Oliver Otis Howard, Autobiography of Oliver Otis Howard, major general , United States army : volume 1

A peculiar feeling crept over me as I put my feet on the soft ground and followed the young officer. Some stretchers were in motion. A few friends were searching for faces they hoped not to find. There were cries of delirium, calls of the helpless, the silence of the slain, and the hum of distant voices in the advancing brigade, with an intermittent rattle of musketry, the neighing of horses, and the shriller prolonged calls of the team's mules, and soon the moving of lanterns guiding the bearers of the wounded to the busy surgeons: all these things made a weird impression and a desire to be freed from following in the wake of the ravages of war.

I remember that the call of one poor fellow was insistent. He repeatedly cried: “Oh, sir kind sir! Come to me!” I walked over to where he lay and asked: “What regiment do you belong tot”

He answered: “The Fifth Mississippi.”

I then said: “What do you want”

He replied: “Oh, I am cold!”

I knew it was from the approach of death, but noticing that he had a blanket over him I said: “You have a good warm blanket over you.” He looked toward it and said gently: “Yes, some kind gentleman from Massachusetts spread his blanket over me, but, sir, I'm still cold.”

A Massachusetts soldier had given his only blanket to a wounded man — a wounded enemy.

We silently passed on to our allotted lines. I pondered over my instructions, prepared orders for others, and then, with mingled hope and apprehension