Nevertheless, there is the "dead-line," with its
well-defined edge of corpses--those of the bravest. Where both lines are
fighting without cover--as in a charge met by a counter-charge--each has
its "dead-line," and between the two is a clear space--neutral ground,
devoid of dead, for the living cannot reach it to fall there.
I observed this phenomenon at Pickett's Mill. Standing at the right of the
line I had an unobstructed view of the narrow, open space across which the
two lines fought. It was dim with smoke, but not greatly obscured: the
smoke rose and spread in sheets among the branches of the trees. Most of
our men fought kneeling as they fired, many of them behind trees, stones
and whatever cover they could get, but there were considerable groups that
stood. Occasionally one of these groups, which had endured the storm of
missiles for moments without perceptible reduction, would push forward,
moved by a common despair, and wholly detach itself from the line. In a
second every man of the group would be down. There had been no visible
movement of the enemy, no audible change in the awful, even roar of the
firing--yet all were down. Frequently the dim figure of an individual
soldier would be seen to spring away from his comrades, advancing alone
toward that fateful interspace, with leveled bayonet. He got no farther
than the farthest of his predecessors. Of the "hundreds of corpses within
twenty paces of the Confederate line," I venture to say that a third were
within fifteen paces, and not one within ten.
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