David Conzett                                                   5th Iowa Cavalry, Co. E                           Recollections of the war written by David's brother First Sergeant Josiah Conzett While in camp here, I applied for and received a pass for myself and two men, (they were Tom Allen and L. V. Brainard) to go down to Newnan, Ga., 40 miles south of Atlanta. This is where the Battle of Newnan, so disastrous to our side and especially to our regiment, was fought and where my brother David with so many other brave boys fell on the 30th of July, 1864. The trains were all crowded and loaded down, inside and on top, with Rebel soldiers from Johnston's Army returning home. We had to ride on top and we were sandwiched in between them. They were a jolly lot of boys and oh, so glad the long agony was over. And happy in the anticipation of soon being home with father, mother, sisters, sweethearts, wives and babies. They were very friendly towards us, and never showed any but the best of feelings for us. But such was always the case between the private soldiers of both sides, even during all the war. Only the braggart or cowards skulking in the rear ever taunted or insulted each other. We arrived at Newnan late in the afternoon, tired, hot and covered with dust. We went to the only hotel in the town and, finding that the battlefield was from 4 to 5 miles south of here, we concluded to stay here overnight. So after a good wash and hearty supper, we sat down on the porch to enjoy a good smoke and rest. We soon attracted considerable attention, as Yankee soldiers always did. A crowd of citizens soon gathered to stare at us, and very soon a tall lanky fellow, dressed in half cowboy and half Texas Ranger, come swaggering along. He had a rifle and the usual Bowie knife with him. When he saw us, he commenced to abuse us and every other Yankee soldier, declaring he could whip any five of us with one hand tied behind his back, and lots of the usual bray and bluster of the coward and bully. He soon had the crowd worked up into a dangerous mood towards us. We tried not to pay any attention to him or them, but we began to fear trouble. As there were only 3 of us, and we only had our revolvers, it might have gone hard had a row been started. The landlord saw it also. He advised us to come inside and not show ourselves anymore. We did so, with the taunts and insults of the bully and crowd following us. We soon went to our room, fastened and barricaded the doors and windows the best we could. We did not show any light. We soon lay down in all our clothes with our revolvers handy. In spite of all seeming danger and trouble, we were soon sound asleep and did not wake up until early morning. After a hasty breakfast we started on our way. We stopped at a house once to get a drink of water. An elderly lady came to the door. She gave us all we wanted and seemed greatly frightened by our presence. She informed us that her son was home, that he was badly wounded in the spine at that battle, that he would never get well and begged us not to kill or take him away. We gave her full assurance on that score, told her the war was all over and she would have no more trouble from the Yankees. We left her a smiling, happy woman. Towards noon we arrived at a road turning into the battlefield, now at hand. Right on the edge of the road was a dirt mound about 10 foot high. We saw bones sticking out here and there, and at the foot or base I picked up a skull, perfectly bleached and bare of hair or flesh. On the forehead was written these words: "I hope you are in Hell you d....d Yankee son of a b....". Written, no doubt, by some cowardly skulker or bushwhacker, as no true soldier would have done so mean and low a thing. This, then, was the grave of some of our brave boys that fell on this battlefield. I trembled. I felt, I can't say, how bad. Might not my brother's body be in this mound? And might not the skull I picked up have been that of dear Dave? We went on a few yards farther and came into a large field or clearing, a plantation on which the battle of July 30, 1864 had been fought. It belonged to a retired Presbyterian Minister who, with his family, was living there at the time of the battle and was still living there. Tom and Lute saw Dave when and after he fell, and so led us right up to the very spot, which proved to be beside a large tree that was yet full of musket balls high as I could reach. Near it were three graves neatly fenced in and covered with fence rails. We felt sure that in one of them was Dave's body, but which one was the question! We went up to the house, a typical southern log house of the middle class some few yards away. A venerable grey, bearded, old man met us at the door. On questioning him, we found him to be the Rev. G. W. Cook, the owner of the place and who, with his family, lived there at the time of the battle. He remembered it well, and had hardly yet gotten over the fearful fright and never would get over mourning over the loss of their little girl killed during the battle. She had somehow gotten up out of the cellar where they had all taken refuge. I asked him about those 3 graves. He told me that he and his help (colored) had buried them after the battle was over, but the next morning had buried them deeper and better and railed it in as we now saw it. I asked him if he thought he could remember or recall any of their faces. He studied a few moments, then said he thought he could by the fact that our men (as he called them) had taken off all the clothes to the undershorts of one of them. From neither of the others did they take anything. I could understand the cause of this, as I had (when the regiment left us at Camp Patrick July 8, 1864) given Dave a complete, new outfit from boots up to hat. As these must have been fairly new and good as yet, the Rebels stripped them off his body as they were all in rags of all colors and kinds. I had no doubt now that he could show us Dave's grave. I then showed him a small photo of Dave, which he recognized at once. He then went with us went to the spot, and said the grave in the center was the one Dave was resting in. It was an affecting moment for all three of us, and we long remembered it. Mr. Cook gave us a nice smooth board, on which I carved with knife and pencil his name, company & regiment, his age, time of death, his city and state. I asked Mr. Cook to care for it, that I would see he was well paid for it. He promised to do so, and faithfully kept it up to the time the government took charge of it. Our Dave now sleeps in the Iowa division of the National Cemetery at Marietta, Georgia. Our son John, while attending the National Dental Convention in 1907, rode back with Mae to Marietta and took some photos of his grave, some of which I sent to our boys that knew him best and loved him most. So bidding Mr. Cook and family good-by, we started for Atlanta, which we reached the evening of the same day. We were well satisfied that we had found Dave's grave, saw the battlefield and had met with little trouble and no harm. A few days after, orders came to prepare for the march to Nashville to be discharged, mustered out of service and go home. That was the most welcome order that came to us in four long and weary years, and it was promptly obeyed and that with no grumbling. So one fine morning we mounted our horses, turned our backs to Atlanta and the South and our faces to the north and home, sweet home. We marched slowly, taking it easy, starting late mornings and camping early evenings. We were a happy crowd, and nothing worth mentioning happened until we came in sight of Chattanooga.                                                                                 Courtesy:                                                                              Larry Conzett                                                                                   Home                                                                      Edward Jordan Lanham