter of thanks and congratulations from the Major-General Commanding the Department of Texas; all were now over, and I could at last, heave a great sigh of relief--and for a few days, at least, indulge in a brief period of well earned rest.

It is believed that this march of over 200 miles in the dead of winter, during an unprecedented severe "Norther" (10 deg. below zero) with sleet, snow, hail and ice almost thick enough to bear the weight of our horses, and for a part of the time in jeopardy of our lives--the capture of these ten (10) men with all of their arms and safe delivery into a military post, and the apprehension and indictment of the three (3) civilians for their share in the adventure--stands on record as the most complete and wide-sweeping "round up" of deserters, under all of the circumstances, ever known in the official Military Annals of the Department of Texas, if not in the entire United States Army-- At all events, in any way it may be summed up, it was a most remarkable and "Phenomenal Capture".

Transcriber's Notes

1. Several typos have been corrected. The exception to this is when the same word was misspelled more than once (e. g. "guage").

2. The word "coup d'oeuil" uses an oe ligature in the original.