It is Awful, Indeed: A Hoosier Remembers Stones River

A month after the events of Stones River, Lieutenant David Franklin Embree of the 42nd Indiana remained haunted by the death of one of his comrades.

          In response to a question from his sister about how men feel in battle, Embree related this grisly tale. “The ball came obliquely from the left and front, passing several feet in front of me. It seemed that I could hear it singing almost from the time it left its bed in the Rebel’s gun. As it came swiftly I knew where it was going by the sound. Suddenly, I heard the same ball go crash against something and I knew by the sound that it had burst a human skull,” he wrote.

“I barely had time to look around to my right and then I saw Sergeant Chauncey Glassmith quivering and dying. This happened when we were not very hotly engaged and when our men were not firing else I could not have heard the singing of the bullet. Every one of us could not refrain from casting a glance at the dying man who lay there trembling in every limb with the blood spurting from his nostrils from the wound in his forehead. In the heat of action, such seems to not much affect one much but at a time like this it is awful, indeed.”

          Lieutenant Embree’s letter resides in the regimental files of the 42nd Indiana at Stones River National Battlefield.

 

Adolph Metzner's graphic depiction of dead Federal soldiers at Stones River touches upon the reality of combat experienced by Lieutenant Embree and the men of both armies at this hard-fought battle. 

Camp near Murfreesboro, Tennessee

February 3, 1863

Dear sister,

          Yours of the 16th ultimo came to hand after about two weeks traveling. It with one from Perry at the same time are the only letters I have got from home since the battle here. I have not seen Jim [his older brother Colonel James T. Embree, 38th Indiana] since Pa was here at that time we spent one day in the 38th Indiana. He was in our camp about a week ago but at that time I was out on a foraging expedition. We are camped northwest of town and their camp is rather east of two, we are perhaps nearly three miles apart. I intend to visit their camp in a day or two when it is not so cold as it is now.

          You ask me something about how one feels when in the hottest of battle. Well, I believe I can tell you. There is no man, however brave he may be, who does not when the storm begins to rage fiercest around him when he sees a friend on the right and another on the left stricken down and quivering in the agonies of death, when he sees the serried ranks of the enemy coming upon him undaunted and pouring their deadly fire towards him, making the air quiver and hiss with the rapid movement of all manner of projectiles from the keen sounds of the little bullet that merrily sings on its errand of destruction like the buzzing of a fly to the big bombshell that goes by you like a thunderbolt, overcoming all obstacles. I say there is no man who when the first wave of such a battle as this surges upon him does not involuntarily and mentally appeal to God for protection.

          But often the man soon begins to fire at his foe; this animates him and he will soon in the earnestness of his purpose seem to forget that there is danger. His heart throbs wildly, the lifeblood hurries like a race horse through his veins and every nerve is fully excited. The arm of the weak man becomes imbued with almost a giant’s strength. His brain is all alive; thought is quick and active and he is ten times more full of life than before.

Although his reason may assert to the simple statement that he might be killed in an instant, yet his feelings seem to give the lie to it. He seems so full of life that it is hard for him to realize that death is so near. And then again as the waves of battle roll on and as he finds that perhaps the foe are gaining on him, a feeling of despondency comes over him and he asks himself if the terrible waste of life he sees shall prove fruitless. He watches the time to see what he can hope for. If the foe are driving back his lines, he longs for night to close the combat. Like a great warrior, he exclaims, “Would to God that night or blackness would come!”


          It is terrible to hear the singing of a bullet and follow its course as it flies on its way and then to hear that keen whistle of the little piece of lead suddenly terminate in a dull crash as the ball leaps through the brain of some friend beside you. I noticed one case particularly like this. We were all kneeling in among some brush. The ball came obliquely from the left and front, passing several feet in front of me. It seemed that I could hear it singing almost from the time it left its bed in the Rebel’s gun. As it came swiftly I knew where it was going by the sound. Suddenly, I heard the same ball go crash against something and I knew by the sound that it had burst a human skull. I barely had time to look around to my right and then I saw Sergeant Chauncey Glassmith quivering and dying. This happened when we were not very hotly engaged and when our men were not firing else I could not have heard the singing of the bullet. Every one of us could not refrain from casting a glance at the dying man who lay there trembling in every limb with the blood spurting from his nostrils from the wound in his forehead. In the heat of action, such seems to not much affect one much but at a time like this it is awful, indeed.

          On the night of the 31st of December, I passed over a part of the field to visit the 38th Indiana. I could see by moonlight the poor dead men with their faces upturned and cold eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Then one could think of Sir John Moore’s burial, especially when the words came in “and we bitterly thought of the morrow” for on the “morrow” I expected to see a much more terrible battle fought. I have come to the conclusion that Shakespeare is right when he says, “there’s a destiny that shapes our ends rough, hew them how we may; and that destiny is deity that shields and protects or permits to be stricken down as His wisdom chooses.”

          Tell Louisa I will write to her shortly. Give my love to all.

Your brother,

D.F. Embree

Source:

Letter from First Lieutenant David Franklin Embree, Co. E, 42nd Indiana Volunteer Infantry, Stones River National Battlefield Regimental Files

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