From this time forward, day and night, marching, fighting, digging earthworks, there was no rest for us. From losses in battle, and from sickness, our regiment again dwindled down to a company in numbers.
On May 8th we supported the 5th Massachusetts battery, with some pretty smart fighting. On the 9th we again went to the front, and threw up works, behind which we kept pretty close most of the day. Sharpshooters were plenty in the rebel lines, not far from us. One of my company, George Erskine, who was near me in the works, sat on a cracker box, and turned his head to speak to me, thereby exposing himself a little, and as I was looking at him, I saw a bullet strike the side of his head, go through it, and strike the ground. He gave one sigh, and fell dead at my feet. It was the work of a rebel sharpshooter.
A little later in the day, the orderly sergeant asked—
“Who will go out on the skirmish line?”
The skirmish line was about a third of a mile in front of us, and to reach it, one had to run the gauntlet, for the enemy had a fair view of the whole field, and they improved it, you may be sure.
Several comrades volunteered, and went under a sharp fire. I felt a little ashamed of myself for not going too, so I said to my chum,
“If he calls for more, I am going!”
“I go if you do,” said dear old Dwight, and soon the word came again,
“Who will volunteer?”
“I will go for one!” Said I, and Dwight said the same.