The sound made by a shell, in its passage through the air, cannot be described, and, when once heard, can never be forgotten.
I was very soon familiar with the whistling of musket-balls.

Before the end of the action, I thought I could distinguish the noise of a Minie bullet from that of a common rifle-ball, or a ball from a smooth-bored musket.

Once, while conversing with the officer in charge of the skirmish line, I found myself the center of a very hot fire.
It seemed, at that instant, as if a swarm of the largest and most spiteful bees had suddenly appeared around me.

The bullets flew too rapidly to be counted, but I fancied I could perceive a variation in their sound.
After I found a position beyond the range of musketry, the artillery would insist upon searching me out.

While I was seated under a small oak-tree, with my left arm through my horse's bridle, and my pencil busy on my note-book, the tree above my head was cut by a shell.
Moving from that spot, I had just resumed my writing, when a shot tore up the ground under my arm, and covered me with dirt.