On May 12, 1864, amid the swirling smoke, shriek of musket fire, and earth torn apart by shells, Private Samuel Wing of the 3rd Maine Infantry lay wounded on the ground. The Wilderness Campaign waged all around him — tangled woods, thick underbrush, and a battlefield that devoured men. In that chaos, Wing took a bullet high in his right shoulder, dangerously close to the armpit. The pain struck him as a dagger; his clothing was soaked with blood.
Yet the violence around him did not pause. Shells exploded, rifles cracked, men cried out. To lie idle was death — death from exposure, from being trampled, or from enemy patrols. And so, among the mud and ruin, Wing summoned what he could of strength and will. He crawled inch by inch, dragging himself across churned earth and broken limbs, until he found a makeshift field hospital just over the next ridge.
The surgeons there bound his wound. They assessed the damage and delivered grim news: the bullet could not be extracted safely at that moment. Any movement risked further harm. And ahead lay the journey to Fredericksburg, dozens of miles away through enemy territory. They gave him two choices: ride in an ambulance the twelve miles to safety or attempt to walk them on his own battered legs.
To most soldiers, the ambulance would be the clear choice — a chance to rest, to be moved more quickly, to survive with less effort. But Wing knew better than to accept what seemed easiest. His wound, already close to the armpit, would be jolted and aggravated by every bump and shake of a rough medical wagon. In his mind, the ride threatened more than aid.
He made a decision that startled those who watched: he would walk the twelve miles.
He stripped off his boots, heavy gear, and layers of clothing, keeping only a pair of lighter shoes and the barest essentials — a little water, a humble canteen, any small ration he could carry. Every ounce mattered. Each pound shed from his load was one less burden on his body. Step by agonizing step, he pressed into the wilderness road, the earth soft and uneven beneath him, the forest closing in, the roar of battle never far.
The road stretched onward, stretching his strength. He saw flashes of distant cannon fire, heard the crackle of rifle volleys. Occasionally, other wounded men or stragglers staggered past, borrowing steps from hope. Some collapsed by the roadside, too weak to continue. Wing forced himself to pause only very briefly, to steady his breath, staunch bleeding, and muster what remained of resolve.
Night threatened, shadows deepened, and the air grew colder. Each mile became its own trial. Doubt whispered: “You can’t go on. Turn back. Let someone carry you.” But Wing would not yield. The march was slow, measured, excruciating. He welcomed any slope downward, dreaded every incline. He tracked his progress by landmarks — a shattered tree trunk, a jagged rock, the distant echo of firing — as though mapping out a path through terror itself.
At last, worn to the bone, he crested a gentle rise and glimpsed the faint lights — signs that Fredericksburg lay ahead, that safety might be within his reach. He staggered, staggering step by step, until he reached the relative shelter of Union lines. Medical attendants rushed to him, astonished at his endurance. The bullet remained. His wound still raw. But he had won the greatest victory a wounded soldier might: the chance to see another day.
This was not a tale of battlefield heroics, of a dramatic charge or a turning volley. It was something quieter, sharper, and deeper: the march of a man who would not surrender to weakness, who chose suffering in pursuit of life.
Private Samuel Wing’s twelve-mile crawl through the Wilderness stands as a testament to a kind of courage that asks for no audience. It teaches us that sometimes the most courageous act is not the loudest or the grandest — it is enduring, step by agonizing step, when every instinct screams to stop.
Additional Context & Reflection
To fully understand what Wing endured, one must imagine the Wilderness Campaign itself. This was not open fields or clear lines. It was dense forest, tangled underbrush, limited visibility, and unpredictable terrain. Fires would burn through the woods, smoke and heat mingling. Weapons malfunctioned. Communication faltered. The wounded and the dying lay often uncollected amid the chaos.
In that environment, movement was perilous. Ambulances traveled slowly, roads were potholed, rutted, sometimes impassable. For a soldier with a critical shoulder wound, each jar could rend flesh, aggravate bleeding, or cause secondary injury. Wing’s choice to walk instead of ride was not bravado — it was a fraught calculus between immediate relief and long-term chance.
What also stands out is the psychology of that march. His decision to lighten his load, to shed every unnecessary burden, speaks to discipline and clarity under duress. His refusal to surrender to despair — even when his body must have trembled, his vision blurred, and his muscles screamed — shows what human will can achieve when grounded in determination. And finally, his survival reminds us how many stories of war are invisible: the small, silent triumphs of ordinary men pitted against suffering.
Wing’s journey reminds us that in war, survival is often not won by brilliant tactics or sweeping maneuvers. It is won mile by mile, breath by breath, by those who will not let their bodies betray their spirit. In that light, his twelve-mile march becomes more than an anecdote — it becomes legend in miniature, a quiet mirror of endurance for readers today.