You can call me the Gyspy Rose Lee of literature. I am pleased to offer you another tease from my upcoming personal 'kiss and tell' book on Civil War Reenacting, CHIN MUSIC FROM A GREYHOUND. Here is a sneak preview of three stories from three different events. These stories should not be read in the dark nor should they be read by those of the faint of heart. (Is it bullshit or not? You decide).
On the 125th Franklin-1989
During the night, the wind came down from the north. Despite the fact I'd downed almost a quart of alcohol, it was not enough anti-freeze to sustain me throughout the chill of the night. Plus, I found the thin canvas material of our shelter tent a poor insulation from the whispering winds. Pat McCarthy confessed to me that, he and Don Whitson…"snuck out of camp at about 2 AM and found a motel room. We slept in a warm bed, showered and ate a hot breakfast, and were back in camp before anyone knew we'd left."
Meanwhile, some enterprising clods in a neighboring camp built a windbreak by stacking several large bales of straw until there was a wall five feet high by thirty feet in length. In the wee hours of the morning I was jolted out of dreamland by the cry of "FIRE!" Staggering to my stocking feet I beheld an inferno roaring only 20 feet from my face. Men were dancing around the hot red glow in various stages of panic, much like the damned in Hades. In a second, I realized what had happened. Our neighbors in the adjoining camp had stoked their fire before retiring for the night and left the blaze unattended. A sudden shift in the wind lifted sparks from that fire onto those stacked bales. I think the whole Union Army was awake and trying to beat the flames out. A "staff officer" came out of his headquarters tent with a fire extinguisher, unfortunately and with some horror, it was discovered that the contents of the fire extinguisher had frozen. After some frantic moments, scorched blankets, and the workings of shovels and a bucket brigade, the fire was put out. Despite the chill of the night, we had all been sweating in panic. It was lucky that only a couple bales went up. The straw was moved far away from the fire and the rest of us tried to rediscover dreamland or clean underwear. An after action report states that at least a dozen tents in various camps were accidentally burned over the weekend.
Upon awakening that frosty Sunday morning, we were shocked to learn that during the night someone had died! A bunch of us were huddled around the fire pit and watched as the meat wagon came through. Only fifty yards away, in a camp occupied by a group of Federals from Ohio, lay Mr. Stanley J. Kahrl flat on his back. The story that came back to me was sometime during the night, Mr. Kahrl stepped outside his tent to pee and had a heart attack right on the spot. His tent mate was fast asleep and didn't discover the body till first light. By then Mr. Kahrl was as blue as a pair of army trousers. The county coroner had to come out to pronounce the body dead, and then it was loaded in the ambulance and taken away. We were all lost in our thoughts-no words seemed appropriate. Finally, Isaacson broke the ice by saying, perhaps we should go molest the dead body. Several of us giggled at the suggestion. Jon was only trying to lighten the mood, but one old boy-a half-breed Indian buddy of Randy Rogers- said we should have respect for the dead and then he walked away in disgust.
The temperature remained as cold as the mood. Word came that today's high would only be in the teens. The sky was cloudless and was the color of dull steel. The winds that came through during the night remained in the area and gave everyone an excuse to stay bundled up. During the Grand Review later that morning, every soul was wrapped tighter than a tick with greatcoat, muffler, and mittens. Gripping the bare metal of the musket could be pure agony if you didn't have something over your hands. In the absence of mittens, some fellows rolled the cuffs of their greatcoat sleeves down over their knuckles.
The Grand Review seemed to last an eternity. The Confederates had as many flags as they did people on the field. In the mean time, the icy winds buffeted us, whipped our greatcoats around our ankles, and caused our teeth to chatter, our fingers to grow numb, and the snot to freeze to our face. We were supposed to be at attention or parade rest, but I'll wager a few of us had the lower limb trembles holding back a weak bladder.
On the 125th Westport-1989
For this late war event, I decided to come dressed in the ugliest set of rags I could lay my hands on. I took a knife to my old Jarnigan frock coat and cut off the lower skirt and wore it as a shell jacket. To complete my uniform, I wore a patched up pair of britches, tall boots, a battered Hardee hat, and a shiny green vest with glass buttons. The patch job I'd made on my britches, most notably on the crotch area, caused Dave Bennett to remark that it looked like I had vagina hair.
I only lived a short distance from Swope Park, so it was no big deal from me to drive to and from the event. Later, I found myself returning home because I'd forgotten tent poles or something. Every military reenactor that registered that Friday night and early Saturday morning received a pair of wooden "dog tags." These were similar to ones modern GI's get today but made out of wood. I wonder who came up with that idea? Beside the "dog tags," each person who registered received an envelope full of coupons. A free mucket of Pepsi (with the purchase of a Pizza Hut pizza), one free bag of ice, or a half bale of straw, were just a few of the things you could use a coupon for. There were also coupons for a discount on Westport 125th anniversary commemorative merchandise such as T-shirts, bumper stickers, belt buckles, or medals. Or, as Jon Isaacson would later testify, you could use the coupons to wipe your ass.
On Land between the Lakes-1991
We march, march, and march some more. The promise of cool water is like a dream that keeps each man moving another quarter-mile after another. Finally we break out of the dark forest into full daylight. We'd come out right next to a paved road. This is the Laura Furnace Road. Civilized people use paved roads and where there's civilization, there must be water!
Our excitement at reaching the road quickly sags like an old man's peter, when much to our surprise there is no water to greet us. There is immediate grumbling in the ranks, but in an attempt to avoid a mutiny, Shackleford orders the referee to summon an ambulance. Medical staff is only a phone call away. In this case, the referee used a walkie-talkie. Within a short time, the ambulance arrives and takes a few men, with a dozen canteens between them, to a water buffalo another mile or two down the road.
After about an hour, the ambulance returns. The men gather around the dripping canteens like a hungry pack of dogs. Ignoring words of caution we greedy bastards start gulping and slurping- which can be a sure recipe for a bellyache if not checked. Most of that water trickles past dry lips, soaking chin whiskers and wool jackets, but no one gives a damn. Some of the boys are too lame to continue the journey, so they are loaded in the ambulance. The rest of us seem well enough to continue on with the final leg of the march, so Shackleford gives us the old heave-ho.
It was mid-afternoon by now. To reach our camp for the night, we would now be traveling northeast (the final leg of that crazy triangle). "Everybody was pooped," remembers Pat McCarthy. Ray Woods (I think it was Ray) fagged out from exhaustion, and I ended up carrying his rifle and gear along with my stuff. I found myself praying for a quick and painless death."
I believe we turned off the paved road and went a "quarter-mile more" up another trail. Finally the oasis is in site! It is nothing more than a dry creek bed, but to the worn and the weary it is the Garden of Eden. We are ordered to set up a defensive position, but everyone falls out exhausted. I find a small burrow near an outcropping of brush and quickly fall asleep. For the next several hours we do nothing, but eat, drink, and rest.
Just before dusk we learn that the Confederates are going to attack us. After all this time, they finally found us. Their infantry came from the north, while their horse soldiers attacked us from the south. "Three battalions of rebels march down the road toward us," recalls Steve Hall. "Our entire line is well positioned along the dry creek bed." Actually we were sandwiched in the middle of the two grayback forces. "We have copious supplies of ammunition and are powerfully upset at these people for disturbing our siesta." Steve makes light of the situation, but that shows the grit of the common Western soldier who can laugh even in the face of death. With such men of firm backbone, the blue-clad warriors of Shackleford's little army were able to beat off the Rebel scarecrows of Doom.
That's all folks!! Stay tuned and don't turn that dial. I'll be back next year with more horror, madness, and lunacy from my dark past. Look for CHIN MUSIC FROM A GREYHOUND Volume Two coming soon!
On the 125th Franklin-1989
During the night, the wind came down from the north. Despite the fact I'd downed almost a quart of alcohol, it was not enough anti-freeze to sustain me throughout the chill of the night. Plus, I found the thin canvas material of our shelter tent a poor insulation from the whispering winds. Pat McCarthy confessed to me that, he and Don Whitson…"snuck out of camp at about 2 AM and found a motel room. We slept in a warm bed, showered and ate a hot breakfast, and were back in camp before anyone knew we'd left."
Meanwhile, some enterprising clods in a neighboring camp built a windbreak by stacking several large bales of straw until there was a wall five feet high by thirty feet in length. In the wee hours of the morning I was jolted out of dreamland by the cry of "FIRE!" Staggering to my stocking feet I beheld an inferno roaring only 20 feet from my face. Men were dancing around the hot red glow in various stages of panic, much like the damned in Hades. In a second, I realized what had happened. Our neighbors in the adjoining camp had stoked their fire before retiring for the night and left the blaze unattended. A sudden shift in the wind lifted sparks from that fire onto those stacked bales. I think the whole Union Army was awake and trying to beat the flames out. A "staff officer" came out of his headquarters tent with a fire extinguisher, unfortunately and with some horror, it was discovered that the contents of the fire extinguisher had frozen. After some frantic moments, scorched blankets, and the workings of shovels and a bucket brigade, the fire was put out. Despite the chill of the night, we had all been sweating in panic. It was lucky that only a couple bales went up. The straw was moved far away from the fire and the rest of us tried to rediscover dreamland or clean underwear. An after action report states that at least a dozen tents in various camps were accidentally burned over the weekend.
Upon awakening that frosty Sunday morning, we were shocked to learn that during the night someone had died! A bunch of us were huddled around the fire pit and watched as the meat wagon came through. Only fifty yards away, in a camp occupied by a group of Federals from Ohio, lay Mr. Stanley J. Kahrl flat on his back. The story that came back to me was sometime during the night, Mr. Kahrl stepped outside his tent to pee and had a heart attack right on the spot. His tent mate was fast asleep and didn't discover the body till first light. By then Mr. Kahrl was as blue as a pair of army trousers. The county coroner had to come out to pronounce the body dead, and then it was loaded in the ambulance and taken away. We were all lost in our thoughts-no words seemed appropriate. Finally, Isaacson broke the ice by saying, perhaps we should go molest the dead body. Several of us giggled at the suggestion. Jon was only trying to lighten the mood, but one old boy-a half-breed Indian buddy of Randy Rogers- said we should have respect for the dead and then he walked away in disgust.
The temperature remained as cold as the mood. Word came that today's high would only be in the teens. The sky was cloudless and was the color of dull steel. The winds that came through during the night remained in the area and gave everyone an excuse to stay bundled up. During the Grand Review later that morning, every soul was wrapped tighter than a tick with greatcoat, muffler, and mittens. Gripping the bare metal of the musket could be pure agony if you didn't have something over your hands. In the absence of mittens, some fellows rolled the cuffs of their greatcoat sleeves down over their knuckles.
The Grand Review seemed to last an eternity. The Confederates had as many flags as they did people on the field. In the mean time, the icy winds buffeted us, whipped our greatcoats around our ankles, and caused our teeth to chatter, our fingers to grow numb, and the snot to freeze to our face. We were supposed to be at attention or parade rest, but I'll wager a few of us had the lower limb trembles holding back a weak bladder.
On the 125th Westport-1989
For this late war event, I decided to come dressed in the ugliest set of rags I could lay my hands on. I took a knife to my old Jarnigan frock coat and cut off the lower skirt and wore it as a shell jacket. To complete my uniform, I wore a patched up pair of britches, tall boots, a battered Hardee hat, and a shiny green vest with glass buttons. The patch job I'd made on my britches, most notably on the crotch area, caused Dave Bennett to remark that it looked like I had vagina hair.
I only lived a short distance from Swope Park, so it was no big deal from me to drive to and from the event. Later, I found myself returning home because I'd forgotten tent poles or something. Every military reenactor that registered that Friday night and early Saturday morning received a pair of wooden "dog tags." These were similar to ones modern GI's get today but made out of wood. I wonder who came up with that idea? Beside the "dog tags," each person who registered received an envelope full of coupons. A free mucket of Pepsi (with the purchase of a Pizza Hut pizza), one free bag of ice, or a half bale of straw, were just a few of the things you could use a coupon for. There were also coupons for a discount on Westport 125th anniversary commemorative merchandise such as T-shirts, bumper stickers, belt buckles, or medals. Or, as Jon Isaacson would later testify, you could use the coupons to wipe your ass.
On Land between the Lakes-1991
We march, march, and march some more. The promise of cool water is like a dream that keeps each man moving another quarter-mile after another. Finally we break out of the dark forest into full daylight. We'd come out right next to a paved road. This is the Laura Furnace Road. Civilized people use paved roads and where there's civilization, there must be water!
Our excitement at reaching the road quickly sags like an old man's peter, when much to our surprise there is no water to greet us. There is immediate grumbling in the ranks, but in an attempt to avoid a mutiny, Shackleford orders the referee to summon an ambulance. Medical staff is only a phone call away. In this case, the referee used a walkie-talkie. Within a short time, the ambulance arrives and takes a few men, with a dozen canteens between them, to a water buffalo another mile or two down the road.
After about an hour, the ambulance returns. The men gather around the dripping canteens like a hungry pack of dogs. Ignoring words of caution we greedy bastards start gulping and slurping- which can be a sure recipe for a bellyache if not checked. Most of that water trickles past dry lips, soaking chin whiskers and wool jackets, but no one gives a damn. Some of the boys are too lame to continue the journey, so they are loaded in the ambulance. The rest of us seem well enough to continue on with the final leg of the march, so Shackleford gives us the old heave-ho.
It was mid-afternoon by now. To reach our camp for the night, we would now be traveling northeast (the final leg of that crazy triangle). "Everybody was pooped," remembers Pat McCarthy. Ray Woods (I think it was Ray) fagged out from exhaustion, and I ended up carrying his rifle and gear along with my stuff. I found myself praying for a quick and painless death."
I believe we turned off the paved road and went a "quarter-mile more" up another trail. Finally the oasis is in site! It is nothing more than a dry creek bed, but to the worn and the weary it is the Garden of Eden. We are ordered to set up a defensive position, but everyone falls out exhausted. I find a small burrow near an outcropping of brush and quickly fall asleep. For the next several hours we do nothing, but eat, drink, and rest.
Just before dusk we learn that the Confederates are going to attack us. After all this time, they finally found us. Their infantry came from the north, while their horse soldiers attacked us from the south. "Three battalions of rebels march down the road toward us," recalls Steve Hall. "Our entire line is well positioned along the dry creek bed." Actually we were sandwiched in the middle of the two grayback forces. "We have copious supplies of ammunition and are powerfully upset at these people for disturbing our siesta." Steve makes light of the situation, but that shows the grit of the common Western soldier who can laugh even in the face of death. With such men of firm backbone, the blue-clad warriors of Shackleford's little army were able to beat off the Rebel scarecrows of Doom.
That's all folks!! Stay tuned and don't turn that dial. I'll be back next year with more horror, madness, and lunacy from my dark past. Look for CHIN MUSIC FROM A GREYHOUND Volume Two coming soon!
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