ChinMusic From a Greyhound

Ten Weird, But True Facts About Myself

2009-05-03T14:55:00.001-07:00

1) I spent first seven years of my life, 1953 to 1960, in Alaska. I DID NOT LIVE IN AN IGLOO. My Dad was in the USAF. During those seven years, I saw a lot of snow, was on a local kiddie show, and saw President Eisenhower (from a distance).

2) During the next ten years, my brother and I would be enrolled in about six different schools. Dad was still in USAF and we were always on the move. Never in one place more than two years. One of those moves took the entire family to Tehran, Iran. This was from 1966 to 1968 when the Shah was still in power and (supposedly) still loved by the masses.

3) Whether because of all these moves or my own laziness, my school grades suffered. I was a poor student. I had to take summer school in order to get my high school diploma. I did not graduate with my class.

4) In 1972, against the advice of my Dad and Uncle Roy, I joined US NAVY. They both wanted me to join the Air Farce, but I said screw that. I always had a fascination for the sea and I had read a lot of swashbuckling stories of adventure on the high seas. That was for me.

5) It was in the Navy that I learned the facts of life. I was a Mid-western boy on my own and was quick to fall to the temptations of sex, drugs, and rock n' roll. I spent 30 days in the brig for possession of Mary Jane.

6) It was while I was in the Navy and aboard the USS OKLAHOMA CITY CLG-5, that I experienced my only brush with the war in Vietnam. It was April 1975. I was 22 years old. Our ship was part of huge armada sent offshore to rescue evacuees from Saigon. My brother was a Marine aboard another ship in the armada. What I witnessed of the 'bug-out from Saigon' was dozens upon dozens of helicopters, mostly private, landing aboard various ships of the fleet and unloading refugees. Our own ship took on a couple hundred people. Most were South Vietnamese, plus a few white men from Embassy, maybe CIA?

After the refugees unloaded, the helicopters were pushed off the ship to land in the drink. These were all privately owned helos and they could not go back to Saigon. No room to store non-military craft, so off the ship they went with a SPLASH! I saw a helo hover not one hundred yards from our ship, then drop as the engine was shut off. A motor whaleboat was sent to pick up pilot. Later I exchanged a dollar bill for some VC currency.

7) I could write a whole volume on my service in Dick Nixon's Navy, but suffice to say, I wasted the three years I served. I was too busy getting laid, stoned, or whatever to care about any Naval future. Other than the debauchery I subjected myself to, I enjoyed life on the high seas. I did get seasick once going through the Taiwan Straits during a typhoon-hell everyone was sick. During my tenure, I got to man the helm up on the bridge, stand lookout with binoculars and sound powered phones, got to swab the decks, polish brass, and paint the bulkheads. I was honorably discharged with a pay grade no higher than E-3 or a PFC.

8) After I returned to 'the world', in 1976, I went to a community college by using my G.I. Bill money. Soon I met a pretty young girl who worked at the local hospital and within a year she had me going to church, where I cleansed myself of my past sins and we soon married.

9) While going to college, I took a class in Civil War History. I was unfamiliar with all the battles, but became fascinated with the instructor. Spellbound by his lectures, I resolved to learn about the war in more detail. During my research, I discovered an ancestor who'd fought on the side of the Union. It was about the same time I discovered reenacting.

10) In 1980, I attended my first Civil War reenactment. It was a farb fest, but I thought it fascinating. Over the last 27 years, I met many great people. I'm proud to have developed lasting friendships. I can share feelings, fears, and frustrations with these guys than I can my own blood family. I understand how a bond can be formed because of soldiering even we don't spill each other's blood as the real combat soldiers did.

Adventures of a Young Sailor In Dick Nixon’s Navy

2009-05-03T14:45:00.000-07:00

I served aboard the USS Oklahoma City, CLG-5 from Sept 1973 to Sept 1975. The Okie City had a 5 inch gun turret, a 6 inch gun turret, and a TALOS missile system which was situated aft of the ship (for you landlubber's aft mean rear). The two turrets were forward under the bridge (look at picture in my profile).

We were also the flagship of the seventh fleet. We had a rear admiral. He had his own boat called the Admiral's Barge and the Captain of the ship had the Captain's Gig. Go figure.

Since we had the admiral, we traveled quite a bit. In the two years I was aboard, we visited the Philippines, Hong Kong, Taiwan, Thailand, Singapore, South Korea, and Guam. Our homeport (where we spent most of our days) was Yokosuka, Japan.

Twice while in Yokosuka, the ship was in dry dock. Technically, the ship sets on blocks and the water is all pumped out. Always amazed that it didn't tip over. Once water is out, Japanese workers run all up and down doing maintenance work. Good thing they didn't hold a grudge. I guess after WWII, they needed all the work they could get. I'll wager some of these workers were old vets themselves. Anyway, no sabotage.

I served under two skippers. First was William A. Kannakaneu, a Hawaiian dude. He was pretty laid back and didn't work us too hard. I think he was skipper during Vietnam and was pretty tired, because in 1974, we got a new skipper, Paul D. Butcher.

It wasn't long before the new skipper earned the nickname, GQ Butcher.

He liked pulling General Quarters Drills and at all hours. Sometimes at night! He even timed us!

All stations had to be manned and ready within a certain time or he'd throw a fit and make us do it again.

By this time Vietnam was over (or so we thought). It had ended April 1973.

Anyway, my GQ station varied.

Sometimes I would serve in the powder magazine. This was an area about five decks below the turret.

About a dozen guys would manhandle fifty-pound canisters of black powder from one area to a pneumatic hoist. The hoist would take the canisters up five decks.

Another time I worked in the shell deck. This was where the shells were stored. Six guys in a round room would manhandle fifty-pound shells to another hoist. This area was a deck above the powder magazine. Watertight doors could seal off these areas from each other.

Sometimes I served on the bridge, either as a helmsman, operating the engine order telegraph, or as a lookout with binoculars and sound powered phones.

A lookout had to be alert, sweep the whole area assigned him, and if a ship spotted, he had to sound off in the phones to the bridge where it was spotted. The lookout had to know that a circle was 360 degrees and any object in the circle was plotted at being so many degrees port or starboard.

For example, if a ship were spotted in the three o'clock position, you'd say that it was at 045 degrees off the starboard side, or some such nonsense. I think you catch my drift.

Despite all the GQ drills, live on the sea was fun.

Earlier, I said we had the admiral.

Well, he liked showing the flag at different ports.

Of all the places we visited, the sailor's favorite was Olongapo City, Philippines inside Subic Bay. Just outside main gate was a living and breathing Sin City filled with many vices to tempt a young serviceman and his wallet. Problem with Philippines was there was a curfew. Had to off streets by midnight. Filipino army was on the streets at 12:01. Made the mistake once in being out past midnight in Manila. Two Filipino soldiers pulled up in an army jeep. Both were strapped with sidearms. A 50 caliber machine gun was mounted on the jeep. Looked right out of Rat Patrol, but these boys weren't grinning. However, they would accept a bribe. My buddy and I had a couple B girls with us. The girls and the soldiers jipper jappered in that monkey language for a few minutes, then the girls gave the two soldiers about $100 US dollars to look the other way. We all could've ended up in a nasty Filipino jail cell that night, but greed won out.

Twice we sailed into Hong Kong. It was quite the modern city. I took a tour with a few guys on a bus that went all around the island. We took a boat across the bay and had lunch in a floating restuarant. It was my first taste with Mongolian BBQ. I fell in love with Oriental cooking and learned to use chopsticks with some dexterity. In Hong Kong there are dozens of tailor shops. I had a pair of bell bottom pants, a silk shirt, and a pair of snake skin boots made. That's right! Snake skin boots. I had seen a pair worn by a member of Three Dog Night and I wanted a pair. They were the size of Beatle boots, just barely went up to mid calf. They had a zipper on the side and 4 inch platform heels. I don't recall the price, but probably half a paycheck. I was looking sweet! I knew one guy that had a pair of blue suede shoes made and another guy who got a leather motor cycle jacket. By some twist of fate, I now own that biker jacket.

Hong Kong was also were guys could buy heroin. I never did any of that crap, but knew a couple of guys who O.D. 'd on board the ship because they were using H.

We had a lot of drugs pass through the ship. Heroin, pot, LSD,coke, and speed. We had an officer, a LTJG, who was busted for having grass in his overnight bag. Instead of jail time, I think he was asked to resign from the Navy. I was caught with a gram of hashish in my possession and I served 30 days in the ship's brig. But that is for a later tale.

I told you that our ship's homeport was Yokosuka, Japan. Homeport means were the ship spent most of its time. Some guys had bought homes and apartments in Japan. A buddy and I had an apartment for a few months. It was best discribed as a flophouse. Only one room, no furniture. It was a place to crash after an all night binge. To heat the place in winter we had a kerosene heater. Stinky!

Outside the main gate at Yokosuka Naval Station, and up a block or two, was the Strip. There were about two dozen bars that catered to sailors and Marines. It was similar to Strip outside base in Olongapo City, Philippines except no midnight curfew. One of the fav bars was called the ZIGZAG after the reefer paper. Rock and roll music played in most of these bars. In Olongapo City, there were live bands. These were Filipinos who played American Music. Some of these Filipino bands adopted a particular band and music to showcase. What today we call a cover band. One band would play nothing but Led Zeppelin or Deep Purple music all night. Smoke On the Water was played so often by so many Oriental bands, I grew to hate that song. One Filipino bar had a lady that sang like Janis Joplin and another group of Flips that played Alice Cooper music-I kid you not!

Back to Japan. Sometimes a few of us would take the Japanese light rail into Tokyo were we'd look at a few bars or just cruise. They had a McDonald's and a couple other American eatery's in Tokyo. This was '73-'74. There was also a lot of Picinkco machines. This were silly little silver marble machines that played like a slot machine. Hundreds of them. In Japan I discovered the first video game, PONG.

Sometimes a buddy and I would go to a rock concert in Tokyo, then stay in a fancy hotel for the night. In Tokyo I saw Three Dog Night, Eric Clapton, and Rod Stewart.

A favorite night club in Tokyo was called Moogans. It had an upper and lower floor. On the upper floor you could look down on the dancers. They also played live music. One band I saw a couple times was Edwin Starr. This was the guy who did "War, what is it good for, absolutely nothing." Saw him a couple times at Moogans. Saw the Exorcist in Tokyo. In was in English with Japanese subtitles. I remember a friend was grosses out and wanted to leave. I just laughted through most of the flick. A lot of Japs left the theatre at same time as my buddy.

On the Yokosuka Naval Station there was the usual on base entertainments, a bowling alley, a gym, a library, a PX, a cafeteria/snack bar, and a movie theatre. Used to smuggle Sloe Gin into movie house then mix with soda pop. Another time about six of us had just smoked some Thai stick Mary Jane. After that we all went into movie house to see Blazing Saddles. Needeless to say, we all laughed till we either cried or pissed ourselves or both.

Lincoln soldiers enter Missouri town and abuse citizens-an after action report

2009-04-06T06:18:00.000-07:00

From the journal of the 14th Kansas Enrolled Militia
April 5

It was a crisp and windy early spring day. Our detachment had been sent into Clay County, Missouri to confirm an illegal and unlawful assembly in the township of Shoal Creek. It was rumored that a group of pro-southern agitators was stirring up the populace with anti-government speeches.
Upon entering the town, we found a crowd of old men, women, and children assembled near the square. The people seemed spellbound or perhaps hypnotized by the sharp serpent's tongues of three overly dressed and red-faced gentlemen. It seems the men took turns speaking to the crowd. As soon as one fellow got out of breath, another agitator would jump in and continue the sermon.
Upon seeing our arrival, the pro-southern agitators got even more excited, waving their arms like pinwheels and shouted for the crowd to resist the Northern invasion. After so much preaching, the crowd had a glazed look in their eyes, as if they'd been sniffing paint fumes too long.
"Beware the devils in blue uniform," one fat-faced agitator spat," the vile damn Kansans will burn your homes, ravage your women, and eat your children." The spittle flew from his lips like morning rain.
Our captain, a veteran of war with Mexico and with the Plains Indian, calmly announced that the assembly was illegal and must be disbanded at once. He warned that arrest was the alternative.
Someone in the crowd shouted some nonsense about the Constitution and freedom of speech and some other silliness, but our captain would have no room for debate.
At a command, our company fixed bayonets and stepped forward.
As expected, the townspeople scattered like frightened sheep. In the confusion, a few citizens suffered some bruising and broken bones. Women fainted and children bawled. But not one Federal soldier was molested.
The three agitators were arrested and thrown into the local jail and the town was placed under martial law.
Within the hour, another detachment of Kansas militia came in and between the two of us, we had the town pretty well bottled up. No one could leave or enter the town except with a written pass.
All roads were guarded and anyone traveling was subject to having their belongings searched.
A few of the more foolhardy tried to sneak out of town by taking to the woods. These Rebel sympathizers were hunted down and were given a rough treatment when our boys found them.
Later in the day, some guerrillas attempted to bushwhack our boys that were gathered at the mill.
A skirmish line was thrown out and a brisk gun battle went on for a brief time. One or two of our boys were mortally wounded and some others suffered broken bones as the result of pistol balls. The guerrillas tried to drive us out of town but we were too well armed and all good shots. That evening we could hear the wild hogs having supper. Pity the poor lad who met an untimely fate all because he fell under the spell of anti-Lincoln gibberish.
I must end this page of my journal because it's my turn to interrogate the wounded prisoner.

2009-01-24T16:34:00.000-08:00

TWO YEARS IN IRAN

From 1966 to 1968, my family and I spent two years living in Tehran, Iran. How did this come about you ask?
My father was in the US Air Force and as a result we rarely stayed in one place more than two years. I attended eight different schools from K-12
My brother Bill and I were both born in Anchorage, Alaska. Another brother, Mark, was born at Scott Air Force Base, near Belleville, Illinois.
Growing up in a military family, my father was rarely at home. Either on base working late or on temporary detached duty (TDY) in some remote part of the world. He was in Pakistan for about two years.
When Dad came back it was to take us to Maryland where we spent the better part of another two years. In the summer of 1966, he announced that he'd been ordered to go to Iran and that he wanted to take all of us.
At the time of this move, I was 13, my brother Bill was 11, and Mark was 4.

We all had to get passports, then after that we flew out of JFK to London, spent one night here, flew in Germany, then caught a plane to Tehran, Iran.
Our first month in Tehran was spent in a hotel while Dad arranged a house for us. I remember we all had the runs from drinking the water.

After a month, we moved into the local neighborhood. There was no 'on base housing' because there was no US Military Base. I think the US military, at this time, was in cooperation with the Iranian military. There was some US facilities for us to visit, like the PX, the Enlisted Men's Club, and of course the American Embassy. I don't recall much about the embassy.
Inside the Enlisted Men's Club, there was a four star restaurant, a casual diner, a barbershop, a bookstore, a bowling alley, a bar, and a movie cinema. Might have been more business's, but these are all I recall.

Our home was in the local neighborhood. Dad had a jeep that we all rode in. Our home was concrete and surrounded by a concrete wall on all sides (walls were thick enough to stop an RPG round I'd wager). Plus our home had a swimming pool. All the US military people lived in the same type homes, but we were the only US family living in this neighborhood. The nearest other white people were about a mile away. It was while living in Iran that sister Carolyn was born. She arrived in October 1966, just a few months after moving into our home.

So we lived with the ragheads and even made friends with a couple young boys. On occasion, my brother and I would walk up to the corner grocery store (about a quarter mile away) and buy soda pop or flat bread. Sometimes we'd play ball in a nearby sandlot or shoot pellet guns at birds or tin cans

I remember Iran as being dry, dirty, and looking like a desert. Only the wealthy lived in garden spots. This was the time of the Shah and his coronation on the peacock throne. Everyone loved the Shah, or so I thought.
There was a drainage ditch that lines both sides of the dirt road. The ditch is usually filled with running water flowing from somewhere. Not uncommon to see the ragheads wash their clothes, bath, and defecate in the same ditch water.
While most Americans living here were with the military, some worked for the oil company. Most brought their kids and the kids began attending the Tehran American School, or TAS for short.

TAS offered education for American kids from grades K-12.
I still have my 1968 yearbook from TAS.
To get to school, one had to take the bus. Ragheads were hired by the school to drive kids to and from school every day. The buses drove through the heart of the city and I think it took us about a half-hour to get to school.

The bus drivers were ragheads, as were the school custodians.
We even had a raghead woman working in our home as a maid or 'bodgee'. I don't know what her real name was, but we called her Mary. She came in every morning and cooked and cleaned for a meager wage. All the American people had a 'bodgee'.

The women who came to work for the Americans were pretty hard looking
characters. Under all those black shawls, it was hard to tell how old they were. They could have been twenty or seventy. They all looked about the same. One step above the poor house. They were happy to get the work and the few dollars that came their way. The alternative would be to beg in the streets. I saw a lot of beggars. My brother Bill and I took a garden hose to one who came scratching at our back gate.

There was the Rod and Gun Club that Dad took us to. It might have been near the EM club. Once Dad took Bill and I wild boar hunting with a couple of his Air Force buddies. We spent a weekend and we fished a little and Dad and his buddies fired their M-1 Garand's. But they did not bring down any wild boars.

Near the Rod and Club club was a paperback book swap store here and it was here in Iran that I picked up book reading. With very little in the way of amusements in Iran, I buried myself in books; mostly true life WWII stories. Favorite was the air war series by Martin Caiden and those published by Ballantine Books that I bought from a catalog. I was even reading WWII stuff from the school library. At this time I wasn't interested or aware of Civil War.

Sometimes there'd be parties. Other Air Force people would have a shindig at their house or we'd have one at ours. A lot of drinking and socializing went on. Of course all the kids would get together and amuse themselves some how while the parents got corned. If the weather was nice (it was usually hot all the time) we'd all go swimming in someone's backyard pool.

There was TV, but it only had one channel. The AFRTS, Armed Forces Radio and Television Service, played old shows and old movies. The popular stuff of the day like Batman or Star Trek, we could not get. We could get some syndicated radio shows, but nothing great. One TAS student aired a one-hour rock and roll show. He spun pop records that were hip but not too far out or anti-social. For example, Jan and Dean, the Beach Boys, Herman's Hermits, Gary Lewis and the Playboys, etc. were thought of as 'safe music'. I think AFRTS had its thumb on his play list. The radio mostly featured mellow music or country. Rock and roll was mostly taboo.
This is about all I have to post at this time on life in Iran.

In the summer of 1968, we returned to the USA, Dad retired from the US Air Force, our family settled down in Sedalia, Missouri, I finished High School, my parents divorced, I joined the USNavy in 1972, came home and in 1976 I married. And the rest is history.
If I can recall any other tidbits about Iran, I'll update this blog.

The Civil War Letters of Henry Stark Carroll Orderly Sergeant, Co. D, 33rd Missouri Vols., Inf., US

2009-01-11T09:16:00.000-08:00

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Twenty years ago, I began to research the civil war record of my great-great grandfather, John Robinson Hodges. I wanted to learn as much as I could about him and his unit, the 33rd Missouri Infantry US, and it was during this research that I discovered the Henry Stark Carroll letters. A total of 32 letters were donated to the US Army Military History Institute at Carlisle Barracks, PA. by a grandson, Henry C. Carroll. Written between Aug 31, 1862 and Sep 3, 1863, the Carroll letters offer an interesting glimpse into the life of a common soldier in the Trans-Mississippi arena of the Civil War. Mostly it is a simple tale of camp life, on the march, and on the river aboard steamer's. A few letters tell of skirmishes with the enemy at Fort Pemberton, MS and Helena, AR. Interestingly enough, Henry Stark Carroll was 18 years old when he joined the 33rd Missouri, but he must have impressed all the officers and men, because he was appointed first sergeant of Company D almost immediately. During the June 6, 1864 Battle of Lake Chicot, Arkansas, Henry was wounded in the left foot, which caused him to be hospitalized in Memphis until November 8th of that year. The severity of the wound is not mentioned, nor is covered in these letters, but when he did return to his unit is was as regimental sergeant major and he served in that capacity till the end of the war. I hope you enjoy these letters, because I think they fill a void in an area that is not discussed as commonly as the more popular "war out east".

In the following letter, Henry writes about the 4th of July action at Helena, Arkansas

Helena, Ark July 5th 1863

Dear Mother
I take my pen in hand this morning in haste to inform you that I am in excellent health. You will probably have heard before this reaches you that we have a fight here. And most a bloody one it was too. Yesterday morning we were attacked at half past four o’clock by the rebels under Price, Marmaduke, and Holmes. We were expecting an attack and as I mentioned to Edna the other day in my letter, we were ordered into line every morning before daylight. Yesterday morning, I was up at two o’clock and was engaged in delivering some tools to be used in the rifle pits. I remained up the balance of the night. At half past three the captain ordered me to get the company into line.

Everything was calm and serene and we began to think the rebs had concluded not to attack us. I divided the men into gun squads and scarcely had the men taken their posts ere an officer rode up and ordered us to fire an alarm gun which we did. In ten minutes afterward the enemy attacked our batteries on the left, almost as the fight opened on the right and center. I think the rebels had their whole force engaged.

Our center was headed by two companies of our regiment who were protected by some earthworks in which were planted two brass field pieces. A rebel brigade charged upon this work. They were composed of the 7th, 8th, and 12 Missouri rebel regiments. The ground over which they charged was very broken and the two guns and the infantry in the rifle pits made fearful havoc around them. The fight by this time was raging fearfully all around the lines. All this time, we were standing at our guns. I commanded gun no.6 in Fort Curtis. We loaded first with a shell. The fog was so thick that at the distance or six or seven hundred yards, we could not distinguish our men from the rebels. This was just at sunrise.

Gradually as the sun arose, the fog lifted and cleared away and I could see them coming in to flank the battery on the hill opposite us. I asked the captain if I could give them a Fourth of July salute. He replied to give it to them and thus opened the most murderous fire from our guns that ever men withstood. But nothing seemed to daunt the foolhardiness of the rebels; they came on yelling like Indians all the time. Our men at the batteries were overpowered and compelled to retreat. They retreated to Fort Curtis. The rebs rushed to the top of the hill and formed a new line. They seemed to think they had gained the day, but they were woefully mistaken.

While they were forming, we were throwing shot and shell into them that told fearfully. Their colors were posted in a very conspicuous place and time after time they dropped to the ground (and ) men would rush up and hoist them again but only to be shot down. As soon as they had formed they began to advance toward us. They had to cross seven hundred yards of open ground. They seemed as they intended to take us at the bayonet point. They advanced steadily and briskly while six heavy guns from one fort and also several companies of infantry that had been driven in from the outer works were mowing them down under this murderous fire.
They advanced four hundred yards. They were so close, the day seemed lost in spite of all we could do.

At this distance we poured in a double charge of grape that made them reel and stagger. Their officers waved their swords and tried to urge the men forward but it was of no use. It was not human to stand it. They broke and began to retreat and such a slaughter was never greater on any battlefield west of the Mississippi. They started up a road and I trained my gun upon it, as also did two other gunners in the fort. We all fired at once and when the smoke cleared away, not a man was to be seen within a rod of the place. Dead, dying and wounded were strewed thickly on the ground. This charge was made down a hill and so perilous was it to retreat that they fell closer to us in a hollow, and the way we did slaughter them was something. They soon raised a white flag and all of the eighth and tenth Missouri rebels regiments surrendered but what lay on the field dead and wounded. We captured one thousand prisoners, two colonels, 7 captains, 14 lieutenants, and guns and accouterments by the card.

I could not give you all the minute details if I were write two days, but will do so in a few days. By eleven o’clock they had retreated and the firing had ceased. And such a looking set of fellows as we were; all as black with powder as Negroes and well we might be for we had fired 103 rounds from our gun during that time. Every one of our company behaved nobly, we are all heroes. Old Pike may well be proud of her representatives here yesterday. Our Colonel who was at Pittsburg Landing and Corinth and many other battles of this war says the 33rd are every one heroes. General Salamon says he never saw artillery used more effectively than we did ours yesterday.

Not one of us was hurt, though the fort is sickening full of balls. The gun carriages (are damaged?), but no one was hurt inside the fort. But the enemy were slaughtered. It was supposed yesterday evening that there were two hundred of their dead on the (field), but our men have been burying them since three o’clock yesterday. We find them behind logs and stumps and in hollows. Every one seems to think that there are at least four hundred of their dead on the field.

I have just been over the battlefield and no language can describe its horrors. It was a scene I shall never forget. Men were torn and mutilated in every possible manner. They were all Missourians. Numbers of them surrendered that could easily have escaped. There happened to be a steamboat (TYLER) here at the time and we put six hundred on board of her and started them to Memphis in one hour after the surrender. I suppose you will see an account of it in the papers before I write again. I must close as the mail is ready.
We expect they will attack us again.
I received a letter from Edna this morning.
Our whole loss was 50 killed.
33rd loss-20 killed and some forty wounded.
So good bye
Henry S. Carroll

2008-12-10T14:24:00.000-08:00

I've been in the hobby of Civil War Reenacting for 28 years. Yes, that kinda makes me an old fart. The first time I went to Prairie Grove, Arkansas was October 1980. The original battle was fought on December 7, 1862. Since 1980, a reenactment is held on the State Historic Site every two years, as close to the anniversary weekend as possible. Those who attend the Civil War Reenactment at Prairie Grove, Arkansas come from faraway places like: Missouri, Kansas, Mississippi, Texas, Colorado, Nebraska, Louisiana, Oklahoma, as well as within the state of Arkansas itself. In 2008, we actually had someone who came from Idaho.

No could tell what the weather would be like during early December. Be that as it may, every two years, from 1980 to 1998, I would join several hundred reenactors on this hallowed ground and share a weekend either basking in an Indian summer or freezing in sleet or snow. One always came to Prairie Grove expecting the best, but preparing for the worst; in weather that is.
1998 was the last time I came to Prairie Grove, Arkansas until this year. Why I waited 10 years to return to this event I can't say. Some years I would go to the Fort Scott, Kansas for their Living History/Christmas program, other times the weather seemed too hazardous to risk travel. Whatever the excuse, I resolved that in 2008 I would return.

John Maki came by to pick me up just before noon on Friday, December 5th. I had taken a vacation day for Friday and the following Monday. John was the company cook for our group, the Holmes Brigade, and the back of his truck was loaded with boxes, two coffee pots, two wedge tents, tent poles, skillets, nesting tins (galvanized steel buckets that could be stacked like the popular Russian nesting dolls-one into another). In the wooden boxes he had slab bacon, sausage, onions, potatoes, coffee, cooking utensils, and other miscellaneous sundry items relative to cooking, camping, and tenting.
I had a knapsack, weapon, traps, and a burlap gunnysack with my uniform and extra blankets. John and I had about 5 blankets apiece, plus mittens, greatcoats, and fur hats. Mine was made from a Jack Rabbit while John's was made from muskrat.

We arrived at the State Historic Site in Prairie Grove, Arkansas after about a four and a half-hour drive. Like I mentioned earlier, it had been ten years since my last visit. During that time, a lot of construction had taken place and many more business lined the road running from the exit off 71Hwy to here. I recall in the past only a few businesses including a liquor store, a convenience store, a motel/restaurant, and a redneck bar called Club West. Now there were dozens of strip malls, grocery chains, drive-thru banks, and gas stations where once stood desolation. I was happy to see the redneck bar was still where it used to be, but the name had been changed (don't recall what it goes by now).

In weeks and months before the Battle of Prairie Grove, the Union Army of the Frontier, under General John M. Schofield, had sent his three division to harass Confederate forces, under Thomas C. Hindman, all up and down western Arkansas, from Bentonville to Ft. Smith. I will not bore you with a history lesson. The fall 2004 issue of BLUE AND GRAY magazine has an interesting and lengthy article on the campaign leading up to and including the December 7, 1862 battle of Prairie Grove.

This harassment led to several engagements between the Blue and Gray forces and at one point, feeling isolated and fearing a major counteroffensive, First Division, under General James G. Blunt called for reinforcements. The Third Division of the Army of the Frontier, commanded by 25-year old Francis J. Herron, had been in Springfield, Missouri since early November, but on December 3, 1862, they left the city and began a forced march that would cover 100 miles in three and a half days.

No tents or extra baggage accompanied Herron’s men, but as the modern 21st century man is much older and more full figured than our forefather’s were, we made camp with wedge tents and wool blankets.

Maki and I arrived at the Prairie Grove Battlefield State Historic State Park about 4:30 PM Friday evening. Before the sun had disappeared, we had our tent up, beds made, clothing changed, and a fire roaring. We even had coffee boiling and even had time to fry some slab bacon Maki had brought from Alma, MO. Reenactors continued to come in throughout the night and into Saturday morning. Friday evening I met MYSPACE buddy, Jimmy, who came to Prairie Grove with the Eighth Kansas. Jimmy shared a cup of coffee with me and then he introduced me to his pards. The members of Holmes Brigade and the Eighth Kansas would merge with other companies to form the Federal Frontier battalion that would operate that weekend.

With the crack of dawn came the shrill bugle cry of reveille. It was a very cold morning until the sun warmed things up. The high was expected to be about 50, but in those early hours, it was colder than a landlord’s heart. At this chilly hour, the enemy would have no trouble finding us.
Bundled up in greatcoats, scarves, mittens, and fur hats, every Billy Yank hovered over small cook fires, drank scalding black coffee from tin cups, gazed hypnotically at the flames and watched bacon sizzle in a hot skillet with eyes glazed over from lack of sleep. Reenactors arriving at a civil war event on a Friday night are notorious for singing, drinking, or talking for hours on end. Friday nights are like family reunions. In most cases you hadn’t seen friends in months, so that first night is a time to socialize, get reacquainted, retell old war stories, sing, drink, and laugh.

After breakfast of bacon, hardtack, and coffee, it was time to form the battalion. Officer’s call had been much earlier, so when Captain Tom came back it was to inform us we would be 4th company in line. We also discovered we were biggest company in the battalion, with approximately 35 men, so we would have the color guard with us. Several of the Tater Mess boys volunteered to act in this capacity and when it came time for us to take the field, they would be on our left.

During battalion formation we met our battalion commander, Lt. Col. Don Gross. I think he must have been a Marine Corp drill instructor in a previous life. He barked and snapped like a bulldog, but was quick to also heap praise when we did something right. Col. Gross carried no sword nor did he carry sidearm, sash, waist belt or other accouterments on his person. All he had on was his uniform and a Hardee hat.

During the first drill, he taught us forming divisions from a battalion front. “By the right of companies, to the rear into column, battalion right face.” This was reminiscent of drill I remember doing during the 125th anniversary reenactment at First Bull Run in June 1986. At events during the nineties and in this current century, I haven’t been involved in too many events where battalion drill is taught too much.

We marched in column of divisions, then wheeled into battalion line. From a battalion front, we also learned to move the right and left division to form behind the center division (two companies formed one division). A reversal of this same move was to place the center and the left division behind the right division. It basically amounted to learning how to walk and chew gum.
After about an hour of this entertainment, we were allowed a fifteen-minute break, then we formed up for bayonet drill. The whole battalion, some 200 men, was spaced about ten paces from one another and was instructed in the evolutions and convolutions of bayonet aerobics. Guard, parry, thrust, advance, repel, right and left volt, right and left rear volt, and the popular leap to the rear. We did such twists, turns, and gyrations that a ballerina would have been impressed. What this hobby needs is someone to create a workout video. How about-‘Leap to the Rear with Richard Simmons.’

After this aerobic workout was over, we had almost an hour before we had to get ready for the 1PM battle. Once given the command to dismiss, the boys scattered like the autumn leaves in a number of directions. Some went to gulp down lunch; I think Maki had beans and ham. Another distraction was to go visit sutler row. Fall Creek and Del Warren were the two big outfitters here. Two or three smaller outfits whose name is unimportant. One lady sold baked goods and liquid refreshment.

At the far end of sutler row was Robert Szabo, the master of the wetplate. There was another fellow next door who also did wet plate photography and I was told he had been an apprentice of Szabo who had finally struck out on his own. Both men had a lot of work come their way during the weekend. Reenactors decked out in their finest or grimiest outfits came to sit for a tin or ambro type from one of these gentlemen. I was told Robert Szabo is soon to return to Virginia, after several years in Missouri. Prairie Grove was his last event in the Trans-Mississippi. His MYSPACE website includes many outstanding portraits from the weekend at Prairie Grove, Arkansas.

No money to spend on sutler row for an image, baked good, or trinket from Fall Creek? Closer to the camps was a dogtrot cabin taken over by the US Sanitary Commission. Run by an older gentleman named Major Hershel Stroud and assisted by some mature ladies, the soldiers were offered a cornucopia of baked goods, fruits, hard boiled eggs, peanuts,
coffee, and lemonade free of charge. A lot of time, energy, and money must have been spent, and with very little fanfare, to just give food away. I don’t recall if there was a donation box or tip jar, but these hard working souls will surely get their reward in heaven. Apparently these fine people have been doing this impression for a number of years. I recall a 2002 Perryville event where these same Sanitary Commission people were present. At that time one of the ladies was dressed as a nun.

At about 12:30, we heard the bugle call for assembly. Every man Jack had to drop what ever they were doing, pick up musket and traps, and fall into their company formation. Once the company was assembled, roll taken, and men counted off, we marched up to our respective places in the battalion color line.

Some pushing and shoving was required with some dressing of the lines to ‘give way left’ and the line was formed to the satisfaction of the colonel. ‘Battalion right face,’ we formed our fours, then ‘forward march’ we went away from camp, and down the face of the hill for nearly a quarter-mile to a semi-flat land that was once a corn and wheat field. Further ahead about another quarter-mile to the northeast was the Illinois River; its width maybe fifty yards across from one end to the other. The field our battalion halted was the spot where the 20th Wisconsin and the 19th Iowa, two regiments from Herron’s Division, advanced across on that morning of December 7th.

The colonel gave the command, ‘on the right by files into line’, once we arrived at a midway point on this field. Each file, one after the other, executed a crisp right turn and halted. Soon the entire battalion was in a straight line of battle facing in a new direction. That new direction, which was just in front of us and some three hundred yards away, was the same slope that the 20th Wisconsin and the 19th Iowa had to climb when they were ordered to silence the Rebel artillery posted there.

In just about the same place as they’d been almost 150 years ago, we could see about ten Confederate guns pointed right at us. Fortunately, we had some fire power of our own in the form of a Union Battery about 30 paces in front of our battalion line. There was one Parrot or James gun, but the rest might have been Napoleon’s. At least six or eight men ran around each gun like men in a Chinese fire drill. I never saw so much red piping in my life on uniforms and hats. One team had matching red kepi’s.

We were told that the Rebs would begin the contest, so the Colonel gave us the command to ground arms and rest. We could lolly-gag about, shoot the breeze, catnap, take a smoke break, or eat out of the haversack as long as we didn’t wander off too far. I walked from one end of the battalion line to the other taking random photos of the men as well as the artillery crew as we waited for the opening kickoff.

Finally after about a half-hour of waiting, the Rebel guns began belching at us. That was the cue for the Union artillery to spring into action. For the next several minutes (could have been fifteen minutes) the two artillery forces spewed smoke and thunder back at forth at each other. One gun (might have been the Parrot) must have used two pounds of black powder because every time it fired, the ground shook like it was the New Madrid earthquake.

During this heated exchange, us infantry boys were instructed to ‘hunker down’ or ‘take a knee.’ This was pure method acting as we were playing the part of Herron’s boys and we didn’t want the cannonball of the enemy to hit us, but instead we visualized the shells ‘passing harmlessly over our heads.’ At a reenactment, the hobbyist is required to do a lot of method acting. It is all part of the experience of play acting and even though no lead projectile is ever fired, if you get to close to the receiving end of a musket, a black powder flash to the face will hurt. If you get too close to a cannon going off, the concussion can kill.

The artillery duel soon ended and the colonel ordered us to our feet. Our lines were dressed and our muskets were loaded. The bugle blasted out a tune and the entire battalion marched forward. The ground was a little uneven here and there, but we were able to keep somewhat of a straight line as we advanced. Every couple of paces we were reminded to ‘guide on the colors’ or ‘straighten up that alignment.’ It was another example of trying to walk and chew gum. To maintain a touch of elbow was the key in maintaining unit cohesion. If the men drifted and the lines broke, we would look more like a herd of cows than a well drilled fighting unit.

We had got our cue to advance once we saw that the rebel artillery had been silenced and its crews had skeddadled out of the picture. The avenue was clear for us to go up the hill and occupy the heights. Only a few foolhardy graybacks stood between us and the summit and these gents were brushed aside with a battalion volley.

The command was given to charge bayonet. No bayonets were fixed, but the men in the front rank had the muskets out in front in the guard position while the rear rank men went to right shoulder shift. No other command was given but within a second, unit cohesion had evaporated and the men were scampering up that hill like an angry mob storming Castle Frankenstein. Even though passion had over taken each man, one had to be wary of roots or small rocks that might turn an ankle. Mixed in with Indian war cries and bellows of rage were words of caution to ‘watch your footing.’

At the top of the hill sat the Archibald Borden House. The Borden House had burned down the day after the original battle but has been rebuilt and it sits to this day. Behind the Borden House was an apple orchard. That too has been restored.

The two–story Borden House loomed right before us, once we reached the top of the hill. Shouted commands by the officers and the battalion was instructed to reform on the other side of the house. The right wing went one way and the left wing went another. On the back end of the house the battalion was instructed to take a knee behind the snake fence and commence firing. The snake fence was only knee high, so we had to flatten on our bellies to shoot then reload by rolling on our backs. Two hundred yards away and emerging from the shrubbery that was the old apple orchard, came the entire Confederate infantry.

The men of the 20th Wisconsin and the 19th Iowa had scaled the slope and overran the Confederate battery, then as they advanced on either side of the Borden House, they saw they’d run into a trap. Coming through the orchard just ahead was a Rebel infantry brigade under James S. Fagan and dismounted cavalry under Jo Shelby supported by Bledsoe’s Battery.

We threw blistering volleys into the advancing graybacks but there was no stopping that tidal wave of doom. Slowly and painfully, men began to fall back. My musket had fouled a couple times, so I stepped back to pick the crud out of the cone. Back on the line, I was able to clear my piece, but I must have put two cartridges down the barrel. It went off like a twelve-pounder and my pards almost wet themselves.

Onward that crushing gray wall came. The boys in blue were being whittled away and it was time to vamoose. We picked ourselves away from the fence and scurried back around to the other side of the Borden House. A couple more pot shots were hurled in a feeble attempt at the foe, but it was no use. About face and fallback was the order given.

One touching scene I witnessed was this. A Union soldier had collapsed against the front porch. He’d been ‘wounded’ or something and could go no further. A little boy about three or four stood over him with a look of distress. The boy was decked out in a Union uniform and clutched a hospital flag. One look told me they were father and son. The Rebs were approaching and the father was telling his son to go on and leave him. Reluctantly, the little boy left his father’s side and rejoined our gradually shrinking battalion. As we retreated down that hill, the little boy continued to ask about his daddy.

“Will the Rebs hurt my daddy?”

Being so little, he thought his dad was really in danger and maybe didn’t realize it was all part of the play-acting. I attempted to stay in first person and explain to him that “the Rebs won’t hurt your daddy” or “your daddy wouldn’t want you to be captured by the Rebs.” Another soldier, a friend of the father, called the boy by name and took him under his wing till the battle ended.

Eventually the battle ended. The Frontier battalion had suffered 75% casualties. Holmes Brigade had started out with 35 men, now we were down to 8. Gathering what men we had left, the battalion staggered back to camp. We were all fagged out after this ordeal. You could have knocked me over with a feather. After the battle was concluded and the applause had died down, resurrection was declared and all the boys ‘rose up from the dead’ and returned to camp. Darkness was a short hour or two away, but before the Colonel would allow his men to rest, he instructed us to clean our weapons. There would be an inspection on Sunday and woe betide the man with the dirty musket.

Maki had some old hot coffee on the fire. It had sat for hours and was undrinkable, but good enough to pour down the barrel. I couldn’t tell what was black powder and what was coffee coming out of the barrel, but at least something was coming out. I ran the rammer down the barrel, heard a satisfying ‘ting,’ and waited for supper.

Once the sun fell, the fires were built up, songs were started, and liquor came out.
Holmes Brigade is notorious for its end of season toast. We tip a mucket of some concoction and reflect on the passing year. This year we had three gallons of hard cider.

About 8PM, a few of us decided to wander over to Miss Tula’s. About one hundred yards south of the Union Camp, near the dog trot cabin housing the US Sanitary Commission people, was a single large sutler type tent. Inside the tent were three wooden tables with about eight chairs apiece and in the corner was a small makeshift bar. On the wall behind the bar was an oil painting of a nude woman with lettering that read ‘Miss Tula’s Tavern’. Candle lanterns hung from every upright pole supporting the walls of the tent, there were candles on each table, and suspended from the ceiling was a wagon wheel with four or six more candle lanterns suspended from the spokes. This candle lighting created quite an effective and somber mood.

Inside Miss Tula’s, men were drinking beer or shots of rye whiskey, telling stories, singing Irish ballads or patriotic songs, telling dirty limericks, playing checkers, smoking, and/or flirting with one of Miss Tula’s ‘soiled doves’. Miss Tula, wearing a raspberry red zouave outfit and matching fez, wandered among the patrons, shared a laugh, a drink, or playfully slapped at the hand of someone who pinched her bottom. Miss Tula had been at the Stand of Colors event but I’d missed visiting it because I was either too tired or too busy pulling ticks off myself.

The way I understand it, no alcohol could be sold on park property, but it could be given away. In lieu of actually handing over cash money for a drink, Miss Tula gladly accepted a donation. One guy 'donated' $20 and 'purchased' several rounds for the guys.

Miss Tula had a barkeep who stood being the bar and worked the tap. Occasionally, he'd put more ginger snap cookies on the table or replace a candle after it had gone out. Midway through the evening, one of our young lieutenants brought his own bottle of rye whiskey, but the bartender did not fuss. The only time the bartender raised his voice was when a Reb walked through the entrance.
“No Johnny Rebs served here!” was the cry as the grayback was shown the door.

I don't know if this rule changed from event to event, but this weekend, Miss Tula would not allow any Confederates into the tavern. On the center of the bar was a portrait of Abe Lincoln. In a tavern surrounded by paintings of nudes, a portrait of the president seemed a bit out of place.

The tavern could only hold about 30 men, but a few others came and went, then about 10PM there was a minstrel show. Members of the Tater Mess rubbed burnt cork on their faces and did a song, dance, and comedy routine. During that 30-minute session, the tavern swelled to standing room only as more boys came in to see Zip Coon, Cuffy, Stepin Fetchit, and ManTan shuck and jive. (No pics available except upon request)

On Sunday morning we had another battalion drill, but this time we didn't have to carry our muskets. Huh? I never drilled without a musket before, but it was so decreed by Col. Gross.

I think I’ve rambled on long enough with this tale. This would be a prime example of chin music-that is talking too much to the point of babbling. I certainly don’t know how to tell a short story.

Be that as it may, the short and sweet version of the battle on Sunday was this: on Sunday, December 7, 2008, the anniversary of the original 1862 battle, the US Frontier battalion-those of us who were left-portrayed General Blunts Division.

General Blunt was nearly eight miles of Prairie Grove at Cane Hill, but upon hearing the sounds of the guns, he put his men on the road. The battle had begun at about 10AM when Herron first arrived on the scene. Blunt and his men arrived at Prairie Grove at approximately 3PM and deployed into line of battle.

In 1862, the battle seesawed back and forth until darkness fell. Out of ammunition and 30 miles from his supply line, Hindman and his Confederates abandoned the field. In 2008, the battle reenactment was halted not once, not twice, but three times due to real life injuries.

With the lines barely one hundred yards apart, play was halted because a Rebel Cavalryman fell off his horse. The man tried to get up under his own power and walk away, but his knee gave out and he collapsed. The guy also had the ugliest length of shoulder black hair. For a minute it looked like he had on a Halloween fright wig. Play was resumed once the guy was hauled away but less than ten minutes later play was halted again. This time the injury was a bit more serious. A Rebel color bearer had fallen backwards in the pretext of taking a hit. As he fell back, the pointy end of the flagpole jabbed another Rebel reenactor in the neck.

There are all kinds of professional people in this hobby, teachers, lawyers, students, and businessmen. It just so happens that the hobby also has a fair share of folks who are in the medical profession, including real life doctors, nurses, and EMT’s.

Once the emergency was known two or three guys from the Federal lines leaped across no-man’s land to join two or three Johnny Rebs to deal with the real life emergency.

In a battle reenactment, safety is Job one. North and South play-acting is put aside and modern medical skills come into play. In the past, I’ve seen a lot of injuries suffered on the reenactment field. Some take the form of simple ankle sprains or someone falls off a horse or a knee goes out or someone gets stabbed with a bayonet or falls face first on the barrel of his musket. No matter how much you try to maintain first person and put yourself in the heat of the moment, you must also be aware that accidents can happen.

So play was halted for about another fifteen minutes till the fellow could be patched up and carted off the field. Fortunately the cut on the neck was nowhere near an artery. During this down time, both Union and Confederate infantry lines hurled playful insults at one another.

When play was finally resumed, the Federal battalion fired some volleys and advanced. Though our line was not as big as the Confederates were, the object this day was we would win. So we pushed and pushed the graybacks all the way back to the base of Borden House hill. It was then that play was again halted because of another injury on the Rebel side. I’m not sure what happened, but someone later said they thought a 16-year old had had a heart palpitation.

We had been on the field about an hour, including the injury time-outs. It was unanimously decided that the game was over. Colonel Gross marched us away from the battlefield and back to our camps we went. I’m sure the spectators didn’t get their moneys worth this day, but no one can predict injuries. It was close to 3PM. Now came the unpleasant task of packing up for the long drive back home. It took Maki and I about a half-hour to load his truck and changed back into our modern clothes.

And so ends this short story on the Dec 6-7, 2008 battle reenactment of Prairie Grove, Arkansas. I want to thank you for reading this and wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

2008-11-26T19:10:00.000-08:00

*(here is Mona and Bob at the game)

The Day Civil War Soldiers invaded an NFL stadium

Before each game started, there was the National Anthem complete with a color guard detail that marched to the center of the field. It was usually the United States military or local police or firemen who carried out these honors. However, one afternoon in 1991, I saw eight men wearing colonial dress of the Revolutionary War period, march up the 50-yard line. They carried flintlock muskets and the “Betsy Ross flag”.
The PA announcer said this group was from Fort Osage ((east of Independence, MO)
I was surprised to see they were using some local historical reenactors for this ceremony and at the same time, I was imagining our local Civil War Color Guard in front of those 78,000 screaming Chiefs fans!
I wrote a letter to Carl Peterson, the President and General Manager of the Chiefs, who referred me to the Game Production Coordinator. I believe I wrote a passionate letter explaining our outfit and even included a recent photo of the Color Guard. I even left phone messages. Just before the spring muster at Fort Scott, KS, I received a letter of acceptance for our group to appear at the December 13th home game against the New England Patriots.

A month before the game, I received another letter from the Game Production Coordinator. The letter instructed us where to assemble, what time to arrive, and so on.
Enclosed were eight game day tickets, a parking pass, and eight vouchers for free chow!
On the big day, I woke up at 6 AM, took a hot shower, put on my uniform (sack coat w/forage cap) and walked out of the house into the rain! Yes, it was raining! It was not a frog strangler and it did not come down like Noah’s flood, but it was annoying none-the-less. The cold drizzle would not stop the ballgame from being played, but it would put somewhat of a damper on us, as we would have to stand in the rain in wet wool and 12-pound rust magnets.
Oh well!
It was close to 11 o’clock by the time we squeezed into Arrowhead parking. We had to be inside the stadium within 15 minutes. We were already dressed out, thank God, so it was a matter of moments to slip on traps, etc, and head for the stadium entrance.

We had to enter by the South ‘elephant’ tunnel. This is where all the players, television equipment, trucks, and other maintenance vehicles come through. The tunnel is about forty feet wide by thirty feet high and is big enough for two jumbo elephant’s to pass through side by side. The ‘elephant’ tunnel extends way down into the bowels of the stadium for almost a quarter-mile.

Once we got to the end of the tunnel, we stopped and gazed out into that painted field of Astro-turf. Miles and miles of television cable snaked out of the tunnel behind us and on either side of that field. Civilians wearing badges were walking or going past in golf cart type vehicles taking equipment out onto the sidelines. We saw shapely looking cheerleaders, executives in business suits, and working stiffs in coveralls and rain slickers scurrying about like mice in a cage. It was a regular Chinese fire drill, but it seemed everyone had a purpose and knew what they were doing.

After a bit, the mascot, KC WOLF came out in a go-cart to perform some antics. This was a guy in a silly, fat wolf suit, but he always played to the audience and got a rousing ovation. His ‘schtick’ involved pouncing on some hapless fool dressed in the uniform of the opposing team.

By this time, the eight of us had moved to the visitor’s side of the field, right at the fifty-yard line. We formed two lines, four in front, four in back.

As we received our final instructions from the Game Production Coordinator, the visiting team was announced. The New England Patriots were a much different team back in 1992 than they are today. They weren’t that good, but they still had some big looking boys. The Pats came charging out of the ‘elephant’ tunnel like freight trains and lined up near us. Damn, these pups were tall and each looked to be about 300 pounds dripping wet.

Then after the home team was announced, it was show time for us!
We went to shoulder arms and marched straight as judges right up that fifty-yard line and halted dead center. Then we went to present arms while the anthem was sung.
Of course, the PA announcer said the colors was presented by ‘the Holmes Brigade Civil War Reenactors Color Guard!’
So we stood there, at present arms, with the rain coming down and turning our muskets into rust magnets while, Kansas City’s own version of Kate Smith warbled and wailed like a lounge singer. Of course she was under an umbrella! After what seemed like five minutes, the lady concluded her soulful rendition and we were allowed to exit the field.

I had the fist full of free tickets and free food vouchers, so we went in through the turnstile and walked up to the nearest food vendor. The stadium food is pretty generic, mostly hog dogs and burgers. Our vouchers got each of us a box lunch with one dog, one bag of LAY’S potato chips, and one small PEPSI! Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick. The boys wolfed the chow down and we went to find our seats.

Our complimentary tickets were near the west end zone, near the ten-yard line. I had the tickets in my pants pocket, but when I went to dig them out, they looked like wet mush with the seat numbers barely readable. Fortunately, there were several empty seats to choose from; some of the fans deciding they could watch the game just as well from the warm, dry comfort of their living rooms. A fan in a red rain slicker told us to find a seat anywhere. We arrived at our seats just in time to see Chiefs running back, Christian Okoye, run into the end zone from the five-yard line.

I don’t remember how long we all stayed at the game.
Did we watch the whole shebang or did we leave early?
Anyway, the brief moment under the eye of all those Chiefs fans was over. Whether it was because of the football game or what, we did get some new recruits over the next couple of years. It’s too bad the weather was so lousy, but it was fun.

Surprisingly, after the spotlight performance of December 13th, 1992, and despite my best efforts, Holmes Brigade was never invited back to Arrowhead for the flag ceremony. This was around the time of Desert Storm, so from then on, it was all military people during the National Anthem. Perhaps Holmes Brigade closed the door on reenactors at ballgames or perhaps we can blame it on a real shooting war, which made ‘make-believe’ play soldiering seem insignificant and silly.

Samuel Holmes and his Fighting Greyhounds

2008-11-13T21:07:00.000-08:00

featuring John Henry, the rag doll who can talk

CHAPTER 1

It seemed like many miles and many days had passed since the chase began. The 3000 blue-clad soldiers of Colonel Samuel Holmes' brigade had followed the enemy clear across one state and into another. These Union volunteers were long legged boys who had been raised on farms in Iowa and Illinios and used to outdoor living and hardship. Holmes fondly called them his greyhounds. But the Rebs were farmboys also; a mixture of Missourians and Arkansans. They were as difficult to slow down and catch as wild hares. Holmes sent about a hundred of his 'greyhounds' forward as skirmishers, to try to make contact with the enemy and perhaps make them turn and fight, but these boys were always driven away.
Many miles ahead was the raw and ragged wall of a rocky plateau, the foothills to a range of forbidding mountains. We’ve trapped them, Colonel Holmes thought, or at least slowed them down long enough for us to attack. Once cornered into these mountains he hoped the Rebs would finally turn and fight. But his celebration was short lived, because overhead, the clouds began to thicken and rumble. Within minutes, a heavy rain came down, slowing the pace of Holmes Brigade to a crawl. Under the cover of rain, the Rebs scaled the plateau and easily slipped away.
By the time the Union Army arrived many hours later, the plateau, towering before them, was thick with heavy black mud. No way could man or beast scale those slippery heights. At the base of the plateau, and unseen from a distance because of trees, was a wide river. The heavy rains had turned the waters into a raging deathtrap for anyone trying to ford it.
A loyal citizen, who was familiar with the area, told Colonel Holmes that the country beyond the plateau was a poor source for forage and shelter. At some point, he concluded, the enemy would have to return across the river to greener pastures or die in the mountains.
“We will wait for them to return”, Holmes smugly declared, “and give them a welcome back reception they’ll never forget”.
And so Holmes Brigade settled down to wait. But rather than lolly-gag about idly, Holmes put his men to work building earthworks all along the banks of the swiftly flowing river. In these works were placed large bore artillery guns. To the rear of these earthworks was a small tree-lined valley separated in two halves by a country road. Astride this road was the rest of Holmes’ Brigade in reserve: supply wagons, extra artillery, horse soldiers, and small tent city housing officers and men. An old two-room cabin sat in this valley, but the family had long since been driven away by the war.
Once the earthworks were complete, Holmes Brigade continued to wait and wait. Then one morning, the storm clouds separated and the sun poked out its shiny face. A spy went up in a hot air balloon and looked the area over with the aid of a telescope but when he came down, it was with bad news.
“ I can’t find hide nor hair of the enemy,” the spy unhappily announced, “The mountains have swallowed them up or else they’d found another avenue of escape and gone around our flank.”
“No, by thunder,” Holmes screeched, pulling at his hair and beard in frustration, “they’ll cross here, at this spot. I know it in my bones.”
Samuel Holmes was using the old farmhouse as his headquarters and he was having a conference with his staff, including his chief of cavalry. No one could agree on a course of action.
“Sir, a patrol of horse soldiers was sent out yesterday across the river and beyond the plateau,” the old cavalry chief said, “but the rains washed any trace of the enemy and it appears as if they’ve simply vanished.”
“This could have been the best campaign of my career,” Holmes croaked, “ I could have gotten my general’s star at last, but you ruined it,” he spat, “I’m surrounded by dunderheads. You boot lickers can’t find the stinking Rebs and all you can advice me to do is withdraw.”
“Sir, the telegram came from Sam Grant two days ago,” said an aide, “he needs our Brigade for his campaign against Vicksburg. We’ve been camped here for almost a month, “ the aide offered, “but still no sign of the enemy. It’s obvious they’ve given us the slip.”
“Slip, hell, “Holmes screamed in frustration. Enraged, he picked up his chamber pot and heaved clear across the room where it shattered and splashed its vile contents all down the wall.
“You old grannies let the Rebs slip through you’re fingers and denied me my star,” he hooted. His face was purple with rage and he pounded his fists into the wooden table till splinters flew.
“I could have been a general and this one campaign could have given me a proper command, instead of that old drunken fool, Sam Grant.”
The officers of Samuel Holmes’ staff knew it was pointless to argue with the man. His resentment against Grant was notorious ever since that day many years ago in Galena, Illinois when an empty liquor bottle thrown by Sam Grant accidentally hit him in the head.
Holmes had hoped to bag the vile damn Rebs before now and it appeared that chance had slipped away for good and that would mean a black mark on his record and possibly a loss in command. Suddenly there was an interruption as a skinny enlisted man in a white apron walked into the cabin. This was Donnyboy, Colonel Holmes’ personal cook, valet, and housekeeper.
“ Beg pardon, sir, but the river has quieted down enough that the catfish are out and hungry.”
Samuel Holmes swept the skinny youth in his arms.
"Oh, Donnyboy, you restored my soul."
He turned to face his staff. He had the glowing look of a boy about to skip school.
“Men, I’ll be back in a few hours. At that time we’ll discuss plans for withdrawing the Brigade and rejoining II Corp. In the meantime, send all the extra equipment some 10 miles to the rear. Also, get MacEye to finish boxing up that contraband so it can get sent to St. Louis. We’ll move the army at nightfall, tonight.”
Holmes leaped out of the cabin into the morning sunshine and danced and sang all the way to the riverbank. He passed groups of soldiers along the way who waved or called him by name. Even the birds came out of hiding and sensing this light hearted spirit, filled the air with song. With some sense of normalcy at last, the men sat down to eat their breakfast of sowbelly, hardtack, and coffee.
Once their commander had departed, the staff officers all breathed a sigh of relief. Now it was their task to prepare the army to march. The biggest challenge was dealing with the stuff in the barn.
The old barn was a short distance from the farmhouse and had been declared off limits to the soldiers. Even though the roof was sound and weatherproof, it was well guarded against trespassers for inside was contraband liberated by Union cavalrymen on a recent raid. The booty consisted of such things as tea sets, dinnerware, cutlery, cut glass brandy decanters, fancy candelabras, several ivory-handled combs and hairbrushes, fancy oil paintings, two chamber pots, and one brass tub big enough for to bathe a grown man.
If given a few more days, Lieutenant John MacEye could have done it, but no way could he box up all that crap before nightfall. MacEye was currently a supply officer, but had been a carpenter before the war therefore Samuel Holmes had volunteered him for this most crucial duty. But damn me if I can find proper lumber to build the boxes for this blamed contraband and stuff, MacEye silently fumed.
After hours of cursing to himself and pulling at his hair, he turned and shouted for the Sergeant Major. From the hayloft above him came a scraping of feet. A shower of loose hay fell the ground, followed by a pair of fat legs attached to a very large man. As he brushed the hay off himself, MacEye warily eyed the grinning ogre in the blue suit.
MacEye was a small round man of Nordic heritage. Both legs had been broken after a tragic tumble from a barstool and had refused to heal properly. Just under three feet tall, MacEye has to lean backwards to look up at the giant before him.
Sergeant Major Randy Rogers was a freak of nature, having been wounded many times and bearing the scars to prove it. But no wound was ever mortal, because Randy was encased in a layer of fat. He was a man as wide as he was tall with a heavy black beard matted with bits of old food. He must have been napping because when he yawned, he made a noise like a foghorn.
“Randy,” MacEye spoke softly and slowly so the giant would understand, “we need to get these valuables boxed up and shipped by this evening. However, I'm running out of proper wood and stuff. Please assign some men to forage for some building materials."
"Yes, loo tenant! I think I know just the men,” said Rogers as he put his paw to his cap in salute.
Some yards away, a group of blue coated men were huddled around a campfire. The flames didn’t put out much heat, so the men sipped from tin cups and prayed that the hot coffee would thaw out their bones. What had the men spellbound for the moment was not the hope of warmth, but the promise of a hot breakfast. In a long handled skillet, hunks of sowbelly were being fried. The owner of the skillet was bent over at the waist and used a fork to flip and turn the meat in its sizzling grease. Each man had been promised some of the fatback, so they were content to stand back with glazed eyes and wait. The drool that was running down their mouths made them look like rabid dogs.
Suddenly the arrival of the huge ape-like creature wakens the soldiers from of their trance. Sergeant Major Rogers had legs as thick as tree trunks and he stomped over to the campfire with the stride of a bull elephant. The soldiers felt the earth tremble. Rogers stopped before the blaze, unmindful of the smoke that whirled around his head, and swept his red piggish eyes back and forth.
With a wide grin, the soldier with the skillet unfolded himself and rose to his full height.
"Good mornin' Randy," exclaimed Higgy, a man who was as tall and thin as a washboard. Higgy had beady eyes set in a pinched face and a black handlebar mustache hanging under a long Roman nose. His uniform trousers and jacket were nearly worn out. Both had been patched a number of times, plus carried a variety of unidentifiable stains. The forage cap, atop a shock of black hair, might have been used to carry everything from garden vegetables to a bowel movement. E PLURIBUS UNUM was scrawled in the upturned brim of the cap. Overall, Higgy looked like the scarecrow that had just stepped out of a cornfield.
From a mouth a black as a cavern and with breath just a foul, the Sergeant Major spoke.
"Lt. MacEye is looking for some volunteers for a wood foraging detail and you're it," he declared, “I want you to take the Bagg's about three miles west to the village there, and bring back as much lumber as you can find. Hitch a mule to one of those wagon's from over yonder." He pointed toward the fence line where several were parked.
" I think there's some privy's you can knock down that should provide usable lumber."
“But, Randy. Why do we need to go into the village fer firewood? There’s plenty fine woods right here. Besides, I heard a feller say he heard wagon wheels and such moving during the evening. He says the sesech might try to circle us and get us from behind."
“The wood is for Lieutenant MacEye’s box building project,” the Sergeant Major growled, “Sam Holmes wants him to crate up all the contraband that was ‘liberated’ from on the last raid. As far as worrying about funny noises, that’s none of your affair. That’s for the officers to worry about. "
Rogers turned as if to walk away, but instead he spun around, snatched the skillet out of Higgy’s hand, and tipped the entire contents down his throat, hot grease and all.
“Now get those Bagg’s and get over to the village,” he barked, spewing grease all down his beard.
With a shrug of resignation and a sorrowful look back at his hungry comrades, Higgy walked about fifty paces to three gray, man shaped bundles. The men under these wool blankets were so tightly wrapped against the cold, only their snores escaped. Going from one to the other, he used the flat of his skillet on their backsides.
“Reach for the sky!”

Struggling out of their blankets were the brothers Charlie, Butthead, and Erik Bagg. The brother's were wearing the same blue uniform as the Union Army, but of a description similar to Higgy’s. Instead of a military cap, the brothers were each wearing a low crowned black hat with a very narrow brim. In the army, this type of hat was called a "pork pie."
Charlie was tall with a long, angular face, a high forehead and sad hound dog eyes. He ran bony fingers through hair the color of wheat. Butthead was of stockier material, thick limbed with a round Irish face. A quick smile and laughing angel eyes made him a favorite with the ladies. Erik, on the other hand, had a quick temper to match his fiery red hair and goatee. He was doing most of the cursing as Higgy explained the wood detail.
As the Bagg's shuffled over to where the wagons were parked, Higgy stepped over to where a gum blanket hung over four stacked muskets. Removing the rubberized canvas, which had kept the weather off the weapons during the night, Higgy examined the assortment of leather belts and straps that were slung over the bayonets of each musket. Cartridge boxes with slings, waist belts, wool covered canteens, and of course, tarred canvas haversacks. These were the soldiers 'traps', so called because once the soldier had these items on his body, he felt trapped in them.
Higgy took one of the haversacks and peered inside.
John Henry, you awake down there little one?"
Peeping up from within the tarred haversack was a little black rag doll made from lint and the scraps of old rags. Black strands of yarn on its head were long as the tentacles on an octopus. The doll wore a red flannel shirt, bib overalls, and no shoes. The rag doll blinked once or twice, rubbed sleep out of mother-of-pearl button eyes and in a tiny voice exclaimed.
“No mo’ rain, Higgy? I’se gets a bit chill’d las’ night.”
“Don’t fret, John Henry,” Higgy said in his calmest voice,“Looks like the cold weather is behind us. Being the naturalist I am, I ‘spect today will be hot.”
In a couple minutes the Bagg brothers came back, leading a swayback mule hitched to a wagon.
“Say Higgy, look what the cat coughed up,” announced one of the Bagg’s.
Lying in the bed of the wagon was a soldier curled up and fast asleep.
“Well feed me corn and watch me crow!” the doll John Henry exclaimed.
While Higgy and the Bagg's might have looked like an unmade bed, this unconscious newcomer was a P.T.Barnum curiosity. He wore the same blue uniform as the rest of the Union Army. Instead of the fatigue or sack coat, he had on a long tailed military frock coat - the sleeves of which were rolled to the elbow exposing a very loud red checked shirt. Plus, the coat was unbuttoned, revealing a green satin vest with glass buttons. An equally gaudy purple kerchief was knotted in a bow at his throat. A slightly dented Hardee Hat lay at his side. It was fully decorated with the brim turned up on one side and fastened by a pin holding a spectacular ostrich plume.
The soldier had nearly feminine features including a button nose, full red lips, and delicate cheekbones. The exception to near perfect features was the single black eyebrow that stretched across his forehead like a fat hairy caterpillar.
“Why its Dave Sullivan, the grossest boy in the Union Army,” Higgy said.
"Look's like he got himself some ‘popskull’," answered Charlie as he held up an empty champagne bottle, "Phoowee! Smells like he took a bath in the stuff."
"We can't let the Sergeant Major find him like this," said Higgy, "we'll just have to take him along with us and try to get him cleaned up."
The rifles and traps were laid in the back of the wagon and with a flick of the reins, the mule was urged westward carrying Higgy, the Bagg's, an unconscious Dave Sullivan, and the little rag doll John Henry.

A TRIP TO THE STATE CAPITOL, JEFFERSON CITY, MO., AUGUST 23

2008-08-26T16:34:00.000-07:00

About twenty members of Holmes Brigade came to the State Capitol in Jefferson City, MO at the request of the State to participate in a ceremony honoring Germans in Missouri and in particular their contribution to the US Civil War. What really got us excited was the announcement that the State Archives had recently located the National Flag that was carried by Franz Sigel’s 3rd Missouri Infantry during the battle of Wilson’s Creek.
Sorry to admit that the 3rd Missouri dropped their colors during the retreat, they were recovered by Sterling Price’s men, but after the war, the colors were returned to the State Capitol. For the last 140 years, all Missouri Civil War battle flags have been rolled up and keep in cabinets. Only recently has the State attempted to restore or preserve these flags. Because the Civil War battle flags are in such bad shape, one state employee told us it takes nearly 20 grand to preserve one flag. The 3rd Missouri flag was mislabeled and only recently discovered.
Since 1991 and at least once a year, members of Holmes Brigade have portrayed Sigel’s 3rd Missouri Infantry at such places as Wilson’s Creek, Carthage, and Rolla, all in Missouri. Research has led us to learn that the 3rd Missouri wore a gray overshirt, a gray hat, carried a Model 1842 .69 caliber Springfield Rifle and wore white buff leather accoutrements. No one has seen any photographic evidence of this exact uniform; we only have the written word to go by.
It was the gray uniform that was the source of confusion and panic by Sigel’s men at Wilson’s Creek. They saw gray clad men coming towards them and thinking they were the 1st Iowa, they held their fire. Sorry to say it was the 3rd Louisiana come to call and they weren’t confused. But you all know that story. Within a few months, every Federal soldier was attired the same, in Union blue.
Back to the event, about a hundred people were on the front lawn of the State Capitol when we arrived, which was at 10AM. We formed in two ranks for some picture taking, and then we did a little drill.
Also in attendance were about ten or twelve young children, between the ages of 8 and 14 I reckon, who were dressed in German polka outfits. They looked like the Trapp Family singers from Sound of Music without Julie Andrews. We found out that these kids would be doing some singing- probably German folk songs.
After our drill and some more picture taking, some with the Trapp Family singers, all guests were invited to come into the Capitol Rotunda and find a seat to hear speechifying. Before us soldiers could go into the building we had to have duct tape put over the heel plates of our shoes so we wouldn’t scratch up the polished floor. There was no place to leave our muskets and traps so we were obliged to carry them with us the entire time. If you’ve ever been inside a State Capitol building and been in the Rotunda part, it is truly breathtaking.
The Rotunda is open all the way up to the 5th floor with fancy scrollwork and paintings. Words are not good enough to tell you how majestic the Rotunda looks. Here is a picture I took, but the eye can see better than this poor image can convey.
In the main floor of the Rotunda were folding chairs for the public. They faced a small stage where four men sat with a podium. Us soldiers, representing the 3rd Missouri, stood on either side of the stage on the curved stairwell going up to the 2nd floor.
A few words were said by three of the men, but the fourth man, from somewhere in Germany, spoke for almost fifteen minutes to a half-hour. He spoke all about the Germans coming to Missouri, settling along the Missouri River, being patriotic and Pro-Union, and how many joined to cause to fight for the Union. All four speakers had some kind words to say about us reenactors doing the 3rd Missouri. Every visitor and State Museum employee had kind words to say about our impression.
After the tongue wagging was complete, it was off down the east wing of the State Museum to the new exhibit on German Missourians. There was a ribbon cutting by someone, then people began strolling in to look at pictures, portraits, artifacts, and the previously mentioned 3rd Missouri flag. The flag was behind glass and there was a glare from overhead fluorescent lighting, plus a sign said that there would be NO FLASH PHOTOGRAPHY!
We lolly-gagged around for a few minutes, talked to a few people who inquired about our hobby, and had a chance to renew the acquaintance of Holmes Brigade alumni, Bill Fannin. Bill had been in the hobby of Civil War Reenacting for a number of years when I joined up in 1980.
He served a few years as First Sergeant and another few years as a 1st Lieutenant. To a lot of guys who joined in hobby in the 80’s, Bill was a mentor who taught us a lot of stuff on the Civil War-drill, dress, and behavior. In civilian life, Bill had worked at the State Capitol Museum in the archives handling artifacts. After open-heart surgery in 1990, Bill dropped out of the hobby. This was the first time I had seen him in 18 years. Despite the fact he is a little grayer and is in his mid 60’s, Bill looked good and was overjoyed to see us reenactors, including old timers from the 80’s, John Maki, Chuck Thompson, and myself.
All too soon the reunion ended because the call came to the reenactors for a free lunch. We took the elevator to the basement to Meeting Room #3. In here was a table filled with cold cuts, bread, chips, soda pop, and condiments. The reenactors had wolfed down one big sandwich apiece, eaten half the cold cuts, most of the bread, and all the soda pop, when in walked the Trapp Family singers. You see, there was supposed to be German cuisine being offered to all the dignitaries and visitors. We thought that included all these kids. Imagine how we felt. I felt bad that we’d eaten all the food, but hey, we didn’t know. Like I said, we thought the sandwiches were for us and everyone else would be eating schlong and kraut. So when the kids came in they had these real long faces, but instead of crying they made themselves a meat sandwich. John Maki and I got up from the dining table and headed back upstairs. Just as we left, here come even more people to the cold cut table looking for scraps. John and I practically ran to the elevator.
After lunch the boys wandered around the museum or lolly-gagged on folding chairs in the rotunda until a museum worker corralled us for a visit to the archive rooms. Here would be a chance to look at Civil War flags in various stages of restoration.
We went down a flight of back stairs, the service entrance, across the State Museum indoor parking lot, and through a heavy door. Overhead were air ducts and plumbing. Underneath these pipes were heavy metal storage lockers that contained a few battle flags on pull out trays.
The museum guy said sometimes the pipes leak and in the summer causes humidity which is hurtful to the condition of these fragile flags, but he reminded us the storage here is temporary.
Each flag is sandwiched between a clear sheet called vellum and/or protected by netting that holds the threads together. The area were the flag was attached to the staff is mostly intact. The end of the flag, which was allowed to flap in the breeze, is mostly gone. To restore and preserve each flag costs about 20 grand apiece, with mounting costing another 5 grand.
We were led into three separate rooms to view restoration in progress. In a temperature controlled room, an archivist, in cotton gloves, was working on a battle flag laid out flat on a tabletop.
She was doing something with reinforcing the back of the banner. Around the room are even more Civil War battle flags, still rolled up, as they were 140 years ago, waiting on their chance to be restored and preserved.
This concluded the tour and our stay at the State Capitol in Jefferson City, MO. It was close to 3PM. We’d got to do our thing as Franz Sigels’ 3rd Missouri Infantry and were allowed a private tour of Missouri’s Civil War battle flags in the restoration process. One final note: the restoration rooms at the Missouri State Museum are open to everyone. Just make an appointment and look at Civil War relics and flags anytime you want.

Stand of Colors After Action Report

2008-08-09T20:34:00.001-07:00

As you will soon discover as you read this, the Civil War event held May 17-18, 2008, in Kansas City, Mo., known as Stand of Colors, was filled with colorful moments. More than any other event in recent memory, and to many new to campaigning in the deep woods, there loomed an element of danger and risk to health.
It began when the sponsor asked reenactors to register in one place then park their cars five miles away in another place and take the school bus into camp.
The registration was only a half-mile from the event site, yet reenactors and spectators alike were told that parking was at the old abandoned Bannister Mall in Kansas City.
Bannister Mall had been closed for almost a decade due to poor attendance and because it was located in a high crime area. However, the sponsor said there would be 24-hour security at the Mall provided by Kansas City finest boys in blue.
After registering, you could go into the event site and drop your stuff off. But then they depended on you to voluntarily leave, drive north five miles, park at the old abandoned shopping mall, hop on the school bus, then come all the way back. B.S.!
I rode to Stand of Colors with Mark Olson and it was his decision to park behind sutler row. You see all the sutlers were NOT required to park at the mall. Row after row of cars about 50 yards behind sutler row, so Mark squeezed his vehicle in with the rest. It was after 7PM so it was hoped no one would pay attention.
Let me state right of the bat that Stand of Colors was a mainstream event, with a little campaigning done by a few groups (I was in one such group, as I will illustrate).
Being a mainstream event, this meant spectators would be wandering about looking at stuff. That meant there had to be refreshments on hand to satisfy their thirst and hunger.
Soft drinks, funnel cakes, battle burgers, beer, and a souvenir stand-selling Stand of Colors T-shirts. At 7PM on a Friday night however, none of these vendors were open.
I had eaten prior to leaving home, but Mark had not. His stomach was growling so we drove out of the event to Jess and Jim's Steak House on 135th and Holmes-just about a mile away (as the crow flies). On the way out we met another pard, Eric Jackson, who was also hungry so the three of us went in the high-class eatery-we had our Yankee clothes on, but no one seemed to mind. As we would discover, there were other reenactors, who'd had the same idea as us, which was to 'farb out' one last meal before the event actually kicked off.
Mark had a $25 steak and Eric had a $10 hamburger. I wasn't that hungry but I had an $8 salad and washed it down with two draught beers. We all had two beers apiece. It was close to 9PM when we got back to the event site. There was still a bit of sunshine to guide out steps to the Federal camp. We would quickly discover this was NOT our home for the night. We'd decided to go for the 'campaigner experience' this event, so we played follow the leader as a guide led us about a quarter-mile along a path deep in the woods.
We left the comfort of the Federal Cavalry camp (which was our rallying or starting point) and entered a wild tangle of wilderness. About one hundred yards later we came out the other side into a clearing. Actually this was a firebreak about fifty yards wide extending one-mile end to end. Here was placed some of the all important power lines. Past the firebreak and into another tangled wilderness. A few paces and we met a fellow coming out of a small clearing.
This clearing was only about 20 yards square but it would be our home for the night. This fellow had just sprayed the area with a garlic smelling concoction that he claimed would put creepy crawlies into dreamland. HA! I think the ticks were wearing gas masks. We also had to be wary of poison ivy. It grew in abundance.
Once we'd located home for the night, bedrolls were laid out with some of the guys already falling into dreamland.

I resolved to boil some coffee before calling it a night. There was still a sliver of light on the horizon. It wasn't total dark yet.

There was a fire already started. A four-man cavalry patrol occupied a piece of nearby real estate. Their nags were tethered nearby. Within 30 minutes, I had coffee boiling in my peach can. I shared some of this witches brew with some pards and then it was to sleep. It got cold that night and most of us slept only in spells. Sometime during the night, Aaron Racine and Ralph Monaco arrived in camp. Aaron was our Lieutenant, while Ralph came with the impression of Provost Marshall for the District of Western Missouri holding the rank of Captain.
I don't know what time it was when the 1st Sgt. hollered for us to get up. The sun wasn't even awake! It might have been around 5 AM. We had just enough time to boil some coffee, nibble on a piece of hardtack, and get our bedding and knapsacks secure, when the call came to form up.
It seems another battalion was in a pickle and needed our help. The johnnies were surprise early risers and decided to test Federal pickets watching the firebreak on our left.

A few sporadic pops developed into a fourth of July spectacular of noise. A johnny battalion or two was inching their way down the firebreak. The Federal's were formed in a line behind some fallen timber. Our battalion was in reserve, but the Colonel told our Captain Sprague to peel off to the left onto a trail. By parking our small company on this trail, we were protecting the left flank in case of a surprise move by the enemy. Our ruse worked. The enemy did not try to take our flank because we were positioned as a speed bump. We did wave at each other, but that was it. The two main groups, the Federals and Confederates, traded a couple volleys back and forth for a spell. Finally, the Confederates blinked. They turned about face and away they went.
After this episode, the entire Federal group, us included, went up the firebreak in pursuit of the foe. I think the colonel placed us in reserve where we sat on our butts while the rest of the boys in blue scraped for a brief spell.
Once again we watched as the johnnies fell back under the might of the boys in blue. They fell back a full two hundred yards and out of sight behind the roll of the land.
During this time, with our battalion still in reserve, Mark Olson made the remark that he had a check for Jay Stevens. Mark is Holmes Brigade treasurer and Jay Stevens made some hardtack for us. Only problem was Jay was with the Tater Mess and on the johnny side. No problem says Ralph, aka Provost Marshall. All by himself, Ralph advances on the enemy with drawn pistol and calmly announces to the entire Confederate division, that they "are all under arrest."

We'll never see Ralph again, say's some of the men. Ten minutes later, up pops Ralph with 4 Confederate prisoners. These are members of the Tater Mess including Jay Stevens himself. Now we are all friends with the Taters. We've worked hand in hand with them at many Missouri events and also on the Wide Awake film, Bad Blood. We've shared beer and laughs over the years. So it was we all shared a big wide grin and a laugh as Ralph brought them into our laps so Mark could hand Jay his check. We hee-hawed and pressed the flesh for a couple minutes until the Colonel told us we had to go back to Friday night's hole in the woods.
Our company trudged down the firebreak to our hole and dropped knapsacks. It was probably 7 AM. In this hole in the wilderness was a supply of 6 five-gallon containers of drinking water. This was the entire supply for the battalion. If effect, our dismissal from the line to return here was in essence to guard this vital supply.
END PART ONE
PART TWO
I neglected to mention that from 6AM to NOON-with the exception of one hour-we had to carry our knapsacks with us. We would have preferred NOT to carry those 50lb. suitcases on our backs the whole morning, but the Colonel said, 'once we leave the area, we may not come back.' In my knapsack I had 60 additional rounds, a toothbrush, tobacco, an extra shirt, my blanket roll, one drug issue containing antibiotics, vitamin pills, pep pills, sleeping pills, tranquilizer pills, one miniature combination Confederate phrase book and Bible, one hundred dollars in Confederate script, one hundred dollars in greenbacks, nine packs of chewing gum, one issue of prophylactics, three lipsticks, three pair of nylon stockings, and one pair of dry socks. Shoot a fellow could have a pretty good time in Westport with that loot and I didn't want the ticks to carry it off.
Sorry, couldn't resist using a line from the classic motion picture, Dr. Strangelove. Of course I didn't have three lipsticks. It was chapstick.
So we were as loaded down as pack mules when we had our first scrimmage with the enemy (the fight in the firebreak, as mentioned in part one). After this adventure and Ralph Monaco's hilarious single-handed capture of a Confederate Division, our 33 man company returned to last night's bivouac (in hindsight, we could have left those back breaking knapsacks behind. Oh, well).
At the conclusion of Part One, I told you we were guarding 6 five-gallon canisters of drinking water. This was the only source of cool, clear water for a quarter-mile. If the johnnies had known that 33 men were babysitting the water supply of the whole Union Army, do you think they might have launched a raid? Perhaps they feared the ticks more than us wee few.
With nothing better to do for nearly an hour, we dropped our 50lb. suitcases from our aching backs and flopped on our backsides. Some boys gnawed on worm castles while others began the first in a series of tick hunts. Trouser legs were rolled up or trousers were completely lowered in search for the source of that annoying itch. A few of the boys raised their shirts up and took turns picking the vermin off each other. Looked like monkeys grooming each other I thought. For me, now was not the time to worry. I'd sprayed my lower legs with OFF with 100% DEET. I also had some BURTS BEES insect tonic that I sprinkled in my hair and beard like pomade. But since my wife is a nurse at the local hospital, I calmly announced that I'd let her work me over with a fine toothcomb when I returned home Sunday afternoon.

We might have lain in the clearing- last night's bivouac- for almost an hour, maybe less, when our Captain told us we had to relieve the boys of the 1st and 2nd Minnesota who'd been on picket all morning. It was only about 8AM so the question that needs to be asked is, how long had the Minnesota boys been on picket?
Rather than grumble, we picked ourselves off the tick invested carpet of greenery and shouldered our knapsacks for a trek westward. Once again we were told that we probably would not come back to this same oasis, so it was knapsacks on.
About a quarter-mile we followed a narrow twisting deer path through even more horrible wilderness, through tall grass, over stream beds, and up muddy embankments. After some huffing and puffing, we drew up to a stop and gathered around another small oasis. Ahead was the rearguard of the 1st Minnesota, about 5 boys I think. The main body was occupying two positions one hundred yards apart at the edge a firebreak as similar as one we had experienced earlier.
Lieutenant Aaron Racine and second platoon occupied one end of the flank and Captain Tom Sprague took first platoon up the rise to cover the other flank. By positioning themselves in this way, they could see about quarter-mile in either direction. Any enemy movements would either have to come down the firebreak, which even a blind man could detect, or they'd have to come through a wagon road. This road was on the opposite end of the firebreak, about fifty yards away. Both platoons had an eye on this avenue as well as the flanks.
After all us boys had settled in, the reconstituted 1st and 2nd Minnesota came marching past, heading back the way we had come up. Once they got to the oasis, I suppose they would all flop on their backsides, tilt their hats over their eyes, and catch a few Z's. The Colonel told us that if we get into any trouble, the Minnesota boys would come to the rescue. 'But try not to get into any trouble for awhile, ok. Let's hope the johnnies don't try any shenanigans'
I was with three other lads on escort duty guarding the chap who carried the National Colors. If there was so much as a whisper of the enemy in the area, we had orders to escort the colors to the rear. While 1st and 2nd platoons lay out in the morning sun working on their tans, the color escort boys sought shade. I remember puffing on my pipe and then gnawing on a chicken leg during this intermission.
As I lay under this very unusual tree, I happened to notice several unusual growths dangling from the branches. The growths, about the size of a walnut, were shriveled, wrinkled and had little tufts of fuzz on them. Call me daffy, but I swear that they looked like little shrunken heads. I considered collecting several so Steve Hall could examine them. Steve has been practicing phrenology for a number of years and is very skilled at interpreting lumps and bumps on heads. He prefers to read the bumps on a female noggin. It's probably how he met his fiancée.
Just as I reached out to snag one of 'the heads' for my haversack, I felt a queer sensation crawl up my backside. It might have been a tick making a nest in my nether regions, but it caused me to reconsider. I didn't want no Mummy's curse to haunt me so I lift the bizarre ornaments alone and resumed gnawing my chicken leg.
Aaron Racine and 2nd platoon was on the other side of the tree line and only a chicken leg's throw away, so I threw my chicken leg at them. It landed right in the middle of that pile of boys and a couple of them jerked like they'd been bushwhacked. I giggled only for an instant, because my laughter was drowned out by a sudden hurricane of noise. It was an invasion!

Peeking out and up to the top of the hill, I saw that Captain Tom Sprague and 1st platoon had formed a skirmish line, from tree line to tree line, and was hotly engaged with at least 300 scarecrows! Within seconds, Aaron Racine had formed his own platoon of men, advanced up the hill at the double quick, and the two forces formed a duet of death against these monsters under Sterling Price.
Only for a moment could I remain an audience to this titanic struggle of good versus evil. The colors and the guard were quickly ordered to the rear. Before turning away, I could see the unclean denizens of doom were continuing forward; the puny attempts by of our boys in blue only an annoyance.
The scarecrows of Price's army seemed to be walking forward with a shuffle and with a loose limb swagger that reminded me of zombies advancing in search of brains to eat. Atop that vision of doom, my blood nearly froze as a high pitched screeching came from the lips of this mob. Imagine a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. It was the Rebel yell!
When word had first come of the attack, Sgt. Dave Sullivan had been ordered to hot foot it to the rear to bring up the Minnesota boys. He had run like a gazelle, a quarter of a mile back to our original oasis. But the Minnesota boys had heard the fireworks and were in fact streaming to the rescue. When informed of the dire situation, our colonel seemed more bored than alarmed. 'For Pete's sake! What are those rascals up to now?'
Meanwhile, the enemy had poor Captain Tom and his gallant lads boxed in a corner and it certainly looked like the end for my pards.Where was I? In the rear with the gear. Then the Colonel burst upon the arena with drawn saber and 100 ticked off (no pun intended) Minnesota boys hot on his heels. The two opponents collided with such a force. It was like a wave crashing onto the rocks.

Though they had us outnumbered 3 to 1, Price's scarecrows were the first to turntail and slithered back up the hill.
We had successfully defended the narrow gateway to the Union rear and the vital water supply. I say we although I did little except offer encouragement. I dare not dirty my musket in this game because my job was to defend the flag. In fact I was prepared to sacrifice myself in case an unclean Rebel hand dared touch it. Thankfully the color guard was many yards away from the fighting so the opportunity never came up to for me to become a martyr for the Union.
I'm afraid I've wagged my tongue far too long on too many minor details, so I'll make a long story short by saying that between 10AM and noon we were engaged two more times with the enemy. However these episodes were minor in detail and only involved a dozen scarecrows creeping about in the woods. With a few pot shots of our own thrown in the mix, the threat once again to the vital gateway and the path to the Union rear was thwarted.
The minor episodes on our area did not involve the entire Union and Confederate armies. There were flash points of activity throughout the entire 4-mile square event site. Somewhere there were artillery duels and elsewhere cavalry clashed. And in other remote parts of this park, small sized infantry units butted heads in skirmish lines or sniped at each from the cover of heavy timber, brush piles, or drainage ditches. Every participant was engaged in some kind of situation under arms and to some degree out of sight of the public.
The public battle was to be at 1PM. Between noon and one we spent the time getting in position, forming ranks, and sucking on ice chips. Two men, properly attired as field hospital orderlies, came by carrying a stretcher between them. On this canvas stretcher was a gum blanket. Under this gum blanket was a bag of ice. As the men advanced past the ranks, they handed out a few ice chips to each man. Some guys put the ice in their cups while most put it in their hats to cool off their boiling brains. This procedure took some time as there was about 100 of us including the Minnesota boys. You see it was barely noon and the temp was already in the upper eighties or lower nineties.

The way I recall the battle was our battalion would be joined by three other Federal units all arriving from different parts of the field. The colonel said we had the smallest battalion so we would be used as skirmishers covering the entire front of the Grand Division. Until this moment I didn't know we had a Division of Federals nor did I know we had a Brigadier General.
At one point this dashing figure came galloping up on horseback and said some words to our colonel (who was dismounted the entire weekend, I forgot to add). The colonel said everyone would drop knapsacks for the fighting, then singled out the color guard, five of us including the flag bearer, and said we would hide out under a big shade tree and out of sight of the public. When they, the skirmish line, came past, we would pop up and join the line and then we could unfurl the flag. That was all right by me. I had no desire to dirty my musket or get my clothes soiled by flopping in the tall, tick infested weeds as a skirmisher.
So the battalion went one way, in a skirmish line about a quarter-mile long, and the color guard waited under the shade of a big evergreen tree. Tagging along with us was Captain Abrahm Comingo aka Ralph Monaco. He was puffing on a big cheroot and occasionally sipped on some medicinal brandy he had in a flask. He generously offered my pards and me a nip as we waited for the big show to catch up to us. Under this big shade tree we had to watch where we sat because poison ivy grew here and loved the shade. Ticks and poison ivy were the two most annoying things we had to deal with.
We had passed the bottle back and forth only a few times when the artillery opened up somewhere to our far right. This was followed a moment later by the sound of many muskets pop-pop-popping. This developed into a perfect thunderstorm of noise from all quarters as it singled the opening of this battle for the public.

The public was about a half mile away so they couldn't see this opening act; just a lot of smoke, noise and tiny ant like figures. Within a few minutes, the battle would get even closer to them, until at just at the final act, we'd be almost in their laps.
For the amusement or comfort of the paying spectators ($15 a head), a set of bleachers was set up. Those that could not or would not sit in the bleachers were welcome to park themselves in an area of freshly mown grass about 50 yards by 20 yards. Signs were placed saying that the front was for blanket sitters, the second row for lawn chair sitters, and the third row for those who preferred to stand.
Anyway, let me get on with the battle.
The skirmish line slowly fell back until they came past our shade tree. That's when we jumped up and joined the ranks. The colonel shouted for the men to form companies, so we sought Captain Tom and the boys. They occupied part of the line and the color guard was placed on their left. Pretty soon here come some of those Minnesota boys who formed up on my left. I think we moved some other companies around until we looked about evenly balanced with the colors right in the middle.
After this the General came trotting up on his horse and told the colonel that our battalion will form on the right of another battalion. So we marched ahead some paces, did some fancy wheeling, guided left, and hooked on with another battalion. They also had a set of National Colors.
I believe there were four more big battalions of Federals milling around about a hundred yards apart. And they each had a big set of National Colors also! I'd wager we had 500 Federal Infantry, plus about 75 horse soldiers running about popping pistols and swinging cavalry sabers. Not sure of the total amount of artillery for our side but maybe ten is a good number.
Now the Rebs had not been napping the whole time we were doing our fancy movements and alignments. I counted three huge lines of scarecrows, each measuring a quarter-mile in length each. I don't recall any Army of Northern Virginia soldiers. No gray uniforms that I could see except for the mounted officers. I think all the foot sore soldiers of Sterling Price's army wore some type of civilian garb or butternut. Also, I don't recall if the Stars and Bars were carried. I think I saw a Missouri State Flag and one that is blue with a white cross (can't think what that is).
So the lines of both armies stood some yards apart, glaring at each other, taunting each other with curses and unclean suggestions. All the time we were firing up and down the line, firing by file, firing by companies, firing at will. Sometimes a man would fall, but the colonel said not to take too many hits just yet.
There came a time when a portion of the Grand Division advanced a few paces or did an about face a fell back a few paces. The scarecrows did not scare easy this day. The advanced two paces, fell back one, then advanced five paces, and fell back two. We fell back five paces, advanced one. You see we were losing the day. By this time the armies were within spitting distance of the line of spectators. They could smell our gun smoke and our sweat.
A few more well placed volleys, then word came that we would retreat. Finally the colonel gave us the order to run away in panic. Men began to stumble and fall, but most broke ranks and streamed for the rear. The colonel pretended to try to stop us. 'Rally, boys. No run away. No stop, you cowards. Keep up the panic.' The entire Grand Division had fallen to the rear in various forms of disarray. The Rebs continued to advance and pop at our yellow backsides. By this time, the colonel had succeeded in reforming our battered battalion for one last hurrah. I was on the left of the guy carrying the colors. I remember twisting on my right heel and stared at him with a puzzled look of bewilderment, then my musket slipped from my grasp, and I collapsed like a bag of moldy potato peelings.
The Rebs continued to advance, they passed over my dead body, and a few moments later, the fight was declared over, and the horn of resurrection was sounded. About two hundred boys, of both persuasions, lay on this field either as dead, dying, or wounded. I think costumed hospital stewards scurried about for a few minutes before we all were allowed to get up.
I vaguely recall hearing the roar of applause coming from the bleachers. I hope the people got their $15 worth of entertainment. For my pards and I, it was time to visit the beer garden. We stacked muskets, placed our knapsacks and stuff by the stack, and took only a tin cup and a wallet to the oasis of barley and hops.

THE END

After Action Report of 2003 Carthage, MO. event

2008-08-09T20:14:00.000-07:00

"The Dutchmen of the 3rd Missouri"
Approximately 16 men from Holmes Brigade attended the event at Carthage, Missouri May 3-4, 2003. We wore the grayshirts! The rest of theFederal infantry battalion, another 4 companies of Kansans and Nebraskans, came with sack coats and sky blue trousers. They kind of looked at us funny, not knowing who we were supposed to be.

Many of the MSG troops were scratching their heads trying to figure us out as well. It seems that in the original 1861 battle, only the Federal artillery wore dark blue issue uniforms. Both the Third and the Fifth Missouri Infantry-all German-wore a type of gray overshirt. We wanted to set a precedent that we hope might be repeated in the future.

Just before the battle Saturday, we were treated to the sight of one of the "Hood" daughters displaying the National colors under her skirt.
Soon a lengthy artillery duel between at least ten full-scale guns developed. This was followed by the infantry fight in which we crossed and recrossed "Buck's Branch", exchanging withering volleys with the enemy, then formed a square and "skedaddled."
On Sunday, we came in from the opposite side of the field. This was to be a 2 PM fight, so we had to form up at 1:15 and stand around and fan our balls till kick off time. We marched up a paved road and delivered a volley into the backsides of the Missouri State Guard pukes that'd stacked arms and were "coffee cooling." They immediately crapped their pants, grabbed their weapons and began to return fire. By this time, we were entering the field from the right and extended our 5 companies in a battalion front.
A light rain was falling off and on. The field was somewhat muddy as we slowly pushed the sesech back across "Buck's Branch". I was reloading after a third volley, and yanked the tail of the cartridge between my two front teeth, when I felt something odd. I had just yanked my upper front tooth out. Actually it was a 20-year old cap probably hanging on by a thread. It went flying somewhere in the tall brush. I said something using off color language and showed my gaped tooth smile to Gregg Higginbotham and John Maki. They said I looked like a "Jack O Lantern", or better yet, a hillbilly in a Branson Musical Show. It didn?t hurt because in 1976. I'd had a root canal, with a cap put on the dead stump. Anyway, I felt embarrassed and stupid, but I continued on.
We were pushing the sesech pukes across the stream. Cavalry was running around the outer edges of the battlefield with pistols popping, while infantry grappled like tag team wrestlers. Action was going on in different parts of the field by individual units of men like it was a three-ring circus, minus the high wire act. Ground charges hurled potting soil high into the air or vomited geysers of water from the stream. At one point, "Herr Siegel" ordered us Gray Shirts across Buck's Branch to flank a company of MSG. Mike Metcalf lost his footing while crossing the muddy bank and landed on his back, staining his gray shirt with wet mud. The rest of us had mud clinging to our trousers up to our knees, elbows, and brims of our hats. Plus we had wet grass stains from diving on the ground to escape a sesech volley, as well as black powder residue on our hands and lips.
Jim Beckner, whom we all called "Gross Oohpaw" or Great Grandfather, was struck down by enemy balls several times, as was Hig and Maki, but "Herr Siegel" came along and resurrected them on the spot, saying, "You all are no longer dead, so get back in line!" While the fight raged on, some confusion was evident as battle lines overlapped. One MSG commander roared at Hig and Maki to "get back over here and into line." He was another one of those confused souls who was ignorant of the clothing we wore and couldn?t understand why we were on that side of the field thinking we were some of his boys. We corrected him on the spot with several well-aimed musket volleys. I fired 40 rounds, missing front tooth and all, and we slowly forced the enemy from the field in what was scripted as a generic battle. We marched off the field, triumphantly, between ranks of cheering spectators singing, "Mary had a little Lamb." A few of the other Federals tried to sing "Marching Through Georgia", but they were hushed up.

As we were about to be dismissed, "Herr Siegel" congratulated us all on a fine job. Both he and the battalion commander had big grins. As we took stock of ourselves at the end of the event, we looked like we?d fallen off the manure wagon into a hog pen. We were only looking for one thing after this knock down fight, however,lager beer! If this event is held again, in a couple years, it is hoped we can get more boys into Gray Shirts and possibly educate some on what the correct impression should be for an 1861 event.

After Action Report of 2004 Franklin, TN event

2008-08-09T20:08:00.000-07:00

We pulled into Federal registration between 10:30 and 11AM where folks behind the table asked for "papers please!" A medallion was handed out plus a cheesy pinup poster featuring two soldiers, a US guy and a CS guy. We were instructed to "drive down along the fence line about a half mile, then turn left for another half mile," to find the US camp. I was the only one dressed out in blue, but Robbie Maupin and Dan Hadley (both who would be on the CS side) agreed to see me to my camp.
We drove past scores of Union soldiers, but when pressed for directions to the digs of the Western Brigade, they said, "On down the road." We drove past a red barn-a strip of yellow police tape wrapped all the way around it to keep the reenactors out. Past a few more "Yankees," then at the bottom of the slope stood one solitary A frame tent. Clustered around the canvas shelter I recognized Captain Terry Forsyth and Lt. Tom Sprague right off. I got my stuff unloaded and set on the ground. Mark Olson came from out of the A and we all hugged on each other. As I looked around I only counted seven Holmes Brigade boys. Including Capt. Terry and Lt. Tom, there was Corporal Dave, Mark Olson, Gary Riley, Greg Wait, and myself. Where was everyone else? Terry thought some more boys would be coming in throughout the day and possibly into Saturday morning. He was about half right. Later that afternoon, three more Holmes Brigade boys arrived. Charles Hoskins, and John and Sam Peterson. The very first words out of John Peterson's mouth were "…way the fuck down here in the last camp!" We now had ten men in our company!
We were really looking pretty sad as a unit. It was said we might have to consolidate with another company. Then when spirits were at its lowest, we received 6 new recruits. Four were from a Pennsylvania group and two were from the 1st Colorado. I think they were orphans like us and needed a home, so they wandered into our nest. They all looked well fed, like little butterballs. One had been an officer back east, plus two others were sergeants and still wore the rank on their sleeves. The PA boys chitter-chattered like schoolgirls the entire afternoon, until we took off on our long march, then they bitched because "everyone is walking so fast" and they couldn't keep up. "That's how Western soldiers march," I explained with a grin.
Our first skirmish was up the road a short distance. It was mid afternoon, I guess. After going up the narrow dirt lane, we were commanded to drop our knapsacks in a pile. Oh, I forgot to mention this, but we'd be going to another campsite after this here skirmish. So, if there was something you had to have that night-like a blanket-you had to lug it with you now!
So, we dropped packs and reformed the battalion. We were the eighth company of the battalion and the colonel tended to remind us "y'all are the end of the line!" We couldn't allow the enemy to flank us, was the implication. The colonel, a little bantam roster with white chin whiskers, croaked out the order to advance in line of battle. "Guide to the colors!" The Stars and Stripes were smack dab in the center of our battalion. When the order is given to guide or dress to the center, all the boys look to the center, or where Old Glory is. The men in the ranks attempt to march in a straight line, although officers and NCO's will bellow to "Get the bow out of the line!" or "Dress to the center!" You also have to maintain a touch of elbow with the guy next to you otherwise the ranks will look sloppy, resembling less an army and more a mob.
The fighting was going hot and heavy now. Cannons roared somewhere off on our far right. Confederate cannons were several hundred yards to our front spitting smoke. A line of dirty Confederate soldiers dotted the landscape in front of these guns. Their line stretched from horizon to horizon. About one hundred yards separated us from them. The little colonel shouted at us the fire as a battalion, then by company, then by file, then finally at will. A Sergeant Major ran rings around all of us. He carried a staff like a drum major. His job was to echo the orders from the colonel. During the crash and boom, the voice of the little colonel could not be heard, but the Sergeant Major barked like a lion. Plus Captain Terry and Lt. Tom were on hand to repeat stuff as they heard them. It was not unusual to have ten or twelve people shout the same order, in case you didn't hear it. We might have been better served if we'd had cue cards to read and react to.
After about 30 rounds had been smoked through my Springfield, I noticed the cone becoming fouled. I tried to worm the crud out with a nipple pick, but it would not budge. The battle petered out about five minutes later and was halted. We were ordered to snap caps, but I told the colonel my cone was fouled, so a few minutes later I was putting on a new one. I have two extra cones in my cartridge box. We got to sit down for a bit after this fight and several of us nibbled on snacks from the haversack while a volunteer gathered canteen's from all around and went to fill them.
All too soon, a drum sounded and shouted orders came to reform the battalion. Once again in ranks, we marched off a distance of about a half-mile to Rippavilla plantation. This was an old antebellum house that was on property owned by the Saturn automobile company. The grounds around Rippavilla were neatly manicured, like a golf course, and surrounded by a white picket fence. The entire battle reenactment was on Saturn property. I don't know how many acres they had, but they must have sold a lot of cars to buy up all this land. The actual town of Franklin was about ten miles north. The battle reenactment site was close to a town called Spring Hill. We took another break here, because just ahead was the highway. State troopers would shut down the right hand lane of this highway so we could march up about another half-mile, over pavement, to reach the place where we would camp for the night.
The entire time we were on our feet, going from one place to the next, the Pennsylvania boys continuously belly ached that "everyone is walking so fast," or "what's everyone's hurry?" Considering we were the last company in an eight-company battalion and these boys were in the last rank of that company, I can't understand why they couldn't keep up. Nevertheless, they complained the whole trip. I stated, as a matter-of-fact, "we are all Western soldiers and that's how we march." They weren't the only complainers in the Union army. Quite a number of well-fed and aged men lay off to the side of the road during the long hike. Most gasped and puffed like beached whales and sucked on canteens while a pard nursed their pulled hamstrings or sore ankles. I didn't have too much trouble myself. I'm proud that I was able to hoof it with the rest of the boys with no ill effects-other than I was dog-tired when we finally stopped and my shirt was wringing wet.
Where we pulled up for the night was in the middle of a God forsaken old cornfield, stripped bare of nearly all vegetation. Right down the center of this field was a trench line that was waist deep and at least 200 hundred yards long. All us Union boys were obliged to bed down here, so muskets were stacked, campfires started, and bedrolls were laid out. We had barely settled in, when word came that four men from each company would have to go out on night patrol. That is they would sit out in the dark and watch to see if the enemy would try to sneak over. The Pennsylvania boys quickly volunteered out of our small company-good riddance. So the night rangers marched off into the darkness and the rest of us stretched out under the stars. I brought out my big slab of bacon from my haversack and started cutting off small hunks to fry in my tiny little skillet, while Mark began boiling coffee. A finer supper I never had! The early October evening was slightly cool, but not uncomfortable. Several of us snuggled close to the small fire, however, and gazed hypnotically at the cracking embers or up into the starlit heavens until sleep overcame us. Before falling asleep, I saw the headlights of at least a dozen vehicles coming through our area bringing artillery. Sure enough, in the full light of morning, there were ten or twelve cannon positioned on our right and on our left all along that 200-yard trench line.
Reveille came to us at an early hour; the eastern sky was just barely beginning to lighten. Dim figures began to move around in the pre-dawn darkness rolling up bedrolls and stirring the embers of a dying fire in order to coax coffee into boiling. This ritual had barely been completed, when a slight rain drizzle began to fall. Those that had ponchos, drug them out. However, within five minutes the rain had petered out.
It seems our sentries had been out all night, exchanging pleasantries with Johnny Reb no doubt. As they wandered in from their all night frolic, it seems that brought news of the enemy, who was just over past the hedgerow-one hundred yards to our front. Thanks for stirring up a hornet's nest, I thought. Word came to us to form battalion, right face, and forward march at a left oblique away from the comfort of the muddy trench to a worn path that wound through the aforementioned vegetation. We'd left our packs and haversacks behind and hoped our comrades would not pilfer while we were gone. My observation on this was made as I came to the conclusion that only four companies of the Western Battalion were on this prowl.
"Where are the rest of the boys?" I said aloud even as we stepped through the other side of the hedgerow into a wall of butternut and gray. Looked like the whole Reb army only fifty yards in front of us. Shock and awe hit the face of our little colonel as he realized the trap, but with unflappable presence of mind, he ordered us to let loose with a few aimed volleys, then back we skeedaddled-back through the hedgerow in the direction of the trench.
We had barely collected ourselves back on the "friendly side" of the hedgerow when it was noticed that, in our absences, the entire Union Army had got up out of the trench and was hotly engaged with a foe just as equal in number on our left. Now I knew what had happened to our support. They'd gotten stuck in a trap themselves! I believe a few more volleys were fired, then we all backed up till we fell into the trench works.
It was while the boys were taking stock of themselves after the little tussle with Johnny Reb, that we noticed that a boy from our very own "eighth" company was in trouble. This was the guy from Colorado. Come to find out, his knee had popped and he was writhing on the ground in some discomfort. Some pards went out into no man's land, got on both sides of him and half dragged/carried him back to our side. After a brief conference between officers and NCO's of the battalion, it was decided an ambulance needed to be called in. At any reenactment, large or small, a medical crew is always on call. Whenever guns go off and men run around in hot wool clothing in the summer time, an accident is bound to happen. Most generally these fall in the category of ankle sprains, blisters, or heat exhaustion. Whenever something like this happens, or worse, a uniformed staff officer will either summon help via a walkie-talkie or dispatch a mounted soldier to locate an emergency vehicle. As I have stated before, safety is job one at any reenactment. When a real injury occurs, play is halted! Both side's cease-fire and stand at ease until the emergency vehicle has arrived and the poor victim is hauled away to the local hospital or nearby dressing station. Once the emergency vehicle has left the area, then play is resumed. On this morning at Franklin, I had already seen a number of lame and fagged out boys during the march from our original camp to these trenches. Over the next couple of hours, the call for medical attention would continue. I know for a fact one boy either fell off his horse or got kicked by it, plus there was a few more cases of pulled, twisted, or sprained limbs. In our "eighth" company alone, there would be three more casualties before the noon hour.
Once the ambulance pulled away, with our comrade "Colorado" strapped on a stretcher, play was to be resumed. However, for some odd reason, our battalion was obligated to trot to the opposite end of the trench line. We had to march at the double quick a full one hundred yards or better, while another battalion took our spot. I wanted to get at least another forty rounds out of my knapsack, so I handed my musket to Lieutenant Sprague. Just has I turned my back, the battalion took off a trot. I caught up with the boys after a moment, retrieved my musket, and resumed my place in the rear rank.
All too soon we were ordered to commence firing at a solid wall of butternut and gray. Already, boys were packed in the trench like sardines, so the rest of us stood on the back lip of the trench, firing over their heads. It was hot work for a spell until the Rebels advanced towards us with a fierce yell. They looked like a thousand snarling uncaged beasts. Within a moment, they'd poured into the trench works and it was a hand-to-hand match with a lot of pushing, shoving, growling, and gnashing of teeth. I remember jumping on the back on one Confederate, as he clambered over the trench, and then his pard jumped on me.
Our section of the trench works seemed to be the only spot where the Confederates had broken through. Play again was halted; the end of Round Two. The southern trespassers were obligated to rejoin their pards on the opposite side. The rest of the southern horde had stopped short about ten yards from the earthworks and seemed content to hurl insults at us. As we all regrouped and took stock of ourselves, I walked up the line to see if I could spot Dan Hadley and Rob Maupin. Like I said, the Confederate legions were just on the other side of the trench line from us-no more than ten yards away making recognition easy. Sure enough, I saw both of them, in another battalion to our right. I took off my hat and hollered, "Hallo" at them. Dan hurdled the trench works in one bound, like a gazelle or an Olympic athlete, and gave me a big bear hug. I quickly noticed that his butternut clothing was filthy. In fact both men looked like they'd rolled around in the mud or fallen in a manure pile. Hell, I was somewhat of a dirty little man myself! While Dan treated me like a kissing cousin in his embrace, he told me that he and Rob wanted to leave the event that afternoon. They had talked to Susan and Linda. The girls wanted to visit the Carter House on Sunday. I said that'd be all right. We'd be able to shower, eat in a sit down restaurant, sleep in a soft bed, and then sight see the next day. I agreed to meet both Dan and Rob at the WIDE-AWAKE tent, on sutlers row, at sundown. The WIDE-AWAKE Video Company was filming a documentary/reenactment video of this event. After another warm embrace, Dan leaped back to the other side of the trench.
After this second round of shooting had concluded, we had a lengthy pause, which lasted about one hour. During that time, we were told to gather our knapsacks and move them one hundred yards to the rear. It was about this time that I heard our own company had suffered more losses. Acting First Sergeant Charles Hoskins had suffered an asthma attack, Lt. Tom Sprague had some complications with bad food he'd eaten, and our beloved Captain Terry Forsyth became lame when the nails of his boots went up into his feet. Both officers "cut stick", located their automobile, and returned to Missouri within the hour. I never saw them leave, not did I get a chance to say goodbye. We'd already lost Colorado and I never saw the Pennsylvania boy's again that day. We were back down to seven- Mark Olson, Corporal Dave, Gary Riley, Greg Wait, John and Sam Peterson, and me. We'd become orphans and were obligated to fall in with another group of guys. The company that adopted us welcomed us by placing us at the end of the line-as if we had leprosy.
While we all shuffled from one foot to the next waiting for the next order of business, Olson and I decided to go after so water. Near where we'd placed our knapsacks was a huge stainless tanker truck holding fresh water. Standing in two lines behind the truck was a whole bunch of Confederate butternuts. As Mark and I walked up to join the line, I noticed there was at least another hundred butternut scarecrows sitting on the ground, "coffee coolin", including an old Crowley's Clay County pard, Clayton Murphy. While Clayton and I exchanged pleasantries, Mark had spied Dan Hadley and Rob Maupin some distance ahead. The two were trying to get water from a dog dish or maybe it was a birdbath.
While we all waited in line for water and grab-assed, play on the battlefield had resumed. Cannon roared and muskets flamed 200 yards behind us. As calmly as spectators, we merely glanced over our shoulder at the spectacle, but no one felt like relinquishing their place in the water line just to blow more cartridges. Most of us figured there were enough bodies down there to fight, or as one person declared, "Right now, we're on break, we're off the clock!" What was odd was there were only a half dozen of us Yankees in the mob of graybacks. We were all after a cool drink of water, so it was like being off the time clock.
Eventually, it was my turn at the fire hose. Every drop of water was precious, so a 55-gallon drum caught the excess drips from the spigots. I'll never forget this young woman was standing by the spigot, bitching and complaining that she'd been out here all by herself. She obviously was part of the water department that donated the fresh water and she was complaining about working past her shift. I remember she was an attractive gal, but very self-absorbed. I got my water and joined Olson, Hadley, and Maupin by the birdbath. After declaring again about meeting at the WIDE-AWAKE at sundown, Mark and I rejoined the battle. "Back on the time clock," I declared to Mark as we found our weapons

Winter Encampment, Lexington, Missouri Feb. 2006

2008-08-09T19:57:00.000-07:00

When the Union Army halted its campaigning between December and March, the soldiers built winter quarters for themselves. In many cases they were simple one-room log cabins small enough for the comfort of two to four men, or one grown dog. These structures were built with a wood floor, a crude fireplace and a canvas roof.
There is a large field on the southern end of Lexington town, near the Victorian home of Amy Heaven (the house was in the film, RIDE WITH THE DEVIL). In fact, she owns this huge tract of pastureland, and in the past, has allowed horses to graze and the Frontier Brigade to camp.
Near the western edge of this pasture stands a one-room cabin, measuring about 30 foot by 40 foot, built from split logs and clay, complete with a good size fireplace.
In mid-January, Aaron Racine proposed that an encampment could be had on this field.
The original goal of this encampment was to do manual labor, which included cutting down trees, clearing away brush, digging pits, and assembling huts. On February 4-5, 2006, about two dozen brave (or should I say foolhardy) souls braved chilly temperatures for the first "BUILD A CABIN" days, just like the old boys did it nearly 150 years ago. Without a doubt, we all thought the greatest reward lay in just getting out of the house after a long hibernation. Many of us hadn't seen each other since Athens, so there was much gayety and laughter throughout the day.
John Maki had assembled his "little house on the prairie" beginning the previous Wednesday. He cheated a little bit. He used all the power tools in his shop to neatly chisel all the log pieces. It resembled an old fashioned out house and had about as much room inside.
The Kip Lindberg/Dave Bennett team also cheated by bringing, what appeared to be, a pre-fabricated doghouse. One can only imagine Snoopy lying on top. There were four walls, covered on the inside with bathroom wallpaper. All that was required of the team was to dig a foundation, about three feet deep, by seven foot square. Then, like a jigsaw puzzle, the team fitted the walls together, added a shelter tent roof, and PRESTO! They had to crawl on their hands and knees to get through the special dog door and into their beds. They even had a small stove inside; about half the size of a shoebox I believe.
The men who made up Team Higginbotham had no pre-fabricated or pre-cut pieces of housing. They went right to the source and began attacked 6-inch thick trees with long handled axes, cross cut saws, hatchets, sweat, and brute strength. Hig, Dave Bears, Steve Hall, and Shane Seley each took turns with the hand tools. After a pretty good notch had been sliced in the timber, a couple of fat people pushed and pulled on the tree until it fell with a thud. Six-foot sections were cut off each fallen tree until enough were on hand like so many Lincoln Logs in a child's toy set. Then came the stacking and criss-crossing until by mid-afternoon, there was a foundation about two-foot high. For Team Higginbotham, their log hut will require several more visits until complete.
At mid-day, John Maki had a fine dinner cooked up of beans and ham, plus a loyal citizen had provided a loaf of delicious cinnamon bread for our dining enjoyment.
Provost Captain Abraham Comingo (Ralph Monaco) arrived to administer the loyalty oath to some recently paroled Rebel scarecrows. He also read articles from an old 1863 newspaper, filled the air with political rhetoric and smoked several vile cigars at the same time.
Sometime after lunch, we were surprised by about a dozen guerrillas in captured Federal uniforms. They appeared on horseback, standing atop a rise in the hillside, then they came bolting towards us at a trot, pistols popping in each fist. Quickly, we assembled and were prepared to return fire, but were again surprised to discover we had another enemy on our flank. This was six or seven guerrillas on foot. They crashed through the tangle of woods behind us and 'pop pop popped' at us with large caliber revolvers.

After a heated five-minute skirmish, a truce was called. The scarecrows crawled out of the woods, like so many ticks, and commenced to 'hee-haw' about how they had surprised us.
In all fairness, we all thought something might be brewing when Captain Tom and Aaron Racine told us to have our weapons and accouterments where we could reach them. I believe they got the news of graybacks in the area from a spy.
As the day turned toward evening time, we shrugged on our greatcoats and began a migration to the big log cabin and its fireplace. Despite the growing cold temperatures, Aaron supplied the evening refreshment when he brought in two 2-gallon casks of German lager. I think he also had a bottle of OLD OVERCOAT, but not sure. Meanwhile, Gregg Higginbotham held the audience captive with his tall tales from the past. He spoke about the tailgate romance he witnessed at Gettyburg '88, the adventures of the Waffle boys at Raymond, MS, the romance of Roger Forsyth, and other saucy adventures. Each story was punctuated with the famous Higginbotham body language and sound effects.
After the 4 gallons of German lager had been sucked dry, it was time to go into Lexington town for even more popskull and a bite at the sports bar. This was about 7:30 PM. In the restaurant we had hot chow, washed down with a Rolling Rock or a Black and Tan. One of the Rebel scarecrows, from earlier in the day, was in the bar with us and tried to get us excited about a reenactment in northern Missouri where you can fire up to 300 rounds. Aaron's rebuttal was priceless. Hig merely said, "I'd rather jack!"
By about 9:30, we returned to Tiny Town, with the intent to get some shut-eye. Overnight, temperatures plunged like Pam Anderson's neckline. I shared the bungalow with John Maki. During the wee hours of the morning, John gave me an extra blanket, but I still felt as if my feet were turning into blocks of ice.
Team Kip Lindberg spent all night in their hut feeding the tiny shoebox stove with bits of wood. I think they had some fagots in the hut with them. In the darkness, Kip was whacking on these fagots with his hatchet, so they'd be able to fit in the stove, when he accidentally brought the hatchet came down on his thigh. He asked Dave Bennett to take him the hospital. His cut, though not serious, required eight stitches.
The boys who spent the night in the big 30x40-foot cabin spent just as miserable a night as the rest of us. The cabin had many gaps between the logs and the wind whistled through as if it was a pipe organ. I think Ralph slept in his car, but Aaron, Captain Tom, Hig, and a few others were shivering like Mohammed Ali. Even though the fireplace was crackling, it did little to take the chill out of the drafty room. Hig told me he spent a sleepless night sitting upright in a chair with his feet in the fireplace.
About 5:30 AM, I staggered into the cabin, to warm up. Even though everyone was wrapped up like mummies, it didn't appear as if they'd slept. I told Captain Tom that if we do another winter encampment, let's do it in June.
Hig and John Maki had to be at the 1859 Jail in Independence by 7:30 AM for a Jim Beckner motion picture. I road down with Hig, plus I had no desire to stay another day, so I packed up my belongings and said goodbye to the wretched survivors of the WINTER ENCAMPMENT of 2006. And that's all I have to say about that. THE END.

Another free preview of my book

2008-08-09T19:56:00.001-07:00

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!

The Mexican War, Patrick Swayze, and Boiled Crawdads

2008-08-09T19:51:00.000-07:00

Beginning in 1983, and only lasting a couple of years, a few of us brave souls ventured into unknown territory by getting involved with reenacting the Mexican War 1846-47. Rather than do battle with real Mexicans (not PC), we instead did living history at such places as Fort Scott, KS, Arrow Rock, and Fort Osage (Sibley, MO). In May of 1985 a bunch of us journeyed to Natchez, MS to take part in a made for TV movie. Here is that story and it comes from Chin Music From a Greyhound, Volume One (available at Amazon.com).
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Over the winter, word came to us of the made for TV movie NORTH AND SOUTH which would be filmed near Natchez, Mississippi during the month of May 1985. Reenactors were being called to participate for a period of five days for the filming of the Mexican War Battle of Churabusco. I believe the infantry was offered $50/day with slightly more given to those who were bringing a cannon. (NORTH AND SOUTH was adapted from the John Jakes bestseller of two men, one from the North and one from the South, who became friends at West Point, went to Mexico and later on opposite sides during the Civil War. For the most part the book was a soap opera; it chronicled the pain, sorrow, and lust of family members who either jumped from one bed to the next or hatched devious plots of revenge or both.
I took one week's vacation from work with the plan that I would drive down with John Maki in my Mitsubishi. Gregg Higginbotham could not make the trip, so his gear was loaned to a Marine Corp buddy of Frank Kirtley's. At the last minute I learned that Charlie Pautler needed a ride so John and I had to make room for him. There was only room in the front cab of my Mitsubishi for two as the gearshift was right in the middle of the floor. A pallet of blankets was laid out in the bed of the truck with all the gear pushed to one side. We had a couple of John Maki wooden boxes with all our stuff including tents, plus we had a cooler that had snacks and suds. I still had an aluminum cover bolted on the back on my truck and it had two side windows, which could be opened for ventilation. We took turns between the three of us who would lay in the back.
Our route of travel was similar to one we took when we went to Champion's Hill some years back. I think we left on Saturday morning and arrived in Vicksburg about 12 hours later. This was our third visit to Vicksburg in 5 years and of course we had to take the driving tour. We ran into Skip Merriman and Jerry Vest while at Vicksburg so we conspired to travel the rest of the way to Natchez together. The five of us spent one night in a cheap motel, we had an authentic Cajun dinner somewhere along the way. I had a plate of fried frog's legs, and I think someone had a bowl of gumbo. We also stopped at a roadside fish market and Jerry Vest bought about 2 lbs. of boiled crawdads. I was offered, but I was hesitant to eat any of the monsters. I watched Jerry Vest and John Maki pop away a few with no side effects, so I said what the hell. The only part that is eatable is the ass end. These suckers had been boiled and then dipped in some kind of red pepper sauce or some shit. My lips and tongue felt as if I'd been French kissing a hot iron, but I developed a weird affection for the spicy crustacean's anyway.
To make a long story short, we finally arrived at the site where the movie was being made, some out of the way countryside near Natchez. We signed in, located our campsite, and began setting up the A tents. Frank Kirtley and his buddy Mike Neitze rolled in about the same time the rest of us did. Among the few faces we recognized among the reenactors was Joe Covais' Illinois volunteer's, Kyle McGonigle's Iowans, and Holmes Brigade pard Ken McElhaney who was throwing in with Dan Lawrence's artillery bunch from Texas. All the US Regular's were required to camp together, so we reluctantly threw our lot in with Kyle's Iowan's. Maki had piled all the boxes in the tent with him, so Charlie Pautler was forced to share an A tent with me. I think we spent about 5 days and 4 nights on this site and it was during this time that I got to know Charlie. We had been doing Mex War for about a year, but beyond rubbing elbows at these events, the only thing I knew about him was that he was the son of Missouri Confederate Brigade commander Don Pautler. After a long day getting blowed up on the hot, dirty movie set, we'd drag our tired ass bodies the quarter mile back to our tents, eat, then if not quite tired enough to fall asleep, we'd sit around, drink a little popskull and tell stories. Charlie and I concocted a ridiculous scheme to market a Civil War paper doll collection featuring Jefferson Davis-"anatomically correct." In our mind's eye we also wrote long Civil War narrative's featuring soldier's who were just "sittin' around packin' fudge, when all a-sudden, the yankee's showed up!"
Hollywood built an outdoor shower for us, but Charlie, Maki, and I decided to do without. Even as we got grimier as each day went by, and the bugs began to nest in our orifices, we went without even a whore's bath just to see who could go the longest. Finally on like the fourth day, Charlie went into town with some pards to go swimming at a hotel. One night, Hollywood handed out steaks and beer from a pickup truck that came through the camp. Like a herd of locusts, the reenactors descended on the treasure from the stars. Maki instructed us to fill our pockets with as much as beer and steaks as we could, even down our pants if need be. It looked like a bunch of overweight women elbowing each other just to get a pair of shoes during the bluelight special at the local retail store. Kyle McGonigle and his Iowans just sort of moseyed on over; they didn't want to get trampled on and they were in the belief that we'd leave something for them, beings we were all gentlemen. HA! When the smoke cleared there wasn't enough to feed a flea and so Kyle and his boys went back to camp with their heads hung low and nibbled on Slim Jims for supper. Meanwhile, us pukes from Missouri were laughing in the darkness and feasting on steaks and beer until the juice's ran down our chins.
One evening, some of the Illinois boys announced they were going into Natchez where there was a whorehouse. It seems Nellie's was a legalized, state run brothel and drew as many tourist to its door step as it did horny bastards. Beside's the usual merchandise, Nellie also sold T-shirt's. About a dozen of us crammed into a pickup with a large camper shell on top-the kind you can stand up in. We briefly got lost trying to find the right street, but then we were there-at an old ranch style house with many high-yellow colored gals running around in their flimsy's. Some of the sucker boys went to get his brass polished, but the rest of us were content to sit in the parlor with an old black granny who was the Madam. She took a shine to Maki and tried to romance him, but he told her we only came for the T-shirt's. To be honest the place didn't look all that clean for a tourist attraction and the T-shirts we washed before we put on.

Now then, it's finally time for me to get around to talking about what the movie set looked like and our experiences on it. Well, it was located about a quarter mile up a hill from our campsite. In the morning, we marched out as a battalion to breakfast. Hollywood fed us breakfast from a large circus tent. The spread would have made King Henry the VIII jealous. We had cold and hot cereals, fresh fruit, donuts, muffins and juice of all kinds. Eggs, bacon, ham, sausage, biscuits and gravy, etc. from a buffet. Just as the military has done throughout the centuries, Hollywood also travels on its stomach. The caterer's to the stars go "whole hog" when it comes to feeding people on a movie set. About mid-day, Hollywood would stop for lunch; the crew ate first because they had to hurry back to the set to get their props and equipment ready for the next shot. Everything and anything that could be killed, boiled, baked, and/or fried was consumed at lunchtime. Supper was the only meal not provided to the reenactor's while on the NORTH AND SOUTH movie set, so some guys would go into Natchez to eat or cook the rations brought from home.
"The first time the crew and cast ate lunch, the crew got there just before we did," remembers Ken McElhaney whom I am proud to include in these NORTH/SOUTH observations,"they were daintily using the right plastic utensils to put the right amount of food in the proper areas on their styrofoam trays when Maki and I hit the buffet line. John was covered in dirt and he grabbed whatever utensil was handy and dumped food on the tray, mixing potato salad with jello. When some of the jello was getting away from him, he just used his filthy hand and grabbed it, then slammed it back onto his tray. Next to me was some of the film crew with jaws agape and whispering under their breaths, "oh..my...GOD!". I didn't have time to apologize for John's behavior since I was slammin down food on my tray, too."
Once arriving on the set, we were in the midst of a small village of one floor adobe huts. However, Hollywood only built the front wall of the buildings-that which faced the camera. There were no back or sides what-so-ever with 2 x 4 lumber and sandbags holding it in place for support. The ground was very dry here with little or no vegetation, so Hollywood planted a number of small trees and weeds around the village and even spray painted the ground green to resemble grass. About fifty yards from the "village", a Stone Bridge had been built over a stream with even more "trees and weeds" planted along its bank. On the other side of the bridge and about another fifty yards was a trench line with about 6 artillery pieces lined up wheel to wheel. This was where the Mexican Army would be during the battle sequence. From a distance Hollywood hoped television viewers would get the illusion that this was a small Mexican village caught during a major battle. Broken artillery pieces, lost equipment, sandbags scattered about and a fallen tree were also added to the set to spice up the look of the battlefield. Over a dozen ground charges were set to go off at random intervals during filming, with several of those placed in the water. The ground charges consisted of placing large metal pans, which looked like Chinese woks, a couple inches below the ground and loading them with black powder, peat moss, potting soil, and pieces of corkboard. The charge's planted in the stream were obviously very different than those in the ground and had to be rigged to vomit water 50 feet straight up into the air.
What the reenactor's were called to do while on the set was basically "run around like chickens with their heads cut off" while explosions went off at our very feet. We would not to fire one shot during our entire time on the set. Our uniforms and faces were dusted with a variety of stains upon arrival on the set (we had to look campaign hardened). When the director called action, we either ran around in a panic or lay flat on the ground as "dead soldiers" while being peppered with potting soil and hot hunks of corkboard from the very close ground explosions. In the meantime, the principal actors were required to carry along a dialogue during this hellish confusion.

Patrick Swayze (pre-Dirty Dancing) and James Read were the two West Point chums-one from the South, the other from the North respectively. In their roles of Lieutenant's Main and Hazard, the script required them to shout brave encouragement's to their men, fire pistols, and sometimes perform acrobatic stunts by bouncing off logs or fencing with Mexican's. It was a combination of Errol Flynn meets Monty Python. At one point the two chums were confronted by an old nemesis from the past-an evil man whom the two had conspired against and gotten kicked out of West Point. Using political influence, this man had rejoined the US Army with the rank of Captain, and now he was ordering Lts. Main and Hazard to take some men on a suicide mission..."for a report of enemy strength at the bridge. Now move before I shoot you where you stand...for disobeying a direct order...from a SOUPerior officer!" I recall this exchange vividly, because the actor was delivering his lines from atop a 7-foot stepladder. The horse he rode in on was skittish and the actor could not control him too good. The reenactors were about ten yards from this scene and it had to be reshot several times before everyone got their lines perfect.
Old pard Ken McElhaney has another perspective of this scene and I gladly share that with the reader as well. "If I remember correctly, that second rate, Frank Sinatra wannabe actor who couldn't get the 'I heard you two were here...' speech right took, I believe, thirty six takes. You'll certainly want to confirm this with the others, but I do remember the script girl (or as I called her, the 'Crew Lush') barking out each take up to thirty six. Also, old baldie, or the leader of the 7th Illinois Cav, whose name escapes me at the moment ( Karl Luthin), told me that that particular horse our fave actor was sitting on was sixteen years old and had been in battles for the past ten years or so. Anyway, baldie blamed the actor for holding his pistolie next to the horse's head instead of over it. The horse would see the pistol and try to get out of the way, the actor would try to fight him back and the director yelled cut."
Between takes, the actors would catnap in folding chairs in the shade, go over their lines, rehearse a stunt, or play "hacky sack" with several members of the crew (that's when you kick a beanbag back and forth using only the side of your foot). Ken McElhaney recalls that "Pat Swayze wanted to take a piss break right before a take, the pink-panted director (or 'Popeye', as I called him because of his crappy sailor-ish hat) told Pat to hold it because he didn't want him going all the way back to his trailer. Pat, in the only cool move I ever saw him make, took three steps into the woods and let it go right in front of everyone."
It was during these breaks, that an actor would have a crew member spray a cool mist of water on his face (artificial perspiration we called it) or the crew member was sent to fetch a diet soft drink. The scene I observed was played out a few yards from me as one of these surfer-looking dud's with sunglasses whispered in his walkie-talkie for someone to bring up a cold DIET SPRITE for Mr. Swayze. We called these Hollywood assistant's "piss boys", after characters from the classic Mel Brooks movie HISTORY OF THE WORLD PART 1. Another "piss boy" brought back a couple cases of TWINKIES, compliments of actor James Read, which were handed out to the reenactors. Who the hell eats TWINKIES in 100 degree temperature? We did! It was like eating a SEALY mattress with sugar on it and we had to drink gallons of water afterwards just to reopen our throats.
The final scene involved the blowing of the bridge, with Patrick Swayze getting caught in the blast. We were told the crew was going to wrap up after this and prepare to go home. We were disappointed. We'd wanted them to film us actually fighting, not running like scared little girls. Finally word came down to stand by for a final scene. We were going to get our wish. As we waited, actress Leslie Anne Downe came slinking over like a cat. She seemed a little light-headed and sappy (might have been the heat), but she smelled real good. And was very easy on the eyes! It seemed in the TV Movie she would play the love interest of Patrick Swayze. After some harmless flirtation, she was led away by her handlers to her trailer where I'm sure a Hollywood "piss boy" was there waiting to attend to her 'needs'.
We'd been in formation for nearly an hour and it was near dusk. Finally we were called out. The Hollywood camera's were loaded with a low-light film and the director signaled our action to begin. With a joyous shout, we lined up in line of battle, with bayonets leveled at an imaginary foe, and marched forward. Then a halt and we fired a volley, then pressed on till out of camera frame.
So the movie was over. We loaded all our stuff that night, pulled out and spent the night in a nearby motel. One of the first things all seven of us did after checking in was to find a sit down restaurant and ordered several pitchers of ice water. The next morning it was back to reality as we headed home and the daily grind stone of 9 to 5 drudgery.
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The Cornfield Fight-Wilson's Creek 1991

2008-08-09T19:49:00.000-07:00

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!

The Ghost of Wilson's Creek?

2008-08-09T12:14:00.000-07:00

April 23-24, 1983 Wilson's Creek NMP Sometime after midnight, the coyotes started howling at each other. The moon seemed as huge as a dinner plate and twice as bright. Before the National Park Service built the visitor's center and put in a new tour road, there used to be an audio/visual center on BLOODY HILL. It was built and consisted of a circular platform with some maps and engravings of the battle. A button could be pressed on a metal box to hear a brief narrative of the events on BLOODY HILL. It was during these early morning hours that the audio program mysteriously came on by itself; and continued to replay for nearly an hour. About a quarter-mile from camp, as the crow flies, many of the boys claimed they were woken up by the metallic sounding voice coming from BLOODY HILL. Around about 4 AM First Sergeant Ray Ham came scratching at my tent like a cat wanting attention. I reluctantly left the warmth of the blankets, dressed quickly, and joined the boys who were sipping hot coffee at the cook fire. Captain Dick Stauffer had planned some sort of pre-dawn adventure so we were cautioned to make as little noise as possible. The johnnies were still under their blankets having spent the night up late and drinking a heavy dose of popskull, or so it was said. Each man in the company received one piece of hardtack and one apple apiece. There was no talking above a whisper and anything that clanked or rattled had to tied down or left behind. Once the company was all present and accounted for, we silently stole off into the nightWe followed Telegraph Road from Sigel's Final Position down to Skegg's Branch. This part of the Road dipped down a 30-degree hill. The road was graveled, but after heavy rains on Friday and heavy traffic up and down all weekend, it was a real ankle-twister. Skegg's Branch, which was a tributary of Wilson's Creek, is normally a dry bed in the summer, but after the April showers, it had a least a foot of water in it. The water level had even risen over the concrete slab of a bridge by about 3 inches.Capt. Dick told the men they could remove their shoes and socks before crossing or "Bully on through and be damned!" Skegg's Branch was about ankle deep as the company splashed across the 20 yards of very cold rushing water. On the opposite side, we paused for a minute to allow those few men to put footwear back on frigid feet; the rest of us stamping our feet and watching the water squirt out between the shoelaces. After a few hushed words from the Captain and his NCO's, we continued our advance up Telegraph Road, past an area that had been the main camp of Sterling Price's State Guardsmen, towards the bridge over Wilson's Creek about one hundred yards away. It was at about this time that Hig saw his ghost.As I was towards the front of the column, I did not witness the episode first hand, so here is a complete, bare-bones account by Gregg Higginbotham himself: "After everyone was across (Skegg's Branch), we started down the Wire Road and at that point, I wanted to see if we were being tailed. Sitting about fifty yards behind was a man seated on a horse. I pointed him out to Hansen and Fannin, who were both with me to the rear of the company. We continued the march and he kept on following. After crossing Wilson Creek we waited for him to cross, but we never heard or saw him. Everyone agreed that the light colored horse was being ridden by a dark figure wearing a wide brimmed hat."When the word was passed up to the captain that they were being followed, he halted the company and went back to investigate for himself the mysterious intruder. "I descended partway down the slope to get a better view as the field was somewhat shrouded in fog", Dick wrote in a recent letter to me. "I could make out distinctly the figure of a cavalryman or officer on a light colored horse about 80 yards from me, standing still. The most notable feature was the low crowned, large brimmed hat the man wore. Both horse and man were greyed out in the fog, almost silhouettes really, and I could not make out any real detail although I tried. We knew the cav boys had stayed up really late having a huge drunk and were somewhat surprised to see that one of them had gotten up to follow us. It was a bit odd also that there was just one rider since they were always in a group when in the field. We knew most of the johnnies by their costume and there was a discussion as to who it could be, as none of us knew offhand of a johnny cavalryman who wore such a distinctive and authentic looking hat. The figure did not move during the entire time I observed it, which was perhaps a minute. I thought of sending a patrol out, but dismissed the idea and went back to the head of the column to proceed down the road leaving the figure to himself."After crossing Wilson's Creek, Telegraph Road rose uphill till it passed the RAY HOUSE, then straightened out again. It was about 6 AM and we had gone a little over a mile-as the crow flies. Dawn was breaking over our right shoulder and we left the park and entered county property. Capt. Dick halted us at a crossroads, and came up to me with orders to remain behind and hide in the woods. The rest of the company went about a quarter mile east and north up a dirt lane and halted. About 30 yards into the woods, I flopped down on my belly-partially hidden behind a large oak-and spent the next half-hour waiting on the Johnnies to show up. Once the enemy's intentions were clear, I was to skedaddle back and report to the captain. I remember my bayonet fell out at some point while squirming around on my belly. It was probably only a few yards behind me, but I didn't dare get up and look for it now. I expected the Johnnies to show up any second.To make a long story short, the Johnnies arrived at the crossroads where they looked in both directions for a minute or two, then faced west, and marched in a direction away from me. Once the last of them were out of sight, I got up from my prone position, located my missing bayonet, and high-tailed it in the direction I knew the company had gone. I found them about a hundred yards back of the road in a private driveway just sitting on their ass'-eating their apples and hardtack. Breathlessly, I made my report to the captain, who then called us all to attention, load muskets, and forward march. We marched to the place where the Johnnies had gone and found ourselves in an open field (it was private property). Naturally the grey clad foe was there to greet us and in anticlimactic fashion, we blew powder at each for almost a half-hour.It was near 8 AM when we said "Uncle!" and resolved to return back to camp. On the return trip, we allowed the Johnnies to eat our dust. We did not see any 'spooks' at this time, but there was one more episode that begs mention before this chapter is concluded. In the recent letter sent to me, Dick includes this story- one that he fondly remembers as the tale of the CONFEDERATE BOOT: "We recrossed Skegg's Branch...we just marched through without breaking formation. Some of the lead johnnies following us stopped to take off their shoes including an officer who took off his boot. This brought their whole column to a halt. Another Reb officer disdaining this unmanly act performed in full sight of the bold Federal men and annoyed by the halt of the column pitched the (other man's) boots in the creek on the downstream side below the road. The current immediately and rapidly began to carry them off. It was but an instant after throwing the boots in that both the owner and the thrower realized the boots were going to be gone out of sight in seconds and so they both dove in after them at the same time. The boots were saved after a bit of a chase and the sight of the two drenched Johnnies struggling in the waist deep water was pleasant diversion from my own wet feet and the remembrance causes me to smile to this day."A final word on the spook. To this day no one is sure who or what they saw that early Sunday morning. The Missouri cav boys won't fess up. With a straight face, they've all claimed complete ignorance of the entire episode. But, do we really want a definitive answer. The story of the Ghost at Wilson's Creek has become part of Holmes Brigade folklore and remains an unsolved mystery.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------In a few short weeks, Wide Awake Film Company will descend on Wilson's Creek to make a new film for the Visitors Center. I urge all my East Coast friends to visit Wilson's Creek Battlefield sometime in the near future. It is one of the most unspoiled battlefields on this earth.

A Date with GLORY-the life and times of a Hollywood Extra

2008-08-09T11:59:00.000-07:00

After serving as an extra in the KCPT/Wide Awake production of BAD BLOOD, I'm reminded of another time I worked as an extra in another film production. This was during the month of April 1989, a one day shoot for the motion picture, GLORY. The site was on some property near Jonesboro, Georgia, just southeast of Atlanta. Several hundred reenactors attended for what would be the opening segment of the movie, the Battle of Antietam. Here are my observations of this one-day working with Hollywood. The full story can be read in CHIN MUSIC FROM A GREYHOUND, Volume Two.
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Once everyone was through getting reacquainted and "grab-assing" was finished, we marched off in column of fours up the street to movie production central. As I mentioned, here were vans, semis, utility vehicles, generators, lighting and sound equipment, mobile homes for the cast and crew, and a mobile cafeteria. Buffet tables were loaded down with all the trappings of a large breakfast, including fruits of all varieties, cold cereal, donuts, juice and milk in box containers, and plenty of bottled water. Food handlers in white smocks and paper hats serviced a steam table in which sat stainless steel tubs of scrambled eggs, bacon, grits, biscuits and gravy, sausage (link and round), pancakes, French toast, hash browns, etc., and etc. Once we arrived at this central location, the reenactors were told to "pitch in" and then be on the set within an hour. Reenactors may be many things, but we're not bashful. We quickly stacked arms and stood in line with plastic trays in our mitts piled high with the cooked and the raw.
After breakfast everyone started to mosey up to the "set." This was an area a half mile away that we were told was to resemble a small portion of the Antietam battlefield. Off to one side of the field, Hollywood craftsmen had built a replica of the Dunker church. Don, Pat, Dave, and I posed for a picture by it. As I recall, the Dunker building never made it in the final cut of the movie. The field was fairly wide open, about three football fields in width and breadth. The field was not perfectly flat. It seemed to have one or two rolling folds, plus it rose to a slight elevation. During the filming of our scenes the Federals would be advancing uphill in three long lines, while the Confederate infantry would enjoy the comfort a barricade along with artillery support. Before filming here, an assistant director sent about fifty of us into the woods for some footage of us running, shooting, and falling, but those scenes ended up on the cutting room floor.
Directing GLORY would be Ed Zwick, who's previous claim to fame had been as director/producer of the TV series THIRTYSOMETHING. I think this was his first motion picture. Anyway, he came down and welcomed us all to his movie and gave us all instructions on what to expect and what to do. He told us if something went wrong or he needed to stop shooting, someone would yell, "CUT," or some type of flare would be launched if the battle noise got too loud for us to hear the order. He told us there would be ground charges in various places on this field-he pointed them out and told us to be aware of the wires and flash pots. Ed Zwick was very grateful for our involvement and wanted us to have a good time. He also told us that there'd be a lot of hurry up and wait between takes, but not to get bored or frustrated as that is how Hollywood does things.
Three battalions were formed, with roughly 150 men in each battalion. All the Holmes Brigade boys were in the first battalion in the far right company. The other two battalions were lined up behind us in equal numbers. As I'd mentioned earlier, the scenario called for all of us to march uphill into the teeth of enemy artillery and musket fire. After a pre-determined number of flash pots had detonated under our feet, we were supposed to panic and run around like scared little girls. We were all in our places, "with bright shining faces," when Mr. Cary Elwes came down the brow of the hill toward us. At the early point in his Hollywood career, he was mostly known for his role in The Princess Bride. As Cary Elwes came closer, we could see he had on an officer's uniform, plus he was decked out with leather rigging and carrying a wicked blade. Although his face wouldn't be seen in this segment of GLORY, director Zwick wanted him in the ranks with us reenactors.
Word that filming was about to start, and everyone was to stand by for "ACTION!" Cary Elwes walked to the front of our company, with his back to the camera, and held both arms straight out from his side-the saber in one hand. My guess was Matthew Broderick was on the left end of the battalion and would lead the men on his wing, the same way. When ACTION was shouted, Cary Elwes began walking backwards, arms still outstretched. The object by most battalion officers who do this, is to keep the battle line straight, by using sheer will power and out stretched arms. It's not wise not to look where you're going, as Mr. Elwes would discover, the hard way. Acting company commander, Lt. Bill Fannin, tried to tell the actor he was going about it all wrong and he could possibly hurt himself if he continued to walk backwards, but Cary Elwes curtly responded with a "I know what I'm doing" remark.
Here is a comment from Pat McCarthy on what happened next: "As you recall, we were instructed that we should take a hit if a ground charge went off close to us during filming. Prior to one of the takes, one of our guys (Fannin) noticed that Elwes was carrying his sword with his off hand on the blade. He had the audacity to mention to Elwes that this was dangerous and that he could hurt himself. Elwes responded by saying "I know what I'm doing"! Well, during the filming I had a ground charge go off almost between my legs, so I dutifully died on the spot. Shorting after, the charge faltered and the rout began. Through slitted eyes I watched as Elwes, "face to the enemy" and backing up, was headed right for me. Of course, his left hand was on the blade of his sword. Without moving my lips, I tried to shout, "look out" several times, but he obviously couldn't hear me. Sure enough, he tripped over me and his elbow dug into the inside of my left thigh (it left a huge, deep purple bruise that lasted for weeks). Anyway, Elwes rolled off me, looked at me with a funny look on his face, got up and started limping to the rear. My first thought was "great, I've just maimed the co-star of the film!"
"After the take we got up and were brushing ourselves off when someone came running up to me saying that Elwes was looking for me. Well, I was PISSED OFF. I'd watched this prima donna strutting around all-day and yelling at people, and I thought if he was going to shout at me that I'd take his head off. After all, I was hurting and it was his fault. Soon enough he came striding up to me, and I was ready to give him both barrels. But he was very apologetic and asked several times if I was all right. As it turned out, he thought his elbow had come down on my head. I told him I was ok and asked if he was, since I saw him limping afterward. He told me that he had affected the limp for the camera.
"About that time I noticed that his left hand was dripping blood, and asked him if that was affected for the cameras, too. He looked at his hand and got all pale. Sure enough, he cut his hand on his sword when he fell over me! Filming was held up for an hour while he had the hand treated! So much for my brush with fame!"
During the break, while the special effects people rebuilt all the ground charges and Cary Elwes was being treated for his cut, us soldiers milled around a bit like cattle, sat down and munched on snacks or played with some of the props lying about. Littering the "battlefield," were a number of dead horses and dead men. These were all fakes and stuffed with straw, although the horses looked like they had once been real and had come from a taxidermist. Don Whitson, Tim Moore, Joe Covais, and I became playful with one dead horse, while a few of the other boys, including Dave Bennett, turned a straw soldier into a pin cushion with their bayonets. I have the photographic proof! During the breaks, we also found time to get four or five of us in a picture with Cary Elwes and Matthew Broderick. Don shoved his camera into the hands of one of the Hollywood people while we crowded around Matt. The guy that Don rudely forced his camera on, turned out that he was the producer. Don didn't know. He just saw some guy standing next to Matt with his hands in his pocket and said, "Here, take our picture!"

Director Zwick had us do another charge up the slope. All three Federal battalions got about half way up, and then once again the earth opened up under our feet. At the same time, a long line of Confederate infantry, behind a rail fence, was pouring volumes of musket fire into our ranks. The Federals were instructed by Director Zwick not to return fire! Instead we were supposed to panic, play dead or "run off like scared little girls." However, as the third battalion came up over the slope and marched into the pandemonium, they began firing back! Boy, was Zwick pissed! CUT! Red flares went off in all directions. With a forced smile, Zwick reminded us that, "we were not supposed to return fire!" All the ground charges had to be made up again. Another hour sitting on our hands. At some point we went to lunch. It may have been before the Federal firearm's fiasco. Once again, the amount of food laid out would have made King Henry the VIII envious.
If you want to follow my further adventures, please pick a copy of CHIN MUSIC FROM A GREYHOUND, Volume Two by visiting Two Trails Publishing at www.civilwarbooklady.com

On the Road to Red River-a snippet from CHIN MUSIC Volume Two

2008-08-09T11:17:00.000-07:00

Steve and I arrived in Shreveport, Louisiana after a drive of about 10 hours. It was probably about 7PM when I pulled into the local Shoney's restaurant and I made a call home. I had one of these new-fangled cell phones, but it was contained in a leather bag, looking like a ladies handbag. To get it to work, one had to plug one end in the cigarette lighter. The hand held receiver part was almost as big as a loaf of bread, with an antenna a yard long. After some moments, I talked to the wife and told her we made it alive, then I placed a call to Ralph.

I'd promised to give him a call, as well. He asked me to call him back after we pulled into the event site and let him know if there were any sutlers. He wanted to buy a Hardee hat or some shit. Either before or after I made the call, Steve and I went into the Shoney's to eat. The only other meal we'd had on the way down was a hastily devoured drive-thru grease burger. We both felt we should chow down one last time on a restaurant meal before entering the seven-day wilderness journey with nothing but poorly cooked bacon, beans, and burnt coffee to sustain us.
Walking into the Shoney's, I immediately noticed that at nearly every table was a one-gallon plastic tub for the diners to throw bits of garbage into. I couldn't figure out what the deal was, until Steve and I walked up to the buffet table.
At one end of the steam table, next to the fried chicken, meat loaf, mashed potatoes and gravy, was a 3-foot square metal tub of boiled Cajun style crawfish. This is the only place and the only restaurant in America where I saw an entire section of a buffet table set-aside for these miniature lobsters. Now I understood what the one-gallon plastic tubs were for. They were for the crawdad skins after you ate the little spoonful of meat out of the ass end. I'd eaten some of these bastards before, at Natchez, Mississippi, during the NORTH AND SOUTH miniseries, so I knew what to expect.

Even as I stood around in wonderment, little kids as young as five years old, were elbowing me out of the way, just to spoon big piles of those creatures on their plates. Oh, well, when in Rome! Without hesitation, I spooned some crawdads on my plate and was soon burning my lips on the cayenne pepper seasoning. Steve Hall is a slight fellow; not weighing more than 98 pounds soaking wet. I think he passed on the crawdads and confined himself to the salad bar and Jell-O.
After this hearty meal, it was probably after nine, Steve and I decided we should head on down the road and look for the event. My gas tank was about empty, but I figured there'd be a station outside the city limits. Once we got going however, it was like stepping out the door into the dark. Where the city ended, there was nothing on the other side. In most towns, you figure you'd see a few motels and a convenience store, setting on the fringe of the city limits! We drove a good ten miles or more, on the other side of Shreveport, but there was nothing in sight!
The needle on my gas tank was in the red and I was afraid the SUV would die somewhere in the middle of the boondocks, with nobody around but the inbreds of the bayou. I remember seeing a movie called SOUTHERN COMFORT where these National Guardsmen were terrorized by angry Cajuns, and that's what I feared.
A few miles down the road was an exit ramp, but there was nothing there! Just a road going off into the woods. So I turned around and drove all the way back to Shreveport. Thank God we made it back! By this time the SUV was probably running on fumes, but the vehicle did not let me down. Come to find out, we still had another 60 miles to go before reaching the event, and just as I suspected, there wasn't another gas station between here and there.
With a full tank of gas, Steve and I headed back down the highway again. Some months earlier, after sending in the $50 registration, I received a "confirmation package," which included a Provost Pass, ration pass, a validity slip for muster rolls, a pass into camp, and a parking pass.
Most of that paper crap was just that, crap! It was just to prove that you were you. The most important piece of paper was the one that told you how to "get into the damn event site." After finding the correct turn-off spot, we followed a one-lane gravel road to the town of Pleasant Hill. This was near the site of the 1864 battle of the same name, but the town itself couldn't have been bigger than a football field! There were only about a half dozen buildings on Main Street (that I saw at this late hour), not including the local one room firehouse. The town supposedly has a population of 200, but I couldn't see where they hid them all. There was one building which was pretty empty except there was an old geezer still awake inside who claimed to be a member of the local historical society. He took our signatures on a sign-in sheet and tried to sell us a T-shirt and other 130th anniversary trinkets out of cardboard boxes. Against my better judgment, I bought a I SURVIVED THE RED RIVER EVENT T-shirt and a Battle of Pleasant Hill 30-page booklet.
The old boy, with a heavy southern drawl as thick as lumpy gravy, informed us that all the "Yankee" boys had already been bused to 'Nak-a-tosh' and we'd have to wait till the morning for a bus ride. Just across the narrow one-way street, was a big green Army tent. Inside this tent was about a dozen folding cots. The old southern gentleman told us that the National Guard had set that up and we were welcome to bed there till daybreak-which we did.
Before going to bed, I told Steve that I was going to use my car phone, but here in this part of Louisiana, I couldn't get a clear signal. The old geezer said there was a pay phone a few miles up the street. I drove to a general store that looked right out of Petticoat Junction. Inside, I met Ma and Pa Kettle and three barefoot brats who were baby-sitting a rack of potato chips, a cooler full of beer, videotapes for rent, and scratch off lottery tickets.

There was a pay phone on the porch, next to the coin operated VENDO-BAIT machine, so I placed a call to Ralph and told him there wasn't any sutlers and not to bother bringing any folding money, unless he wanted to buy a T-shirt or some 'shine.
Come sunup, Steve and I changed into our civil war duds and I moved my Explorer about a quarter-mile to the parking lot (just an old cow pasture). We nibbled on donuts and coffee, which I think was provided by the historical society (might have been the same old geezer from last night). A short time later the school bus came around the corner.
On reaching the intersection, we bailed out because here was about one hundred late arrivals, milling about on both sides of the two-lane blacktop. These were some "Yankee" boys, who had overslept, missed the bus, or just arrived in town. Steve and I dropped our packs at our feet and waited, with the rest of the mob.
I was puffing on my cherry wood pipe and had smoked about half a bowl, when someone spotted something on the other side of the levee. All that could be seen were the tops of regimental flags and the tops of rifles as the boys walked parallel with the levee. Finally, the boys marched out through a natural break in the levee and poured out onto the highway like water from a bucket. Now the horse drawn stuff, including the artillery had taken the roadway all this time. They would have gotten stuck in the bog-like conditions. Coming up out of the ground was all the infantry boys.
Steve and I shouted a hearty HUZZAH as we spotted the Holmes Brigade boys, then we shouldered our stuff and fell into step. Everyone was marching at the route step, as if it was nothing more than an early Easter Sunday stroll-which it was!
There were about thirty Holmes Brigade lads that were here this day, including Mike Gosser, Phil Curran, Gary Crane, Joe Amos, John Peterson, a cat named Kirk Freeman, Roger Forsyth, Captain Don Strother, Mark Strother, and Kyle Bean. These are the only names I recall after 12 years. There was also one guy, who's name I've forgotten, who did a dead-on impression of Jimmy Stewart. At any given moment, he'd bust out with some Jimmy Stewart dialogue from the movie, SHENANDOAH. He had everybody rolling with laughter. He had a buddy with him, some sort of weasel-looking guy. I don't recall either of their names.
As can be expected, we laughed, giggled, and told stories throughout the entire morning as the miles disappeared under our feet. After Steve and I joined the party, the army marched up the paved highway for about a mile or two, then went up a country trail that cut through a deep wooded forest. The local police were on hand to block traffic while we plodded along.
Whenever stuff like this happens, i.e., a reenactment group passes over public roads, some type of highway patrol or police department follows alongside us with flashing lights or stops traffic at a road block so we can pass unmolested. We appreciate that courtesy, as we don't want to get run over by an 18-wheeler or a family car. This inconvenience to the motorists only lasts a few minutes with only a few catcalls along the lines of "Yankee Go Home!" or "The South Will Rise Again!"
After leaving civilization and striking off into the woods, it was if we'd been swallowed up. I'll not attempt to explain the wild haunted forests we navigated ourselves through or the crooked country roads that caused blisters and ankle twists. Suffice to say the National Guard Medical people worked overtime on mostly minor foot ailments. By the time the event ended, six days later, most of us had developed a fond relationship for Dr. Scholl and his many foot remedies. A personal favorite for many was 'mole skin'; a wafer-thin piece of padding that protected open blisters.
That first night, we camped in a wooded area. The ground was fairly flat all around and most of the trees were only saplings, growing about a foot apart from one another. Some areas were thick with poison ivy and poison oak, so we had to be aware where we sat. I don't remember being bothered by bugs, with the exception of the 'chigger in the waistband.' We were too far away from open water to be bothered by 'skeeters.'
With that said, John Peterson recalls an episode in which "the battalion came to a halt and we were allowed to plop down on either side of the road. Roger Forsyth sat down, then just as quickly jumped up to discover his whole right side, from hip to knee was covered with red fire ants." The National Guard came to the rescue, but I don't remember if they used a broom, insect spray or gasoline to get the monsters off Roger. Needless to say, he probably carried a few hundred tiny bite marks for many days.
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