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George C. Burmeister diary, 1864
1864-01-04
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Monday 4 Waiting for news, all my surroundings have a touch of dull monotony, the papers too don't bring any news of interest. Perhaps the tremendous snow storms have interfered with our rail roads and telegraph wires. But I must console myself with the thoughts that thousands of people are like myself "Waiting for news", many an anxious mother, fond wife, darling sister, dear brother or affectionate father is quietly waiting to hear from the loved one in the army, and oh what joy does the intelligence of his being well bring to them, but oh, what anguish, what bitter sorrow crushes their hearts when they learn that he died on the field of honor gallantly fighting to enforce his country's laws, or yielded his spirit to its Maker in the same holy cause, on his [couch?], in hospital. Then how eager soldiers are to hear from their homes and loved ones, what a scrambling there is in camp when the mail comes in, and how triumphantly will the recipient of a letter carry in to his tent to read its contents, how despondingly some will inquire of the distribution of the mail "Is there no letter for me"? And being answered in the negative they will slowly wend their way to their tents waiting for their comrade who has received a letter, to tell them something of its contents. If the people at home knew how much goods letters do soldiers, they would certainly write more punctually, and not always wait for a reply, for soldiers cannot always write when they please.
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Monday 4 Waiting for news, all my surroundings have a touch of dull monotony, the papers too don't bring any news of interest. Perhaps the tremendous snow storms have interfered with our rail roads and telegraph wires. But I must console myself with the thoughts that thousands of people are like myself "Waiting for news", many an anxious mother, fond wife, darling sister, dear brother or affectionate father is quietly waiting to hear from the loved one in the army, and oh what joy does the intelligence of his being well bring to them, but oh, what anguish, what bitter sorrow crushes their hearts when they learn that he died on the field of honor gallantly fighting to enforce his country's laws, or yielded his spirit to its Maker in the same holy cause, on his [couch?], in hospital. Then how eager soldiers are to hear from their homes and loved ones, what a scrambling there is in camp when the mail comes in, and how triumphantly will the recipient of a letter carry in to his tent to read its contents, how despondingly some will inquire of the distribution of the mail "Is there no letter for me"? And being answered in the negative they will slowly wend their way to their tents waiting for their comrade who has received a letter, to tell them something of its contents. If the people at home knew how much goods letters do soldiers, they would certainly write more punctually, and not always wait for a reply, for soldiers cannot always write when they please.
Civil War Diaries and Letters
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