Confederate Shop
By Captain Will Lambert
Among all the thrilling incidents, hairbreadth escapes, and deeds or valor that have been published, I have never seen where any old veteran has acknowledged how bad he was scared during the war. So I come to the front and tell my truthful story. How ignorant we were in the beginning about war. I fully believed I could whip five Yanks before breakfast, and was afraid the war would be over before I could try my hand. Whole regiments were armed with long shop-made knives and old "pepper box" pistols, expecting a hand-to-hand fight. But to my story, I had served in the Virginia army, had been discharged from injuries received, and had reenlisted just in time to go through the Georgia campaign under Johnson and Hood.
So you can imagine whether I had a chance to kill a Yank or not. On one of those foggy, gloomy mornings in June 1864, not far from New Hope Church, I was on vidette. All old vets know how perilous the moment the fog would rise, or daylight comes. It was similar to turkey hunting, waiting to see how to shoot. All still. No cheering commands or rebel yells. A shot up or down the line would ring out and some poor fellow "would cross the river." I was hiding behind my pile of rocks in an old field with my gun in position. To my right I saw a bright Enfield poked around another pile of rocks but a short distance away. Of course I changed my position, but only to be in range of another Yankee on my left behind his pile of rocks. Imagine the situation. Retreat, I considered, was the better part of valor. On my hands and knees I began to crawl. No shot was fired until I reached an open space some two hundred yards wide, and in the woods was a line of works held by our skirmishers. On I went with all possible speed. How I wished for wings to fly! Zip! Zip! Zip! the bullets would pass—a thudding sound. I was certainly struck. I glanced down and saw my pants were red to my boot tops. I could feel the blood in my boots, but no time to make an examination. A solid blue line was yelling behind me. Completely faint and exhausted, I rolled over the works only to find my canteen shot through and my sorghum all wasted on my pants and in my boots.
Picture of one of an actual Confederate Breastwork from the Battle of New Hope Church:
