The Battle of Kennesaw Mountain

9:00 am June 27, 1864. Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia. 15 miles north of Atlanta.

It has been two months since we left Chattanooga, Tennessee with General William T. Sherman heading for Atlanta, Georgia and the heart of the Confederacy. We are the Rock River Rifles, Company I of the 34th Illinois Infantry, a hardy bunch of volunteer Union soldiers. We are strong, independent men from rural Illinois, raised on farms and hard manual labor. Men of our word, faithful to God and country, it was our privilege and honor to answer President Lincoln’s personal appeal to leave our homes and fight. He is ours, an Illinois man, and like him, we are deeply loyal to the preservation of the Union.

I am Private Mark Carr, enlisted in 1861 at 19 and re-enlisted in 1863. Born in Indianapolis but raised in rural Dixon, Illinois, I am a farmer and day laborer by trade, but I am an experienced veteran now and proud to say I have never taken a day off for sick leave or personal reasons. I have honored my commitment to President Lincoln and our fine country with all I have. Honor and commitment are especially important ideals to me. When a man makes a commitment, he should keep it. This is why I feel so strongly about this war. Our states made a commitment to form a union, a United States, and they should keep that commitment, work through their issues, not run from them like some coward. The southern secession seems like a great divorce to me, and I do not believe in divorce.

Though I have seen much in my three years in the Infantry, this Atlanta Campaign has been especially savage. For the past two months, 100,000 of us maneuvered and skirmished our way toward Atlanta in brutal summer heat and heavy rains that turned the roads into impassable quagmires. The heat in Georgia is different than any I have experienced before. It lays on you like a down comforter, pressing you into the earth, which is itself burning like an iron furnace. With the rain, the air is thick and sticky; sweat pools in every crevice and pours off your face. Our wool uniforms were not made for such conditions. Fresh water is in high demand and short supply. If the battles do not kill us, these weather conditions might.

Three weeks ago, in Dallas, Georgia, we lost my best friend in the Company, Private Jesse Berlin, to enemy fire. Dark haired with a quick wit that showed through in his blue eyes, he always had engaging stories to tell around our campfires, when we were allowed to have them. Private Berlin was the uplifting member of the Rock River Rifles, always reminding everyone to remember home and the good that was waiting for us after this brutal war is over. One of my favorite tales was about the waving wheat fields of Lee and Carroll Counties and how the wind sometimes made the grain stalks dance. I would close my eyes and remember those glowing golden ripples, each one planted by a free man. That beautiful vision to which I long to return deserves to be protected. This is why we fight. Private Berlin always had such a beautiful way of reminding us to cherish the memories we hold dear.

At Dallas, Georgia, we were engaged in fierce fighting out in the open with the rebels when I saw him fall, dark red blood gushing from a mortal wound to his abdomen. Surrounded by musket smoke and the cries of the wounded, I held him in my arms as he took his last breath, promising to tell his parents and his wife his last words. Of all of us, he deserved death the least. Covered in the crimson stains that were all that remained of my best friend, I cursed those southern traitors, and a black hatred grew in my heart. I wanted vengeance. Suddenly, the principles did not matter as much anymore.

As we pushed the Confederates back, they became entrenched around Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia. Fifteen miles north of Atlanta with the roads impassable due to the recent rains, the only way through was breaking the Confederate line at Kennesaw. All of us in the Rock River Rifles desperately wanted to avenge Private Berlin’s death, so we urged Captain Peter Walker to volunteer our Company for the assault. To our delight, we were assigned to Mitchell’s Brigade, part of the frontal assault on the Confederate lines to begin at 9 am on June 27, 1864. We would get our chance to kill some traitors and soothe some of the ache we all felt at Berlin’s loss.

The whole country around Kennesaw Mountain was one vast fort, connected trenches with abatis and finished batteries. The abatis is a particularly nasty field fortification consisting of an obstacle formed of the branches of trees laid in a row and interlaced or tied together with rope, with the sharpened tops directed outwards towards us. The purpose of the abatis is to keep the enemy soldier under fire for as long as possible. The Confederates were hunkered down behind these fortifications on the high ground. Over time, our lines inched nearer to the Confederate lines, and the fighting was incessant, with a good deal of artillery. In preparation for the final assault, General Sherman spread his troops eight miles wide into three main armies, one to attack the right flank, one to attack the middle, and one to attempt to outflank the Confederates on the left flank. Mitchell’s Brigade and the Rock River Rifles were part of the middle attack, proud to assault the Confederate lines head on. Our objective was a sharp protrusion in the rebel lines that might act as a sort of blind spot for the Confederates, allowing a close approach to the top of the earthworks without being seen. As for me, I was unconcerned with the strategy. I had nothing but death in my heart.

On the morning of June 27th, the sun rose clear and cloudless. The heavens seemed made of brass, and the earth of hot iron. As the sun began to mount towards the zenith, everything became quiet, and no sound was heard save a woodpecker on a neighboring tree. The land itself seemed to be waiting with bated breath for what was to come. At 8 am, our artillery opened a furious bombardment with over 200 guns on the Confederate entrenchments, and they responded in kind. The quiet exploded as Kennesaw Mountain smoked and blazed with fire, a volcano as grand as Etna.

At 9 am, we, along with McCook’s Brigade, advanced in column formation down a wooded slope to a meandering creek. This peaceful place belied the violence that was to come. Before us was a wheat field, not unlike home. There was no breeze this morning, however, and the grain did not dance. The lingering smoke of the artillery rounds wafted around the shafts like unnatural fog. We readied ourselves and plunged into the field, heading for a hill atop which perched the Confederate fortifications. Immediately, we met with a sheet of musket and canister fire, deadly hail from the cloudless sky. To my left and my right, soldiers fell, but still I ran, the wheat stalks whipping my body as I passed. To stop would mean death.

I and the others who survived the field breached the slope. A few yards from the very crest of the eight-foot-high Confederate earthworks, we halted, crouched, and began firing. Confederate counterfire was severe, and many more men fell, including many field officers. The fighting dissolved into hand-to-hand combat, with men using their muskets as clubs when ammunition ran out. To my left I heard Colonel McCook shout from the Confederate parapet, “Surrender, you traitors!” as he slashed wildly with his sword. He was killed shortly thereafter, gutted by a Confederate bayonet. Colonel Oscar Harmon took his place, but he was shot in the face with a musket.

For two and a half hours, men on both sides became animals, rabidly destroying one another with bayonets, beating one another to death with their muskets, and even using their bare hands when necessary. I myself killed more than I care to remember. They were not men to me, just the enemy, the killers of my friend, traitors to our country and our way of life. The blood of all the dead and wounded mingled and seeped into the ground in one sorrowful pool. As the sun rose and the temperature soared toward 100 degrees Fahrenheit, the dead bodies began to swell, and the stench of death surrounded us.

Around 10:45 am, unable to break the entrenched line, we fell back into the dead space slope right beneath the Confederate trenches and used whatever we could find, tin cups, pocketknives, and spoons, to frantically dig makeshift trenches to survive. The blazing summer heat and continuing artillery fire left us exposed. We were pinned down, unable to fully retreat or advance. I could hear the cries of the wounded we could not reach. They would probably die where they lay. We could not even properly bury our dead. Covered in sweat, blood, and dirt, I began to wonder if we were sent on a suicide mission. So many dead, and for what?

After a quick muster and count, we realized that Private John C. Davis from the Rock River Rifles was one of the injured. We found him a little way up the slope, lying between our trench and the top of the Confederate earthworks. In these conditions, he could die or get gangrene if he did not get help immediately. Someone needed to do something. Captain Walker and I devised a plan to rescue him. Corporal John Lowman and I would charge the earthworks with a few other men to draw fire to give Captain Walker cover to bring Private Davis back to our trench.

I conferred briefly with Corporal Lowman about the plan. We would charge the protrusion where the guns were and try to draw their fire as long as possible. I said a quick prayer and readied myself. My knuckles were bruised from beating one man to death, and I had a few scratches from a grappling session with another, nothing I could not manage. Private Davis was a married man and a father. I was not. I was ready for whatever may come.

I reloaded my musket and nodded at Corporal Lowman. Together we rushed to the Confederate line. I screamed loudly and gutturally. Had I fully become an animal? I felt bloodlust like I have never known. I began firing like a madman at every man in a grey uniform that I saw. The air was thick with acrid black powder smoke. A young man charged me suddenly from the right, and I stabbed him with my bayonet before even thinking. He was young, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes. As my blade sank into his stomach, I was struck by how much he looked like Private Berlin, save for the grey uniform. Stunned, I pulled my weapon back, and he slid off the bayonet, lifeless, onto the forest floor.

What had I done? Whose child was this? Whose husband? Whose friend? Did he have a wheat field that he described to his Company? His blood was the same color crimson as Private Berlin’s. It now stained my uniform too.

As I contemplated what just happened, I felt a sharp pain in my side. I reached down and realized that not all the blood was this Confederate soldier’s. Some of it was mine. I signaled to Corporal Lowman that I was shot and staggered back down towards our trench and safety. I noticed that they successfully recovered Private Davis, and I sighed with relief.

Each step was a struggle. The heat, the stench, the blood loss, the earth began to spin. I fell to my knees at the base of the Confederate assault trenches. I struggled to stand again but could not. I heard the whistle of an incoming artillery shell, and I tried to duck but fell face first on the ground. The earth exploded around me, and most of my body was covered in earth. I had no strength left to remove it. The soil blanketing me was cool, and I decided to sleep and dream of wheat fields. I saw the golden stalks dancing in the cool Illinois breeze. I saw Private Berlin and the young Confederate soldier I killed. They could be brothers. They welcomed me to a place with no stench of death, no gun smoke, and no bloodlust. The cries of the wounded and the whistle of artillery faded; all that was left was the gentle sound of the wind and the rustle of the wheat. It sounded like home.

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General Sherman’s troops had a breakthrough on the left flank of the Confederate army, outflanking the Confederates and putting the Union within five miles of the Chattahoochee River, ultimately leading to the fall of Atlanta. Private Carr’s sacrifice made the breakthrough possible, as the Confederates were focused on the main frontal attack, allowing several of the flank units to proceed unopposed. The protrusion in the Confederate line attacked by Mitchell’s Brigade and the Rock River Rifles became known as the Dead Angle. The Rock River Rifles suffered five dead and forty wounded in the battle. A temporary truce was called on June 28th, 1864, to allow both sides to bury their dead. Most bodies were moved from the battlefield to other cemeteries, but Private Mark Carr’s body was overlooked due to its proximity to the Confederate lines and, it is believed, a whole or partial covering caused by artillery blast. His remains were discovered in 1938 when the battlefield became a park, and trail work along the trench line uncovered him. He is now interred in the park as the Unknown US Soldier, a visual reminder that the park, now a place for dog walkers and joggers, once bore witness to the worst that humankind has to offer. The lovely hills and wildflower filled fields where many now picnic or take photographs once ran with the mingled blood of Americans who chose to kill one another as a means of resolving their differences.