Repartee

Confederates under fire, like their Blue-legged compatriots, often kept a sense of humor in the presence of death. Some of Berdan’s men had quietly settled themselves in the basement of a Virginia gentleman’s home from the windows of which they had a good short-range view of the Southern lines. A captured Alabama soldier later paid tribute to their cool efficiency. “It was only necessary to hold up your hand to get a furlough,” he said, “and you were lucky if you could get to the rear without an extension.”

Repartee verging on friendship sparked frequent temporary truces called by men in opposing sections of the lines. To boil coffee or cook a meal, the pickets would often call “time” and for a half hour contented sounds of dinner would be the only noises to break the stillness. Then, after an appropriate interval, someone would call “time” again and the men return to their diggings. One overly confident Southern lad who had just been poured his ration of scalding hot coffee was less lively than most. Believing himself out of sight, he sat munching some bread and blowing on his brimming tin cup to cool the coffee. One of the Sharpshooters, less bloodthirsty than most, called out, “I say, Johnny, time is up, get into your hole.” “All right,” replied the butternut figure, still blowing on his coffee to cool it, and not moving. “Just hold that cup still,” hollered the Sharpshooter, “and I will show you whether it is all right or not.” The Southern soldier suddenly became apprehensive that he really was visible, and froze for an instant, the cup still, giving the Union rifleman the chance he had been waiting for. A shot rang out, a white puff of smoke drifted from the concealed Sharpshooter, and the Rebel’s tin cup was knocked from his hand. The surprised coffee hound scrambled for cover, to the tune of laughter and jeers from his own comrades.
These incidents paint a curious picture of the men engaged in mortal combat, laughing and joking one minute, firing for record the next. The Sharpshooter was a curious personality. “Sharpshooting is the squirrel hunting of the War,” explained Ripley. “It is wonderful to see how self-forgetful the marksman grows— to see with what sportsmanlike eyes he seeks out the grander game, and with what coolness and accuracy he brings it down. At the moment he grows utterly indifferent to human life or human suffering, and seems intent only on cruelty and destruction; to make a good shot and hit his man, brings for the time being a feeling of intense satisfaction.”