Wilbur's Civil War letters are compiled as the book "Hard Marching Every Day." After the war he tried his hand at farming in Kansas for a decade before turning to the ministry and serving as the Congregational pastor in Freeborn, Minnesota, for more than 30 years.

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Wed. 21 Sep 1864, on the field after the Third Battle of Winchester in the Shenandoah Valley:

"....Down by the creek where the train stopped, they put up the division hospitals for our corps. Ambulance loads of wounded men were continually coming in, and the surgeons had all they could attend to, and more too. Wounds of every description; some in the head, some in the body, some in the hands, arms, legs or feet were constantly being brought forward for attention. It was impossible to attend them all at once, and many had to wait and suffer a long time with their savage wounds undressed. Amputations at several tables were being made all the time. As fast as one man was removed from the board another was put on. Many poor fellows had to wait for several hours before their turn came. The surgeons, besmeared with blood, and hardened to their business, looked more like butchers cutting up beef than like professional men, adopting the stern alternative of removing a limb to save the life of a fellow man. A hospital on the battlefield always presents a horrid ghastly sight. Surely our national honor ought to be imperishable, purchased at such a cost.

"Among those brought in were several of my own comrades. One man struck in the thigh with a piece of shell, which broke his leg, and bruised it badly, was brought in around noon, and it was not till night that any attention was paid to his wounds, except what we could do ourselves. It was not till night that he had any shelter either, and then it was only a fly tent overhead - a roof without walls. But it was the best they could do and it is not always at such times that they can do as well as that. It was a chilly night, and the men, many of whom had to have their clothing cut from wounds, leaving them in some instances half naked, had but one blanket for two men. I remember I promised to bring my friend a rubber blanket from the train, but the train moved along, and I could not do as I had promised. Yesterday I suppose he, with the rest of the wounded, were removed to a general hospital. It will be a tedious and painful journey over the rough roads for the men with such wounds as his, but I know my friend is a brave man, as indeed they all are, and I know that bodily pain cannot crush his spirit."

"Right by the side of the tent where my friend lay was another soldier, mortally wounded, and left there to die. I couldn't help noticing him in particular, though I never had seen him before. Fair looking and intelligent, too young and too tenderly reared, one would think, to endure the hardships of a soldier's life. Alas, he did not have long to suffer. He was wounded in the head, and died that night. I first noticed him a little past noon. He could not speak, but he appeared conscious. A fellow from his company asked him if he knew him. He signified by a pressure of the hand, that he did. I saw him again at night, he was dying then. Oh what would a brother or sister have given to have been with him then - to have called his name and received back a pressure of recognition? What would his mother give now to drop a tear by his rude grave - a sacred spot that she may never be able to find? And thus have perished thousands since this war began. Verily war is cruel, and none more terribly so than this which the rebellion has forced upon us. God forgive those who started it, they knew not what they did."

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Wilbur and Angie also had a child named Joseph Franklin Fisk, 4 Jul 1872 to 7 Oct 1874, who died at age 2 from burns he suffered in a horrifying accident. His burial site is unknown. They also had had an unnamed stillborn boy in 1866.

Wilbur's Civil War letters are compiled as the book "Hard Marching Every Day." After the war he tried his hand at farming in Kansas for a decade before turning to the ministry and serving as the Congregational pastor in Freeborn, Minnesota, for more than 30 years.

------------------

Wed. 21 Sep 1864, on the field after the Third Battle of Winchester in the Shenandoah Valley:

"....Down by the creek where the train stopped, they put up the division hospitals for our corps. Ambulance loads of wounded men were continually coming in, and the surgeons had all they could attend to, and more too. Wounds of every description; some in the head, some in the body, some in the hands, arms, legs or feet were constantly being brought forward for attention. It was impossible to attend them all at once, and many had to wait and suffer a long time with their savage wounds undressed. Amputations at several tables were being made all the time. As fast as one man was removed from the board another was put on. Many poor fellows had to wait for several hours before their turn came. The surgeons, besmeared with blood, and hardened to their business, looked more like butchers cutting up beef than like professional men, adopting the stern alternative of removing a limb to save the life of a fellow man. A hospital on the battlefield always presents a horrid ghastly sight. Surely our national honor ought to be imperishable, purchased at such a cost.

"Among those brought in were several of my own comrades. One man struck in the thigh with a piece of shell, which broke his leg, and bruised it badly, was brought in around noon, and it was not till night that any attention was paid to his wounds, except what we could do ourselves. It was not till night that he had any shelter either, and then it was only a fly tent overhead - a roof without walls. But it was the best they could do and it is not always at such times that they can do as well as that. It was a chilly night, and the men, many of whom had to have their clothing cut from wounds, leaving them in some instances half naked, had but one blanket for two men. I remember I promised to bring my friend a rubber blanket from the train, but the train moved along, and I could not do as I had promised. Yesterday I suppose he, with the rest of the wounded, were removed to a general hospital. It will be a tedious and painful journey over the rough roads for the men with such wounds as his, but I know my friend is a brave man, as indeed they all are, and I know that bodily pain cannot crush his spirit."

"Right by the side of the tent where my friend lay was another soldier, mortally wounded, and left there to die. I couldn't help noticing him in particular, though I never had seen him before. Fair looking and intelligent, too young and too tenderly reared, one would think, to endure the hardships of a soldier's life. Alas, he did not have long to suffer. He was wounded in the head, and died that night. I first noticed him a little past noon. He could not speak, but he appeared conscious. A fellow from his company asked him if he knew him. He signified by a pressure of the hand, that he did. I saw him again at night, he was dying then. Oh what would a brother or sister have given to have been with him then - to have called his name and received back a pressure of recognition? What would his mother give now to drop a tear by his rude grave - a sacred spot that she may never be able to find? And thus have perished thousands since this war began. Verily war is cruel, and none more terribly so than this which the rebellion has forced upon us. God forgive those who started it, they knew not what they did."

-----------

Wilbur and Angie also had a child named Joseph Franklin Fisk, 4 Jul 1872 to 7 Oct 1874, who died at age 2 from burns he suffered in a horrifying accident. His burial site is unknown. They also had had an unnamed stillborn boy in 1866.