The hundred days service was hard, but it had a humorous side. Many were the pranks played by the boys. Many pleasant hours we spent together, and our experiences are told and laughed over today. At Fort No. 1 we had our own string band, and every evening we had dancing or singing led by Captain Peabody or Lieutenant McKee, some played cards, others went down into the city taking in the markets, theatres, etc. At one time down town a gentleman asked some of us, “Boys, what regiment do you belong to?” We answered, “The 149th Ohio.” He mused awhile and said, “One hundred and forty nine, that means a hundred and forty nine thousand, my goodness boys do men grow on trees in Ohio?”

When we left Baltimore our hardships began, the first day’s march nearly used us up, starting from Washington at noon, we crossed the Potomac at Edwards Ferry at 5 o’clock, our feet were blistered as we hobbled along, the first night we sank to rest, a tired, discouraged body of men. Our accoutrements were heavy, our guns a burden, but a canteen filled with water seemed heaviest of all, the string over the shoulder felt like it would cut clear through. Our appearance after two or three marches would have made Rip Van Winkle on awakening look like a dude in comparison.

We were ragged, tattered and torn, our shoes worn out, and the sacred soil of old Virginia was ground into our system, from the dust that we continually lived in. We thought the turnpikes of the Shenandoah valley were the hardest in the world. But they were not too hard to sleep on, when the weary soldier dropped in his tracks, the moment a halt was made. I have seen the men marching sound asleep only awakened when their heads came in contact with the tail board of the wagon in front.

This was the common experience of all soldiers and we did not complain, we often said we would rather meet the enemy than to endure the fatigue of the march.

The events I have tried to describe happened forty-seven years ago. Many who were with us then have answered the last roll call and passed over the majority. We who remain keep their memory green by strewing their graves with flowers on each recurring Memorial day, while those of our comrades who are sleeping in unknown graves in the south are not forgotten in our annual tribute of flowers. Soon the last old soldier will have gone to his rest, but his work will endure in a restored Union, a nation that commands the respect of the world. We did what we could, man or angels can do no more, we did not realize at the time in what a great work we were engaged. I am glad that I was permitted to live in those days, and take a little part in the great events that resulted in a reunited country, whose flag is honored wherever it flies.