BY THE THOUSANDS WE CAME
The Hunley Funeral

By William Waldrop

By the thousands we came, from every corner of south, reenactors on our way to Charleston for the burial of the Hunley crew. Many other accents were heard this day as well, Northern, Western and even European. We were also a very diverse group economically. Doctors, lawyers, politicians, firemen, electricians, sheet metal workers, accountants and brick masons, just to name a few. People wealthy enough to fly across the ocean for the weekend as well as the less fortunate guy with rough hands and an

even rougherlooking truck who hoped he would have enough money and duct tape to make it back home.We were there for many different reasons as well. Some came because they grew up listening to bedtime stories about the bravery of these eight men. A tale passed from father to son for generations. Others came for the spectacle itself. It's not everyday the Confederate Army marches through Charleston. Others were there to attend what was being called the last Confederate burial. The majority of us I believe, were there to honor in the only way we knew how, these eight brave men who gave their last full measure in an attempt to break the stranglehold of the Union naval blockade and in the process, made naval history and disappeared into legend.

Our day began around 6 AM. The fog was hanging low over the salt marsh behind our encampment at the Charleston Rifle Club and we knew today was going to be a warm one. The weather forecast was calling for the temperature to be around 82 degrees. Any temperature in the 80's is uncomfortable for reenactors. Our hosts at the Rifle Club, who had treated us like visiting royalty all weekend, had risen even earlier than us and prepared breakfast and bag lunches for us. We quickly wolfed down our breakfast and then put on our wool jackets, fastening every button up to the collar. Next our leather cartridge box, belt and bayonet. On our opposite hip we slung our haversack, threw in a sandwich and bag of cookies. Over this went our canteen with its lifesaving water. We made sure our stiff leather brogans had been tied securely. Grabbing our muskets, we began the relatively short walk to the large assembly area in North Charleston where we were to board buses.

As we arrived, I was struck by the sight of an endless line of buses on the side of the road pointed our way. The reenactors coming from every direction, gathered all around in every state of disarray, some still receiving help getting their equipment on. The scene reminded me of photographs taken of the men of the 82nd Airborne preparing to load into the airplanes, which would drop them into occupied Normandy on June 6th 1944. Like them, we knew we would be making history today. We were also uncertain what the day would bring. There was a very visible police presence and we all had heard rumors that there might be trouble. Threats had been made against state Senator Glenn McConnell, and even the coffins carrying the remains of the crew. That was the rumor anyway. There the similarities with the 82nd ended. We were going to participate in a funeral; too many of them went to their own.

After we had loaded onto the bus and headed on our way downtown, I looked over at my son who was now 16 years old. This was to be his first event and I had wondered how this boy, who in the past couldn't bear to be thirsty and who had always complained about long walks, would hold up on this five-mile march.

Many of us were wondering how thousands of reenactors were going to converge on White Point Gardens, commonly called the "Battery" in what was sure to be absolute chaos with no command structure that we were aware of and be expected to form up into ranks for the long march. Once again the rumor mill had it as being 20,000 reenactors and 30,000 spectators. We arrived at our destination around 8 AM and it was just as we had imagined. Absolute chaos. Spectators, civilian reenactors with their stovepipe hats, female reenactors in their black mourning clothes, their faces hidden by black veils, Confederate soldiers everywhere and surprisingly some Yankee soldiers. All mixed together in a multi colored sea of humanity. Everyone seemingly asking for directions. "Where do we register? Where are the Daughters of the Confederacy? Where do I get my black arm band? Anybody seen the 11th Virginia? For God sakes, where are the porta potties?"

Most reenactors are used to drilling, marches and "forming up". Over the years they have met so many other reenactors, they can always find a company that they can fall in with. "Hey Johnny! How ya been buddy? Haven't seen you since the 130th at Antietam. Are you by yourself? Well fall in pal, we can use another man." And so it went, by ones, two and by the dozens we began to fall in with people we hardly knew. I would guess that within 45 minutes we had formed up and were waiting for the march. "Hurry up and wait" is what you hear from most veterans when they describe their real military experiences. It was no different this morning. Standing in formation will wear you down just as fast as any march. You feel it first in your feet, then it moves up to your knees, that canteen full of water begins to make its presence known. Some clown in the ranks, commenting on some passing dandified officer or curvaceous spectator always breaks up the monotony of the long wait. Our attention was also drawn to a large sailboat just offshore, flying a huge Confederate flag at half-mast. Also patrolling were several police boats, one in particular had a machine gun on its bow. We were beginning to wonder if the rumors we had been hearing were more than rumors.

At long last someone got on the PA and announced the order of march. I could not believe all of the various groups that were to be in the procession, each being assigned their place in line. Veteran Submariners, descendants and relatives of the men we were burying, ladies in mourning, the Sons of Confederate Veterans, reenactors, United Daughters of the Confederacy, Confederate Order of the Rose, the Masons, Sons of Union Veterans, Union reenactors and many more whose names I cannot recall. The Union reenactors were there to honor the crew from the U.S.S. Housatonic, the Union vessel sunk by the Hunley. Bringing up the rear of the whole procession was the Heritage Motorcycle Club. Now it was time for all the speakers; politicians, preachers, poets and singers, eulogy upon eulogy, all making their best effort to honor the eight men whose flag draped coffins lay before them. To me the most touching of all, was the gentleman who sang a ballad he wrote entitled, "Hunley Shine On." I had never heard it before and looking all around, I saw many of my fellow reenactors choking back emotion as best they could. No one ordered us not to cheer, it was just understood this was a funeral. Respect was the order of the day. Even so, there were quite a few Rebel Yells after the song ended.

In time, the microphone grew silent and the horse drawn caissons began to pull out with the eight coffins firmly affixed to them. Soon, the order was given by our captain to "Fix bayonets!" and then, "Attention! Shoulder Arms! Right Face!" We were now standing four abreast with our index finger under the trigger guard, our other three fingers behind the hammer and the barrel against our right shoulder. Probably the most uncomfortable way to carry a musket for any length of time. The column ahead of us began to move and we finally were given the command, "Forward�.. March!" More than two hours had passed since we arrived. At long last we were off, left... left... left, right, left. Everyone in lockstep, the drums beating out the cadence. Now you could hear the tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of steel heeled brogans keeping time with the drums. Passing reporters held their microphones near the ground to capture the sound. Our column moved up to where the openness of the "Battery" gave way to the narrow streets lined on both sides by fine old homes, with their broad porticoes and long spacious piazza's. We could see that they were spilling over with people waving, and holding flags, which draped over the railings. The people lining the streets below all seemed to be waving something; their hands, small flags on sticks and even handkerchiefs. Fathers held their small children up on their shoulders so they could see above the crowd. Many of those spectators had tears streaming down their face. Whether it was from the solemnity of the occasion, the drums and fifes, the sight of thousands of bayonets shining in the sun, the sound of our shoes stamping in unison or a lack of port-a- potties, you would have to be a pretty hard person not to be moved by the spectacle of it all.

Sensual overload is the only way I could describe what I was experiencing. As a reenactor on the march, you have to be completely focused on staying in step and in formation. This to some degree gives us "tunnel vision." You really don't have time to take in all that is going on around you. The sights and sounds you retain are all little vignettes captured here and there by your memory. I have no idea how many reenactors were there or spectators, how many flags were being flown or the racial makeup of the crowd. We were somewhere near the middle of the procession and on the rare occasions when we stopped, I stepped out of line and looked up and down East Bay Street which is a very long and straight stretch. What an impressive sight, as far as I could see in both directions there was an endless column of reenactors. No two uniforms exactly the same, hats of every description and color, all of us wearing white gloves and a black armband. An unforgettable sight, the only thing going on which irritated most of us was the infernal helicopter circling overhead and a lone plane towing a banner with a Confederate flag on it, followed by "Dump Bailey." Even at a funeral, someone has to insert politics.

The horse drawn caissons ahead were now leaving souvenirs behind. Have you ever been in a parade or march behind teams of horses? It's amazing what they can do to a perfectly clean street and how often. The company wise guy had something to say about that too. "Hey y'all, watch out back there. Yankee brains in the road ahead!" We'd heard it all before, in fact our Northern brethren say the same about us.

As the blocks began to turn into miles, the sun rose higher in a clear Carolina Blue umbrella sky. If there was any wind, we couldn't feel it. The heat, weight of our musket and the uncomfortable way in which we had to carry it were beginning to tell on us. I kept looking over my shoulder at my son, hoping he would not say, "Dad, I can't take it any more." He looked tired and strain was showing on his face but he never uttered a word of complaint. To add to our discomfort, the whole procession was a march. Typically when we are in a parade or long march we eventually go into what is called a "route step". You don't have to keep time with the drummer or move your left and right feet in unison. Since this was a funeral we were required to march the whole way in unison. It looked good, sounded good but sure wore us out. Periodically, the captain would order us to change the position in which we carried our musket. Company! Support Arms! A little while later, Company! Right shoulder shift! And then back to Company! Shoulder Arms. Each time we changed positions the musket seemed to get just a little heavier. And so it went, mile after mile.

By the time we reached the Route 17 bridge, which was a little more than half way, the scenery was beginning to change. No longer were we surrounded by beautiful mansions and people who looked to be on vacation, we were now in working class neighborhoods and industrial areas. The streets were still lined with people, many of them offering cold water, some snack to munch on, or just encouragement. "What State you from? Looking good guys! Come on, you can do it!" One man was holding what he claimed was the flag used during the filming of the TNT movie about the Hunley starring Armand Assante as Captain Dixon. Some men broke ranks to touch it and some I'm told even kissed it. Another gentleman held a rather large portrait of General Lee. As the ranks passed it, the men spontaneously turned their heads toward the portrait and saluted as though passing in revue.

Another mile gone by, we now were very hot and very tired. Our right arms were beginning to feel several inches longer than our left arms. The canteens, which were slowly headed towards empty, magically seemed to maintain their same weight. Our feet now felt like stumps on the ends of our legs. We could see an overpass ahead lined with construction workers who had stopped their labors to watch us pass. It was like seeing an oasis in the distance. For there, under it was shade, wonderful shade. All too soon we were back into the sun.

The surrounding area had once again changed. People were still lined up along the road but for the most part they seemed frozen in place as though they were caught in the middle of something and stopped just briefly to see what was going on. Many were not smiling, I'm sure some of them probably didn't like us or what we were wearing but I never heard an angry word or saw an ugly gesture. Neither did anyone else that I talked to. I only have one thing to say to them. Thank you. Thank you for letting us pass in peace to bury eight men who are heroes and legends to us.

We were exhausted by now; some of the men were beginning to feel light headed and nauseous. Many faces were red as beets. Looking over my shoulder at my son, I found he was still hanging in there. Looking pained and his face covered with sweat. When I asked how he was, he said, "I can make it dad." I was beginning to wonder if I could. Even the drummer was beginning to sound less than enthusiastic.

I saw a sign up ahead. What did it say? It was green, I could tell that much but what did it say? Magnolia Cemetery! We had made it! I looked back at my son; his face broke into a smile, proud that he had endured. I was proud too! It's amazing the shot of adrenaline you get when you see the finish line. The Captain barked, "Step it up boys! Make me proud." The drummer picked up his tempo and we found new energy as we put a little more tramp into our tramping.

Little did we know that our discomfort was not yet over. The road leading into the cemetery was once again lined with spectators two and three deep. The closer we got to the gates of the cemetery the more crowded it became. The column, which had been moving at a constant pace, was now start and stop. Before us was a sea of heads, we were beginning to wonder if we would even get near the grave site. Eventually the crowd moved aside and we began to make a turtles pace towards a raised platform in the middle of an open area of the cemetery. On it were the flag draped wooden coffins of the crewman and a podium with several chairs alongside. A collective groan went out from the ranks, Oh no! More speeches! As we made our serpentine way towards our final destination, we saw the line ahead of us bend to the right and some men broke rank. As we got closer, we saw why. The ladies in black mourning clothes had set up a long table and were serving ice-cold lemonade and cookies. I haven't seen Confederates charge like that since Gettysburg. God bless those women! The lemonade and cookies gave us the last bit of energy we needed to see it through. Quickly order was restored, and we wound our way to our position behind the stage. Out front, in a semi circle of steel chairs sat all the V.I.P's. Among the Senators, state Representatives, and other dignitaries, I saw Clive Cussler who had been given an honorary position in the front row, somewhere near center of the stage. A very distinguished looking, well tanned gentleman with sunglasses, wearing a black suit. His snow white hair blown by a heaven sent breeze.

Finally the last ceremony began; once again there were many speakers and a singer, whose voice and song, accompanied by several musicians, touched us all. I suddenly recognized the singer as one of our new friends from the Charleston Rifle Club. Several state Representatives were recognized for their support, the bulk of the praise going to Senator McConnell who helped iron out all the bureaucratic roadblocks in Washington. Each in turn stood to be recognized. Senator McConnell took the podium and gave Mr. Cussler all due credit for being the man who had the vision, took the time, made the effort and spent his own money, to locate what was in effect a needle in a haystack. Curiously, he was not asked to stand and be recognized. We found out later that it was because threats had been made on his life as well.

After what seemed like an eternity to us, the speeches ended and the pallbearers stepped forward to carry the crewmen to their final resting place. We were ordered to form up and move out. For us it was over, we had done our duty and escorted those brave eight men who had at long last received the honors and proper burial they so richly deserved. You may not agree with their cause, you may just think they were a bunch of stupid fools. I would challenge you to go to Charleston one day and visit the museum, which will house this little sub. They have a full scale mock up of the Hunley for you to go in. Climb into that four foot tall hull, sit on the narrow bench, put the crank in your hands, look around and ask yourself if you would have taken a ride submerged in her on a dark February night on the open ocean, with only a small compass and the moon to guide you, knowing that two full crews before you, had drowned in her. Would you be willing to risk it all for any cause?

We were on our last march together, all of us relieved that it was over and we had been able to make it. When it had begun hours before we hardly knew one another. We now had a common bond forged by the heat and torment of the march, the experiences along the way and the periods of laughter, which the company wise guy had provided. Once again I looked over at my son, along with the sweat running down his flushed face was a look of accomplishment. He had stood the test. I hugged him, told him I was proud of him and realized I could never again call him "boy."

We broke ranks and said our good-byes, wished one another well and told the Captain it had been an honor to march with him. We would meet again at some future place and time and the greeting would once again be, Hey Johnny! How ya been buddy? Haven't seen you since the Funeral! Bill Waldrop, eyewitness to history.

RIDGEPOLE RUMINATIONS
April 2004
By Bill Holschuh

I�ve always felt that my job as publisher of Camp Chase Gazette and The Citizens� Companion ultimately boils down to two basic tasks: Try to figure out exactly what our readers want, and then give it to them. Up until several years ago, based on a fairly decent track record, I thought I had a pretty good handle on my job. Lately I�ve not been so sure about that, and I think I know why.

Fifteen years ago this fall, fellow reenactor Grant MacMeans and I were negotiating with CCG founder Bill Keitz to buy Camp Chase Publishing Co. In the course of one of those conversations, we asked Bill what events he had attended that year (1989). He informed us that his last event was 125th Gettysburg in July 1988!

We couldn�t believe our ears. How could the founder/publisher/editor of Camp Chase Gazette go fourteen months without attending one single reenacting event? Right then and there we vowed that if we were ultimately successful in buying Bill out, (and obviously we were) we would never allow ourselves to be that out of touch with what was going on out there.

Although my current participation level is still more frequent than one event in fourteen months, it certainly isn�t what it once was either. And more important than how often I go is the fact that when I do go, I consider it a chore. Oh, I still get a rush when I see a great looking brigade or battalion march by (Rambo�s at 140th Perryville comes to mind). And I still enjoy reconnecting with the many friends I have made in the hobby over the years. But when I�m really being honest with myself, I have to admit that I just don�t have the reenacting bug any more.

So my decision to sell Camp Chase Publishing to Lakeway Publishers, Inc. really came down to nothing more than just keeping the pledge that Grant MacMeans and I made way back in 1989. To do this job right, you have to have your very heart soul in Civil War reenacting, and I don�t. That fire has burned itself out, and now it is time to move on.

Camp Chase Gazette seems to have a charmed life. Against all odds, it has survived for 32 years because it has always received exactly what it needed, exactly when it needed it. Several times Bill Keitz almost threw in the towel in the early years, but then a financial windfall of some sort would save the day. In 1989 it needed the skills that Grant and I brought to it. And now, in 2004, it needs the financial stability and marketing expertise that have arrived in the form of Lakeway Publishers and CCG�s new publisher, Mr. C. Reece Sexton. I have no doubt that Reece and the other good folks at Lakeway (owners of the The Civil War Courier and a number of other publications) will provide the energy and resources necessary to take Camp Chase Gazette and The Citizens� Companion to new levels of accomplishment and excellent service to the hobby.

There are many, many people to whom I am deeply indebted, and only space enough here to mention but a few. The others I�ll be thanking by phone and letter in the days ahead, but there are several names that I must mention here.

From the early years, a heartfelt thanks to my friend, business partner, and my first editor(1990-1996), Grant MacMeans. He made this gig a lot more fun than anyone should be allowed to have at work. We were a great team, and it was never quite as enjoyable to do this magazine or attend reenacting events after Grant departed.

And a huge thanks to Bill Jackson, (associate editor, 1990-1996 and editor, 1997-2002) who offered his journalistic talent and experience to a clueless salesman and an anal-retentive accountant who foolishly thought they knew how to put out a magazine. Without Bill in our corner, we would have never had the nerve to take on this madness in the first place.

Thanks also to Denise Thacker, the always-cheerful voice you hear when you call our office. For the past six years she has been my right hand, and the best, most loyal assistant anyone has ever had. She does so many things so well, and always makes it look easy.

I have known our current editor, Nicky Hughes, for a long time, but only worked with him for the past two years. That experience has made me wish our professional association had been much longer. I hate to use a tired old clich�, but there are no other words that describe him as well: Nicky Hughes really is a gentleman and a scholar.

Brady Peery joined us two years ago as our art director. His many talents have brought beauty and style to CCG, and he has developed a great eye for capturing reenactors at their best on film. He definitely does have the reenacting bug, and I hope he has as much fun being infected with it as I did.

Last, but far from least, Susan Hughes has been simply magnificent as the first and only editor in the ten-year history of The Citizens� Companion. I can say with absolute certainty that no one else could have done the job as well. But as valuable as she has been to me in that role, she has been even more important as a dear, personal friend.

In my very first column in January 1990 I said that no matter what the legal documents may say, Camp Chase Publishing really belongs to the men and women of the Civil War reenacting community. That�s still true today.

So goodbye y�all. And for God�s sake, start being nicer to each other!

TACTICAL ADVANCED GUARD
A Southern Private's Recollections & Reflections
By Phil McBride

The Tactical Advanced Guard (TAG) event took place on a beautiful weekend in mid-October in Stewart County, Tennessee. Stewart County is on the Tennessee-Kentucky border and is the site of Fort Donelson of Civil War fame, and Fort Campbell of the modern army. The event was sponsored by the Western Independent Grays (WIG) and promoted on the Authentic Campaigner website discussion board. The openly-stated goal of the event was to bring together the most dedicated, campaign-oriented reenactors in the country for a 48 hour immersion where there would be no sutlers, no spectators, no modern distractions, no porta-cans, and no printed schedule of activities. Additionally, a $20 donation for preservation efforts at the Franklin, Tennessee battlefield was collected as each man checked in. (At least two men brought in donations of $500 each and a total of about $7,000 was raised.)

There was to be an inspection of each participant's kit to ensure no one brought anachronisms like cameras, non-period snacks or smokes, or anything else not available to soldiers in 1862. Uniform and gear requirements were specific, but left enough latitude for almost anyone to round up appropriate stuff. The organizers made it clear that first person, nineteenth century conversation was expected throughout the weekend. In other words, forget the twenty-first century from noon Friday until noon Sunday, and just don't talk about sports, jobs, cars, or modern war.

The event promised to be strenuous, with all participants walking or horse riding into the 1200 acre site, sleeping under the stars and clouds, and eating rations provided by the organizers. Activities would not necessarily include pitched battles between the two battalions, but would focus on probing, skirmishing, and picket duty.

All the above was promised by the organizers and expected of all participants. What was actually provided by the leadership and performed by the men was both less and more. The logistics were pulled together by Joe Smotherman, Pat Craddock, and other WIG members, and they were superb. Several large plastic water tanks, covered with wooden planks, were strategically placed around the site. The rations issued to we southerners were healthy, appropriate, and plentiful. The food was cached before the event in period boxes and sacks, and issued by company on Friday afternoon. Haversacks were stuffed and slowly emptied through the weekend.

Dom Del Bello commanded the Federal battalion and Pat Craddock led the Confederate battalion. Each battalion was comprised of four companies of about 25 rifles in each. Some seventeen cavalrymen of the Critter Company were led by Coley Adair, and about fifteen Federal cavalry supported the Northern infantry. The Rebel battalion was further supported by a medical officer, in the person of Nicky Hughes, the editor of this periodical, and Tom Smith, a cartographer whose eye for terrain and talent with a pen proved more and more valuable as the two days progressed.

The site was perfect. The acreage was comprised of rolling hills with interwoven meadows and forests. Three small ponds, a couple of log cabins and old barns, a meandering creek, and a few dirt roads through the property created a landscape that was ideal. A group of civilian men, ladies and children soon occupied a log cabin nestled on the creek.

The event certainly had an impact on the participants. As of today, nearly three weeks after we hiked out and drove home, there have been 118 messages about TAG posted on the Authentic Campaigner website forum, and over 7,000 hits have been made on the after-action message threads by those wanting to read what others thought about the event. I suspect most of those hits were made by the 250+ participants, and that alone makes the event worth a little reflection. Was TAG a benchmark event? Does Civil War reenacting need these types of events? Is a significant portion of the hobby slowly, I mean s-l-o-w-l-y like cold molasses, moving in the direction TAG took? Were the shortcomings of TAG really a problem? Were the highlights of TAG really that good, and were they replicable at future events? Those are fun questions, mainly with answers as varied as the guys offering their opinions on the website forums.

I was not a part of the TAG planning or leadership team. My role was that of a private who had all I could handle just keeping up with the young flat-bellied boys and keeping my smoothbore blowing smoke and going boom most of the time when I pulled the trigger. I haven't talked with or written to the big bugs of the event. Therefore, the remainder of this account is no more than recollections and observations of the sort that would have been made by a private in the fall of 1862 in letters sent home.

If nothing else, reenacting has shown me that Civil War battle to a private or NCO boiled down in a lesser degree to his regiment, to a greater degree to his company, and to a high degree, battle was just him and his squad mates. TAG exemplified that simple perspective. Throughout the event, the two opposing battalion commanders often only linked two or more companies together early in each developing engagement, until each commander felt he had some idea what the other was up to. That meant the four companies repeatedly functioned as independent units, and the companies often went to skirmish formations.

TAG's small numbers allowed even we privates to recognize that our officers were doing a whole lot of guessing about the enemy's locations and intentions. That meant that we did a whole lot of marching hither and yon, back and forth, waiting where the major thought the Yanks might approach, and then moving yet again to help out where the bluecoats really did appear. That was the defensive side of the coin. But, being under the command of a man who believes in action more than prudent waiting, we took even more steps, seemingly always uphill at the double quick, trying to coax the Yanks into a fight. Finally, the major just tossed caution aside and took the action to them.

Then there was the third side, or edge of the coin. That was the guard duty each rifleman pulled for some six hours during one of the two long cold nights. I bet every man finished the event with strong personal moments of time travel while on guard post.

Personally, I loved TAG. I was worn out and ground down by the time we marched to the cars late Sunday morning, but every aching step was tempered with a satisfaction that this had been a very good weekend. The big promises of the organizers had been met, even if some things didn't work well. Too many guys on both sides refused to take hits. Most everybody slipped into modern conversation as we waited through the "down time" in conversation, getting to know each other. A fair number of men melted away on Saturday and were AWOL on Sunday. But those shortcomings were way overshadowed by the remarkably nineteenth century sights and sounds. You just had to believe when you could look out on the two dozen Federal campfires across the valley on a foggy night marking the enemy's forward positions. You had to believe as you nibbled on period rations for two days. You had to believe when you stood cold night guard duty, took part in repeated skirmishes, and felt the uncertainty of not knowing when things would flare up next. And you just had to believe when you found a reflective minute to quietly be aware of the simple absence of things from this century.

TAG started by both battalions, one hundred strong in four companies each, marching a mile or so into the battleground area about 1 pm on Friday. Our company went directly into a skirmish line on a steep hill in the woods and spent a couple of hours holding the hill against two companies of Yanks who just couldn't decide to come up in force. We had the mounted "Critter Company" guns to our left flank helping out some of the time, effectively doubling our firepower. Our company fought as skirmish partners, one firing, one loading, as we moved right and left, down and up, on command of Captain Duffer, another old guy who has an impetuous streak in him. After a long while it got nearly dark and the Federals stopped coming up the hill and we were ordered back to what became our campsite until Sunday morning.

Saturday morning started long before dawn, after a cold night in which two other companies had the picket duty. The major formed the battalion and we moved down to the same pasture in the valley where the Yanks had attacked from the afternoon before. D Company was sent out as skirmishers to our front in the dim light and fog, as the battalion marched down the pasture in a column of three companies, first in march columns, then in battle lines. Then, still in a thick fog, with shooting and shouting ahead, the three companies formed a single battleline. We marched on through six foot high grass in the dawn and fog. Only to never find the Yanks. The invisible enemy prompted the major to put us into a defensive posture. Our company was posted in a flanking skirmish line along the creek and we went prone for a bit watching, listening, and waiting. We saw blue coats across the creek and fired at them. We heard cavalry noises and put bayonets on our weapons, prepared to form our little four-man squares to defend against a cavalry charge that might occur. That was another period moment, being in a skirmish line, on the flank in the fog, hearing the sounds of horse hooves, but not being able to see them. The blue force never crossed the creek and we finally marched back to our camp on the hilltop.

Early Saturday afternoon after sitting around for a good spell, the major ordered the four companies formed again. Our company was ordered to march down the hill in front, across the pasture, cross an unseen ford in the creek, and seize a bridge that was supposed to be a little further down, past a sharp bend in the creek. Our other three companies had disappeared on other errands out of sight beyond the woods on our hillside. Capt Duffer acknowledged this was a fine rash thing to do with no reconnaissance about the exact location of the ford or bridge or the whereabouts of the four Federal infantry companies. He was somewhat profane and positively bouncing in his enthusiasm.

About then we saw Yankee skirmishers to our far left flank moving into the woods where all our gear was left in our abandoned camp. Captain Duffer sent his young lieutenant and five men to investigate, with orders to then join us when they could. Our remaining fifteen rifles headed down a steep clear hill where we immediately came under fire from skirmishers to our right front. I was running and panting and trying to keep my place in the little column. The blue skirmishers apparently withdrew as we kept running toward them.

We rounded a bend and were at the creek ford. We splashed through, going up a wee rise out of the creek. I was in the front rank and looked up and saw at least a platoon of blue coats as they put a volley right into our front. In 1862, in real battle, that would have been it for us. But, in 2003, we hit the dirt, fired back, and all of a sudden the blue platoon withdrew to our right front behind more trees lining the creek as it curved their way. So we went forward a few yards, then stumbled back into the creek bed and started shooting at Federals on the bridge we were supposed to seize. We also had a lot more blue coats to our front on the other side of the creek. I suddenly realized that we had attacked their camp and caught two companies in it, with one more company to our flank around the bridge. We had been audacious and now we were outnumbered three to one. Thank you, Major Craddock. I look forward to prison camp.

But then, Holy Cow, I looked across their encampment field and saw our other three companies emerging from the same creek bed 75 yards away around a bend and charging - chasing the disordered yanks right into us. It was a beautiful hammer and anvil, our company being the anvil. We rose from the creek bed and charged ourselves and thereby aided in the capture of two of the four Federal companies.

The last Federal company was behind us on a hill in a defensive skirmish line and around their supply wagon. So our company veered left and backwards and attacked them as well. The battle ended in a stand-off -us prone in the creek bed shooting and them in the edge of the woods shooting and their wagon in the field in the middle. Their fourth company had routed off our six camp guards and both groups were out of the battle for the Federal camp. At that point things went well with some fine first person activity among the captured and their guards, and things went downhill on the field across the bridge as both sides expressed heated opinions that lots of guns were going bang-bang, but nobody was going "I'm dead."

It was about then that I had a strange moment of realization that our boss, Major Craddock, had been the wily fox, and we had "won" the day. While I was aware of the element of big little boys playing Cowboys and Indians while we attacked and "fought," I knew I hadn't had so much fun in a long time. More importantly, in a flash of sudden understanding of the obvious, I knew that moment could never have happened in a traditional reenactment or living history program. It could never have been scripted, and it was only possible because it was built on the prior 24 hours of marching, probing, skirmishing, bivouacking,being cold and tired, and generally immersing into 1862. It wasn't a period moment that could come right out of the can. It had to have been simmered and stirred and tasted in small sips for at least 24 hours first.

Even after the afternoon rush brought on by the attack for the Federal camp, the most vivid memory to me will always be Saturday night on Guard Post #19 from 9 pm until midnight and then again from 3 am until 6 am. By 5 am or so during our second watch, my vigilant picket comrade was curled up in his blanket against a barn wall quietly sleeping. I was sitting hunched over, my blanket up over my head and shoulders, with the musket across my lap. It was real cold. We were on a hillside looking down on a small glade and a dirt road right below us. Beyond the road was a creek with trees lining it. It was also real foggy with a half moon. The Yank pickets were just across the creek, no more than 100 yards away.

In my state of near sleep, I heard something and looked harder. Just like in a good war movie, I saw, one, then two, then three, then four shapes trying to very quietly walk towards us through the fog in the glade below us. Post #19 was the end outpost so there weren't any other Rebs on the flank from which these guys were angling towards us. Our jobs as pickets if the Yanks came on us in any strength was to shout, shoot, and skedaddle. Our backs were to the corner of a barn wall, so we would have to be exposed in the moonlight if we shot and ran. But, I saw there were only four moving shadows, so maybe this was a Yankee scout. I nudged my pard, lifted the musket to my shoulder, cocked it, and hollered, "Halt, identify yourself!" They stopped, and the lead shape then began walking towards me. I shouted, "Stop, give the countersign!" He hesitated a second and walked further towards us. I shouted, "Stop or I'm shooting!" He stopped and in an angry whispered shout, said, "You're supposed to say one advance to give the countersign! It's 'button.' Now the Federal pickets know it too!"

He was right, I had blown the script in my excitement. The four shapes were a Confederate scouting party who had moved towards us instead of the creek crossing. Then, the lead shape continued fussing as he kept walking up, "Who trained you? You don't know what you're doing." Taken even more off-guard by this young man's bellicose attitude, I remained still with my musket pointed generally in their direction. He kept walking until his chest was against the muzzle end of my musket which was loaded with 80 grains of powder, was fully cocked, and a sleep deprived, embarrassed and nervous old guy's finger on the trigger. "THIS is where your gun should be pointed when the one walks up." I moved my musket barrel aside, thinking, well, hell, I may have fouled up the dialog, but I'm not flagrantly endangering myself by breaking one of the most basic safety rules like this guy. I guess we're even. Maybe he was just as sleep deprived and tired as me. So we chatted for a minute while I pointed out what was where in the dark and he said they were going across the creek to probe the Federal outposts, and when they came back, shoot the fifth guy, since there were only four in his party. Clever. They got detected by the Yanks real soon. Both sides fired in the dark back and forth, the Yank picket called the Corporal of the Guard to Outpost #4 and our guys came back after a little bit. That episode bit deeply into my male pride, and also threw up a red flag about safety, fatigue, and maybe too much "immersing" into our nineteenth century adopted characters.

The last clash of arms came Sunday morning when our company started as skirmishers on our far left, got chased back to our camp where we joined the line and held off a determined uphill frontal charge by the massed Federal companies. We started that episode like the British at Waterloo, prone behind the hill crest. Then when the blue line came close enough, we rose and poured it into them shooting downhill. Captain Duffer had the company firing in 4 parts - 1st platoon front rank, then 2nd platoon front rank, then 1st platoon rear rank, then 2nd platoon rear rank. This seemed to work just like the triple line of Redcoats in the movie "Zulu," with time for each group to reload while the others fired. I thought it an amazingly effective little tactical idea. Then we headed off through the woods to our right and into the creek again where we waited a spell. Finally we crawled out of the creek to a little rise. There we jumped up and advanced at the double quick right into the field where we mingled with one blue company, soon to realize that the conflict had been called.

TAG ended late Sunday morning with a joint formation and mutual thanks to the land owner and hoorahs for the organizers and commanders. I suspect the men in both battalions enjoyed the chance to just stand and stare across the few yards at the guys on the other side. I know most of the Federals were standing at ease with full packs, and their postures appeared to me to reflect an attitude of men who were real tired, but secure in their competence and pride. In other words, they looked like the veterans in the images of the real boys on campaign in the field back in 1862. And that is what TAG was all about.

WHAT CIVIL WAR SOLDIERS TELL US ABOUT...
Using Their Drill in Combat
By Bill Rambo

The American officers and men who fought in the War between the States were trained in tactics that were by and large copied from the French military manuals of the 1850s. One would think that the French would have given more consideration to the introduction of the rifle on the battlefield at that time, especially since the revolutionary Mini� ball was invented by one of their own. The French believed however, that defenders using long range weapons had no advantage once attacking formations had moved in close enough to use the bayonet. Accordingly, their answer to rifles on the battlefield was to use the same massed formations, but simply to maneuver faster. Unfortunately, soldiers moving faster in the maneuvers could not move fast enough to outrun Mini� balls.

Be that as it may, Union and Confederate officers drilled their men in Napoleonic tactics at the outbreak of the war and they continued to do so for the duration.

Brigadier General Arthur M. Manigault, near Dalton, Georgia, Winter-Spring,1864: We drilled twice daily, in the morning after breakfast for an hour and a half, and in the afternoon; company drill� at the first named hour; battalion or brigade drill afterwards, with occasionally a drill of the division or corps. (1)

Drill instilled discipline, which was essential for massed formation maneuvers. It also enabled the men to become proficient enough to perform the maneuvers faster, or as they called it, at the "double quick," (which according to Hardee's is not a run, nor even a trot; it is a longer stride which results in a fast walk).

Diary of Pvt. J.P.Cannon, Co C, 27th Alabama Infantry, July 20, 1864 Peach Tree Creek, Georgia: We finally made our way through the worst of it [thick woods] and were then halted and wheeled by the left flank into line of battle, being then under fire of the pickets. The order to "fix bayonets, forward, double quick, march" was given. We raised the old Rebel yell and rushed on the works. (2)

Even though the presence of the rifle on the battlefield was clearly multiplying casualties, infantry drill never changed throughout the war. Variations in the field were few and far between. One common variation however, was for officers to order their men to lie down to avoid shell fire and/or to be able to fire at the enemy from an advantageous position. The School of the Soldier taught men how to load lying down, but this was evidently only intended for skirmishers as neither the School of the Company nor Battalion addressed lying down in close order: Colonel John B. Gordon commanding Rodes' Brigade, Seven Days campaign, July 1862: I therefore ordered the men to lie down and open fire. (3)

Lt. Colonel Joseph B. Curtis, 4th Rhode Island Infantry, Sharpsburg, Maryland, September 17, 1862: As soon as the firing commenced, the ranks were dressed and the men directed to lie down in their places. The three left companies, being in a more exposed position, were brought in rear of the rest of the battalion. (4)

Lt. Colonel James J. Turner, commanding 10th & 30th Tennessee Infantry, near Raymond, Mississippi, May 12, 1863: I formed them immediately in rear of the crest of the hill, and ordered them to lie down and load and fire, so as to be protected from the enemy's fire, which continued very heavy. (5)

Major J.C. Gordan, 2nd Battalion, 1st Confederate Regiment Georgia Volunteers, Chickamauga, September 20, 1863: I commanded my men to lie down and protect themselves as best they could. They did so, at the same time pouring into the enemy's ranks a destructive fire. (6)

Major George W. Van Beek, 33rd Missouri Infantry (US), Pleasant Hill, Louisiana, April 9, 1864: I continued advancing with my regiment until the fire of the enemy compelled me to halt and cause my men to lie down. In this position I continued to pour an incessant and destructive fire into the ranks of the enemy, without material loss to my command.7

Colonel Harvey Graham, 22nd Iowa Infantry, near Winchester, Virginia, September 19, 1864: Advancing to the crest of the hill a short distance from their line, we were ordered to lie down to protect ourselves from their terrible fire of musketry, grape, and canister. (8)

Reenacting infantry should lie down under fire much more often than has been done in the past. If firing is desired, the rear rank should probably not fire for safety's sake however. Lying down was one of the few deviations from the manuals. Attacking enemy positions by using open order tactics, advancing in rushes, using half the command as the base of fire element and half as the maneuver element, etc, are tactics that would not be taught to American soldiers for over fifty years after the War between the States ended. The Civil War soldiers' answer to murderous rifle and cannon fire was not to abandon the tactics manual but rather, to dig in:

Diary of Pvt J.P. Cannon, Co C, 27th Alabama Infantry, Resaca, Georgia, May 13th, 1864: This ended the fight for the day, after which we got picks and spades and went to work ... We worked faithfully in mud and water until near midnight, feeling that our lives might be the forfeit if we failed to make our works bullet proof. (9)

Memoirs of Brigadier General Arthur M. Manigault, New Hope Church, Georgia, May 25, 1864: As soon as the firing began, which was a surprise to us, for we did not expect to meet the enemy so soon, the order was given to the men to raise a temporary breastwork at once. Retaining one half of the command in line, the rest were set to work constructing them, and in a space of time not exceeding ten minutes a very respectable breastwork of logs, limbs of trees, mixed in with stones and rocks, was erected. (10)

Journal of Pvt Franklin L. Riley, Co B, 16th Mississippi Infantry, Aberville, Virginia, May 29, 1864: From Orange C.H. to Richmond, from a soldier's point of view, the country is made up of holes, each dug by hand (laboriously), sometimes with shovels but usually with bayonets or sharpened sticks and flattened canteens. We seldom charge "gloriously" as we did 3 years ago. Instead we build fortifications and try to flank the enemy. The enemy does the same. (11)

Digging in presents a problem for reenactors because even if the motivation of the men for doing so is present, the land owner might not appreciate entrenchments on his property. Perhaps some deadfall could be positioned nearby for the men to at least give the crowd the general idea (as well as something for the men to lie down behind). Moving faster, taking advantage of cover, lying down, and building breastworks were tactical developments of the War between the States. But otherwise the basic philosophy of massed formations for maneuver did not change. Take for example, moving toward the enemy through thick undergrowth. A contemporary person might think that open order would be the only option. However:

Diary of Sgt. Rice Bull, Co E, 123rd New York Infantry, May 1, 1863, near Fredericksburg, Virginia: We� formed line of battle. Skirmishers were thrown out and the line advanced. We at once entered the forest, but found the scrub pine so� interlocked we could not advance in company front� We broke into columns marching by fours [By the right of companies to the front]� Then we went on as best we could in single file� However, as the men came out of the woods they formed a line at once, rallying on the colors; but it was fully half an hour before we were ready to advance. (12)

Diary of Sgt.. Rice Bull, Co E, 123rd New York Infantry, May 18th 1864, near Kingston, Georgia: Then the advance was across the open fields and into the wood in our front. There the growth of bushes and trees was so heavy we could not advance in line, so broke into columns of companies and that way were able to get through the tangle� We followed closely our skirmishers and after going a half mile came out of the woods to open fields where we reformed our line� When we came out into the open, we were not only greeted by musketry but by shot and shell. (13)

Diary of Pvt J.P.Cannon, Co C, 27th Alabama Infantry, July 20, 1864 Peach Tree Creek, Georgia: The order was to charge in echelon, by divisions, at intervals of 200 yards, so when the division on our right had gained the proper distance the command was given, "By the right of companies to the front, march." It was well that such was the order, for we could never have gone through that tangled mass of timber and brush in line of battle� (14)

Granted, the manuals were written for the more open European countryside. But the maneuvers created for moving through or around obstacles worked for the most part in the American countryside also and were employed. A contemporary person might find it hard to believe that Civil War soldiers stuck to their drill once the bullets and shrapnel started flying about, but the record tells us that is exactly what they did:

Brigadier General Paul Semmes commanding brigade, Sharpsburg, Maryland, September 17, 1862: Moving forward by the flank in the direction of the enemy� Coming in full view, of the enemy's line, Major General McLaws, in person, ordered me to move forward in line to the support of Major General Stuart, on our extreme left. Immediately the order was given, "by company into line," followed by "forward into line," both of which movements were executed, in the presence of the enemy, under a fire occasioning severe loss in killed and wounded. (15)

Colonel Daniel C. Govan, 2nd Arkansas Infantry, Chickamauga, Georgia, September 20, 1863: About noon I was ordered to advance, making a slight change of direction to the left� Encountering no enemy in my front, I commenced changing direction to the left, so as to meet the enemy, who had opened fire upon me from the edge of the woods immediately on my left flank. This movement, difficult at all times, was executed across an open field in an exposed position, and under a heavy fire of musketry. (16)

Memoirs of Brigadier General Arthur M. Manigault, Missionary Ridge, Tennessee, November 25, 1863 [Speaking of the Federal attack formations he had the luxury to view from his brigade position on the ridge. The Federal Infantry brigades advanced with half their regiments in the front line in line of battle and half in the second line in Double Column]: The sight was grand and imposing in the extreme, and I was much struck by the order and regularity of their movements, the ease with which they preserved their line, and the completeness of all arrangements. (17)

Colonel Joseph C. Abbott, 7th New Hampshire Infantry, Olustee, Florida, February 20, 1864: My regiment was moving by the left flank and remained in that order until we were under the fire of the enemy. The regiment was then brought by company into line and closed in mass. The order was then given by myself to deploy upon the first company� (18)

Diary of Sgt. Rice Bull, Co E, 123rd New York Infantry, May 15, 1864 near Resaca, Georgia: When we came into the opening the enemy artillery brought us under fire. Our line was in such an exposed position we were ordered to 'Right Oblique' to a knoll just ahead of where we could lie down out of sight. (19)

Sam Watkins described a maneuver that one would think might have been attempted early in the war, but surely discarded by the time of the Atlanta campaign.

Memoirs of Pvt Sam Watkins, Co H, 1st & 27th Tennessee Infantry, Resaca, Georgia, May 15, 1864: We will see how Yankee cavalry fight� They are all around us - we are surrounded. "Form square! Platoons, right and left wheel! Kneel [front rank] and fire [rear rank]!" There we were in a hollow square. (20)

By the way, the Federal cavalry was driven off. Did attacking Union or Confederate soldiers maintain their bandbox formations all the way into the enemy positions? Of course not, but the officers tried to keep the men in formation as long as possible to preserve the weight of the attacking force.

Memoirs of Brigadier General Arthur M. Manigault, Chickamauga, September 20, 1863: � the troops were under arms, irregularities in the line were rectified and a few alterations made� The attention of all the officers being necessarily engaged in preserving as nearly as possible a perfect form, and closing any gaps that the irregularities of the ground or various obstacles might cause� For nearly a half-mile we advanced in this way [in line of battle] through the woods�(21)

Memoirs of Pvt Sam Watkins, Co H, 1st & 27th Tennessee Infantry, Chickamauga, Georgia, September 20, 1863: After marching in solid line, see-sawing, right obliqueing, left obliqueing, guide center and close up; commence firing - fire at will; charge and take their breastworks� We raise one long, loud, cheering shout and charge right upon their breastworks�(22)

Memoirs of Brigadier General Arthur M. Manigault, near Atlanta, Georgia, July 22, 1864 (the capture of DeGress' battery): The nearer we approached the enemy, the more severe became their fire, particularly that of the artillery, which caused us the loss of a good many men� I had several times to check the movement of the line, as it got in advance somewhat of the brigade on our right. At length, we reached a hollow between two hills, which ran almost parallel with the front of the position occupied by the Yankees, where we halted to rectify the alignment, and close up any gaps that had occurred during our advance� the order to move forward was given� a storm of bullets and cannister tore through our ranks and around us� The line had lost its regularity, warbling like the movements of a serpent, and things looked ugly, but our supports were coming up in capital style, not more than one hundred yards in rear� the brigade nearly as a whole, dashed forward and over the works, rifles and artillery flashing in their faces. At the last rush, most of the enemy broke and fled. (23)

Reenacting officers please take note: Attacking forces did not halt twenty yards from the enemy position to stand there and fire volleys over and over! Charges either succeeded in carrying the position or broke apart completely with survivors going to ground or streaming to the rear. And defending forces who were "overrun" did not form ranks and march slowly backwards or about face and march away. The survivors ran like hell! Contemporary, modern-day Americans might be inclined to believe that Napoleonic tactics were fine on the parade ground, but were useless in a real melee. Research shows otherwise (and note that this action occurred late in the war):

Colonel Thomas E. Rose, 77th Pennsylvania Infantry, on picket duty near Franklin, Tennessee, November 30, 1864: One by one the outpost companies� fell back to the reserve post and took their places in the regimental line� I commenced firing by battalion and soon cleared my front of the enemy; but soon received a heavy fire directly upon my right flank� The enemy had already passed my left and I fell back about the distance of my regimental front, faced about, delivered a volley, and quickly changed front forward** to receive the line of the enemy that was coming down upon my right flank. I stopped the enemy in this direction instantly, but soon found the enemy coming up yelling and firing upon my left flank, my original front. I then fell back almost to the ravine and changed front so as to receive the rebels in this direction, and delivered a volley upon them, which, as they were on higher ground than we were, and within fifty paces of us, produced most fearful carnage�(24)

**"Change front forward" involves placing markers on the new direction, usually near ninety degrees from the old one, then ordering a flank company (usually) to wheel on the new line; then ordering the rest of the battalion to change front, whereupon the other companies wheel out of the old line, march toward and turn onto the new line ... Not easy ... Requires DRILL.

The soldiers certainly complained about the drill, but soldiers complain about everything, (reenactors need no improvement whatsoever in the griping department). Sometimes however, the value of drill was recognized:

Diary of Sgt.. Rice Bull, Co E, 123rd New York Infantry, July 20, 1864 near Peachtree Creek, Georgia: The forest was filled with smoke from the guns of the enemy; the 141st as they hurried on the road ahead of us ran head-on into them. All their field officers were mounted and riding at the right of the Regiment; every one went down, either killed or wounded, at this first contact� a Captain as ranking officer commanded during the battle. When they met the enemy, the 141st swung around by their right, changed their front, and held that position during the action. As soon as the 141st halted, we closed on them and fronted just in time to repel the first attack� At Peach Tree Creek� if every regiment had not been composed of experienced veteran soldiers, men who knew what to do under the most adverse and changing conditions, we would never have fronted in battle line in time to have made a successful defense against the heavy force that attacked so suddenly. (25)

Memoirs of Colonel Hilary Herbert, 8th Alabama Infantry, Banks Ford, Virginia, Winter 1862-63: Some of the best officers protested against so much drilling, as unnecessary and fatiguing, notably Captain William Mordecai, who was always conspicuous for his gallantry in battle. "Drilling," he complained, "in all these fancy movements is of no practical value. We have never in any battle had to do anything more than move forward or backward, or by the right flank or left flank, or to wheel - everything beyond this is useless." (26)

Memoirs of Colonel Hilary Herbert, 8th Alabama Infantry, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, July 2, 1863: Referring to the movement of the 8th on this day, when it changed front forward on [the] tenth company with such precision in the face of a heavy fire from the enemy� after the battle of that day [July 2] was over, [Captain]Mordecai said to me: "Colonel, I want to beg pardon. I will never complain again about your drilling the regiment. If we had not been splendidly drilled, we would have been whipped this morning like hell, before we ever got into line!" (27)

There are many details of the War between the States which we as living historians have to make educated guesses about as the documentation is not clear. But one area of the war in which the documentation is perfectly clear is the drill. We have access to the same drill manuals that our ancestors used. Some of the drill is not easy to comprehend (then, as well as now). However, diligent research and study of the manuals, plus exercise in the field, has helped us learn it. Furthermore, the experience of drill develops discipline and camaraderie in the men (also, then as well as now).

We know that they trained from these manuals in camp, and I hope my article has convinced you that they exercised the maneuvers they learned from them in battle.

Footnotes:

(1) "A Carolinian Goes To War" 1868 memoirs of Brigadier General Arthur M. Manigault, R.L. Tower, editor, 1988.
(2) "Bloody Banners & Barefoot Boys" war time diary and 1910 memoirs of Pvt J.P. Cannon, Co C, 27th Alabama Infantry, N. Crowson & J.V. Brogden, editors, 1997.
(3) "Official Records, War of the Rebellion" Series I, Vol 11, Pt 2, p 634.
(4) OR's, Series I, Vol 19, Pt 1, p 455.
(5) OR's, Series I, Vol 24, Pt 1, p 741.
(6) OR's, Series I, Vol 30, Pt 2, p 88.
(7) OR's, Series I, Vol 34, Pt 1, p 336.
(8) OR's, Series I, Vol 43, Pt 1, p 337.
(9) Cannon
(10) Manigault
(11) "Grandfather's Journal" Pvt F.L. Riley, Co. B, 16th Mississippi Infantry, A.C. Dobbins, editor, 1988.
(12) "Civil War Diary of Sgt.. Rice C. Bull" Co E, 123rd New York Infantry, K.J. Bauer, editor 1988.
(13) Ibid.
(14) Cannon
(15) OR's, Series I, Vol 19, Pt 1, p 874.
(16) OR's, Series I, Vol 30, Pt 2, p 259.
(17) Manigault
(18) OR's, Series I, Vol 35, Pt 1, p 311.
(19) Bull
(20) "Company Aytch" Memoirs of Pvt Sam Watkins, Co H, 1st & 27th Tennessee, 1882.
(21) Manigault
(22) Watkins
(23) Manigault
(24) OR's, Series I, Vol 45, Pt 1, p 227.
(25) Bull
(26) "History of the 8th Alabama Regt" Col Hilary A. Herbert, 1906, M.S. Fortin, editor, Alabama Historical Quarterly, Vol 39, 1977.
(27) Ibid.

SPRINGING TO THE CALL!
How to Get Started in Civil War Reenacting

By Will Dennison

Originally published in the Camp Chase Gazette in 1990

Introduction

Magic moments - Civil War Reenactors attach a special meaning to these words. Magic moments can happen at large battle reenactments, where there are thousands of troops on the field and the air is thick with black powder smoke and the noise is so intense you can't hear yourself yell. Or they can happen when it is very quiet and you are all alone, late at night, standing picket duty while the rest of the camp sleeps. They usually only last a second or two. They happen when the sights and sounds around you create a scene that is so convincing, so inspiring and so hypnotic that you believe that you have really traveled back in time. Magic moments.

This book will not begin to tell you everything you need to know to become a good Civil War Reenactor. No book can. Participating in Reenacting events, talking to other experienced Reenactors, reading books about the daily routine of Civil War soldiers - all these things will help. But a good Reenactor is much more than a fellow dressed in a properly made wool uniform and sporting all of the correct equipment. A good Reenactor has a mysterious longing to come as close as possible to the experiences, the feelings, the joys and sorrows of the original Civil War soldiers.

If you are a student of The Civil War, you may have felt the desire to somehow travel back in time. As you have read Civil War history, you may have tried to imagine what it would be like to actually be there and experience it first-hand. If you have had these emotions, then you are already well on your way to being a good Reenactor. The rest is just technique and equipment - both readily available to anyone. A good Reenactor becomes a Civil War soldier. Being a good Civil War Reenactor is a state of mind.

The goal of Part 1 of this book is to provide enough basic information so you can determine whether or not this peculiar pursuit of living history is for you. Part 2 gets down to the steps necessary to successfully begin your active participation in Civil War Reenacting, while avoiding some of the common mistakes most of us made in our own early days.

At its worst, Civil War Reenacting can be just about the most uncomfortable activity imaginable. Yet thousands of us keep coming back, year after year, traveling hundreds of miles, just to escape the 20th century for a few days. It must be worth it.

I hope that you will decide to give Civil War Reenacting a try. But let me warn you - this hobby is addictive and it will change your life. You will read history from an entirely different perspective; that of the private soldier who has shouldered a rifle and slept on the ground. You will find yourself thinking about your next event as you drive home from the one you just attended. You will actually come to love the pungent aroma of wet wool. And if you are willing to let it happen, you will experience some of those magic moments yourself.

GALLINIPPERS: A BANE TO CIVIL WAR SOLDIERS
AND REENACTORS ALIKE
By Greg M. Romaneck

"Confound the mosquitoes! I used to exclaim every minute. They were the pests of the South, and of summer, and, like the Thane of Cawdor, did murder sleep!" Thus did J. H. Brown, a correspondent working for the New York Tribune during the 1862 Federal siege of Port Hudson, describe the irritating and seemingly omnipresent pest that plagued troops in the 1860s and reenactors in the present. Mosquitoes or gallinippers, as these hearty biting adversaries were sometimes referred to by Civil War soldiers, were a bane in the existence of campaigners then and now. In a very real sense when living historians go into the field on wet spring weekends or during hot and humid summer days only to be assaulted by the buzzing hordes of mosquitoes they relive an experience that any Civil War veteran could identify with. In an age of West Nile Virus the problem of mosquitoes carries a very real and relevant risk. Yet, in order to put that irritating and persistent experience in perspective perhaps a brief look back at the viewpoints of veterans on this pestilential topic might be enlightening.

During the early stages of the Civil War troops fresh from home entered camps that quickly became less than sanitary. Coming from a variety of climates, young recruits from temperate places like Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota to often stifling areas in the East or South had a significant adjustment to make. Swiftly, these camps became overcrowded and pestilential heaps. The odiferous combination of sewage, garbage, and slops produced what one soldier described as "an olfactory sensation which has yet to be duplicated in the Western Hemisphere."

The contaminated atmosphere of the early war camps led to a plague of vermin inclusive of seemingly countless mosquitoes. One Confederate snorted that these diminutive creatures "seem resolved to take me dead or alive." A Federal private stationed at Beaufort lamented that he understood why there was slavery in the South as it would take hundreds of slaves to keep off the mosquitoes. This sad soldier went on to denigrate his new home by stating, "this most god forsaken spot�mosquitoes, sand fleas, and the thousand and one bugs that infest us that Lt. Col. Allison says God Almighty could not find a name for it."

Trying to live any sort of normal life could be quite improbable when the gallinippers were out and about. A Pennsylvania man recorded in his diary, "Went on picket at five o'clock in the evening. Got no sleep at all that night on account of the mosquitoes being so bad. No other news." A New York volunteer camped near Charleston agreed with his Pennsylvania comrade in arms and described picket duty in this way, "Our worst picket duty is on the borders of the swamp. The myriads of stout ringtailed mosquitoes rush upon the detail the moment it arrives and jab their bills in the chuck up to the head�Even overcoats are no protection from the torturing rascals, who pierce through everything. Sleep is of course impossible with such a ravenous horde of bloodsuckers singing and biting and buzzing�getting up your sleeves and trouser legs, crawling slyly down your neck or dashing into your ears or throat, wearing a fellow's life out with coughing, slapping, pinching, and scratching."

Soldiers who could do little about their fate as bait for thriving gallinippers often resorted to stoicism and resignation. The buzzing foes became the fodder for exaggeration. Tall tales sprang up about the size and strength of these tiny irritants. While one Rebel claimed to be more afraid of mosquitoes than Yankee bullets he also swore that these insects were of a "ponderous size-almost able to shoulder a musket." Another Confederate, serving in a Tennessee regiment in the Mississippi lowlands, made the following comparison between the flying vermin of his home state and those of his new locale, "The Mississippi river fellow is far larger, has a longer and sharper bill�and though he sings the same tune, he sings it with far greater ferocity." This same lad also noted that the while Tennessee mosquitoes could only muster squads, the Mississippi brand came after you in regiments. For one Northerner the persistence of mosquitoes came out in a statement that can be appreciated to the present day, "The strife went on without intermission, day and night; the musquitoes relieving each other punctually, and mounting guard every five seconds�We never took up a book or commenced any manuscript but the musquito attacked us in force, and showed the most desperate determination to drive us from our labor or our love."

Sadly, these sometimes humorous accounts of warfare with mosquitoes generally resulted in literally thousands of visits to the various hospitals that dotted the landscape of Civil War America. While some troops attempted to make use of mosquito bars to avoid these voracious pests those protective measures were aimed at comfort and not health. At the time of the Civil War there was no connection made between the hungry mosquitoes and the dread malaria that tormented all too many soldiers. Referred to as fever and ague or the shakes, malaria was to victimize over one million Federal soldiers during the war's course. Malaria was also a significant problem for the Confederate forces as well. However, mortality from malaria appears to have been somewhat slighter in the Southern armies than their Northern cousins. Yet, whichever side's accounts you read you will probably find entry after entry that refers to the coming of mosquitoes to places such as Vicksburg, the Peninsula, or New Orleans, and the subsequent outbreak of what the doctors often referred to as "intermittent fever." Indeed, so widespread was the incidence of ague in Federal forces visiting the Southland that one noted Civil War scholar was moved to state, "If the men in blue could have been synchronized the South might have been shaken into submission."

With mosquito-borne ague present in virtually every military department in the South, and incidence rates sometimes reaching 100%, the control of this disease became a major concern to the medical corps of both sides. Attempting to prevent this scourge puzzled physicians and led to reliance upon traditional and oft-times addlepated explanations of what caused malaria. Among the many theories in vogue at the time of the war were sleeping in damp blankets, swift climate changes, foul drinking water, miasmas, the effects of camp crowding, and gaseous fumes from rubbish piles.

While each of these causative theories was in error, as it overlooked the common mosquito, they did result in unexpected benefits. Locating camps as far away as possible from stagnant water avoided mosquito breeding grounds. Another preventative measure used to combat foul vapors was the building of bonfires. While these roaring fires did little to alter the state of the atmosphere they did create a manmade fog that drove off mosquitoes. The digging of ditches and canals was viewed at the time as an invitation to the shakes and was a situation to avoid. Once again, a misunderstood byproduct of this injunction against stagnant water was the elimination of places that would increase the mosquito hatch. Thus, the greatest planned avoidances of malaria were not connected to its actual cause but did result in some lowering of the risk.

Despite the absence of medical knowledge about malaria's cause doctors were armed with an effective post-infection treatment. Quinine was known to combat the fever, chills, and exhaustion attendant to ague. This bitter medicine was so widely used that within the Union armies fully 19 tons of quinine sulfate were consumed during the war. As early as 1861 the Sanitary Commission, after investigating the widespread incidence of malaria in Federal units, advised the administration of preventative doses of quinine to all troops heading south. Unfortunately, the standard dosage of quinine at the time was one to two grains a day to be taken in combination with an ounce of whiskey. This dosage level was adequate enough to kill most mature parasites in the bloodstream but was inadequate to assure total elimination and, hence, the disease frequently reoccurred. Therefore, while quinine was partially effective in limiting the effects of malaria, it rarely did a complete job. Ultimately fully 25% of all Union soldiers fell victim to this hidden aspect of the mosquito hordes. Totals for Confederate troops are unknown but could be assumed to be comparable. One problem that plagued Confederate efforts to combat malaria was the Federal blockade.

With limitations on source of quinine Confederate physicians had to scrounge for alternate treatments. The Confederate Surgeon General's office improvised anti-malarial concoctions that contained a mixture of willow, poplar, dogwood bark, and whiskey. This potion seemed to be modestly effective but the inclusion of plants such as poplar and willow, from which aspirin was originally derived, may have proven somewhat beneficial in terms of fever control.

Those troops who were unfortunate enough to contract particularly virulent forms of intermittent fever often literally wasted away while in the hospital. In Hardtack & Coffee John Billings of the 10th Massachusetts Battery told the sad tale of this type of wasting death when he recounted the following epitaph, "I can see some of my old comrades now, God bless them! Sterling fellows, soldiers to the core, stalwart men when they entered the army, but, overtaken by disease, they would report to sick-call, day after day, hoping for a favorable change; yet, in spite of medicine and the nursing of their messmates, pining away until at last they disappeared-went to hospitals, and there died." Billings went on to lament this type of prolonged and saddening death as "one of the saddest pictures that memory brings me from Rebellion days."

Looking back at the pestilential experiences of veterans of both the blue and the gray it is easy to imagine their despair at coping with so miniscule a creature as the mosquito. In our own age reenactors can identify with those veterans who waged the actual Civil War. Thus, the next time you are standing a lonely picket post and mosquitoes are tormenting you remember the life of the true warriors of that conflict. As you swat an errant mosquito recall the fact the Union and Confederate soldiers did battle with these pests as well. By slapping down one of these bloodsucking kamikazes living historians achieve a level of hard core authenticity seldom matched in our efforts to recreate the Civil War experience. In that sense the long enduring "gillinipper" stands out as a helpful tool at improving our impressions and providing a true "magic moment".

SO YOU WANT TO PORTRAY A GERMAN IMMIGRANT SOLDIER
Sgt. Schultz Impressionists Need Not Apply
By Wolfgang Hochbruck

First published in the Camp Chase Gazette, May 1998

More than a third of all present inhabitantsof the United States claim German ancestry. The percentage is still a tad lower than that of contemporary Germans claiming German ancestry, but for some odd reasons it is increasing. Anyway, to be of German ancestry is no better or no worse than any other (glad we found that out over the past fifty years). But your problem is that you are a Civil War reenactor and you want to portray a German Immigrant soldier. Chances are that the reason for your choice will be one of the four listed below:

1. You are also a WW2-reenactor, love the "Fallshirm Yagers" and the "Waffen SS" and want to expand that impression into the past.

2. You pride yourself on that "ethnic" accent you can put on, and/or your friends tell you that with your triple chin, your wobbly cheeks, your protruding eyes and your whiskers you have a "German" face.

3. Your family name or that of your mother's family is Sigel, Osterhaus, Schimmelpfennig or Dengler, and you are just getting into Civil War reenacting because of that old family rumor that one of your ancestors was a "Forty-eighter" (whatever that is) who became a general or something.

4. You just found out/have known all the while that your triple/quadruple grandaddy/uncle was named Heinrich Schmidt or some other very common German name. He migrated to the U.S. around the mid-19th century and you know/suspect/hope that he fought in the Civil War. You may or may not have old family letters lying around, which you are not able to read because they are in old german script.

These are the four reactions I would offer to the four above cases:

1. Forget it. Get acquainted with the idea that many, if not most, Germans who fought in the Civil War had left their native countries to avoid and get rid of the kind of society and political life that eventually led to the growth of imperial Germany and fascism.

2. Forget it. While it is true that some Germans look like that (ugh!), much of today's "Hans-and-Franz" image dates back precisely to Civil War period. What it was then is what it is now: a misrepresentation with racist undertones, borne out of xenophobia and political hatred. The fact that an 1863 or 1864 newspaper has Germans gabble incoherently does not necessarily imply that Germans spoke like that.

3. Drop this magazine and get in touch with me immediately.

4. Read on. If I can help you with your impression, I'll be glad.

Language

About 180,000 is the conservative estimation for the number of first-generation immigrants from all of the German countries who fought for the Union. Many of these did not speak a word of English when they arrived. Of course chances are that by today that situation has reversed itself, and now it is you who doesn't speak a word of german.

The worst you could do now at reenactments or during living history representations, is to use an amalgam of the ususal phrases and swear words as heard on TV. This language of Hogan's Heroes has as much right to be in Civil War reenacting as blue jeans and BB guns. If you are really hardcore and will also lose 20 pounds of weight to be in the correct shape for Appomattox, you might think about attending language courses, getting yourself a "English-German" dictionary, or even travelling to Germany for a full immersion program. Not a bad idea, however I would recommend saving yourself the pain and the effort. Nineteenth century German was a fluctuating, unstable thing, with no clear standard orthography or pronunciation. Most of the farmers and common laborers who made up the majority of the immigrants would have spoken different dialectal variants, depending on where they were from. The intellectuals and skilled workers who made up the bulk of the 48er refugees, on the other hand, would have been fluent in at least one foreign language (possibly English, but more commonly French).

Your best option, in my opinion, is to stay where you are. Do not attempt to "Germanize" your language. Tell your audience at living history demonstrations that you are portraying a German immigrant who would have spoken about as much English then as you (or they) speak German now. Ask them to try and think themselves into his situation, linguistically. What is more important than to actually know the language is to know the customs, and the personal, political, and social history of your man (or woman, for that matter).

One thing that works wonders: If you have a singing voice, join your local German-American Singing Society, or else get yourself some records with traditional German folk songs. The present 15oth anniversary celebrations of the 1848/1849 revolutions have already brought forth some useful CDs (see bibliography below). "Oompah music" is not the same as traditional German folk singing! Maybe some members of the choir will join you in your hobby, and should I ever get to the U.S. again and hear you guys sing the old "�nnchen von Tharau", the "Morgenrot" or Ferdinand Freiligrath's "Weise von Marseille," I'll happily join in. Never sing "I fights mit Sigel" or "Corporal Schnapps!" Those songs made intentional fun of the German soldiers, and I wouldn't want to know how many eyes were blackened because of them, notably in the Army of the Potomac after Hooker and Howard had exculpated themselves at the expense of the Germans in the XI Corps after the Chancellorsville desaster. If you cannot sing, recite poetry: Friedrich Schiller (d. 1805) was still the most popular German poet of the period. "Forty-Eighters" would have recited Hoffmann von Fallersleben, Georg Herwegh, or Heinrich Heine, the more conservative majority would have favoured Ludwig Uhlandt or Ernst Moritz Arndt 1.). Schiller they all agreed on; the Schillerfests of 1859 were huge all-out affairs, and celebrated all through the country including the California gold mining towns! 2.)

Looks

I would not do anything special about that either. Contrary to 1860s newspaper article claims, Germans are no more lop-eared than other ethnicities. Still, should your looks be those described above under 2., tough. Of all the persons on period Cartes-De-Visite I have studied, only the old communist August Willich and the proto-anarchist Hermann Ulffers appear to have stubbornly retained the full beard and long hair the revolutionists sported in 1849. Most of the others show the same beards and haircuts as everybody else. Most of those under 25 years of age are clean shaven. Do not turn up your whiskers, or grew a crew-cut! This fashion can clearly be traced to the Wilhelminian epoch, and does not appear before the 1890s. Likewise, immigrant women went with the local/regional fashion wherever possible.

As far as clothes are concerned, few if any emigrants, (let alone the exiles,) seem to have taken along their "Trachten" from home, so don't wear the "traditional" Lederhosen you bought years ago at the Oktoberfest in Munich. Even the pants of Captain Hubert "Lederhose" Dilger of Chancellorsville and Gettysburg fame (Battery 1, 1st Ohio Artillery) were not your typical Bavarian monstrosities, but doe-skin "breeches", going down to below the knees. A very recent immigrant might still wear such breeches, and the typical wide-sleeved working shirt, but we are talking a soldier's impression here, so I shall stop. In Union uniform, the German was pretty much indistinguishable from the rest; no harps, no kilts. The Garibaldi Guards (more Swiss, Germans, and Austro-Hungarians than Italians) wore their special uniforms of course, and Franz Sigel's 3rd Missouri Infantry first received a uniform shirt that appears to have been designed and cut to resemble the "Freischarenblusen" of 1849. Other than that, the only special adornment you might consider wearing (ball and parade use only) if your impression is that of a democrat refugee is a German national black, red, and gold cockade. In its period from, it had the yellow band outside and the black in the center.

Background, Customs, and Behavior

There were 38 different little Germanies in the 1850s. So it would be a good idea to research your man or woman, trace them to a place, and then look into an old encyclopediafor additional information on that particular kingdm, dukedom, archdukedom, count-dom (countdom??), or whatever. If Michael Bacarella had done at least that much, he would have spared himself and us the embarrassing misspelling of the German states3.) and provinces which mar his otherwise interesting book on the 39th New York. If you are interested in local customs, there is a much neglected contemporary source which unfortunately appears never to have been translated into English: Eduard Duller, Das deutsche Volk in seinen Mundarten, Sitten, Braeuchen und Trachten. 4.)Its diction is antiquated and nationalistic, but it gives you a good idea of the different peoples inhabiting Germany at the time, regional dialects, interesting customs, and local folklore that an immigrant would have at least remembered if not continued.

As far as manners and societal behavior are concerned, some differences are notable. There is, for example, no reference whatsoever to spitting in public in the 1852 edition of the German Knigge. It simply wasn't done. Women were, if my reading is correct, more likely to be treated as equals, and the focus of the book is more on the art and development of communicative skills than on mannerisms.

Generally

The average German immigrant soldier of the american Civil War is literate and has an above average education, even if he does not speak English. If older than thirty, he probably served before, usually as a conscript in one of the German armies. Conditions there were tough and the drill very strict, so he tends to be rather obedient, effective, and good at drilling (not that he likes it more than anybody else).

Politically speaking, he is most likely to be a free-soil, free-labor democrat who reluctantly voted Republican in 1862, and for Lincoln in 1864. The memories of "Know-Nothing" and nativist terrorism run deep. Many of them were decidedly anti-slavery, and will easily fraternize with African-Americans. As many have a profound hatred of aristocrats, European or Southern, and will forage with a vengeance. They are not as religious as their American counterparts. At least two German regiments founded "Free Churches" in order to have freethinkers as their "Chaplains" (and both Albert Krause for the 12th Missouri and "Red" Becker with the 8th New York did a good job). Freethinker or not, the average German would have thought the Americans bigoted, and overly pious. If possible, the immigrant community (likewise the soldiers) would celebrate and enjoy their Sundays with extended walks, sports, pcnics, and in beer-gardens. This is where, finally, the fun of portraying a German immigrant soldier comes in. Yes, drinking and even brewing lots of beer is German! Even those immigrants from the wine-growing areas in Baden, Frankonia, Wurttemberg and the Palatinate would make no exception. Also, in the nineteenth century sauerkraut was far more widespread as a staple foodstuff than it is today. If you can, procure a small stone vat, fill it with sauerkraut, put a wooden lid on it, cover it with a cloth, and tie the cloth-covered lid to the vat. Transport to reenactments like that, and eat the sauerkraut either raw (best nutritional value) or cook it up with your salt pork ration and some potatoes and onions. Enjoy and have fun with your impression.

Research Ideas For Your German Impression:

To get an impression what immigrant life was like, I would recommend places like the Missouri Historical Society Museum in St. Louis, 5.) or the Deutschheim settlement, also in Missouri. Helpful sources on the German immigrant and notably on the 48er refugee in the Civil War era are the books by Wittke, Burton, Zucker, Brancaforte, and Lonn (in that order) 6.). Wilhelm Kaufmann's book on Germans in the Civil War 7.), however, on which all of the above draw to some extent, is horrifyingly inaccurate in many respects, but notably in the biographical data he gives of many German soldiers. By far the best book source is Bruce levine's , The Spirit of 1848 8.), but he covers the war itself only in passing. The website to browse is Robert Shea's German-American sites and links at www.serve.com/shea/germusa/germusa.htm. I have placed a list of some 140 "Forty-Eighters" and a short annotated research bibliography on the net. Also on this page: a handful of German Civil War songs from the 1860s! A handsome CD with songs of the 48 is "Die Gedanken sind frei" by D'Gelfieler (I know, I know...) available from Gelfieler-Verlag, Jahnstrasse 8, D-77948 Friesenheim, Germany, fax: +49 7821 61472, for only $11, plus shipping costs.

Notes:

1) A contemporary bilingual edition that may give you an idea of the German poetry and authors that were popular in the U.S. is Alfred Baskerville Jr., The Poetry of Germany, (New York, 1854).

2) See, for example, "Schiller celebration at Columbia", Tuolumne Courier, Oct.1, 1859. Thanks to Sharon Grout, Columbia Park Ranger, who really went out of her way to get this information for us.

3) The other embarrassing thing about Michael Baccarella's, Lincoln's Foreign Legion: The 39th New York Infantry, Garibaldi Guards (Shippensburg, PA: White Mane, 1996), is its asinine title. What Bacarella calls a "Foreign Legion" was closer to the International Brigades of the Spanish Civil War - as were many of the early-war, all-ethnic regiments. The appendix lists the countries and cities of origin of the enrolled officers and men. Unfortunately, Bacarella apparently had nobody to correct the misspellings and geographically inaccurate renditions of most German-language place names.

4) Thanks to Doug Harding, St. Louis, for his advice, guidance, and hospitality!

5) Carl Wittke, Refugees of Revolution: The Fourty-Eighters in the United States, (New York, 1952); William Burton, Melting Pot Soldiers: The Union's Ethnic Regiments, (Ames, IA: Iowa State UP, 1988); A. E. Zucker, ed., The Fourty-Eighters: Political Refugees of the German Revolution of 1848, (New York, Columbia UP, 1950); Charlotte Branceforte, ed., The German Forty-Eighters in the United States, (NY: Lang, 1989); Ella Lonn, Foreigners in the Union Army and Navy, (New York: Greenwood, 1969 (1951)). Wilhelm Kaufmann, Die Deutschen im amerikanischen B�rgerkriege, (M�nchen: Oldenbourg, 1911).

6) Bruce Levine, The Spirit of 1848. German Immigrants, Labor Confilct, and the Coming of the Civil War. (Urbana/Chicago: U. of Illinois Press, 1992).