"I had a Sergeant Driscoll, a brave man, one of the best shots in the Brigade. When charging Malvern Hill, a company of riflemen was posted in a clump of trees, keeping us under fierce fire, even charging out of the trees on our advance. Their officer seemed to be a daring, reckless boy, and I said to Sergeant Driscoll, 'if that officer is not taken down, many of us will fall before we pass that clump of trees.'
'Leave that to me,' said Driscoll. He raised his rifle, and the moment that officer exposed himself again - BANG! The Southern officer fell, and his company at once broke away from the clump.
As we passed the place I said, 'Driscoll, see if that officer is dead - he was a brave fellow.'
I stood looking on. Driscoll turned him over on his back. The wounded man opened his eyes for a moment and faintly murmured 'Father' and then closed them forever.
I will forever recollect the frantic grief of Driscoll; it was a harrowing experience for all of us to witness. Driscoll had shot and killed his own son. His boy had gone South before the war."