Etowah Bridge, Saturday, Oct. 1. Company mess instituted this morning instead of platoon. Uncle Henderson, cook, two negro assistants. Drew soft bread for supper, which was duly appreciated after grinding hard-tack for fifteen days. Troops still going to the rear, while we are kept in blissful ignorance of all passing events by the non-arrival of Northern trains. I sometimes wish old Wheeler was dead, so I could get my mail. On guard.
An Artilleryman’s Diary–Jenkin Lloyd Jones
Previous post: A Diary From Dixie.
Next post: A Rebel War Clerk’s Diary.
