I will cut the web from out the loom,
And place it today ’mid the May-day bloom.
Three times amid the brake they form,
Three times upon the guns they storm,
Three times the army holds its breath,
To see those charges grand of death.
S. D. Richardson.
For two or three days we remained on the skirmish line, digging rifle pits to protect ourselves from the fire of the enemy. These were holes in the ground deep enough for one or more men to stand in, and if we showed our heads we were pretty sure to draw their attention, so we kept out of sight as much as possible. But our greatest peril was from our own line, a quarter of a mile in the rear of us, for there were several pieces of artillery continually sending shells and solid shot over our heads into the enemy’s lines, and some of them were too near us for comfort and safety, for we were on slightly rising ground in front of them, and the gunners, to do more execution, depressed their pieces so much that every now and then a shot or shell would skim by, or over us, as we hugged the ground.
We would watch for the flash of the guns, and drop to the ground, so the shot generally went over us. In the rifle pit with me were two of my comrades, one of whom had taken off his haversack, and laid it near by. A shot from our line struck that haversack, and sent it flying in every direction.