Adventures and Reminiscences of a Volunteer; Or, A Drummer Boy from Maine

by George T. Ulmer

“I guess it was,” I replied, “and you better look out, or it might go off.”

“Off be d—d, their shells were never worth the powder to blow ’em to h—l, see the hole in the butt of it, it would make a G—d—d good mawl, wouldn’t it?” and looking round at the same time he found an old broom. Stripping the brush and wire from the handle he said, “I’ll make a mawl of it and drive that d—d rebel stake into the ground with one of their own d—d shells, be d—d if I don’t.” Inserting the broom handle into the end of the shell he walked over to a stump, and taking the shell in both hands commenced pounding onto the stick against the stump; “d—d tight fit,” he hollored to me, and the next instant I was knocked down by a terrific explosion. I came to my senses in a minute and hastened to where he had been standing. There the poor fellow lay unconscious and completely covered with blood, there was hardly a shred of clothes on him, his hair was all burned and both hands taken completely off, as if done by a surgeon’s saw.

I was excited and horror stricken for a moment. The sight was horrible, but I quickly regained my composure, knowing that something must be done, and done quickly. So taking the snares from my drum I wound them tightly around his wrists to stop the flow of blood, then I hailed an ambulance, and we took him to the held hospital about a mile to the rear.

On the way the poor fellow regained consciousness, and looking at his mutilated wrists, and then with a quick and bewildered glance at me, “G—d—d tough, ain’t it,” then the tears started in his eyes, and he broke down and sobbed the rest of the way, “Oh, my God! What will my poor mother say? Oh, what will she do!”

We reached the field hospital, which is only a temporary place for the wounded where the wounds are hurriedly dressed, and then they are sent to regular hospitals, located in Baltimore, Philadelphia, Norfolk, Portsmouth, etc., where they have all the comforts possible.

We laid the little fellow down in one corner of the tent to wait his turn with the surgeon, and when I left him, he cried and begged for me to stay, but I couldn’t stand his suffering longer, so I bade him good-bye with tears streaming down my own cheeks. I hurried out, and even after I reached the outside I could hear him cry, “Oh, my God! What will my poor mother say? Oh, what will she do!”

In the afternoon I was detailed to wait on the amputating tables at the field hospital.

It was a horrible task at first. My duty was to hold the sponge or “cone” of ether to the face of the soldier who was to be operated on, and to stand there and see the surgeons cut and saw legs and arms as if they were cutting up swine or sheep, was an ordeal I never wish to go through again. At intervals, when the pile became large, I was obliged to take a load of legs or arms and place them in a trench near by for burial. I could only stand this one day, and after that I shirked all guard duty. The monotony, the routine of life, in front of Petersburg, was becoming distasteful to me. I had stolen everything I could. My district or territory had given out, so the next day I started for the front to bid my brother good-bye.

Our regiment was sometimes relieved and ordered to the rear for rest; so it was on this occasion, they had fallen back and halted in a little ravine. I met my brother, who always expected me to bring him some stolen sweets or goodies of some kind, but unfortunately this time I came empty-handed. I had failed to find anything to steal. I was hungry myself, but when I looked at him I forgot my own hunger, for such a forlorn appearance as he presented almost broke my heart, and I determined to find him something to eat at all hazards. So off I started on an independent foraging expedition. I had only gone a short distance when I espied a “pie wagon.” Usually when the paymaster was around there would be “hucksters” or peddlers with all kinds of commodities following in his wake. This fellow had driven to the front from City Point. They were generally dare-devils, and this one was no exception to the rule. He had driven right up to the front, unhitched his horse and began selling hot mince pies. He had some kind of a stove and outfit in an old covered wagon where he made the pies quickly and sold them hot for one dollar apiece; the pies were about the size of a saucer. When I reached the wagon there was quite a crowd around him; some were buying and eating them as if they were good, while others stood looking on wistfully watching their comrades who were fortunate enough to have the price. I was one of the unfortunates. I could smell the cooking of the pies long before I reached the wagon, and this only served to increase my already ravenous hunger; but all I could do was to stand there with my hands in my pockets, smack my lips and imagine what they tasted like—the longer I staid the better they tasted. I believe I would have given five hundred dollars for one if I had possessed the money, but I didn’t have a cent; our regiment had not been paid. All this time I was thinking of my poor brother, how he would like one of those hot pies, and I began to concoct schemes how to get one. The way I worked the old sanitary man would never do to try on this fellow, for he was a “fakir” by birth, occupation and inclination. The fellow was doing a lively business. “Here you are! Nice hot pies, fresh baked, right from the oven! Walk up lively here. Only one dollar apiece! There’s only a few of them left, and I shan’t be here again for a month; walk up with your dollar! Get off that wheel, you young devil!” I had climbed up on the wheel to make observations and see if I couldn’t sneak a pie, but he was watching and detected my motive; so down I got and stood gaping at him, my mouth wide open; but my hungry look had no effect on him, he had no sympathy for anything except dollars. Finally I thought my brother might have a dollar, so back to him I ran, told him of the pies, but he had not a cent. The knowledge of the pies added two fold to his hunger. “Gosh!” he said, “ain’t there some way? Can’t you steal one?” “No,” I said, “I have tried that. I would have made his horse run away and upset his wagon, but the darned cuss had unhitched him.”