The Cornfield Fight-Wilson's Creek 1991

Here is another brief look at from CHIN MUSIC Volume Two: This snippet deals with the action in the cornfield fight. I was a company commander at this one. Our brigade was potraying the unit of US Regulars who fought in Ray's Cornfield.
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Once the order was given to march, the blue line advanced down the slope one hundred yards until swallowed up by row after row of corn. The stalks grew so thick it was difficult to see the man next to you. Instead it was 'crash, crash, crash' as the corn stalks fell one by one as the human blue tidal wave pressed forward. As each stalk was pushed aside, corn dust was shaken loose until each man seemed covered in the stuff. It covered the uniforms, the weapons, and seeped into the nostrils, eyes, and throat.
After about five minutes tramping through this jungle vegetation, the blue line broke through to the clearing. In front of us was a split rail fence about waist high. Some men were already hunkered down behind it trading shots with the Rebel skirmishers. A few of their mountain howitzers opened up on us all well. Behind us our own artillery was talking back with its own dialogue of violence. To our extreme left, there was a line of spectators that I understand numbered 2,000. They were backed up along the road by sutler row and held back by yellow police tape.
I forgot to mention that I borrowed a sword from Gregg Higginbotham. It was a German saber that was about as tall and wide as John Maki. I exaggerate of course, but it was a good size hunk of steel that made me walk off balance whenever I wore it.
I had that saber drawn and was waving it at the enemy and saying some mighty hurtful words about their ancestry. We had not been given the order to fire yet and I was in front of the company waving that sword around like I was Conan the Barbarian. Maki and some of the guys in the battalion looked at me as if I had lost my mind. During my conniption fit, I almost decapitated Mike Gosser. I quickly apologized and gave him a smooch.
Finally, the battalions were given the order to fire and that gave me the excuse to hide behind the ranks. That's where all good officers go during the shooting match-to the rear to do a little 'coffee cooling' while the boys are getting shot at. Actually the officer stands behind the ranks and assists the file closers with discipline or helps a young private with his weapon, if it becomes fouled.
I don't know how many rounds the boys smoked, but the air was getting thick. We were surrounded by all that corn with no circulation coming through. We fired by battalion, by company, and we fired at will. As an officer, I was pretty much a non-factor. All I had to do was stand out of the way and try to keep my hair from getting mussed up while the boys did the devil's work of handing out punishment.
Finally there was a shout! The Rebel tyrants are pushing us, but we are in no hurry to give up ground. The blue lines slowly inch back through that forest tangle of corn. By this time, the stalks had been hacked or trampled to the ground till it looked like the aliens had left another crop circle in a farmer's field. We continued to ease our way to the rear even as the enemy hollers that dreaded Rebel Yell, a noise that sounds like someone is gargling with broken glass and razor blades.
So the losses began to mount in that terrible field of corn; the blue ranks are dissolving into a confused mob and dropping like horse flies. We fell back a full one hundred yards or more under the continual and relentless pressure of those unholy Missouri scarecrows. The survivors of the debacle formed some sort of line and marched off the field and into the sunset. That was the end of the Friday funfest!