The Sword and Gun: A History of the 37th Wis. Volunteer Infantry

by R. C. Eden

In this engagement Serg't Greene, of company C, the Regimental Color Bearer, was shot through both legs by a grape shot, in the early part of the fight; unable to walk and fearful lest the colors entrusted to his charge, should fall into the hands of the enemy, he rolled up the flag on the staff and seizing this in his teeth, drew himself off the field and behind the works into a place of safety. Such unselfish heroism is deserving the highest commendation, though poor Greene lived barely long enough to know that his courageous act was known and appreciated. Our loss in killed and wounded in this battle amounted to 138 of which number 44 were killed on the field and 10 died from the effects of their wounds.

I do not suppose that a more disheartened and, for the time, broken down set of men ever met together, than the scattered fragments of our regiment when we collected in the ravine after our ill-fated charge on the first day of the battle of Petersburg. Our men had been marched for four successive days and nights, had had little or no sleep for five, and been on short rations for the same period. To this may be added that depressed feeling, the natural sequence of great excitement, which always follows a battle, even if successful; the loss of so many of our number, and a feeling that would creep in—that there had been a blunder, somewhere.

We remained in the ravine for an hour or two, getting rest and refreshment, of both of which we stood in much need. Towards night, however, we were ordered forward to support the Second Division who had advanced their works some way up the field. We accordingly took possession of a partially constructed breastwork on the edge of the ravine, and after an hour or two employed in further completing and strengthening our defences, lay down to get what rest we could to prepare us for what the morrow might have in store for us. We slept that night, without rocking, and a heavy fire that the enemy opened on our lines during the night, hardly awakened us. At daylight we were roused up and ordered to advance in line of battle, with two companies deployed as skirmishers, which order, however, was afterwards modified by the 8th Michigan being deployed along the whole Brigade front.

We advanced steadily and slowly over the scene of yesterday's battle and found the line of works for which we had then contended unoccupied, except by the rebel dead, who were pretty thickly piled up all along the works. We entered the woods I have before mentioned as being in the rear of the defenses, in which we found traces of a large camp, which had evidently been abandoned in great haste. Muster rolls and other military records, more or less complete, were scattered round in every direction, cooking utensils and a variety of eatables lay round everywhere, forming, with worn out clothing and accoutrements and the remains of the huts and tents, a lively picture of confusion and ruin.

A brisk fire on the skirmish line showed that we were fast approaching the scene of action, and on reaching the edge of the timber we were ordered to build breastworks and await the arrival of Gen. Bartlett's command on our right. The day was clear and bright, and, owing to a light northerly breeze, not unpleasantly warm. Our boys soon threw up a light line of works and lay down under the shade of the pines to rest.

The situation was a picturesque one not devoid of a certain solemnity. The light breeze hummed through the pines overhead, with a pleasant dreamy sound; before us lay a field of oats, waving and undulating in alternate light and shade as the soft breath of the summer wind passed over it; far off on the right the distant spires of Petersburg showed faint and indistinct through the soft blue haze; on our left a cloud of dark, black smoke curled lazily up over the tree tops, and dropped gently away to leeward from where a large cotton factory had been fired by the rebels in their retreat. The air was alive with the hum of insects and the chirp of birds, and in the trees, on the left of our regiment, a mocking bird was whistling, softly but clearly. It was a strange scene, the long lines of faces, the subdued murmur of conversation, broken only by an occasional shot from the skirmish line, sounding strangely distant and unreal, and the flickering shadow of the pine boughs falling at times on some sunburnt face, with a grave fixed look on it, which showed how the thoughts were then traveling back over hundreds of miles to some spot in the far-off North where the loved ones lay, little conscious of the fate of their nearest and dearest.

On many faces there a darker shadow than that of the pine boughs was soon to fall forever, and a brighter and more lasting glory than that of the sun's rays, as the swaying boughs moved aside and let in the gleaming light. For many there, their last sun had arisen, and the fitful slumber that now from time to time drooped their eyelids was but the prelude to the "sleep that knows no waking."

But our thoughts were soon recalled to the realities of the occasion by the order to advance, and under a sharp fire of cannon and musketry we pressed on across the oat-field towards a line of works just discernible, ahead of us. On we went, steadily and unwaveringly, halting only once to reform the line which had become somewhat broken from the uneven nature of the ground over which we were advancing. Forward! again with a cheer, and we see their skirmishers falling back on their main line of battle; forward a few steps more, and a wide trench unexpectedly opens before us—it is a deep cut on the Norfolk and Petersburg railroad. A momentary pause as we catch in a telegraph wire cunningly stretched on stakes and hid in the long rank grass on the edge of the cut, and a withering volley sweeps the top of the cut, and numbers roll down its steep sides to find a grave in the muddy ditches on the side of the track. Up the steep bank, on the opposite side, the fragments of our brigade try, once more, to charge, but the fire that meets them is too heavy, and they fall back under the protection of the sides of the cut.

Twice again they attempt it, and twice again they are compelled to fall back, leaving many of their number behind on each successive charge. And now, on our right, the enemy's sharpshooters have got into position and, firing along the whole length of the cut, pick off a man at every shot. Capt. Stevens, of Co. A, is mortally wounded, and 2d Lieut. Lowber, of the same company, receives a ball through his fore-arm, thus leaving that company without an officer. And now the enemy are seen getting a battery into position on a height commanding the whole of our position. None of our artillery has yet come up to support us, and our position if not a critical, is at least, a most anxious one. But soon the sharp crack of a Napoleon is heard in our rear and the solid shot hums along over our heads and sends up a cloud of dust and splinters as it strikes where the rebels are trying to build an earthwork, and Capt. Romer, of the 34th N. Y., has got his guns into position, and with a few well directed shots, shells the rebels away from their covert. The crack of those Napoleons was a thoroughly welcome sound to us all, for it gave evidence that we were not all alone nor without backers, which, as the troops on our right and left did not connect with us, appeared at one time to be the case.

And so the 18th of June, a day memorable in the history of battles, as the anniversary of Waterloo and Bunker Hill, wore to a close, and as the welcome shades of night drew in around us, fresh troops taking our place, we fell back to the woods we had left in the morning, with sadly diminished numbers, thoroughly wearied and exhausted.