On our march the day before there had been much discussion among the musicians as to what we would do in case of a battle. No instructions had been given us and we had rather come to the conclusion among ourselves that when we got to close quarters we would drop out and keep as much out of range as possible. Our anxiety about the part we were to take in the conflict increased as we approached the front. Occasionally some of the boys would suggest to Harry Marshall, our drum major, that it was about time for us to fall out. There was “no use of us going up to get shot at when we had nothing to shoot back with.” Finally when we paused for a few moments Harry approached the colonel and, saluting, asked if there was any use of us needlessly exposing ourselves. “Needless exposure,” yelled the colonel. “What in ---- did you enlist for? Your place is with the regiment and I’ll see that you are instructed as to your duties.” And, turning to our surgeon, he said: “Major, I want you to take charge of the musicians and in case of a fight see that the young rascals do their duty.” I have always thought that but for this incident we should have seen less of the front line than we did that summer. Dr. Payne, our surgeon, was a fine fellow and he had seen much service before being assigned to our regiment. He immediately told us to fall out to one side and proceeded to tear up some red flannel in small strips which he tied around our right arms, explaining that this was a badge the enemy would respect when we were caring for the wounded. While the doctor was fixing us up our regiment marched by and there is nothing in all my war memories that made a deeper impression on me than that scene. I see them now as I saw them on that bright May morning--father, friends, comrades, marching with steady step, shoulder to shoulder, on to meet the foe in mortal encounter. We followed in the rear of the regiment and were halted just under the brow of a hill, where we stood in line nearly two hours. Bullets clipped small branches from the trees and shells went swishing through the air over our heads. A couple burst in front of us and an occasional solid shot would go rolling down the hill. Probably there is no more trying situation for troops to be placed in than to be held as a reserve during a battle. The tension on one’s nerves is something awful. If one is going to be shot it is something of a satisfaction to be able to return the compliment. While the regiment was in line a few of us hunted up a spring and carried water to our friends who could not leave the ranks. One of the few times that I remember seeing tears in my father’s eyes was when I handed him a canteen full of water that morning.