These past several days we’ve been on the move with but scant opportunity for rest. The object of our haste was to beat the Rebels to the railhead at Resaca, and to cut off Johnston from any means of escaping the trap which General Sherman had so carefully set for him. But McPherson hesitated when nearly in sight of our prize, and as hard as it is to say, permitted opportunity to slip from his grasp. For the Confederates have been able to reinforce the small force on hand here, making it likely that we will be unable to trap Johnston and by some bold stroke, crush him at a blow.

Nevertheless, the stiff fight we had here yesterday and again today, afforded an excellent opportunity to watch how our western armies fight. This correspondent is accustomed to the stately orderliness of the Army of the Potomac. Our Westerners by contrast, are freer and easier with regard to camp discipline yet never shy from a good brawl, and can be relied upon to bring the fight to the enemy with vigor. I went up yesterday with Ruger’s Brigade amidst reports that we would most certainly see some Rebels, and see them we did. About 2 O’clock they came out of some woods, not all that far from the railroad, and promptly drove in our pickets. A second line of skirmishers was sent in support of the first, only to meet the same fate. This was an understandable reverse. The enemy had appeared on our front in significant force and boldly pressed his advantage.

I had been wandering up and down a line of hastily thrown up breastworks, occupied by the 3^rd Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry, and Adams’ Battery. Despite the crack of musketry, the men casually lay about, many smoking their pipes or trying to induce a bit of life out of some hard biscuit, or eating the remainder of their meager rations from thinning haversacks. When the volume of firing increased and a cannonade began from the opposing lines, the veterans among them remained grimly indifferent, while the new recruits, or fresh fish, as newcomers are sometimes called, stood up or kneeled expectantly, their hands gripping their muskets so tightly as to whiten knuckles; their faces bearing an expression such as small boys do when their mothers tell them they must eat a double helping of vegetables. In fact, many of them were not much more than boys, undoubtedly away from home for the first time. This mixture of veterans with their faded and worn coats, and new recruits in bright new blue uniforms, was further punctuated by the presence in the regiment of a dozen or so full-blooded Chippewa Indians from the old Wisconsin territory. Watching these Union soldiers apply war paint was a sight indeed.

Bugles blew, officers rushed about, this way and that. Colonel Ruger rode by calling out, “They’re doing it.” Now everyone was falling into line, as a Lieutenant pointed to the unfolding scene before us. The Confederates had pierced our defenses yet again and were coming on in a rush. The boys of the 3^rd were to find useful employment at last. The regiment, already formed into line, stepped out smartly as the regimental band played several patriotic airs. The gay music could not disguise the fact that this was to be a grim business. Battles are seldom what the writers of historical romances say they are in books.

I found myself walking along the line of our entrenchments as the 3^rd Wisconsin marched out, and the cannoneers of Adams’ Battery set to work. The situation rapidly deteriorated, and in the midst of the clamor of battle, my attention was drawn to the left hand section of guns, where a first sergeant was calling frantically for the caissons to come up. It was made manifest that the battery’s ammunition was running out, just as a full regiment of Rebels were advancing forcefully across the field immediately in front of the two guns where I now stood. I distinctly heard Captain Winslow call for a double round of canister, in a response to a command from Adams. At that moment, the cannoneers serving the guns were being picked off one at a time by Confederate rifle fire that was gallingly accurate.

Presently, a cluster of men in blue made a daring attempt to drive the Rebels back. They were among the survivors of one of our skirmish lines that had been pushed back earlier--only to rally and confront the enemy once more. They were destined to fail. For there now occurred one of those tragedies which war seems to produce with alarming frequency. Major Adams had directed the battery to be ready to fire as one, yet Captain Winslow had wisely questioned the order, as his two guns would no longer be firing over the heads of our infantry or around them, but right into them. Adams repeated the order despite being fully cognizant of what Captain Winslow had just told him. The Rebels were coming on in great numbers it was true but the situation had changed. Could such brave men be so needlessly sacrificed? Once again, Winslow begged his superior to be permitted to cease fire. Yet again, Adams was indifferent to his plea. Winslow even waved his arms in desperation and pointed to the thin line of men in front of his guns, attempting to hold back the Rebel flood. Adams gave the signal and Winslow reluctantly obeyed.

All six guns sent their missiles of death into the oncoming enemy lines. The canister did its bloody work among the gray and butternut soldiers as well as our own men on the left. Winslow lowered his head to his chest, in grief or disgust, I could not tell. He then turned and looked directly at me. Pointing a finger in fiery anger he exclaimed, “Mr. Wilkeson, you saw what has happened. I swear by God there will be a tribunal and you will be called as a witness! You will tell them the truth sir!” I nodded solemnly in the affirmative, as I had witnessed the event just as he had. I felt a rising bile of disgust in my throat and a feeling of utter loathing for what Adams had permitted to happen. The remaining artillerists hung their heads, and were still and quiet. Was this the inevitable price of war? A debt to be paid? No. It was an act of inhuman, criminal imbecility, deserving of the severest sanction.

We were roused from our reverie by the further advance of the Rebels. They had reformed and were contemplating a rush at a pair of guns that were now nearly defenseless. We were saved at the last instant from some sad fate by the timely action of the boys of the 3^rd. They had wheeled left and hit the Rebels hard, delivering volley after devastating volley into the enemy ranks. At one point, far above the smoke of the fight, all that was visible were the two emblems of the combatants; the stars and stripes of our beloved Union and the dishonorable ensign of rebellion, waving defiantly as if such a motion would cause our men to falter. They did not. Not just here, but everywhere they were met, the Rebels were forced back to their entrenchments along the railroad. We had won the field and the day. Today there has been more fighting much the same as yesterday. We have been unable to take the railroad and the town that would cut across Johnston. As I write it is said that Johnston will use the coming of night to make good his escape. I fear that that is true, and we will be obliged to follow him to yet another grim field selected by that unseen hand which is destiny or providence.

The foregoing dispatch was based on research and observations made along the battle lines of Greenbush, Wisconsin on the Weekend of October 1-3, 1999. As always, the skills of the Second Wisconsin Volunteer Infantry and Battery B, 4^th U.S. Light Artillery, make the task of presenting these scenes from our nation’s heritage all the more moving and significant.