a handkerchief in answer to one from their side; and we gathered and carried back our dead. Poor Doxtater and Davis were taken back and laid beside Spicer near the Bowling Green Road. Of course as soon as the firing ceased the strain under which we had been so many hours was off, and the future and its concerns occupied our minds. I looked about me and got something to eat from my haversack and talked with the other fellows. Of course we lay low, for the reputation of the gentlemen in our front was of such a character as to prevent us from giving them too much of an opportunity to kill us, and we all agreed that we did not want any more picket or skirmish line work, especially where the enemy was under shelter and we were lying exposed upon a bare field. We were too much in the position of the chicken at the chicken shoot. Further along to the right the line diverged and our fellows got along comfortably and had a chance for their lives. Now I have often been asked how it feels to go into battle, and I think I can say without qualification that it requires more, a heap more, nerve and sand to occupy the position we young fellows did on that bright December day, exposed to a deadly fire from marksmen for many hours, than to plunge headlong into the shock and din of any, after, battle in which we participated. I am speaking for myself and at a distance. Only two of those five are now living, and the other can speak for himself. (This was written over twenty years ago.) After the firing in our front ceased we got along quite comfortably, to what we had experienced, and took turns in looking after things in front of us. Around us growing among the grass were many little spears which looked like onions, but were called leeks. This vegetable was pungent
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