The Story of the Thirty-second Regiment, Massachusetts Infantry / Whence it came; where it went; what it saw, and what it did

by Francis J. Parker

Sometimes our picket-line would be on a river, the opposite bank of which was guarded by the enemy, and there would be times of unofficial truce when we traded over the stream coffee for tobacco, etc., and when we even made visits to each other, and talked as freely as if we might not at a moment’s notice be enemies again.

But it is one of the unfortunate facts in a soldier’s life, that picket duty is not confined to quiet times or pleasant weather. The growlers usually maintained that it was always stormy when they were out on picket, and in three winters that we dwelt in tents within the boundaries of Virginia, there were many rough times on the picket lines when the rain poured down continuously, saturating the ground, clinging to the grass in the open, and to the undergrowth in the forests, and streaming down from the boughs—wet, wet—water, water, everywhere; on the ground where we slept, on the stone or log which was the only seat; dribbling through a corner of the tent, usually down the neck of its occupant, or making a little rill off one’s overcoat and into one’s boot top.

Or perhaps it was snow or sleet that stung our faces and chilled us to the marrow; or perhaps, worst of all, the clear cold of winter which our little picket fires, when they were permitted, did but little to overcome.

There was one occasion while we were at Liberty, on which we were indulged with all of these in turn. It was early in the spring of ‘64, the day had been warm and rainy, unseasonably warm and quite seasonably rainy, the rain continuing into the night and the wind rising to a gale that made all manner of noises in the wood in which our line was posted. The men all soaked through, had hard work to keep their ammunition dry and their rifles in condition for use, and all of us, uncomfortable as mortals could be, feeling as if the night would never pass and morning never come, wished more heartily than ever “that this cruel war was over,” that we might have a chance to get in out of the rain.

All of a sudden the wind shifted to the northwest, and we had first hail, then snow, and finally clear cold weather, the gale all the time continuing; the men themselves, almost chilled to icicles, were soon clothed in armor of ice, which cracked and rustled as they tramped along their beat, beneath a clear sky and stars that shone with winter brilliancy.

The morning came at last, and with the rising sun there was exhibited one of those marvels of beauty which can come only from such a preparation. Every twig and branch of tree or shrub, and every spear of grass or tuft of herbage clad in a coating of ice, blazed with the hue of the rainbow. The trees in the forest seemed loaded with jewels, and the meadows were strewn with them.

But the power of the spring sunshine dissolved the gorgeous display, and thawed out the sentinels from their encasements of ice; the wind ceased, the mildness of the balmy Southern spring returned, and soon from every man a cloud of steam rose in the quiet air, and as their clothing dried and their bodies warmed, the spirits of the men thawed out, and they who, in the previous twenty-four hours, had passed through various stages of discomfort, were cheerily chaffing one another as they made their breakfast of hot coffee and soaked cakes of what had once been hard-tack, and very likely wrote home the next day about the charms of the Southern climate, which gave them such delicious spring weather in what was at home the winter month of March.

Whether it is summer or winter, hot or cold, sunshine or rain, day or night, and however peaceful or stormy the scene may be, the picket guard must keep their eyes open and their powder dry. Constituting the outposts of an army which trusts to them, they must be always alert against surprise. And although we may have been accustomed for weeks to exchange friendly civilities with the pickets over the river, the time would come when each would do his best to kill the other. When some change was contemplated, or some movement began which it was desirable to conceal from our adversary, orders would be sent to the pickets to open fire on those of the enemy.

Such orders were of course first notified to the other side, and no advantage was taken by either of existing truce relations. After that warning, whoever showed out of cover was a target for the enemy’s picket, and frequently no fires were allowed, because the light or smoke would aid the aim of the foe.

If the movement was a direct advance from our front, the first order would be announced by shouts of “Look out, Johnnie, we’re coming,” and some shots sent purposely in the air, and then came the driving in of the enemy’s pickets.