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Picture this:
You are standing shoulder to shoulder in the early morning light with your regiment. You stomach twists itself into knots, knowing what is about to come. The sun climbs above the horizon, casting shadows behind the hills. Over 1,000 bayonets catch the first rays of sun, and cast a blinding light to your eyes. The morning frost is still on the wet grass, the same grass that the next few hours will be covered in many a young mans blood.
A bugle in the distance is called, and your senior officer barks out the order to "forward march". Will this be your last battle?
You march through the wet grass, the sun in your eyes, and the wind calmly blowing in your face. Your regimental flag waving in the early mornings light, and the beat of a thousand footsteps, trampling the frosty morning grass below. In the distance, you see a large puff of smoke, and then the scream of an incoming artillery shell. It slams into the dirt about 20 yards ahead of you, sending dirt, dust and shrapnel over your head. As the dirt comes down, and you wipe your eyes, another puff of smoke is seen. And another, and another...
"Double quick!" your officer calls, and with a sharp cry, the regiment surges forward. Into the impending jaws of death, and seemingly the gates of hell. A fence blocks your path, and the regiment pauses. By now, you are within the range of enemy fire. A thousand puffs of smoke are discharged, and the squeak of minie balls scream past your ears. You panic, and reloading your musket is difficult now. The pause is over, and now you find yourself, and your comrades over the fence, and into the ever closer reaches of death.
"Forward men! double quick and give 'em hell!" screams your officer. Now you are running, running with all the speed you can muster. The wet grass splashes now, with the footsteps of a thousand soldiers, a thousand soldiers running to doom.
You are almost there. Just a few more yards to the stone wall. To the stone wall, and your regiment has the victory. The sun illuminates the enemy, and in their eyes you can see the hatred and contempt he has for you. You fire your musket, but who knows if you hit anybody. You charge with your bayonet lowered, your friends are climbing over the wall, and now it is your turn to make a mark on history.
Just on the other side of that wall stands a soldier. He knows that it is up to him to stop that charge. If the defense fails, the enemy can sweep around, and destroy the army. He quickly reaches into his cartridge pouch, and pulls out the paper cartridge, and inside lies the deadly minie ball. He follows the loading procedure, and cocks the hammer. He fits the percussion cap to the nipple, and gets ready. He spots a young enemy soldier climbing over the wall. He starts squeezing the trigger...
You are now climbing over the wall, you take your rifle and begin to charge the enemy. But then you feel a sharp, burning pain. The deadly minie ball pierces your chest, the soft lead expanding and ripping a gaping hole in your flesh. It splinters your rib bones in nano seconds, and exits the body as fast as it came in. The sounds of battle are fading, the world is growing darker, and before you now it, you are on the ground.
When you wake up in the field hospital, the surgeon gives you a foul tasting medicine from a clear bottle. He puts a rag on your face, and the world becomes muted, and dark again...
This is an experience shared by many thousands of soldiers throughout the Civil War. Many were not lucky, and died on the spot, or worse, after hours of suffering. Field hospitals from both armies were swamped with the mutilated bodies of many thousands of young soldiers, all ripped to pieces by the deadly minie ball.
Bullets mean so much more to me, than any other relics. I take pride in each, and every bullet I own. I am fortunate to own these pieces of history, and I will cherish them forever.
Here is a pile of fired Civil War bullets, accompanied by a U.S.A. Hospital Department bottle, found in Union hospitals.
You are standing shoulder to shoulder in the early morning light with your regiment. You stomach twists itself into knots, knowing what is about to come. The sun climbs above the horizon, casting shadows behind the hills. Over 1,000 bayonets catch the first rays of sun, and cast a blinding light to your eyes. The morning frost is still on the wet grass, the same grass that the next few hours will be covered in many a young mans blood.
A bugle in the distance is called, and your senior officer barks out the order to "forward march". Will this be your last battle?
You march through the wet grass, the sun in your eyes, and the wind calmly blowing in your face. Your regimental flag waving in the early mornings light, and the beat of a thousand footsteps, trampling the frosty morning grass below. In the distance, you see a large puff of smoke, and then the scream of an incoming artillery shell. It slams into the dirt about 20 yards ahead of you, sending dirt, dust and shrapnel over your head. As the dirt comes down, and you wipe your eyes, another puff of smoke is seen. And another, and another...
"Double quick!" your officer calls, and with a sharp cry, the regiment surges forward. Into the impending jaws of death, and seemingly the gates of hell. A fence blocks your path, and the regiment pauses. By now, you are within the range of enemy fire. A thousand puffs of smoke are discharged, and the squeak of minie balls scream past your ears. You panic, and reloading your musket is difficult now. The pause is over, and now you find yourself, and your comrades over the fence, and into the ever closer reaches of death.
"Forward men! double quick and give 'em hell!" screams your officer. Now you are running, running with all the speed you can muster. The wet grass splashes now, with the footsteps of a thousand soldiers, a thousand soldiers running to doom.
You are almost there. Just a few more yards to the stone wall. To the stone wall, and your regiment has the victory. The sun illuminates the enemy, and in their eyes you can see the hatred and contempt he has for you. You fire your musket, but who knows if you hit anybody. You charge with your bayonet lowered, your friends are climbing over the wall, and now it is your turn to make a mark on history.
Just on the other side of that wall stands a soldier. He knows that it is up to him to stop that charge. If the defense fails, the enemy can sweep around, and destroy the army. He quickly reaches into his cartridge pouch, and pulls out the paper cartridge, and inside lies the deadly minie ball. He follows the loading procedure, and cocks the hammer. He fits the percussion cap to the nipple, and gets ready. He spots a young enemy soldier climbing over the wall. He starts squeezing the trigger...
You are now climbing over the wall, you take your rifle and begin to charge the enemy. But then you feel a sharp, burning pain. The deadly minie ball pierces your chest, the soft lead expanding and ripping a gaping hole in your flesh. It splinters your rib bones in nano seconds, and exits the body as fast as it came in. The sounds of battle are fading, the world is growing darker, and before you now it, you are on the ground.
When you wake up in the field hospital, the surgeon gives you a foul tasting medicine from a clear bottle. He puts a rag on your face, and the world becomes muted, and dark again...
This is an experience shared by many thousands of soldiers throughout the Civil War. Many were not lucky, and died on the spot, or worse, after hours of suffering. Field hospitals from both armies were swamped with the mutilated bodies of many thousands of young soldiers, all ripped to pieces by the deadly minie ball.
Bullets mean so much more to me, than any other relics. I take pride in each, and every bullet I own. I am fortunate to own these pieces of history, and I will cherish them forever.
Here is a pile of fired Civil War bullets, accompanied by a U.S.A. Hospital Department bottle, found in Union hospitals.
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