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The Regimental Dispatch
The Official Newsletter of the Southern Piedmont Historical Reenactment Society
pages 6-8
Volume II, Issue II 7
"A Most Bloody Day, March 20, 1865"
(The Battle of Bentonville)
An eyewitness account by Brevetted Cpl. Nick G. Giannaras of the 49th NCT (representing the 63rd VA)
It was a glorious morning, too perfect in fact to be tarnished by the sounds of battle. Bivouacked in the woods around Bentonville, NC, our boys were up early cooking their meager rations of bacon, hardtack, and perhaps a piece of fruit. Some of the men found use of a local chicken farm, so we enjoyed a mess of eggs with our vittles under a pink hued dawn. The morning chill was more than expected, but it quickly dissipated under the warmth from a tin of steaming coffee.
After roll call, our usual inspections, and tending to our equipment, we trudged through a tedious amount of drill, of which our Colonel Morrow was quite dissatisfied. Apparently, the effects of some spirits and little sleep resulted in rusty maneuvers. We thought at one point he was going to leave the field and return with a cannon in tow to pepper our ranks if we didn't shape up. Just that thought was enough to sharpen every-one's step with the same pep that had carried us through the last three years of service.
Just when we settled down during our afternoon rest, scurrying couriers and blaring trumpets sounded the call to fall in. The federals were moving upon our positions and in force. The boys knew it was our last chance to put this war in our favor. There was no pep talk needed, no emotional words expressed; three tattered years of this war had already instilled those talks and goals in us. Just give us the musket and point the way.
 Our brigade formed into battalions and trudged along dusty trails through thick woods choked with vines, roots, and dense underbrush. We, the 63rd VA, were following our brothers from the 58th NC as well as veteran troops from the Palmetto Battalion. Our small brigade, whittled down to less than half strength from our bloody losses, was as formidable as any on the field of battle and has never shirked their duty. Unfortunately, the lack of new recruits prevented us from increasing our battalion's numbers. Some of the men in our lines still carried wounds as they kept the step, fighting for their flag and their states. This day was no different from any other.
Captain Jerry Hopping has been hobbling on a bad knee since taking shrapnel in Cedar Creek. He was able to keep his leg, but instead of going home and enjoying his family once again, he was leading us as he has done for the past several years. Besides, with that Walker strapped on his side, nobody dared to tell him other-wise.
Our weakened company was a shadowed remnant of what it used to be, but it was filled with seasoned veterans that have seen more than anyone would dare dream of experiencing in battle. Names like Hodge, Morgan, Rhinehardt, Meeks, Cachia, Paris, Deal, Lamberth, and Hayes were still left to carry on the fight under Capt. Hopping. One of our grizzled veterans, Sgt. Hazen, who refused to go home after taking a bullet be-low the knee several months back, took on cooking duties just to keep up with the boys. It was a good thing the miniè ball didn't take his leg off as it did with some.
Winding our way through the trails under a cool breeze, the sounds of distant musket fire rattled the air followed by the unmistakable rumble of artillery. They were close; closer than we thought. To our front we could see our batteries thundering into position while lines of gray and butternut formed from column, to company into line, then to our battlefronts to face the blue clad Yanks that awaited us.
Unfortunately for us, the darn ground was so soft that the blue bellies had time to dig some minor entrenchments to their advantage. And as we feared, we had no choice but to hit them in the open.
With boys from Georgia, Virginia, Florida, South Carolina, and our old Tar Heel state, they formed up in long lines and hotly engaged the entrenched enemy when they stepped out of the woods. The stripped cotton field, now nothing more than stubble and dirt, gathered the dying and wounded as miniè ball and solid shot riddled the air and ground with iron and lead. Although I've been through many an engagement, the sight of bloody and mangled men still sent shivers through me.
Orders were given for us to move around the right flank to strike the Yankee's left flank that was anchored to a patch of wood. Quickly our three battalions formed with the Palmetto boys to our left, the 58th NC to our front, and the 63rd twenty paces to the rear. As we moved forward at the steady step, I could not help but hear the familiar dreadful hiss of bullets whizzing by, some closer than I would like. And as expected, our path was disrupted with the dead and wounded already falling from the ranks to our front.
As the two forward battalions shifted to a left oblique, it allowed us to oblique right and move on line with them. Our boys couldn't wait to fire into the waiting Yanks. With three years behind me, my palms still dampened with fear. When our two battalions fired their first volleys, the blue clad line erupted like a hornet's nest. A most deadly and accurate fire was poured into our southern men, a galling fire that cut holes in the lines and stained the brown and gray dirt red. The Hardee blue flag of the 63rd waved gallantly in the breeze under Col. Morrow's lead. Our first shots were true as a fair number of Union soldiers felt our pent up wrath.
After peppering the enemy only forty yards away, my heart sank as another blue line suddenly appeared through the gathering smoke behind the trenches. Before we could fire another round, the westerners with their black hats, leveled into our faces and fired without mercy. Robbie Meeks gave a smirk, signifying the intensity of the fight. They fired a second volley. Robbie and two others fell including young Joseph Hayes, only sixteen years old.
I knew that we had to push or be destroyed piecemeal. My heart skipped a beat as Col. Morrow waved his sword for us to advance. Before we moved ten feet, the woods to our right exploded with gunfire from dis-mounted Union cavalry. The combination of enfilade fire and close range musketry to our front caught our boys in a bloody vise. Two balls hit me simultaneously, one in the right thigh and one just under my left collar-bone. Searing pain riddled my body as I fell in a heap; my eyes squeezed shut in agony. My pained breathing was not bloody or frothy; they missed my lung.
My crippled body soaked the Carolina soil. Over-head, I heard the sickening thud of a bullet smack into my file partner, Pvt. Adam Lamberth. He gasped before I felt him fall behind me. His father, Ron Lamberth, was already lying motionless on the ground next to me.
Daring to lift my head, I had to see how the unit fared. For twenty yards to the rear, the 63rd littered the field with a carpet of men. I could have walked that ground and not touched a grain of sand. In my heart, I felt that the existence of the 63rd ceased to exist. Through the haze of smoke and the sting of sweat in my eyes, I saw Capt. Hopping and Cpl. Deal prowling about the field . . . lost, disheartened. The captain grabbed Cpl. Deal, who was transfixed on killing every blue coat in the trenches, and yelled at him that, "We were finished." Capt. Hopping was still clutching Deal's shoulder when musket fire felled the two brave men.
Dizziness and a sharp thirst racked my body. I struggled to gulp the little water that I had while keeping my head down from the balls that whizzed about. The sky kept its pleasant azure tint and the sun shone warm on the wounded below. I tried to rest, but I couldn't escape the smell of gunpowder, the stench of unwashed bodies, and the moans of the wounded and dying as the light faded to black around me.
It was only by the grace and mercy of God Almighty that I found myself tended to at a field hospital the next day. The war was over for me. Unfortunately, the scars I endured ran deeper than just flesh.
THE REGIMENTAL DISPATCH
Pvts. Steven and Tony Hancock
Editors
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