Pennsylvania, each regiment made a single line. I think the 148th was
divided into two battalions. The 61st had about 90 muskets. While
waiting for something to "turn up" Col. Cross came up, and after a
little said, "Boys, you know what's before you. Give 'em hell!" and some
of us said "We will, Colonel!" After a time "the ball opened" on our
left. A determined attack was made on Sickel's position. He could not
hold it, and re-enforcements were sent to him. I do not remember seeing
the 5th N. H. move away but Col. Broady says it was detached before the
brigade started. I think it was between 5 and 6 o'clock when our orders
came, and we were ready. It was preferable to advance into action,
rather than to wait in expectation of the order to move. The direction
we were to take was to the front and left. There was no time to
countermarch so as to bring the men right in front, so we simply left
faced and started. The 61st, since the withdrawal of the 5th N. H. was
the right regiment. We advanced in this manner, the brigade in a chunk,
until we struck a cross road. In this road we deployed by filing right
and advancing until the regiments were deployed, then we left faced.
This undoubled us, and we stood in line of battle, officers and
sergeants in front of the rear rank in front. In front of us across the
road was a wheatfield, which was bounded by a fence. We were ordered
forward; we scaled the fence and advanced into this wheatfield in line
of battle, as I have stated. Finally we were halted, markers were thrown
out, and we lined up. The 61st N. Y. was the right of our brigade line.
I am not sure what regiment was to our right. It is my recollection that
no regiment was in close contact with us. As soon as the alignment was
perfected, the officers and file closers passed through the ranks and
got in rear of the men. Up to this time not a confederate had been seen
in our front.
At the further edge of this wheatfield there were the remnants of a
stone wall and scattering trees and brush, which made a natural line for
the opposing force to form behind. As soon as I got into my place I kept
my eyes to the front, and in a few seconds I saw first one or two men
come toward us on a run, and throw themselves down behind this partial
stone wall. But a brief time passed when a solid line of men in gray
appeared and placed themselves as had the first comers. At once, and
without any ordering, the firing opened by both sides. It was slightly
descending from where we stood to the position of the enemy. I think
their location was the best, independent of the protection afforded by
the old wall. It was a case of give and take. As a rule our men behaved
splendidly; with a single exception I saw no flinching or dodging. I saw
a certain second lieutenant doubling himself together so as to bring his
head below the line of the heads of the men in front of him. Capt. Keech
saw his posture and came up to him and said, "Stand up! What are you
crouching for?" The fellow replied, "I'm not crouching." Keech replied,
"Yes, you are!" and he hit him across his humped-up back a sharp rap
that made him grunt, and said, "Stand up like a man!" In battle the
tendency is almost universal for the men to work out of a good line into
clumps. The men of natural daring will rather crowd to the front, and
those cast in more timid or retiring molds will almost automatically
edge back and slip in behind. Hence the necessity of not alone
commissioned officers in the rear to keep the men out in two ranks, but
sergeants as well. I think I have stated that there were less than one
hundred men present with the regiment. For the less than ninety muskets
in the ranks we had a number of commissioned officers. More than was
needed. We had officers enough in our regiment in this great battle to
have commanded three hundred men, and it is a standing proof of the
gross ignorance, or the villainy of the New York government that such
was the case. In the early part of the day I remarked to a number of the
men near by that when some one of them was knocked out I was going to
take his musket and get into the firing line. We were in this wheatfield
and the grain stood almost breast high. The Rebs had their slight
protection, but we were in the open, without a thing better than a
wheat straw to catch a Minnie bullet that weighed an ounce. Of course,
our men began to tumble. They lay where they fell, or, if able, started
for the rear. Near to me I saw a man named Daily go down, shot through
the neck. I made a movement to get his gun, but at that moment I was
struck in the shoulder. It did not hurt and the blow simply caused me to
step back. I found that I could not work my arm, but supposed that hurt
was a flesh wound that had temporarily paralyzed it, and that it was not
serious enough to justify my leaving the fighting line. So, I remained
and did what I could in directing the firing. Sometime after this, I
felt a blow on the left leg, and it gave way, so that I knew the bone
was broken. This stroke did not hurt, and I did not fall, but turned
around and made a number of hops to the rear, when my foot caught in the
tangled grain and I went down full length. While lying here entirely
helpless, and hearing those vicious bullets singing over my head, I
suffered from fear. I had, as most men do, got over the dread of battle
after I was once fairly in it, and was enjoying the excitement, but when
I was "done for" as a fighter, and could only lie in that zone of
danger, waiting for other bullets to plow into my body, I confess it was
with the greatest dread. While so lying and dreading, in some way, I
knew that two men were going to the rear. I yelled out to them, "Drag me
back." They heeded the order, or entreaty, and one man grabbed one arm,
and the other man the other arm, and they started back with me between
them, not on any funeral gait, but almost on a run. My right arm was
sound, but the left one was broken at the shoulder joint, and on that
side it was pulling on the cords and meat. I wobbled much as a cut of
wood drawn by two cords would have. These men pulled me back in this
fashion for a number of rods, and until I thought they had pulled me
over a rise of ground like a cradle knoll, when I shouted, "Drop me" and
they dropped, and went on without note or comment. I had a tourniquet in
my haversack, and with my one servicable arm, I worked away till I got
it out, and did the best I could to get it around my leg, for anything I
knew I was bleeding to death, and, if possible, I wanted to check the
flow of blood. I think my effort did not amount to much. After a time
the firing tapered down to occasional shots. Of course, I did not know
who was on top. Certainly no body of our men had fallen back near my
bivouac. In a short time I heard a line of battle advancing from the
rear. As the men came in sight I sang out, "Don't step on me, boys!"
Those in range of me stepped over and on they went, to take their
medicine. I understand they rushed forward and fought the enemy in
advance of the line we occupied. It was not many minutes after these
troops passed me that the rattle of musketry was again heard from that
wheat field. It was kept up for a good while, and then it died down. No
body of our men went back past me.
After a while I was aware that a skirmish line was coming from the
front, and soon discovered that the skirmishers were not clothed in
blue. The officer in command was mounted and rode by within a few feet
of me. I should judge that this line went as far as the road I have
spoken of. Shots were exchanged at about that distance to the rear of
me. This fighting was not severe and a short time after these gentlemen
in gray moved back in the same manner they had advanced, greatly to my
relief. I did not fancy remaining their guest for any length of time.
As the Rebs went back, a nice looking young fellow, small of stature,
with bright black eyes, whose face was smutted up with powder and smoke,
came along where I lay. My sword was on the ground beside me. He picked
it up, and said, "Give me that scabbard!" I said "Johnny, you will have
to excuse me, as my arm is broken and I can't unbuckle my belt." He made
no comment, but went off with my sword. Then matters quieted down, and
there was no sound to be heard in that vicinity, except the groanings of
the wounded. As long as I lay perfectly quiet, I was not in much pain,
but if I attempted to stir the pain was severe. I had heard that wounded
men always suffered from thirst, but I was not specially thirsty, and I
wondered at it. I did not have any desire to groan, and take on, as many
about me were doing. So I wondered if I were really badly hurt, and if I
could groan, if I wanted to. I determined to try it, and drew in a good
breath, and let out a full grown-man groan. I was satisfied with the
result and then kept quiet. This action on my part will read like the
performance of a simpleton, and I would not record it, but for the fact
that it was the freak and experience of one man, helpless on the
battlefield. These personal experiences are, of course, less often
written about than are the general movements of troops in battle
accounts.
After a time I was satisfied our people were establishing a picket line
some ways to my rear. I succeeded in securing the attention of a
sergeant. He told me the number of his regiment, which was a new
Pennsylvania regiment. I told him I wanted to get back out of this
debatable belt of land between the skirmish lines. He said he would go
and see his officer. In a little while he came back with a Lieutenant.
He was a good hearted man, and commiserated my condition, and inquired
what he could do for me. I told him my present anxiety was to get to the
rear of our skirmish line--that where I then lay was likely to be fought
over again, and any little thing would, at least, set the pickets firing
at one another. I told him I thought if he and the sergeant would make a
chair of their hands, as children often do, they could carry me between
them. With difficulty they got me up, and their hands under me, and
started, but the broken leg hung down, and caught in the trampled wheat,
and I told them I couldn't go it. Then the Lieutenant said he could
carry me on his back. I noticed that he had braced up with commissary,
and his legs were not wholly reliable, but I thought he could manage me
as a pack. So he squatted, and the sergeant helped get me on his back
with my arm around his neck. Then he attempted to raise me up, but my
weight and the tanglefoot were too much, and we all went down in a heap
together, I under. As soon as I could express myself in words, I told
the men, if they would straighten me out and cover me up with my
blanket, I would excuse them with thanks for their kind intentions. This
they did, and left me with no one in sight. It now grew dark rapidly and
soon there was as little light as at any time that night. I was wide
awake, and my thoughts went on excursions the wide world around.
I think it must have been about midnight--for hours I had heard no sound
but the groanings of the men lying on the field about me. All at once I
heard a voice. It came from the mouth of Phil Comfort, a private of Co.
A. Phil had always been one of the incorrigibles. He would get drunk,
and brawl, and fight on the slightest provocation, but he also had the
credit of doing much for the wounded of the regiment. I do not know what
Phil's business was, out there between the picket lines at midnight of
that day. I suspect he may have been there for the purpose of
accommodating any corpse that was desirous of being relieved of any
valuables he was possessed of, fearing they might be buried in an
unmarked grave with his dead body. I never asked Phil about the orders,
or from whom they came, that sent him into hailing distance of my place
of repose, but I made haste to call Phil up to me. He responded to my
call, and in a moment was staring down on me in the starlight. He said,
"Why, Lieutenant that's you, aint it!" I admitted the allegation, and
said I wanted to get out of here. He replied that he would go for a man
and stretcher, and return as soon as possible, and off he went. Before
long he was back with man and stretcher, and after much working they got
me loaded and started for a point at which the ambulances were
assembling. I was set down in the dooryard of a house built of hewed
logs, whitewashed. In 1866 I visited the battlefield and this house was
standing. I think it has since been removed and a frame house put up on
its site.
After an hour's waiting, I was loaded into an ambulance without taking
me from my stretcher. This was fortunate for me, as I kept it until it
was swapped for a new one two weeks later. The stretcher kept me from
the ground, and was an important factor in my recovery. A man was placed
beside me shot through the body. He was in an agony of pain, and it was
impossible for him to restrain his groans. When the ambulance started,
it went anywhere but in a good road, and as it bumped over logs and
boulders, my broken leg would thresh about like the mauler of a flail. I
found it necessary to keep it in place by putting the other one over it.
At last we stopped and were unloaded. It was still dark, but in due
time light broke in the East, and a little later I could roll my head
and take in some of the surroundings. Most of the wounded of the
regiment had been gathered at this place, and we made by far the largest
part of it. Many of the men were so hurt that they could move about, and
they all came and made me an early morning call. After a time two of our
regimental doctors appeared. They cut open my trousers leg, found where
the bullet went in, and, I think, put a strip of adhesive plaster over
the wound, and they did the same with the shoulder. It was clear to my
mind that the leg, at least, must come off. I expressed my opinion and
said, I thought it would be better to do it at once, than to wait till
inflammation set in. At my earnest request they promised me that they
would see to it that I should be among the first operated on.
While in this place my life long friend and companion, Lieut. Isaac
Plumb, came to me. We had been side by side since the organization of
the regiment, and, until now, neither of us had been badly hurt. He told
me that he saw me as I went down, and sang out "Uncle Fuller, that's
good for sixty days." He said I made up quite a face, as if it hurt.
Shortly afterward he said he had a remarkable experience. He was struck
and knocked down, and he supposed a bullet had gone through him, and he
was done for. He said he clapped his hands over the place of the
supposed wound and held on tight, with the thought that conscious
existence might be a little prolonged. He expected to feel life ebbing,
but he retained consciousness, and, after a while, lifted his hands,
expecting to see an eruption of blood, but he did not. He began to move
his body with no bad results, and, finally, got onto his feet, resumed
his place and left the field with his men. He did not discover what had
happened till he prepared to bunk down for the night, when he unbuckled
his sword belt he discovered a strange formation in his vest pocket. In
it he had a bunch of small keys on a ring. A Minnie bullet had struck
his belt plate square and had glanced so as to go under the plate into
his vest pocket, where it met the bunch of keys. There was enough force
and resistance to bed the bullet into the ring and the key heads, and
there the keys stood out held in place by the embedded bullet. He was
able to send this relic of that great battle home, and his mother has it
now among her choicest mementos.
After a time the division operating table was set up in the edge of a
piece of timber not very far away. I was on the watch, expecting every
minute to be taken out, but I waited and waited and no one came for me.
I became quite impatient at this delay. I saw one after another brought
on, carried up, and taken away, and I was not called for. This aroused
my stock of impatience, of which, I naturally always had quite enough.
At last I asked my friend Porter E. Whitney and another man to take me
down to the table. I made up my mind, if the mountain did not go to
Mahomet, the next best thing was for the prophet to go to the mountain.
The men set me down as nearly under the noses of the doctors as could
be, and, if something hadn't happened, I presume in a few minutes that
heretofore good left leg would have made one of the fast growing pile;
but about that interesting moment for me, the enemy began to drop shells
that exploded in and about the locality. It was not a fit place to
pursue surgical operations. The doctors knew it, so they hastily
gathered up their knives and saws, and moved to a place where those
projectiles did not drop. The two friends who had taken me there, picked
up my stretcher and started for a like place. We had to move several
times before the greatest artillery duel of the War began. When that
opened we were out of range of it, but we could not hide from the
tremble of the ground--the surface of the earth at that place shook and
quivered from the terrible concussion of the artillery. The roar was
enough to deafen one, and inspire the dread that no one would be left
alive and unhurt. Generally however, the noise is a considerable part of
such a bombardment. Probably comparatively slight damage was done by it,
until our artillery opened on the advancing lines of Pickett's men.
During the day friends occasionally poured water on my wounds, which,
doubtless, kept the swelling down.
Pickett was defeated. Grant, Sherman, Sheridan or Thomas, if in command
at the time, would have plunged the fresh Sixth Corps on to the rear of
Lee's routed men, and effectively crushed him. Meade was new to the
place and preferred a respectable certainty to possible disaster. Things
quieted down, and that night,
"Mr. Lee who had come to see
What he could do about going through,
The North, turned South."
The boys who were toting me came to a stone house with a wide piazza
clear around it. I was laid on the floor of it, which made a hard bed. I
ached in every bone, but there was nothing to do but "grin and bear it."
After a while Frank Garland of Co. G was brought and laid on the floor
near me. He could raise upon his elbow, but his breathing was painful to
hear. A bullet had gone through his lungs and every time they filled a
portion of the air went through the wound with a ghastly sound. I said
to him, "Are you badly wounded, Frank?" He replied, "Oh, yes!"
I had eaten nothing since the morning of the day before, and was faint.
Some of our drummer boys found a bin of ground oats, and they made a
gruel that tasted good, and I made quite a meal of it. That evening
about 10 o'clock, an ambulance came for me, and I was taken to the
ground selected for the 2d Corps hospital. It was another rough ride
across lots. Once there I was taken out of my stretcher, the one Phil
Comfort took me off the field on, and taken at once to the operating
table. A napkin was formed into a tunnel shape, a liberal supply of
chloroform poured into it and the thing placed over my nose and mouth. I
was told to take in long breaths. To me it seemed a long time before the
effect came, probably it was a short time, but at last my head seemed to
grow big and spin around. At this stage I remember a doctor had his
fingers in the wound in the shoulder and said to the others "Here is a
fine chance for a resection." I did not know what that meant, but
learned afterwards. When I came to myself, I looked down far enough to
see a quantity of bandage wound about a stump of a leg eight inches
long. My shoulder was bound up, but otherwise not operated on. Failure
to resect may have been due to the great amount of work pressing upon
the surgeons. They were worked as many hours continuously as they could
stand, and still many a man had to be neglected. I was taken off the
table and put back on my stretcher, which was set down in a wall tent,
this tent was as full as it well could be of amputated cases. For the
most part the men bore their suffering without a groan. Among the number
was a young Confederate officer, that had lost an arm. He probably felt
that he was a good way from home, and he "took on," bemoaning his fate
as a cripple and a sufferer. He wore out the patience of every other man
in the tent. At last I yelled out to him to shut up, or I would get up
and kick him out doors. My bark was effective, we heard no more from
him. All of us were amputates, or seriously wounded. During the night a
doctor came, and gave every man a dose of morphine, which produced a
happy state of mind and body. As I was taken from the table one of my
doctors said, "Fuller, you may drink all of the whiskey you can get, and
want."
The day of the 4th we had a drenching rain. Some men out lying in low
places and who could not move were, it was said, drowned. On the whole,
I presume the rain was a benefit to the wounded.
It took a number of days for the large hospital tents to be put up. All
of the sound part of the army that could be spared followed up the
enemy. Of course, it took a large number of soldiers detailed for the
purpose, to partially care for the thousands of wounded from each army.
The surgeons were continuously engaged upon new cases that had received
no attention. Those of us that had been treated knew this, and we found
no fault at what otherwise would have been terrible neglect. I think it
was six days after my amputation before a doctor could be found to look
at my stump. The night before I had been made very nervous by crawley
feelings on that side of me, just where I could not tell. It is, I
think, the rule with amputations, that the patient cannot from the
feeling put his hand on the place of amputation. It takes a good while
for the nerves to realize where "the end" is. They were made to carry
the news to the brain from the extremities, and, until the new
arrangement has become somewhat acquainted with the change, these lines
of communication are doing duty for parts of the body not there. My bad
feelings were not at the end of the stump, but down in the foot and
ankle, where there were constant beats, and pulls and cramps. I think
this is the foundation for the many fairy stories to the effect that an
amputated leg or arm buried gave the owner of it great pain, as if
something pressed on it, or it was cramped in its box, and when it was
opened up there was found a stone between the fingers, or the cover
jammed upon the foot, and that when the cause of discomfort was removed
then the stump of the arm or leg was easy. As in the various phases of
faith cure, the imagination has a powerful effect. So it has in these
cases. It is never that there is a real feeling connected between the
severed part and the body, but the belief in it creates a supposed
reality.
It was the good fortune of our tent that a civilian surgeon from Ohio
visiting the field came along and offered his services to any of us that
wanted him to do for us. I told him how I had felt through the night,
and I would be glad to have him dress my stump. He took the bandages off
and found that there were a large number of full grown maggots in the
wound. This discovery for the moment was horrifying to me. I concluded
if all the other things did not take me off the skippers would, but the
good doctor assured me that the wigglers didn't amount to much in that
place, and he would soon fix them. He diluted some turpentine, took a
quantity of it in his mouth and squirted it into the wound, and over the
stump. It did the business for the intruders, and I had no more trouble
of that sort.
The morning of the 4th of July Capt. Keech came to me and said he was to
have a short leave of absence on account of the wound he received in the
neck, which came near effectually cutting it. He wanted to know what
word he should convey to my people. I said tell them I am doing as well
as one can under the circumstance. He replied, "Don't you want them to
come down here?" I said, "No!" "They can do no good here, and will be in
the way." When he got to New York he wired to Sherburne: "Garland
mortally wounded. Fuller dangerously wounded. Plumb all right." That
night my father started for Unadilla Forks to see Dr. King, his
brother-in-law. The doctor was one of the best surgeons in Otsego Co. My
father told him he wanted him to go to Gettysburg and look after me.
They were in Utica the next morning ready for the first train East. From
a newsboy they got a _Herald_, which gave a long list of New York
casualties. Finally they struck "Lieut. C. A. Fuller, Co. C. 61st N. Y.,
leg _and arm amputated_." The doctor said, "If that is true there is not
much chance for Charley, but we will go on and bring him home alive or
dead." And so they went on.
All this is very tame and personal, and, in many ways, I know can be of
but small interest. There is this to be said of it: It shows what was
going on in thousands of families the land over--North and South--and it
is the kind of matter that does not get into books on war subjects. The
reality of war is largely obscured by descriptions that tell of
movements and maneuvers of armies, of the attack and repulse, of the
victory and defeat, and then pass on to new operations. All of this
leaves out of sight the fellows stretched out with holes through them,
or with legs and arms off.