Ozaukee County's
War History
by Daniel E. McGinley

as extracted from THE PORT WASHINGTON STAR
November 27, 1897



Life in the Trenches
Chapter 3

Let us now visit the picket line and inspect the rifle-pits and the life in them. Owing to the exposed positions of nearly all of the pits, the pickets are always relieved after dark, as it is a very dangerous undertaking to either go to or leave the pits within easy range of the enemy. Each regiment furnishes pickets enough to cover its front, which are usually about one-tenth of its number, and in our regiment, one whole company goes on picket at a time, the companies taking their turns at the duty. In some of the regiments, details are made from each of the companies every day, but the company plan gives better satisfaction under the existing circumstances. The company with all its officers goes on to the picket line in marching order, and is ready to join in any movement of the army or a portion of it without being obliged to return to the regiment for anything, and if absent from the regiment for several days, will not suffer for want of rations, etc., as details often do. The pickets remain on duty in the rifle-pits twenty-four hours, taking turns at watching and firing, -- the latter never ceases.

As soon as it is dark, our company falls in, in marching order, behind our works, load our guns and march out silently to the picket line. Commencing at one end of our portion of the line, our company marches along it in the rear of the pits with as little noise as possible, leaving four or five men in each pit, one of whom must be a non-commissioned officer, and in a few minutes, we are all safe in the pits, while the company we have relieved is making its way back to the main line for supper.

Looking around us, we find ourselves in a trench dug in a semi-circular or crescent form, of fifteen to twenty feet in length on the outer edge, some two and a half feet in depth and three to five feet in width, being large enough to comfortably accommodate our little squad with fighting quarters. On the outer edge of the trench, a revetment of rails or small logs rises to a proper heighth to form a rest for our rifles, and is banked by a very thick embankment of earth designed to be shell-proof. The whole is crowned by the indispensable head-log, under which the loop-holes are smaller than in the works on the main line, being just large enough to thrust a gun barrel through. Small as they are, the rebs often send bullets through them. On the bank in the rear of the ditch, a small shelter of brush has been erected under which part of the squad sleeps while the others are taking their turns at watching and shooting. There is one of these pits every five or six rods along the fifteen or more miles of front that our army presents to the enemy.

Around our pit is a dense forest of heavy timber and underbrush, and even on a bright night, very little light finds its way down to us. We are perfectly safe from front or flank fires in these pits, except when a bullet comes through under the headlog, or strikes a branch or twig nearly overhead and glances down, with a howl like a Thomas cat, straight into the pit. Such cases of glancing bullets are quite common in this siege, the lines running through a great deal of timberland. Looking out under the headlog, we see the flashes of the enemy's rifles, and the minies come zipping down from their pits, which are near the eastern edge of the timber, on higher ground than ours and about 150 yards away.

To our right and left, we can locate several of the pits in our line by the flashes of the rifles in them. The constant flashes of our guns and the occasional hisses of shell as it goes crashing through the tree tops over our heads, tend to increase the darkness, and to give the scene a weird and, at times, terrific aspect. We immediately doff our knapsacks, haversacks and canteens, and begin to answer the Johnnies, for the orders are to keep up a constant fire, and not to spare the ammunition. The pickets are told that they must sling all the lead possible into the rebel lines, and obey so well that each man fires an average of nearly 200 shots in the twenty-four hours. Two or three of the squad soon retire to their blankets under the brush shelter, to sleep until their turn comes to watch and shoot, and notwithstanding the fact that thousands of small arms and scores of cannon are keeping up a continual bedlam of noise, and shells and minies are shrieking and zipping uncomfortably near, they are soon sound asleep. The balance of the squad attend strictly to business and their rifles crack every few minutes.

"What do we fire at?" We fire at the flashes of the enemy's guns, for we can see nothing else. "Rather a poor mark," you say. You are mistaken; it is a good mark for men who are so well skilled in the use of an army rifle as the majority of the opposing forces are at this time. If you don't believe it, just notice how close the enemy's bullets come to the spot upon which our gun rests. I will shoot to draw their fire; you watch for the response that is sure to come, for they are waiting with guns in position for a shot. You fire at one of their flashes, and as quickly almost as lightning, comes a bullet through the smoke of your gun, "zip," into the headlog or under it, grazing your ear so that you are convinced on the spot that the flash of a gun is a good mark. Yes, it is a good mark, as many of our poor comrades have found to their cost, for more men are hit in those pits in the night than in the daytime, when we can seldom see more than the smoke of their guns. Veterans at the business are careful to "duck" the moment they fire, in order to avoid the bullet or bullets which are almost sure to come back in response to their shots; but sometimes they grow careless or are not quick enough, and are hit, often fatally.

Thus, the strange work goes on at all hours of the day and night. It is intensely interesting and exciting at first, but the novelty soon wears off, and as the time passes and midnight approaches, your gun grows foul and consequently, kicks like a mule; your head becomes heavy with drowsiness; you are very weary, and the task becomes a very monotonous one. At times you become so sleepy that you will doze or fall asleep as you hold your rifle in position waiting for a shot, and will be awakened by the sharp crack of a comrade's piece, or the wicked "zip" of a minie which comes in under the headlog and passes your ear so closely that you feel the hot air from it, and will, perhaps, start and awaken so quickly that you involuntarily press the trigger and fire your gun before you know what has happened or is happening around you. Sometimes, yes, too often, the monotony is broken by someone of your comrades getting hit. Perhaps he is killed. If so, you will arouse your sleeping comrades and carry his body back through the darkness to the main line, where on the morrow it will be given a soldier's burial, and comrades will write the sad news to the dead hero's friends, who are watching every mail for news from ěthe frontî and their own soldier boy. Perhaps your comrade is wounded. If badly, you grope your way back to the main line and have a stretcher sent out for him. If not badly, he usually makes his own way to the rear; and if a slight one, the wound is only laughed at.

At times, one of the rebs is hit hard, and screams or groans loud enough for us to hear him. In such cases, we, for a few minutes, discontinue firing at that particular pit, and do not gloat over the poor fellow's sufferings, being satisfied to learn that some of our shots are taking effect; and that the numbers of our adversaries are growing less.

At midnight, we awaken the relief, and as soon as they get their eyes open and are at work, we turn in and quickly in the "Land of Nod," inspite of the din and danger by which we are encompassed. When we awaken again, it is broad daylight, and we have a better chance to see our surroundings. As I have said, there was a thick growth of underbrush in the timber in which our pit is situated, so dense that we could see but three or four rods away, but in a few days after this line of pits was dug, the undergrowth had been cut down between the opposing rifle pits. "How did we do it?" Why, with bullets. That is a surprising statement, but nevertheless true. Whenever we noticed a brush or sapling that obstructed our view of the enemy's pits, we commence firing at it; hitting it in about the same place until it fell down, for many of the boys are excellent shots. Some were small enough to be topped off by one single shot; and when the sapling was too large to be felled by two or three bullets, the boys attacked it systematically. First they fired at its sides until they knocked pieces out of them, and then "plunked" bullets into its center until the tree fell. In this manner, all the undergrowth up to two and three inches in diameter were "slashed" between the lines, the rebels helping at the work, and a better view of each other's pits was the result.

Long and constant practice has made excellent marksmen of a large number of the men of both armies. If you want to see how well the rebs shoot, just raise your hat on the end of your ramrod so they can see it over the headlog, and you may safely bet your last hardtack that they will put a bullet hole through it before you can count ten. One of our company was carelessly peering over the headlog in this pit last week when a bullet passed through his hat and shaved a furrow through his hair, close to his scalp. Another member of the company drew a fine exhibition of marksmanship from he rebs here that same day.

Early in the day, he took his rubber blanket or poncho, which he had been sleeping on, and which was wet as usual from he dampness of the ground, and forgetting where he was, threw it up on some branches in the rear of the pit to dry. It had hardly been spread there when "spat!" "spat!" "spat!" went several bullets through it. He jerked it down again and found it had holes enough in it to ruin it, and he was fighting mad. Of course, his comrades laughed at him, and although he could not hear them, he felt certain that the Johnnies were also laughing at him, and he wanted satisfaction. But how to get it was a problem, for the rebs would show him nothing to perforate, so he finally determined to crawl out to that small oak tree that you see standing about a rod to the right of our pit, and standing up behind it, await a good chance to let daylight through some of them. Worming himself along the ground, he reached the tree in safety, and stood up behind it. It was just large enough to cover his body from a front fire, but it would have been all dough with him if they had seen him so as to get a flank fire at him. From his position, he had a much better view of their nearest pit than he had from ours, and it was not long before he got in a good shot. But the Johnnies immediately discovered his whereabouts, and when he fired the second time, a bullet came zipping along his gun barrel and grazed the hair over his ear. It came so close and unexpected that it nearly took his breath away, and he was not long in concluding that he must be more careful.

Every time thereafter that he fired, he dodged quickly, and every time a bullet came back, almost instantly. He fired seven or eight shots from behind that tree, to each of which the rebels replied, and it would make some of the crack shots of today turn green with envy to see how near to the mark each of the enemy's bullets came. Each bullet either barked the tree or buried itself in it, within three inches of the spot where our comrade's gun rested; which, considering the distance, the slope of the ground and the poor light, was excellent shooting. The enemy could not have seen either the boy or his gun, a fact which was proven when he exposed his head or held his gun in position without drawing his foe's fire. Not until he fired each time, did a reply come, showing that the rebel marksmen must have fired each time at the puff of smoke; but his aim was so good that our comrade forgot his anger in his admiration of the splendid marksmanship displayed.

We have our amusements in these pits, as well as troubles, and every little while the boys find something to laugh at. Sometimes they get hold of some fine wire, and boring holes in two minies fasten them together after the fashion of chain-shot. You ought to hear those chain-shots howl when fired from our rifles. The Johnnies, when they first heard them, did not know what to make of the noise, and shouting over, asked us what in h--l we were slinging at them! At times, there is an extra rifle or two in each pit, left there by boys who were killed or wounded, and we often have great sport with them. Sometimes a gun is loaded with a double charge of powder and about a dozen minies. It is then lashed to a sapling, elevated some forty degrees and fired in the direction of the enemy. This we call "shelling the Johnnies."

One day, a little musician who had but recently been sent to the ranks and given a gun, double-charged his rifle and attempted to hold it to his shoulder and fire it off. The result was that the little musician went backwards nearly as quickly as the charge went the other way, and when he was picked up, it was found that his shoulder had been dislocated, and he had been seriously injured otherwise. That ended his use of the army rifle. It was not made to be fooled with.