Some of My War Stories A Paper Read before the Ohio Commandery of the Loyal legion — Inside the Classic

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Foote, Allen Ripley, 1842-1921 Project Gutenberg 2010 Not confirmed
United States -- History -- Civil War, 1861-1865 -- Personal narratives Readers of public-domain and historical texts
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Words 7,315
Reading time 32 min
Text sections 1

The catalog record for Some of My War Stories A Paper Read before the Ohio Commandery of the Loyal legion — Inside the Classic provides practical reading context through 7,315 words, 32 min estimated reading time, and 1 detected text section.

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A 1913 address by a Michigan veteran recounting his enlistment, first battle, and wounding, with a reflective closing on the enduring value of wartime memories.
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Hancock was prepared to make his famous charge on the Confederate left, Gen. Kearny, mounted on a white horse and dressed in full uniform, as conspicuous a figure as can well be imagined, came dashing up to the Michigan Second regiment and called out--"What regiment is this?" Col. Poe, a regular army officer, immediately saluted the General and said--"The Michigan Second Infantry, Col. Poe commanding." General Kearny said--"I want this regiment." Col. Poe turned to give the required regulation orders, but Gen. Kearny stopped him saying--"None of that! Come on boys!" A captain of his staff, seeing what he was about to do, tried to stop him, saying--"General you should not go into the engagement in this way. Remember, your life is worth a whole regiment to the army." Turning to him like a flash, Gen. Kearny said--"If you do not want to go, stay here." At that he reined his horse into the road and started toward the Confederate lines, waving his sword and shouting back--"Come on boys!" and every man followed, on both sides of the road, pell mell, without order, wading through mud and climbing through slashings up to the rifle pits in order to get there. How I came to be there I do not know, but I do know that I went up that road with my right shoulder next to Gen. Kearny's left stirrup and kept that position until he reached the further edge of the slashing, when he turned and, pointing to the Confederates in their rifle pits, shouted to the men coming after him--"There they are!! Give them hell, boys, give them hell!!"

At this moment, as if by inspiration, a band burst forth with the tune, "All hail, the conquering hero comes." Above the roar of musketry and cannonading came the cheers from the charge Hancock was making. The New Jersey boys again manned their battery and began to play on the rifle pits and on Fort Magruder. The Fort answered and every Confederate rifle in the pits was speaking to us. No one who lived through those moments of strife and sacrifice will ever forget the scenes, the exaltation and the devotion of life to patriotic duty that was there manifested.

Our men struggled through the slashings as best they could, in groups of two or more. A New Jersey boy was with me. We stopped behind a clump of small bushes to watch our chances with the Confederates in the rifle pits less than two hundred feet in front of us. There was a larger group to our left that attracted the attention of the Confederates. Shots were being exchanged as rapidly as heads appeared on either side. Suddenly, out from the group to our left, came a ringing laugh, as joyous and care-free as was ever heard at a base ball game. My comrade was possessed with a desire to know its cause. Shortly that laugh came again. He declared he would go and find out why they were laughing. I told him if he stirred he would be shot, but he made the attempt. As soon as he raised himself, before he had taken a step, he was shot and instantly killed. Attention having been thus called to the spot, a confederate volley was fired into that clump of bushes. I saved myself by lying down behind the body of my dead comrade.

As the sun was dropping below the western horizon the Confederate rifle pits were captured. Hancock's charge had succeeded. Fort Magruder fired its farewell shot; the Confederate rear guard was on its way to Richmond. The battle of Williamsburg was ended.

The next day, one of a group of Confederate prisoners declared there was one thing about that battle he could not understand. He said he was a sharp shooter; that he could hit a mark quite a distance away every time, and offered to prove it by actual demonstration. The thing he could not understand was--why he could not hit General Kearny the day before. He said he saw him plainly; knew he was a commanding officer, and that he deliberately shot at him six times. General Kearny was not touched, but the Captain who tried to persuade him not to expose himself as he did was shot through the heart and instantly killed by the side of the General.

Allen Ripley Foote, a private in the 3rd Michigan Infantry and later a second lieutenant in the 21st Michigan, delivered this paper to the Ohio Commandery of the Loyal Legion in 1913. The text opens with his enlistment as a nineteen-year-old, noting that Dr. D. W. Bliss—who later attended Presidents Lincoln and Garfield—gave him his physical exam and told him to “raise your heels, you are a little short.” The narrative moves quickly to the first battle of Bull Run, where Foote describes seeing a Confederate officer ride out from the bushes and the colonel forbidding the men to shoot. These early passages establish a direct, anecdotal voice grounded in specific, verifiable details.

Enlistment and First Impressions

Foote’s account of joining up is precise: he was at the recruiting office door “long before it opened.” The regiment was initially to serve three months, but before mustering, the call changed to three years. They wore grey uniforms and carried old muzzle-loading Harper’s Ferry muskets converted from flintlocks. On the train through Ohio, women threw bouquets with pinned notes; Foote caught one reading “The women of Ohio are for the Union—to a man.” This small, preserved detail typifies the memoir’s reliance on specific, personal moments rather than broad historical claims.

First Contact with the Enemy

The march toward Bull Run included a telling sight: campfires where Confederates had cooked breakfast that morning. At Blackburn’s Ford, the regiment deployed in an open field. Foote notes that “every man in the regiment” saw the mounted Confederate officer emerge from the bushes. When several soldiers raised their guns, the colonel intervened. The excerpt breaks off before the battle’s outcome, leaving the reader with only the tense moment before action. This fragmentary quality is a limitation of the available text, but it faithfully captures the memoir’s focus on immediate, sensory experience.

Memory as Reward

The closing pages shift from narrative to reflection. Foote argues that the true reward of service is not material but the memory of duty done. He poses a series of rhetorical questions: “Can the picture ever fade?” of leaving home, of “the silent cheer from his speechless father, mother, sister or lover.” He describes the “magnetic touch of elbow to elbow” in battle and the moment of return, when a soldier is “snatched from the ranks” by a family member. The language becomes elevated and emotional, contrasting with the earlier plain style. This section reveals the memoir’s dual purpose: to record specific events and to assert the lasting value of those experiences.

Foote’s paper is best read as a veteran’s testimony rather than a comprehensive history. The catalog subject “Personal narratives” accurately describes its form, but the excerpts show a work that is as much about the act of remembering as about the war itself. Readers should note that the text is incomplete—the battle narrative breaks off—and that the reflective final pages may not represent the whole. The memoir’s value lies in its concrete details: the grey uniforms, the bouquet note, the colonel’s order. These small facts anchor the larger claims about memory and duty.

Some veterans keep their wounds close, as that Michigan man did in 1913, valuing the ache as proof of duty done. I find the same quiet solemnity in The Campaign of the Forty-fifth Regiment, Massachusetts Volunteer Militia "The Cadet Regiment" — Text and Context, where young men’s memories linger like dust motes in a musty archive, tender and unspoken.

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