Ironton Register 12 April 1888 – John H. Johnson was a member of the 3rd Company 14th Kentucky Infantry. He fought for the Union for four years, and though wounded two or three times, and seriously afflicted by the privations and hardships of war, he looks hale and hearty today and retains the joy and exuberance of youth.
Though he volunteered in a Kentucky Regiment, he was an Ohio boy in his early days, and long before Ironton was thought of, ran the plow through the fields where the iron metropolis now stands.
The Register reporter met him the other day and queried him about his experiences in the war. He said he had a few experiences that he might tell us about but didn’t know where to begin.
“Tell us your most thrilling personal adventure,” said the reporter.
Mr. John H. Johnson put on his thinking cap a moment and then said, “Our regiment was in the 4th Brigade 2nd Division, 23rd Army Corps of the Army of the Cumberland. We went into Georgia in 1864, and what I am about to relate happened near what is locally known as Buzzard’s Roost.
At any rate, we were on the line of battle, making very slow progress against the rebel army, which had interposed every sort of defense to obstruct our progress. The musketry was incessant, but a great deal of the time on the skirmish line or between the sharpshooters in the rifle pits.
I saw where the shot came from – a gopher hole, about 150 yards from our breastworks. (A “gopher hole” is a pit deep and large enough to hide a man and give him room to handle his gun. In front of the hole are some brush and branches which shield the occupant while he is on the lookout for a shot.)
“Now to get at that reb in the “gopher hole,” was a serious problem. There seemed no other way except to come up behind him, and to do that, required a fellow to approach close to the rebel line of earthworks. That would be a hazardous task anyway a man could fix it, but I was determined, so I got the boys to “bush” me, that is, cover me completely with little twigs and branches, so that I could creep through the woods and undergrowth, which were everywhere thick, and not be observed.
Bill Ross, Alf Miller, and Bill Smead did the “bushing.” They slit holes in my clothes, pinned twigs to them, and so enveloped me in green that no one would suspect me of being a human being as I crawled through the woods.
John H. Johnson continues, “Then they helped me over the breastworks, and I started on my slow and perilous journey for that reb. Of course, I had to make a detour away – around him and get to his rear and shoot him as he raised up to get a chance at our boys. I crept like a snail over that ground. Once I thought sure I was observed for a ball skipped right over my back as if they were going for me. Then I laid low for some minutes, to throw the fellow off his guard if he had suspected me.
“When we got into position, two of our men, Coddle and Collier, were sent a short distance to the front to pick off the reb skirmishers and watch the sharpshooters. Collier took shelter behind a big pine tree and John Coddle behind an oak.
The latter was a Lawrence County, Ohio boy, and a brave soldier. This was dangerous work for those boys–it seemed only a question of time before a rebel bullet would find them, and it was not long before one did reach Coddle and the poor boy fell over dead. That boy was a great favorite of mine and I felt terrible when I saw him fall, for I happened to be looking in that direction when the bullet struck him.
I declared at once I would go out and bring in his body, so I slipped over the breastworks and crawled from tree to — him. It was fearful — there was an incessant spitting of — between the two lines and though the balls whizzed over me thickly I got the body, and half crawling and half —ing I got back to the breastworks and heaved poor Coddle’s corpse over there and hustled after it as fast as I could.
“That thrilling experience so inflamed and nerved me that I swore I’d shoot the reb that killed John Coddle, afraid of a reb sharpshooter who has tied up a tree, and who kept his long rifle hot, picking off the boys, but he didn’t happen to see me–in fact, wasn’t looking for a yank turning caterpillar and trying to flank a “gopher” hole.
It took me nearly two hours to creep to a spot in the rear of that reb in the hole, and then I flatten out and adjusted my musket to get a pop at him when he raised his head again. I wasn’t more than seventy-five feet from him, and I knew I must aim sure and get in my work at one shot, or it would be all up for John H. Johnson.
“So, I lay still and flat, awaiting the appearance of my target. At last, the reb head arose and thrusting his rifle through the brush in front of the “gopher,” peered about for a shot at a yank. Then, was my opportunity, and taking steady aim I fired, and that head fell, and those hands flew up and the reb sank into the “gopher hole.” He had fired his last shot, he had killed his last yank, and there he lay at the bottom of the pit gasping and dying.
“I lay deathly quiet for a while to see if my shot had been noticed from the reb entrenchments, but there was so much random firing, that it attracted no particular attention, nor would it be suspected that there was a Union soldier in that place–in the rear of the reb rifle pits.
So, pretty soon I started on my homeward journey, retracing the old route, and, creeping as stealthily backward as I went, I managed, after an absence of two hours and forty minutes, to creep over our entrenchments again, without a scratch, but terribly tired. And thus, had I avenged John Coddle’s death.”
John H. Johnson Grave Registration Card
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