Diary of Corporal Lawrence Van Alstyne, September 17, 1862

Two letters to-day, and two papers, all from home. Seems as if I had been there for a visit. I wonder if my letters give them as much pleasure? I expect they do. It is natural they should. I know pretty nearly what they are about, but of me, they only know what I write in my letters, and in this, my everlasting letter, as I have come to call my diary. It is getting to be real company for me. It is my one real confident. I sometimes think it is a waste of time and paper, and then I think how glad I would be to get just such nonsense from my friends, if our places were changed. I suppose they study out these crow's tracks with more real interest than they would a message from President Lincoln. We are looking for a wet bed again to-night. It does not rain, but a thick fog covers everything and the wind blows it in one side of our tents and out the other.

Maybe I have described our life here before, but as no one description can do it justice I am going to try again. We are in a field of 100 acres, as near as I can judge, on the side of a hill, near the top. The ground is newly seeded and wets up quickly, as such ground usually does. We sleep in pairs, and a blanket spread on the ground is our bed while another spread over us is our covering. A narrow strip of muslin, drawn over a pole about three feet from the ground, open at both ends, the wind and rain, if it does rain, beating in upon us, and water running under and about us; this, with all manner of bugs and creeping things crawling over us, and all the while great hungry mosquitoes biting every uncovered inch of us, is not an overdrawn picture of that part of a soldier's life, set apart for the rest and repose necessary to enable him to endure several hours of right down hard work at drill, in a hot sun with heavy woollen clothes on, every button of which must be tight-buttoned, and by the time the officers are tired watching us, we come back to camp wet through with perspiration and too tired to make another move. Before morning our wet clothes chill us to the marrow of our bones, and why we live, and apparently thrive under it, is something I cannot understand. But we do, and the next day are ready for more of it. Very few even take cold. It is a part of the contract, and while we grumble and growl among ourselves we don't really mean it, for we are learning what we will be glad to know at some future time.

Now I am about it, and nothing better to do, I will say something about our kitchen, dining room and cooking arrangements. Some get mad and cuss the cooks, and the whole war department, but that is usually when our stomachs are full. When we are hungry we swallow anything that comes and are thankful for it. The cook house is simply a portion of the field we are in. A couple of crotches hold up a pole on which the camp kettles are hung, and under which a fire is built. Each company has one, and as far as I know they are all alike. The camp kettles are large sheet-iron pails, one larger than the other so one can be put inside the other when moving. If we have meat and potatoes, meat is put in one, and potatoes in the other. The one that gets cooked first is emptied into mess pans, which are large sheet-iron pans with flaring sides, so one can be packed in another. Then the coffee is put in the empty kettle and boiled. The bread is cut into thick slices, and the breakfast call sounds. We grab our plates and cups, and wait for no second invitation. We each get a piece of meat and a potato, a chunk of bread and a cup of coffee with a spoonful of brown sugar in it. Milk and butter we buy, or go without. We settle down, generally in groups, and the meal is soon over. Then we wash our dishes, and put them back in our haversacks. We make quick work of washing dishes. We save a piece of bread for the last, with which we wipe up everything, and then eat the dish rag. Dinner and breakfast are alike, only sometimes the meat and potatoes are cut up and cooked together, which makes a really delicious stew. Supper is the same, minus the meat and potatoes. The cooks are men detailed from the ranks for that purpose. Every one smokes or chews tobacco here, so we find no fault because the cooks do both. Boxes or barrels are used as kitchen tables, and are used for seats between meals. The meat and bread are cut on them, and if a scrap is left on the table the flies go right at it and we have so many the less to crawl over us. They are never washed, but are sometimes scraped off and made to look real clean. I never yet saw the cooks wash their hands, but presume they do when they go to the brook for water.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 28-31

Diary of Corporal Lawrence Van Alstyne, September 29, 1862

CAMP MILLINGTON, BALTIMORE. On account of the heat we were not taken out for drill to-day. We have cleaned up our quarters, for since getting our new and comfortable tents we are quite particular about appearances. There is a friendly rivalry as to which of the ten companies shall have the neatest quarters. All being exactly alike to start with, it depends upon us to keep them neat and shipshape. The cooks have tents as well as we, and altogether we are quite another sort from what we were a week ago. It has been a regular clean up day with us. The brook below us has carried off dirt enough from our clothing and bodies to make a garden. While we were there close beside the railroad, a train loaded with soldiers halted, and while we were joking with the men, someone fired a pistol from another passing train, and a sergeant on the standing train was killed—whether it was by accident or purposely done, no one knows; or whether the guilty one will be found out and punished, no one of us can tell. But I wonder so few accidents do happen. There are hundreds of revolvers in camp and many of them in the hands of those who know no better how to use them than a child.

SOURCE:  Lawrence Van Alstyne, Diary of an Enlisted Man, p. 40-1

Diary of Dr. Alfred L. Castleman, August 23, 1861

Colonel ——— to-day complains that I have too much force employed in the hospital, and says that he will cut it down. The regulations allow ten nurses and two cooks to the regiment, besides Surgeons, and Hospital Steward. All I have, are three nurses and two cooks. Will he dare to cut that down? Should he do so I will "try conclusions" as to his authority to do it. Three nurses, for one hundred sick, and that must be cut down! Nor is this all. The Quartermaster, taking his cue from the Colonel, refuses to acknowledge our right to a hospital fund, and I therefore get but few comforts for the sick, except through charity or a fight for it. It is to be hoped that these officers will, by a little more experience, become better posted in their duties, and that the sick will not then be considered interlopers, or intruders on the comforts of the regiment. I forgot to say, in the proper place, that we are brigaded, forming a part of Gen. Rufus King's brigade, composed of four regiments.

I have not yet donned the full uniform of my rank, and there is scarcely a day passes that I do not get a reproving hint on the subject from our Colonel. A few days ago, whilst in Baltimore, he came to me almost railing at certain army officers for appearing in citizens' dress. "There," said he, "is Major B., Major K., Gen. D., Doct. N. P., all of the regular army, and not one of whom can be distinguished from a private citizen." "Colonel," I replied, "they probably fear being mistaken for volunteer officers. He did not feel flattered, but dropped the subject. Since I came here, I think I can tell a man's calibre by his shoulder-straps. The amount of brain is generally in inverse proportion to the size of his straps.

SOURCE: Alfred L. Castleman, The Army of the Potomac. Behind the Scenes. A Diary of Unwritten History; From the Organization of the Army, by General George B. McClellan, to the close of the Campaign in Virginia about the First Day January, 1863, p. 18

Diary of Private John J. Wyeth, October 29, 1862

Those of us who are on guard to-day are having a “soft time.” We have our orders to start at three to-morrow morning. The boys are busy packing, receiving cartridges, &c.; the cooks are hard at work in their department, and the surgeon is hunting for men to guard camp. We were afraid the guard were to be left, but the captain says he won't forget us. The knapsacks are to be stored in the officers' tents, and we are ordered to get all the sleep we can from now till four to-morrow, perhaps the last nap under cover for weeks.

SOURCE: John Jasper Wyeth, Leaves from a Diary Written While Serving in Co. E, 44 Mass. Dep’t of North Carolina from September 1862 to June 1863, p. 16

Captain William Thompson Lusk to Elizabeth Adams Lusk, January 5, 1863

Camp Near Falmouth, Va.

Jan. 5th, 1863.

My dear Mother:

My letters seem very long in reaching you. The one I sent the day before Christmas, containing a little money which I hoped would contribute to the children's happiness on New Year, had not come to hand on the 31st, yet I had hoped it might precede the rather dolorous document written only the evening before, but which, of course, wouldn't be overtaken. To tell the truth, I was not a little ashamed at having been so querulous. I do not like the habit of complaining, and do not mean often to indulge in it, but the best of our guardian angels cannot always resist the attacks of those emissaries of Satan — the cooks.

Col. Farnsworth, it is said, will soon rejoin his Regiment. It is still a matter of doubt though, whether his physical health will permit him to remain long. Besides the natural effects of his wound, he is much paralyzed I understand, from severe neuralgia. Be this as it may, I am very sorry for him, and shall welcome him back with pleasure. Farnsworth, McDonald and myself enjoy about an equal degree of popularity in the Regiment. Since writing the last sentence my opinion has been somewhat modified by the arrival of the mail. Farnsworth sends a certificate of disability looking for a further extension of his “leave of absence.” This is indefensible. The law allows disabled officers two months to recover. F. has had four months already, and looks for a further postponement of his return. I have also received your letter bearing date Jan. 2d, and see how much harm I did by indulging in a little fit of spleen. I do not see the slightest hope or prospect of either a short leave of absence, or of promotion, neither of which little matters do I intend shall disturb my equanimity in the slightest degree. To be sure my associations are not always agreeable, but when I entered the service had I any reason to hope they would be? I certainly enjoy more favor than any line officer in the 1st Division. This ought to suffice. Again I am losing years that ought to be spent in fitting me for my profession. Well, what of that? Shall I at this late hour begin to count the cost of doing my duty? No mother, we both know that this matter must be pushed through to the end. I am not of so much value as to complain of having to bear my part. To hear me talk, one would suppose I was the only one who fancies himself unjustly used. Bah! The army is filled with them. Possibly twenty years hence I shall be grumbling because my professional skill is not properly appreciated. It is hard for disappointed men to believe the fault lies in themselves. Yet such things do happen. I shall be obliged to postpone my Christmas remembrances to you until the paymaster (invisible now for six months) shall visit us.

Very affectionately,

Will.

SOURCE: William Chittenden Lusk, Editor, War Letters of William Thompson Lusk, p. 266-7

Diary of 4th Sergeant John S. Morgan: Wednesday, April 22, 1863

Too wet for drill during day. sent $40.00 home by Robinson. Parade at 5. P. M. drill at 6 P. M. Cooks had to go out

SOURCE: “Diary of John S. Morgan, Company G, 33rd Iowa Infantry,” Annals of Iowa, 3rd Series, Vol. 13, No. 7, January 1923, p. 488