The typos of the Thirteenth Illinois regiment of volunteers amused themselves at Camp Rolla, Mo., by printing a paper entitled “Our Regiment.” A correspondent thus made his shot:
HEADQUARTERS HEAVY MUD INFANTRY.
CAMP ROLLA, July 17, 1861.
To the Editor of Our Regiment:
Heavy? Yes, sir! Bound to shoot rebels. This is the report. Chicago boy, the undersigned. I’m always boasting of Chicago. I’m full of fight. Although fighting is not my forte, I do not think I would stand being knocked down. I joined this August body in April, and we May March daily, for we are getting stronger weekly. I may say in good season, if we Spring upon the enemy he is sure to Fall, for our Summer-saults will be a dose that will prove “the Winter of his discontent.” He will have to evacuate. We won’t strike light, for the South is no match for us. When the country called all hands to arms, I thought it a proud legacy to leave posterity that I joined a division for the Union. I set my name down, and there it stands. Nice uniform. Had my hair cut with a knife and fork. Red hair, yellow jacket, blue shirt, white hat, plantation shoes, pink trousers, bell buttons on behind, where I never saw them before. Left the city under encouraging circumstances. Toothache, nail in my shoe, forgot my rations, something in my eye. Chap in rear file rasping my skins. Got out of step and hurt my instep. While marching, washwoman handed me a bill. Had no money, and she had no sense–wanted to know where our quarters were. Asked her who gave the order to charge. Bad boy on sidewalk crying out, “Pay the poor woman.” Loaded the little sun-of-a-gun with abuse, and he went off. Arrived at Camp Rolla all right, nobody being left. Intentions to sleep in tents, but were intensely disappointed as we slept on the grass, which, after all, served as well to all intents and purposes. Placed minute-men on watch, who moved all hands every second, until we really thought it time to strike. Took my turn in going round. Shot a cow and calf. “‘Tis meet to be here.” Fighting, you see, for the public weal, places our lives at stake. Took the hindquarters into headquarters. Pork in various shapes for rations heretofore. Not Jew-dishes. Serg. Hinmann would like to have some mutton. Told me to stir up, get a horse and find a saddle. Serg. Hinmann’s drilling is a complete bore, and he thinks he augurs well on the whole. Marches us around in a body, until he almost wears out our soles. Makes our squad run so we will be fully able to sail in when we have the enemy at bay. Of course we have our fine times. Had some light reading sent me by a Sexton: “Annual Report of Rose-Hill,” “Ghost Stories,” and his business circular, with price list of coffins, &c. I should like to overtake that undertaker. Serg. Hinmann speaks disparagingly of our literary tastes. Says the only thing red in the camp is my nose–my nasal “organ.” I mention it because it’s a military move to right about face. Music by the band. I must come to a full stop now for a period. Flip flap.
Your, jolly and con-tent-ed,
G. N. L. Scotty.
Originally posted 2008-11-16 00:06:28.