A Cloud of Dust, Smoke, Timber, and Men

Surgeon Elihu Toland of the 18th South Carolina was visiting his regiment in the lines at Petersburg, Virginia on the morning of July 30, 1864, when the Army of the Potomac detonated their massive mine loaded with 8,000 pounds of black powder below the lines held by his fellow South Carolinians.

          “Simultaneous with the deep, dead sound, and the quiver of earth, there arose in the air a cloud of dust, smoke, timbers, men, muskets, and all manner of shapes and fragments that flew in every direction,” Surgeon Toland later wrote. “Then for a moment a stillness. Then it seemed as if every cannon on the whole Federal line was turned loose upon us.  Shells shrieked through the air as musket balls and fragments of shells flew in every direction, plowing up the earth and cutting off limbs from the few trees that the relentless hand of war had spared. Then came the charge.”

          Dr. Toland’s account of the Battle of the Crater appeared in 1884’s Rifle Shots and Bugle Notes, a compendium of soldiers’ stories published by the Grand Army Publishing Company.

 

The mine dug by the 48th Pennsylvania carved a huge hole in the Confederate lines at Petersburg, killing over 300 Confederate soldiers in the process. The succeeding Federal attack failed with the U.S. Colored Troops suffering worst of all. General U.S. Grant later labeled the attack "the saddest affair I have witnessed in this war." Dr. Toland spent the aftermath of the battle caring for the wounded of his regiment which lost 163 men, most of them killed or buried alive. 

          When Grant sprang the mine or “blow up” as many call it in front of Petersburg, Virginia at twilight on the morning of July 30th, 1864, the point immediately over it was occupied by the 22nd South Carolina under Colonel Fleming. On the left of the battery, the ditches were occupied by the 18th South Carolina, Colonel W.H. Wallace of which regiment I was surgeon. All along our lines our soldiers had dug out small bombproofs as they called them. These bombproofs were generally about four feet broad, three feet high, and seven feet long, large enough for two or three men to crawl into and sleep with comparative comfort and safety which they did when off duty.

          I was within 180 yards of the men on my morning visit to the regiment and it was just at that time of day (twilight) that even trees can look like ghosts and this added to the weird scene of death. Simultaneous with the deep, dead sound, and the quiver of earth, there arose in the air a cloud of dust, smoke, timbers, men, muskets, and all manner of shapes and fragments that flew in every direction. Then for a moment a stillness. Then it seemed as if every cannon on the whole Federal line was turned loose upon us.

          Shells shrieked through the air as musket balls and fragments of shells flew in every direction, plowing up the earth and cutting off limbs from the few trees that the relentless hand of war had spared. Then came the charge. Negro troops in front, with splendidly caparisoned troops of the Federal army behind, driving them as it were to the front like sheep to the slaughter with the battle cry of “Remember Fort Pillow.”

          High above all the confusion, smoke, dust, and groans of the wounded could be heard the battle cry of the Federals and the words of encouragement of the few officers that were left of the 18th and 22nd South Carolina regiments, and those of the brave Virginians whose battery was buried in a common grave with nearly every soldier who manned it. But the Confederate lines were broken in twain. Federals made breastworks of the boulders that were blown up by the explosion. But they were not to stay there. Soon came General Mahone with reinforcements and after one of the most gallant fights of the war, he carried the works and the crater turned into a grave for its captors. I had heard of pools of blood but it was there that I saw them. Then silence reigned, that painful silence which always follows on the battlefield after death has held high carnival.

          Then came the sad duty of counting up the cost. My brigade suffered severely: the 22nd South Carolina lost its gallant Colonel Fleming and many a brave soldier. My regiment lost 163 men. Two whole companies, A and C, had not a man left who was on duty to tell the tale. Of our lost, 101 of them including Captains McCormick and Birdgis were dead, buried in the crater or scattered along the works along with 62 missing.

          Among our missing were Lieutenant Willard Hill of Co. E and Sergeant Greer of Co. A. In one of the bombproofs on the extreme right on the 18th South Carolina and just to the left of the mine, the two men, having been relieved from duty an hour before, were sleeping. The first they realized of it was the shock, then a deep darkness and then a consciousness that the mine had been sprung and that they had been buried, how deep they could not imagine. Their first impulse was a deep, indescribable despair, heart-sickening, heart-rending hopelessness that left them almost powerless for a time.

Two South Carolinians found themselves buried alive when the mine detonated and buried their bombproof in dirt. But the duo eventually dug their way to safety using only a bayonet.

          But what could they do? They had nothing to dig out with but a bayonet that Sergeant Greer had in his belt, and there was but a canteen of water in the cell. But what was going on above them? Grant had consummated one of the most diabolical of all the deeds of a terrible war. Greer began digging with his bayonet while Hill passed back the dirt with all the desperation of despair. They could not hear the battle that was raging above them and often hope would spring up in their hearts only to give way to despair.

          Hill has often told me how, when he awoke to a consciousness of his condition, the thoughts flashed through his brain like lightning: if he could only see one ray of light or breathe the fresh air once again; if he could only let his wife know how and where he died, that death would be a relief to him. Almost suffocated for want of fresh air, they worked on until at last the light burst upon them. Both men, overcome with the suddenness of transition from suffocation and despair to light and hope, fainted.

          When they awoke from their swoon, the first sound that broke on their ears was the clash of arms, the quick rolling roar of the battle as it raged around and above. Almost in a stupor, trying to realize that they could again see the light of heaven and hear the voice of a living creature, they lay still until they recovered their minds enough to know what was going on. Hill has often told me that when he knew and realized it was a battle, the sound was the sweetest music that had ever greeted his ears.

          They were brought back to me at the field hospital more dead than alive for, strange as it may seem, they were most sadly changed men that I ever beheld. Both were fine-looking soldiers before; now they were weak with sunken cheeks and eyes. Lieutenant Hill, whose hair 24 hours before was black was now almost as white as snow. Whether it turned from the horror at his condition or the deathly heat of his subterranean bed or both, I do not pretend to say.

 

Source:

“The Crater,” Surgeon ElihuToland, 18th South Carolina Infantry. Joel, Joseph A., and Lewis R. Stegman. Rifle Shots and Bugle Notes, or the National Military Album. New York: Grand Army Gazette Publishing Co., 1884, pgs. 238-240

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