He was laughing hysterically.
One was swearing that he had been shot in the arm through the commanding general's mismanagement of the army.

One was marching with an air imitative of some sublime drum major.

Upon his features was an unholy mixture of merriment and agony.

As he marched he sang a bit of doggerel in a high and quavering voice: "Sing a song 'a vic'try, A pocketful 'a bullets, Five an' twenty dead men Baked in a--pie." Parts of the procession limped and staggered to this tune.
Another had the gray seal of death already upon his face.

His lips were curled in hard lines and his teeth were clinched.