"I aimed a bit left of his head".

Friday, March 6, 1863, Camp Gregg, Virginia

The weather is still quite damp and cold but it is not as bad as it has been. There are some signs of Spring making themselves evident. Our rations are improving, though slightly. Our non-commissioned officers are becoming a bit more diligent about drilling us. It will not be very long until the roads dry and we may leave our camps and thrash the Yankees for another year. Things are looking up.

Even so, for some of us, things were not improving in the right way. There have been several desertions from the regiment. Some of them received letters from loved ones at home attesting to the deplorable conditions on the farm.  Others were weary of the grand adventure of soldiering, finding out that it is not all strawberries and cream. Others were just tired or sick of death or something.

Around the campfire, we have talked about the subject of desertion. We all expressed understanding for the conditions that may cause a man to take French leave. At the same time, we all said that no matter what the reason for desertion, it is disgraceful to dishonor one's country and pards. It is far more important to stay in the ranks and fight for our freedom. Those who desert place all in danger of being conquered and the most extreme punishment must be visited to deserters...death.

Three days ago, our squad was summoned by Lieutenant Williamson. He explained that he needed men for a firing squad to execute a deserter. He was not in our unit and strangers were being called upon to participate lest the offender be shot by his friends. Now was our  chance to act upon our words of conviction. All of us blanched. Our words and our stomachs were hollow.

Lieutenant Williamson did not ask for volunteers. He said that we would all draw straws. The three shortest would be selected. As it turned out, it was Castles, Holton and myself. We were to report to an Acting Adjutant General at once, without our muskets. Corporal Flynn was to escort us. We had not yet had our breakfast nor did we want any.

Corporal Flynn reported us to a captain unknown to us. He was a little poppinjay, full of himself. The other five members of the squad looked just like us, dirty and roughshod, and wishing they were anywhere else. We learned that there were four who had deserted in a party. Two were shot and killed by a pursuing squad. Another was wounded and was in the hospital, not expected to live. That left just one to shoot.

He was so young. Certainly, he had never shaved for all he had was down on his cheeks. Why he deserted we did not know. We did not care to know; it would not have helped us. For this boy, the only help was in the words of a chaplain. To one side was a corporal, loading muskets. One, unknown to the firing party, would be loaded with a blank round. That way, each member of the party might think it possible that they inflicted no harm.

The boy, who had enlisted to fulfill the duty of a man, was calm. He did not quiver though it was cold. I did not observe him to say anything. He was blindfolded and had his hands tied. We were brought to attention. The poppinjay read the charges and the sentence of the court. Death by firing squad. Death by us.

We were ordered to the ready. We aimed. I aimed a bit left of his head. We fired on command and it was over. A medical officer pronounced him dead and a burial detail went to work. He died brave, more brave than we who killed him, no matter how necessary it was to do so. We went back to our own camp where Castles evacuated the contents of his stomach. 

That night, it was our turn to pull picket duty along the river. The following morning, early, we heard some firing from the other side and wondered.