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AAR from the fed side.Recon III – A Walk in the Park
an After-Action Report by Corpl. M. A. Schaffner
Regimental Clerk, 7th Maine Volunteer Infantry
Arrived about 11 a.m. Friday morning, April 30, 2004 – no,
make that May 1, 1864 -- at registration near Culpeper's municipal
airport in the company of Lieutenant Josh Mordin, regimental
adjutant, and Mark Maranto, second sergeant Co. B. Passed
registration, picked up a casualty chit ("Shirker" – like I needed to
be told), headed for the Union assembly area about a mile away.
Dawdled there awhile, then marched to HQ with Mordin and Maranto. A
few other fellows were there; after a while more of dawdling, I
issued company B's stationery supply to Sgt. Maranto, giving my
invoice and taking his receipt, then did the same with a
representative of Co. E. Picked a tick or two off my trowsers, then
accompanied the Adjutant and General Air out to view the proposed
bivouac area, a rather gnarly meadow next to a swamp.
1st Sgt. Jurand arrived and immediately took charge of Co. C.
After falling the men in for an initial roll call, he asked them to
bear with him because it was his first gig as top sergeant. I would
never have guessed, and suspect neither would they – not then, and
certainly not by the end of the event. Anyway, I stuck him with a
stationery issue and he then marched his people off to the bivouac.
Col. Culberson arrived and the Adjutant briefed him on the
situation, which was not much, except we had no water and no clue
about rations. The three of us ascended a nearby hill (from which
Buford had watched part of the battle of Brandy Station, I hear).
Corpl. Peterson had indicated it had a commanding view of the
surrounding countryside. Indeed it did, and we saw Co. C setting up
in the field next to the one Air had shown us. We didn't think to
tell him to change as it looked better than the original one.
Culberson went over a map with Mordin, explaining the plan for the
evening and the next morning, much of which was lost on me, a mere
clerk.
Speaking of clerking, I'd brought a full set of back-up forms
and blank paper in my clerk's haversack, as well as traveling
inkwell, pens and holders, pencils, and such sundries as india rubber
erasers and gum bands. To this, Mallen Cunningham added a gift of
about five pounds of morning reports, consolidated morning reports,
guard reports, and the like. A little later, Colonel Culberson made
me a gift of about another five pounds of letterhead and message
blanks. I thanked them both and began to wonder whether I ought to
throw away my blanket to compensate for the additional weight.
The rest of the afternoon passed with a variety of
preparatory activities and complaints. The Lister bags were late
arriving and even later in getting to their proper positions. Co. A
marched up as a group – not all of them, but in perfect order and
with Captain Piering in the lead. I directed him to what I thought
the bivouac site was, noted his concern about the lack of water (and
its implications for the overall event), and issued him his
stationery on the march, halting only to sign the invoice and
receipt.
It turned out that the various companies were scattered, in
part from lack of supervision, but also because both the field
initially pointed out and the one Co. C set up in were being sprayed
with noxious chemicals. Tim O'Neill showed, took stock of the
situation with Col. Culberson, and it was decided to move the
battalion to a pretty knoll across the swamp from the initially
intended camp site. I'd seen nothing of the cavalry save a picket of
three dismounts, so I asked Mr. O'Neill to convey the cavalry's
stationery issue to them. Good sport that he is, he did so, and I
have his signature on the receipt to prove it.
We established our bivouac on the knoll, directing new
arrivals to their companies, and getting fires started for the
rations that seemingly would never arrive. Ultimately the wagon came
at about 8 p.m. and the issue occurred in the dark, with consequent
confusion in distribution to the men, especially those already posted
on guard. On returning, the wagon took out our first casualty of the
event, QM Lieutenant Pannier, who had arrived sick and somehow failed
to get better by lying out in a pasture for several hours communing
with ticks and meadow voles and watching the vultures circle the
nearby woods.
About rations. Given the distribution problem, staff seemed
generally to agree that the benefits of the present practice
(issuance with period forms, authentic food) in no way justified the
cost in terms of time and effort. Alternatives might include
individual issuance at registration (with surplus given to charity
or, if possible, retained for future events), or simply requiring
people to bring their own food in accordance with event standards,
with an appropriate reduction in registration fees. The first
alternative would require much more upfront work from the commissary,
and the second would make for another inspection issue, but both
would reduce the hassle for officers and men.
Sergeant Major Charles "Amos" Reynolds (who, by the way,
bears an astonishing resemblance to Michel Ney) held the first
orderly call at 6:15 p.m. Highlights: tomorrow's reveille would occur
at 5 a.m., "by boot" (no bugle); we would move at 6 a.m. at the
latest, all cups secured to keep the noise of random kitchenware from
alerting the enemy to our position. Tonight there'd be an officers'
soiree at 7 p.m. and Guard Mount at 7:45 – Co. A to provide the
officer of the Guard; Co. B the sergeant; each company to provide a
corporal and nine men; two privates for HQ water detail; build fires
now; the Sgt. Major would collect the morning reports before 6 a.m.
tomorrow.
Guard mount provided something of a challenge. Co. A had been
detached to protect division HQ, a deployment noted in the first two
missives of the campaign, one from the Colonel and one from Capt.
Piering, both of which missed each other in transit, despite the
heroic courier services of Pvt. Peter Cross (who actually ran to
Division HQ and back). The numbers required from each company would
actually take most of the available privates. In a rough count around
7 p.m., Co. A had 19 bodies, B had 17, and C had 14, including
officers, NCOs, and musicians. I have no record of E's count. For the
night's guard, the sign was "mud," the countersign "blood," and the
parole "Zeus."
By 10:20 p.m., Co. A had an aggregate strength of 22 men; B,
19; C, 25; and E, 13; for a total of 79. To this we could add 8
staff, Lt. Col. Murley having appeared, though not on the original
roster, to make up for the loss of the stricken Lt. Pannier.
After a beautiful rendition of "Taps" by our principal
musician, Jari Villanueva,
I passed a reasonably pleasant night in the field, waking
occasionally to the stars of heaven and the snores of my comrades,
all the while serenaded by the dogs of a neighboring plantation. I
woke for good around 4 a.m. and found that plans had changed –
reveille at 7 and assembly at Division HQ at 8. Given the change,
Jari blew reveille and the battalion rose with a will. The morning
reports now showed the battalion at an aggregate of 117 men: 8 staff,
25 in Co. A, 28 in Co. B, 30 in Co. C, and 26 in Co. E. I had seen
none of the cavalry, who had a roster strength of 15 men, and would
bring our actual field strength very close to the number registered.
As we suited up for the move to Division, I managed to
entangle myself in my own canteen strap. I still don't know how I did
this, but I took it as a possible good luck sign. As I told the
fellow who helped me extricate myself, "I screw something up in every
event; let this be the worst thing that happens." The first bit of
luck came in being treated as a member of regimental staff in the way
that mattered most – I got to put my knapsack (with most of the
additional paperwork) on the wagon with the packs of the regimental
and company officers. This was not so much a privilege, I was told,
as a reflection of the fact that the officers were going to have to
do a lot of running around. Whatever – I was relieved, and Schnapps
breathed not a word about proletarian solidarity. The sun rose
bright, promising a warm day.
En route to Division we were in good spirits, and Schnapps
even sang "Morgenrot" without attracting too many catcalls. We picked
up the guard, then marched down the road in the direction of
yesterday's assembly area. We twice deployed flankers from Co. B, but
on the wrong side of the road, on rough ground, and with no attempt
to slow the marching column to allow them to actually deploy on the
flank. The result was a couple of squads of men who were fairly worn
before the party even started.
Perhaps halfway back to the assembly area we turned onto a
road to our right, which led through a couple of fields of high
grass, wildflowers, scrub, and poison ivy, pocked with groundhog
burrows and ancient swales, and bounded by bocage or brambly forest.
It was the sort of beautiful Virginia countryside that I would only
actually walk through in a heavy wool suit, nothing else being proof
against the flora. In the second field we deployed flankers to the
left facing the forest, sent Co. A ahead as advance guard, and sent
forth the remaining three companies in column of companies. I think
the main force was to move to a far corner of the field and a mud
road leading to the "Brock Road" – a hard surface road from which we
could deploy into the "Wilderness" and "sweep" a Confederate force
(said to be two or three times our number) into whatever dustbin the
higher ups wished.
Or perhaps the column of companies came after the initial
deployment. The events of the day would cloud my memory of the
morning. In any case, the ball opened long before we saw anything of
the Brock Road. Adjutant Mordin, Sergt. Maj. Reynolds, and I
accompanied a platoon of B Company into the woods to our left to
screen the flank of our main advance. We were soon engaged by divers
numbers of rebels – a handful on the far left, then more and more as
we got further in the woods. I used the occasion of our first fire to
play my "Shirker" card, running back and saying to Lt. Mordin, "I've
got to get back to regiment!" "Get back in line!" he ordered sternly,
brandishing his sword. "But I'm only a clerk!" "I don't care! Get
back there and do your duty!"
The scrap on the left resulted in B's 1st platoon – under
Major Cross as wing commander – becoming utterly separated from the
rest of the line. I scrambled forward and ultimately found a line of
blue in front. I let Mordin know, and briefly the link was
reestablished, but the appearance of more and more seccesh on the
left led the line to drift further to the right and, as I fell in
with these men (Co. E, I believe), I lost track of everyone in the
unit I began the show with. The rest of the fight was a confusion of
frantic firing and lurching through the jungled landscape. When the
firing ceased, by bugle, I came upon the mud road and saw the colors.
After an interesting encounter with an English confederate corpse,
whom I escorted to a nearby field where he rejoined his fellows, I
found the command, now represented by Lt. Col. Murley and Jari. Col.
Culberson was a casualty, the Sergt. Major had been captured, no one
knew where the Adjutant was, nor the entire flanking platoon of Co.
B. A roll call at 10:20 a.m. showed Co. A with 22 men, B with 19, C
with 25, and E with 13. Some of the missing were casualties, but many
had simply become separated from their units. The regimental clerk
had fired 20 rounds.
It appeared that the OCs had stopped the fight not only
because ranges had dropped to dangerously close, but a good deal of
the CS force had moved through the field I'd escorted the Johnny
corpse to, and that field was out of bounds. In the discussions that
followed our rough handling, Lt. Col. Murley placed Major Cross under
arrest. Major Cross challenged Lt. Col. Murley to a duel. I noted the
arrest but had to remind both parties of the prohibition against
dueling in the Articles of War.
We retired to the field from which we'd made the attack,
stacked arms, and took roll again. At 11:00 a.m. the 7th Maine had 23
men in Co. A, 28 in Co. B, 28 in Co. C, and 20 in Co. E. Two men were
missing from Company E as was Lieutenant Emerson of Company B. Co.
E's men soon were accounted for, but no one knew what had happened to
Emerson. He'd last been seen by the Sergt. Major, who told him to run
as part of our flankers were overrun by a small group of Confederates
who appeared not to be under any particular command. The OC got on
his phone and tried to find out if he'd been captured or had shown up
somewhere else. No one knew, cavalry patrols failed to find any sign,
and the command debated the necessity of sending out search parties.
As we waited for word of Emerson, we refilled canteens, ate
lunch, and attended to various chores. Many men napped, happy for the
chance to drop their packs. I spread out a gum blanket and tried to
dry my sack coat. Corpl. Endlein of Co. B borrowed a pencil and began
to write a letter. Sgt. Maranto replaced a braces button on his
trowsers, then lent me his housewife so I could do the same with
mine. Ned Smith and Hiram Walker of Co. B engaged in lively, Maine-
accented discussions of home and other subjects. In between these
activities we picked off the occasional tick.
At some point in our rest, seemingly to provide further
amusement, a gang of free radical rebs showed at the corner of the
field fed by the mud road, deployed into a skirmish line and began to
fire at us. There were about six of them, and some eighty of us. "Oh,
no," said one of the Mainers, more in exasperation than anything
else. "Ignore them," said the Colonel. But the best response came
from one of the privates, who simply looked over at the Johnnies and
began slowly to clap his hands. In a little while, the entire
battalion was applauding derisively. In turn, the CS officer in
command looked, as Adjutant Mordin later observed, somewhat like he'd
walked downstairs to the tree Christmas morning and found all the
presents gone. The OC went over to the band of CS and they soon left.
Yet it was a sign of a problem that would recur.
Some time after noon we received word that Lieutenant Emerson
had found his way to Division HQ after successfully evading his
pursuers. With that and the return of the remainder of our
casualties, Col. Culberson decided that we would try again to fulfill
our mission, despite the disparity in numbers and signs of sporadic
misbehavior among our opponents. The new plan called for two or three
companies to enter the woods in a column of companies in skirmish
order, with the balance of our forces on the road or as a reserve.
As the deployment began, I accompanied the Sergt. Major
behind the first company. We soon encountered the enemy. We drove
them for awhile – another hot fight in the vines and brambles – and
ultimately into a clump on the road, where they stood rather like
Braddock's command, refusing to budge, or fall (the latter an option
denied to the 44th Foot), despite the additional pressure coming from
our people on the road. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop,
since it was clear we'd only encountered part of the Confederate
force. But the rest of their army failed to show. I felt like we'd
fairly bagged this lot – the better part of one of their battalions
it seemed – and thus had a good shot at defeating them in detail. As
it was, the fight stopped because the ranges had again grown too
short. The Confederates moved away, and we had to restart against
their entire force.
Not long after, the attack resumed with the bulk of our force
again in skirmish order. We advanced a few score yards into the
woods, but soon ran into several groups of Confederates who
counterattacked vigorously. Perhaps too vigorously – we became
overextended, and fell back gradually, while the CS came on in
numbers at the run. I fell in with Company A and teamed with one of
their privates as comrades in battle, alternating shots. At one point
I asked which company he was in (which is the only reason I know); he
told me, then asked, "What company are you?" "I'm the regimental
clerk," I said. "Great."
But I should have loaded nibs in the barrel. The Johnnies
poured on like an Impi in a butternut remake of Zulu. The OCs would
later explain that the numbers system had broken down and they were
reduced to simply grabbing men and telling them they were hit, which
also seemed to have little effect on the rebs. Many Confederates
were, in fact, running nearly into the muzzles of our guns. At one
point the Sergt. Major actually stepped between the lines,
shouting, "What the hell are you doing!", only to be ignored or
jeered. As the entire scenario had broken down into something like a
mainstream, powder-burning "tactical," the bugles soon rang out the
cease fire again. In all the excitement the clerk had fired another
36 rounds since the morning's fight.
As the lines separated and the Union forces marched back to
the mud road -- thence to the Brock Road for the afternoon scenario --
a group of nearby rebels jeered derisively. They added a variety of
insults, all more or less accusing us of hiding behind our bugle
calls. On our part, we felt that we'd fairly won the first two
encounters – the first by default because of the CS boundary
violation and the second by driving the forces in front of us into an
untenable position on the road. But this third scenario seemed to
show that the event might not deliver on the promise of something
more than the lowest form of powderfest. The problem lay not with the
Confederates as a whole – the majority of whom are as fine men and
living historians as one would find anywhere – as perhaps with the
command structure. There were only two OCs for the whole force, and
many of the companies did not seem to operate as parts of a
battalion, but as autonomous workers' collectives, each in search of
their individual utopia, which resembled each other only in offering
the opportunity to shoot Yanks. This, combined with the confused
nature of the fighting and the terrain, allowed the yahoo element to
express itself, and the fighting to correspondingly degenerate.
It's hard to say what would have made a difference. More OCs
perhaps, or enforcement of general results in addition to individual
casualties ("You've lost a third of your men, Captain; you have to
take cover now"). But no rules would make a difference without
players willing to abide by them. The 7th Maine represented an
amalgamation of men and units who all signed on to represent the
regiment as realistically as possible. In all the communications
before the event – and God knows there were a lot – the emphasis fell
on authenticity in kit and behavior, on organization, first person,
and the history of not only the regiment, but of the towns the
companies came from. I'm sure someone mentioned victory at some
point, but I don't remember when – it just wasn't the main objective.
We faced, on the other hand, a group of Confederates who comprised,
in addition to the majority of living historians, a few men who
appeared more interested in their personal fantasy of the war, and
seemed to feel that somehow, in this game of firing blanks at fellow
actors, they could attach to themselves a portion of the gallantry
and sacrifice of the real soldiers. It's an extreme form of the
madness all of us reenactors have, and it's as pitiable as it is
dismaying. I think those most dismayed were those among us who often,
or mainly, portray Confederates and have to view these creatures as
compatriots.
We rested some time on the Brock Road discussing this and
related matters, including the previous evening's ration issue and
intermittent issues with the water. What was the point of continuing,
we wondered, if we were going to have to continue to deal with
largely undisciplined clowns? There seemed a growing consensus among
the staff that, if things didn't change significantly, we'd leave the
event. In any case, we were done for the afternoon – things had
become unsafe, the men were exhausted, and if forced to fight again
there was a chance someone would end up with a face full of black
powder. If I had had to write my after-action at that time, it would
have been titled "Recon, Strike Three."
At 2:45 Col. Culberson issued an officers' and orderlies'
call and announced his decision to march back to our jump-off point,
build hasty works, then rest and attempt to salvage the scenario on
the morrow. Everyone agreed and the OC accordingly notified his
counterparts.
A few moments later, as if to confirm our growing impression
of yahooism, I espied a character leaning into the roadway from the
intersection of the Brock and mud roads, and staring at us as if we
had no eyes to see him. I pointed him out to the Colonel as he
stepped into the roadway and began to swagger toward us brandishing a
carbine. It was hard to say what he was. He appeared to base his
impression not on any actual Civil War soldier, but upon a bandit in
a Max Sennett silent comedy. The Colonel asked me to accompany him as
he went to parley but I'd only taken a few steps when the vaquero
began gesticulating furiously. As I continued forward, he whipped his
carbine around to a firing position and yelled, "I'll shoot you dead,
Yank!"
"Oh, grow up," I replied.
Culberson asked me to stay and went up to personally
ascertain whether this Australopithecine Cavalier had a cerebral
cortex sufficient to sustain human speech. It transpired that our
accoster was a member of the celebrated "Critter Company," recently
returned from an expedition in which, in addition to skirmishing with
our own cavalry, they'd looted the hospital and pillaged Division
Headquarters, both bits of gallantry being facilitated by the lack of
any opposition – or indeed, weapons -- at either of the objectives.
After a brief chat we let them pass and then took the mud
road back to the jump off point. Schnapps walked point with Major
Cross, not so much to court danger as to try to get over the really
wet spots before they'd been churned up by the rest of the battalion.
Not that we weren't expecting trouble: Major Murley, who'd unloaded a
few cylinders into the graybacks already that day, suggested we go
back with fixed bayonets at arms port, just in case, but Culberson
opined that it would be unnecessary, as it indeed proved to be. At
length we found ourselves back where we stacked arms earlier, but
this time found another random group of banditti skirmishing with a
handful of our boys who were already there. After a little while the
Colonel directed Adjutant Mordin to take the battalion and fire a
volley or two to disperse them. This he did, and soon a flag of truce
appeared. "What do you want?" "Your water and women!" Another volley
brought them to a more reasoned understanding, and ultimately we
watered them and sent them home.
The Colonel and Adjutant discussed the logistics of setting
up camp in works thrown up in this part of the woods. It would place
us under cover, yet leave us exposed all night to the raids of the
enemy. Beyond that, it was damp and tangled ground. Captain Grimes of
C Company suggested that we instead withdraw to the next field back,
adjacent to the road, where we would be on high ground, in touch with
our communications, and, due to the terrain, largely protected from
harassment. The Colonel agreed and we made the move, finding a grove
of cedars just as a light rain broke out.
A few of our ranks had already begun to leave the event, and
the rain accelerated the movement. Those of us who stayed began to
fix up shelters – most of staff under a tarp, Jari and I under the
second worst shebang in history. Our roof consisted of one shelter
half, with another draped behind us on the uphill side, against which
we stacked our gear. We each had our own gum blanket to lie on, and I
had another to cover both of us against the inevitable leaks. We had
to crouch with our knees up or lie in a cramping fetal position, but
it was the best I could think of at the time, being exhausted,
dehydrated, nauseated, and not feeling too good in the bowels,
either. After mentioning how hungry he was, Jari dropped off to
sleep. I watched the officers build a fire in the rain against the
background of a grove of cedars and a soft gray sky and thought
again, as I had at Berkeley a few summers ago, how beautiful even the
least comfortable place could be.
The Adjutant suggested I collect the rolls. He received a
look that I fear was neither friendly nor obedient, but after a few
minutes of rest I complied. Company A still had 21 men; Company B, 22
(one in hospital); Company C, 29; and Company E, 13. With staff this
made 85 – about 30% less than we began the morning with.
The rain would continue nearly all night, with intervals of
drizzle that seemed like rain because of the residue dripping from
the cedars. While some of the shebangs were wonderful examples of the
soldier's craft, others were less so, and some of the boys became
drenched and sick. Early in the evening a pair of OCs came to
headquarters and an impassioned discussion followed about the event
so far and what we hoped for on the morrow. Desiring to conserve his
men, the Colonel decided against posting guards, ordering us to
ignore any interlopers, if they could find us. In the morning we'd
take our position and wait – all day it had been our one battalion
attacking their two; now, Johnny could try his luck.
I woke about 4:50 Sunday morning to find the Sergt. Major
already up. He collected the morning reports, allowing me to attempt
to clean my Springfield. I'd wrapped it in one side of my ground
sheet, but this did little good – it looked like it had a bad case of
eczema and, in any event, I hadn't washed out the bore after the 56
rounds I'd fired Saturday. I put about half a canteen of unheated
water down the bore in five or six rinsings, tried to dry it a little
with a couple of domet flannel patches on a worm, then took out the
cleanout screw and – with a decidedly non-period drill bit – worked
on the impacted powder in the firing chamber. After a few minutes I
got it somewhat clear and did the same with the cone. I had no
reasonable expectation that it would fire.
As the Sergeant Major collected the reports he gave the
numbers to the Adjutant and the returns to me. I stuffed them into my
blouse pocket. Looking at the stained and soggy forms afterward, I
found that I'd lost Company A's, but I'm sure they still had 19 or 20
men left. Company B had 19 for duty and 1 sick. Company C had 22 men.
Company E had fallen to a Lieutenant and four enlisted. With 74 men,
the regiment had lost over a third of its strength.
Who stayed? I'm certain we had some truly hard-core soldiers –
men who were skilled, experienced, and crazy enough to enjoy what
they'd been through. If there were more than 20 of those I'd be
surprised. The rest were a collection of various types. Some, I'm
sure, were determined to prove their manhood by staying. Others had
long rides home, and leaving Saturday in their exhausted condition to
march two miles with a full pack in the rain and then drive six or
nine hours to get home was more problematical than staying, however
bad conditions got. In my case, my ride was with the Adjutant, and I
couldn't leave unless he did. And being the Adjutant, he wouldn't
leave because he had stripes and, like other staff, felt some
responsibility to stay as long as a man could. But if he did have to
leave, I wouldn't have wasted any time looking for another ride. I'd
have been packed before he was.
Those who left included the sick and those who had the fewest
obstacles to getting home. Company E lost the most because they had
the most people in commuting distance. And I don't blame them for
leaving. Anyone who humped a pack through Saturday's fighting had
encountered as much authenticity – and worse – as any sane person
should have to bear. I only wish they could have been teleported back
for the closing ceremony with the rest of us.
In any case, we formed three companies for the battle,
amalgamating the survivors of E with B. We would also have our ten
mounted cavalry – a most welcome reinforcement.
At daybreak we could already hear the occasional echo of
Confederate bugles, so we lost no time preparing for the day's fight.
We would make our stand on high ground, in the field next to the
cedars. Looking toward Johnny's probable approach route, the cedars
were on the right and right rear of our position, the road home
across our rear, and the road to the mud road and Brock's Road on our
left. Further to the left were two fields bounded by ditches and
hedges of wildflowers. To our front the ground fell to another
beshrubbed border and a stream. Across the stream was another field,
rising up to forest, with forest on either side.
The Colonel's plan, loosely based on Morgan's at the Cowpens,
was not just to await the rebel attack, but to lure them into a
situation favorable of counterattack. To that end, he would place the
color company in the field across the stream, backed on the culvert
as a line of retreat. He himself would stand with the colors, make
himself as prominent as possible, and, if we had any luck, the CS
might think this group the bulk of our forces. Back across the
stream, in our field, the cavalry would deploy to the right of the
culvert, hidden behind a group of cedars. Company B would take
position on high ground in the road leading down to the culvert.
Company A would set up on our right. When the Johnny's attacked, C
would retire to a point between B and A, their withdrawal covered by
the cavalry. The OCs were informed that if the Confederates broke the
safety zone and approached within 20 yards of our line, the 7th Maine
would fix bayonets. We had no intention of thrusting them into the
rebs, but we wouldn't stop them from impaling themselves, either.
We deployed as planned, and Company C crossed into the
neighboring field. We could hear frequent bugling from the enemy, as
well as shouts and massed volleys as they cleared their weapons. And
yet we waited so long, I thought we might not see them before the
nominal end of the event at 9 a.m. I was posted with Lieutenant
Herzog of Co. E at the intersection in the rear of our position to
keep an eye out for a flank attack (until relieved by Joey Bordonaro
of the Cavalry), and several times asked him for the time. But well
before nine shots broke out on the left of Company C.
I loaded. The firing quieted for awhile and I began to chat
with old friends in Company B. The skirmishing resumed, but didn't
seem serious. Someone suggested Schnapps harangue the workers, so I
pulled out a copy of Karl Marx's November, 1861 letter to Die Presse
and began reading his condemnation of the Confederacy's disingenuous
claim to be fighting a defensive war. The boys seemed amused at
first, but quickly had all the fun they could get from it. As I was
trying to stuff the document back in my clerk's kit, Lt. Col. Murley
called me over. I thought he was just going to oppress me, but when I
got over he pointed to the ridge opposite us, where a long line of
Confederate skirmishers emerged from the woods, with formed troops
behind them, and headed for Culberson and Company C.
This is called having an eye for the terrain. I would have
thought the Colonel could see them, but Murley saw that the field
plateaued a bit before sloping down, and that the Johnnies were
invisible to the Colonel. I jogged down and pointed out where they'd
deployed. A few moments later the first heads appeared over the rise
and Culberson began to reel in his command. I stayed to fire a couple
of rounds and, satisfied that the Springfield actually worked,
retired up the hill, with Company C in feigned disorder behind me and
the Johnnies howling after us. Atop the hill, behind Company B (see
above, re "Shirker" card) I noted a detachment of 6 or 8 rebs in the
tree line to our right. They apparently had orders to screen their
right flank, as they did not advance very far. Sergeant Maranto,
Corpl. Endlein and a couple of other men of Company B took them under
fire, as did I, from our extreme left (i.e., further to the rear than
any other Union soldier pretending to be a combatant – again,
see "Shirker").
But that was a side show to the main event. Once Company C
cleared the culvert, Captain Kiger of Company B had his men pouring
volleys into the pursuing Johnnies. This held them long enough for
Company C to re-form and add their fire. The Confederate advance
continued, but in some confusion. Company C fell back, unmasking our
Cavalry, who charged in and unloaded their carbines and revolvers on
the rebs, thus covering Company C's withdrawal before riding off to
safety themselves. As Company C took its stand atop the rise, Company
A rose from the meadow grass like the British Guards at Waterloo and
added their disciplined fire to the chorus of Union rifles. The
Confederates never got close enough to cause us to fix bayonets and,
in the furor, took real as well as nominal casualties, including one
man burned by a muzzle flash from his rear file mate.
Soon the familiar bugle call sounded and we ceased fire. The
Union and Confederate lines looked at each other, not necessarily as
friends (though there were plenty of those on both sides), but with
mutual respect for what we'd been through all weekend. The
Confederates cheered us and we saluted them with a volley at extreme
elevation. The officers made speeches, the men hurrahed the officers.
Some rebels began singing "Dixie" and some of us replied
with "Kingdom Coming." In time, though, all the cheering ended and we
packed up for home.
Staff again had the option of having their knapsacks sent
back in the wagon, but Murley, Villanueva, and Schnapps elected to
carry theirs. It was perhaps a mistake for Schnapps, since he had all
his paper and a shelter half that, wet as it was, weighed six times
what he was used to, but he tried it anyway.
A word about that paperwork, before I forget. It was clear
early on that most of the forms and clerical supplies brought for
verisimilitude would prove unnecessary and at the very least
inconvenient. Lord knows -- sweat, rain, and an overfull schedule are
not conducive to completing the over-elaborate forms of the period.
It leads one to a real appreciation of what our ancestors were able
to achieve in this work as well as the more dramatic aspects of the
war, but also to an understanding of why they sometimes let things
slide. As it was, I made the greatest use of my pocket notebook and
hardly touched my portfolio. My traveling inkwell did not see the
outside of my kit after about noon on Friday. The papers I received
from the companies, while reasonably completed Saturday morning,
swiftly degenerated, so that many submitted later and on Sunday
lacked the date, the company designation, or a legible signature. I
mention this not as a criticism, but as an illustration of the
practical limitations of office work in the field. Whatever
criticisms others may make of the event, I found it greatly useful to
the research of The Scrivener's Mess, and of value in planning the
clerical side of future events.
We made our march back. It was only a couple of miles, more
or less, and Josh and I had practiced five mile marches in full kit
on the W&OD trail numerous times, so it ought to have been a breeze.
But our jaunts on the trail have never followed 40 hours of
campaigning, with perhaps 4 devoted to sleep and the remainder to
some form of work, fueled only by a few pieces of pork, a handful of
crackers, and two or three blessed cups of coffee. We sang at the
start of this march, but by the end I was dragging, and had Jari not
broken out the bugle a few hundred yards from the parking lot, I'd
have fallen out. As it was, we marched in as a regiment, in step, at
shoulder arms and, though clearly tired, hung around for the final
regimental photo before breaking up.
I often wonder, at events like these, just how much more I
can take. This was especially the case this time, with all the
problems of Recons past and present. Yet as I look back, I feel very
grateful to have made it through, and for the friendship and
dedication of so many. The forums will echo with criticisms and
complaints, with accusations and suggestions, with diatribes and
defenses. But as I type this today, I only wish to say, both to the
organizers and all the attendees, thank you. Thank you very much.
Except you yahoos out there. Geez, read a book...
I submit this so everone can hear what Mr Schaffner thought of the event.
Mr. Cleaveland, we normally don't allow the posting of other's writing without their permission. But since Mr. Schaffner has posted some additional information without an apparent complaint, we will leave it up, watching carefully.
Mr. Schaffner, if you would prefer we pull this post, give the word.
Mike Chapman
an After-Action Report by Corpl. M. A. Schaffner
Regimental Clerk, 7th Maine Volunteer Infantry
Arrived about 11 a.m. Friday morning, April 30, 2004 – no,
make that May 1, 1864 -- at registration near Culpeper's municipal
airport in the company of Lieutenant Josh Mordin, regimental
adjutant, and Mark Maranto, second sergeant Co. B. Passed
registration, picked up a casualty chit ("Shirker" – like I needed to
be told), headed for the Union assembly area about a mile away.
Dawdled there awhile, then marched to HQ with Mordin and Maranto. A
few other fellows were there; after a while more of dawdling, I
issued company B's stationery supply to Sgt. Maranto, giving my
invoice and taking his receipt, then did the same with a
representative of Co. E. Picked a tick or two off my trowsers, then
accompanied the Adjutant and General Air out to view the proposed
bivouac area, a rather gnarly meadow next to a swamp.
1st Sgt. Jurand arrived and immediately took charge of Co. C.
After falling the men in for an initial roll call, he asked them to
bear with him because it was his first gig as top sergeant. I would
never have guessed, and suspect neither would they – not then, and
certainly not by the end of the event. Anyway, I stuck him with a
stationery issue and he then marched his people off to the bivouac.
Col. Culberson arrived and the Adjutant briefed him on the
situation, which was not much, except we had no water and no clue
about rations. The three of us ascended a nearby hill (from which
Buford had watched part of the battle of Brandy Station, I hear).
Corpl. Peterson had indicated it had a commanding view of the
surrounding countryside. Indeed it did, and we saw Co. C setting up
in the field next to the one Air had shown us. We didn't think to
tell him to change as it looked better than the original one.
Culberson went over a map with Mordin, explaining the plan for the
evening and the next morning, much of which was lost on me, a mere
clerk.
Speaking of clerking, I'd brought a full set of back-up forms
and blank paper in my clerk's haversack, as well as traveling
inkwell, pens and holders, pencils, and such sundries as india rubber
erasers and gum bands. To this, Mallen Cunningham added a gift of
about five pounds of morning reports, consolidated morning reports,
guard reports, and the like. A little later, Colonel Culberson made
me a gift of about another five pounds of letterhead and message
blanks. I thanked them both and began to wonder whether I ought to
throw away my blanket to compensate for the additional weight.
The rest of the afternoon passed with a variety of
preparatory activities and complaints. The Lister bags were late
arriving and even later in getting to their proper positions. Co. A
marched up as a group – not all of them, but in perfect order and
with Captain Piering in the lead. I directed him to what I thought
the bivouac site was, noted his concern about the lack of water (and
its implications for the overall event), and issued him his
stationery on the march, halting only to sign the invoice and
receipt.
It turned out that the various companies were scattered, in
part from lack of supervision, but also because both the field
initially pointed out and the one Co. C set up in were being sprayed
with noxious chemicals. Tim O'Neill showed, took stock of the
situation with Col. Culberson, and it was decided to move the
battalion to a pretty knoll across the swamp from the initially
intended camp site. I'd seen nothing of the cavalry save a picket of
three dismounts, so I asked Mr. O'Neill to convey the cavalry's
stationery issue to them. Good sport that he is, he did so, and I
have his signature on the receipt to prove it.
We established our bivouac on the knoll, directing new
arrivals to their companies, and getting fires started for the
rations that seemingly would never arrive. Ultimately the wagon came
at about 8 p.m. and the issue occurred in the dark, with consequent
confusion in distribution to the men, especially those already posted
on guard. On returning, the wagon took out our first casualty of the
event, QM Lieutenant Pannier, who had arrived sick and somehow failed
to get better by lying out in a pasture for several hours communing
with ticks and meadow voles and watching the vultures circle the
nearby woods.
About rations. Given the distribution problem, staff seemed
generally to agree that the benefits of the present practice
(issuance with period forms, authentic food) in no way justified the
cost in terms of time and effort. Alternatives might include
individual issuance at registration (with surplus given to charity
or, if possible, retained for future events), or simply requiring
people to bring their own food in accordance with event standards,
with an appropriate reduction in registration fees. The first
alternative would require much more upfront work from the commissary,
and the second would make for another inspection issue, but both
would reduce the hassle for officers and men.
Sergeant Major Charles "Amos" Reynolds (who, by the way,
bears an astonishing resemblance to Michel Ney) held the first
orderly call at 6:15 p.m. Highlights: tomorrow's reveille would occur
at 5 a.m., "by boot" (no bugle); we would move at 6 a.m. at the
latest, all cups secured to keep the noise of random kitchenware from
alerting the enemy to our position. Tonight there'd be an officers'
soiree at 7 p.m. and Guard Mount at 7:45 – Co. A to provide the
officer of the Guard; Co. B the sergeant; each company to provide a
corporal and nine men; two privates for HQ water detail; build fires
now; the Sgt. Major would collect the morning reports before 6 a.m.
tomorrow.
Guard mount provided something of a challenge. Co. A had been
detached to protect division HQ, a deployment noted in the first two
missives of the campaign, one from the Colonel and one from Capt.
Piering, both of which missed each other in transit, despite the
heroic courier services of Pvt. Peter Cross (who actually ran to
Division HQ and back). The numbers required from each company would
actually take most of the available privates. In a rough count around
7 p.m., Co. A had 19 bodies, B had 17, and C had 14, including
officers, NCOs, and musicians. I have no record of E's count. For the
night's guard, the sign was "mud," the countersign "blood," and the
parole "Zeus."
By 10:20 p.m., Co. A had an aggregate strength of 22 men; B,
19; C, 25; and E, 13; for a total of 79. To this we could add 8
staff, Lt. Col. Murley having appeared, though not on the original
roster, to make up for the loss of the stricken Lt. Pannier.
After a beautiful rendition of "Taps" by our principal
musician, Jari Villanueva,
I passed a reasonably pleasant night in the field, waking
occasionally to the stars of heaven and the snores of my comrades,
all the while serenaded by the dogs of a neighboring plantation. I
woke for good around 4 a.m. and found that plans had changed –
reveille at 7 and assembly at Division HQ at 8. Given the change,
Jari blew reveille and the battalion rose with a will. The morning
reports now showed the battalion at an aggregate of 117 men: 8 staff,
25 in Co. A, 28 in Co. B, 30 in Co. C, and 26 in Co. E. I had seen
none of the cavalry, who had a roster strength of 15 men, and would
bring our actual field strength very close to the number registered.
As we suited up for the move to Division, I managed to
entangle myself in my own canteen strap. I still don't know how I did
this, but I took it as a possible good luck sign. As I told the
fellow who helped me extricate myself, "I screw something up in every
event; let this be the worst thing that happens." The first bit of
luck came in being treated as a member of regimental staff in the way
that mattered most – I got to put my knapsack (with most of the
additional paperwork) on the wagon with the packs of the regimental
and company officers. This was not so much a privilege, I was told,
as a reflection of the fact that the officers were going to have to
do a lot of running around. Whatever – I was relieved, and Schnapps
breathed not a word about proletarian solidarity. The sun rose
bright, promising a warm day.
En route to Division we were in good spirits, and Schnapps
even sang "Morgenrot" without attracting too many catcalls. We picked
up the guard, then marched down the road in the direction of
yesterday's assembly area. We twice deployed flankers from Co. B, but
on the wrong side of the road, on rough ground, and with no attempt
to slow the marching column to allow them to actually deploy on the
flank. The result was a couple of squads of men who were fairly worn
before the party even started.
Perhaps halfway back to the assembly area we turned onto a
road to our right, which led through a couple of fields of high
grass, wildflowers, scrub, and poison ivy, pocked with groundhog
burrows and ancient swales, and bounded by bocage or brambly forest.
It was the sort of beautiful Virginia countryside that I would only
actually walk through in a heavy wool suit, nothing else being proof
against the flora. In the second field we deployed flankers to the
left facing the forest, sent Co. A ahead as advance guard, and sent
forth the remaining three companies in column of companies. I think
the main force was to move to a far corner of the field and a mud
road leading to the "Brock Road" – a hard surface road from which we
could deploy into the "Wilderness" and "sweep" a Confederate force
(said to be two or three times our number) into whatever dustbin the
higher ups wished.
Or perhaps the column of companies came after the initial
deployment. The events of the day would cloud my memory of the
morning. In any case, the ball opened long before we saw anything of
the Brock Road. Adjutant Mordin, Sergt. Maj. Reynolds, and I
accompanied a platoon of B Company into the woods to our left to
screen the flank of our main advance. We were soon engaged by divers
numbers of rebels – a handful on the far left, then more and more as
we got further in the woods. I used the occasion of our first fire to
play my "Shirker" card, running back and saying to Lt. Mordin, "I've
got to get back to regiment!" "Get back in line!" he ordered sternly,
brandishing his sword. "But I'm only a clerk!" "I don't care! Get
back there and do your duty!"
The scrap on the left resulted in B's 1st platoon – under
Major Cross as wing commander – becoming utterly separated from the
rest of the line. I scrambled forward and ultimately found a line of
blue in front. I let Mordin know, and briefly the link was
reestablished, but the appearance of more and more seccesh on the
left led the line to drift further to the right and, as I fell in
with these men (Co. E, I believe), I lost track of everyone in the
unit I began the show with. The rest of the fight was a confusion of
frantic firing and lurching through the jungled landscape. When the
firing ceased, by bugle, I came upon the mud road and saw the colors.
After an interesting encounter with an English confederate corpse,
whom I escorted to a nearby field where he rejoined his fellows, I
found the command, now represented by Lt. Col. Murley and Jari. Col.
Culberson was a casualty, the Sergt. Major had been captured, no one
knew where the Adjutant was, nor the entire flanking platoon of Co.
B. A roll call at 10:20 a.m. showed Co. A with 22 men, B with 19, C
with 25, and E with 13. Some of the missing were casualties, but many
had simply become separated from their units. The regimental clerk
had fired 20 rounds.
It appeared that the OCs had stopped the fight not only
because ranges had dropped to dangerously close, but a good deal of
the CS force had moved through the field I'd escorted the Johnny
corpse to, and that field was out of bounds. In the discussions that
followed our rough handling, Lt. Col. Murley placed Major Cross under
arrest. Major Cross challenged Lt. Col. Murley to a duel. I noted the
arrest but had to remind both parties of the prohibition against
dueling in the Articles of War.
We retired to the field from which we'd made the attack,
stacked arms, and took roll again. At 11:00 a.m. the 7th Maine had 23
men in Co. A, 28 in Co. B, 28 in Co. C, and 20 in Co. E. Two men were
missing from Company E as was Lieutenant Emerson of Company B. Co.
E's men soon were accounted for, but no one knew what had happened to
Emerson. He'd last been seen by the Sergt. Major, who told him to run
as part of our flankers were overrun by a small group of Confederates
who appeared not to be under any particular command. The OC got on
his phone and tried to find out if he'd been captured or had shown up
somewhere else. No one knew, cavalry patrols failed to find any sign,
and the command debated the necessity of sending out search parties.
As we waited for word of Emerson, we refilled canteens, ate
lunch, and attended to various chores. Many men napped, happy for the
chance to drop their packs. I spread out a gum blanket and tried to
dry my sack coat. Corpl. Endlein of Co. B borrowed a pencil and began
to write a letter. Sgt. Maranto replaced a braces button on his
trowsers, then lent me his housewife so I could do the same with
mine. Ned Smith and Hiram Walker of Co. B engaged in lively, Maine-
accented discussions of home and other subjects. In between these
activities we picked off the occasional tick.
At some point in our rest, seemingly to provide further
amusement, a gang of free radical rebs showed at the corner of the
field fed by the mud road, deployed into a skirmish line and began to
fire at us. There were about six of them, and some eighty of us. "Oh,
no," said one of the Mainers, more in exasperation than anything
else. "Ignore them," said the Colonel. But the best response came
from one of the privates, who simply looked over at the Johnnies and
began slowly to clap his hands. In a little while, the entire
battalion was applauding derisively. In turn, the CS officer in
command looked, as Adjutant Mordin later observed, somewhat like he'd
walked downstairs to the tree Christmas morning and found all the
presents gone. The OC went over to the band of CS and they soon left.
Yet it was a sign of a problem that would recur.
Some time after noon we received word that Lieutenant Emerson
had found his way to Division HQ after successfully evading his
pursuers. With that and the return of the remainder of our
casualties, Col. Culberson decided that we would try again to fulfill
our mission, despite the disparity in numbers and signs of sporadic
misbehavior among our opponents. The new plan called for two or three
companies to enter the woods in a column of companies in skirmish
order, with the balance of our forces on the road or as a reserve.
As the deployment began, I accompanied the Sergt. Major
behind the first company. We soon encountered the enemy. We drove
them for awhile – another hot fight in the vines and brambles – and
ultimately into a clump on the road, where they stood rather like
Braddock's command, refusing to budge, or fall (the latter an option
denied to the 44th Foot), despite the additional pressure coming from
our people on the road. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop,
since it was clear we'd only encountered part of the Confederate
force. But the rest of their army failed to show. I felt like we'd
fairly bagged this lot – the better part of one of their battalions
it seemed – and thus had a good shot at defeating them in detail. As
it was, the fight stopped because the ranges had again grown too
short. The Confederates moved away, and we had to restart against
their entire force.
Not long after, the attack resumed with the bulk of our force
again in skirmish order. We advanced a few score yards into the
woods, but soon ran into several groups of Confederates who
counterattacked vigorously. Perhaps too vigorously – we became
overextended, and fell back gradually, while the CS came on in
numbers at the run. I fell in with Company A and teamed with one of
their privates as comrades in battle, alternating shots. At one point
I asked which company he was in (which is the only reason I know); he
told me, then asked, "What company are you?" "I'm the regimental
clerk," I said. "Great."
But I should have loaded nibs in the barrel. The Johnnies
poured on like an Impi in a butternut remake of Zulu. The OCs would
later explain that the numbers system had broken down and they were
reduced to simply grabbing men and telling them they were hit, which
also seemed to have little effect on the rebs. Many Confederates
were, in fact, running nearly into the muzzles of our guns. At one
point the Sergt. Major actually stepped between the lines,
shouting, "What the hell are you doing!", only to be ignored or
jeered. As the entire scenario had broken down into something like a
mainstream, powder-burning "tactical," the bugles soon rang out the
cease fire again. In all the excitement the clerk had fired another
36 rounds since the morning's fight.
As the lines separated and the Union forces marched back to
the mud road -- thence to the Brock Road for the afternoon scenario --
a group of nearby rebels jeered derisively. They added a variety of
insults, all more or less accusing us of hiding behind our bugle
calls. On our part, we felt that we'd fairly won the first two
encounters – the first by default because of the CS boundary
violation and the second by driving the forces in front of us into an
untenable position on the road. But this third scenario seemed to
show that the event might not deliver on the promise of something
more than the lowest form of powderfest. The problem lay not with the
Confederates as a whole – the majority of whom are as fine men and
living historians as one would find anywhere – as perhaps with the
command structure. There were only two OCs for the whole force, and
many of the companies did not seem to operate as parts of a
battalion, but as autonomous workers' collectives, each in search of
their individual utopia, which resembled each other only in offering
the opportunity to shoot Yanks. This, combined with the confused
nature of the fighting and the terrain, allowed the yahoo element to
express itself, and the fighting to correspondingly degenerate.
It's hard to say what would have made a difference. More OCs
perhaps, or enforcement of general results in addition to individual
casualties ("You've lost a third of your men, Captain; you have to
take cover now"). But no rules would make a difference without
players willing to abide by them. The 7th Maine represented an
amalgamation of men and units who all signed on to represent the
regiment as realistically as possible. In all the communications
before the event – and God knows there were a lot – the emphasis fell
on authenticity in kit and behavior, on organization, first person,
and the history of not only the regiment, but of the towns the
companies came from. I'm sure someone mentioned victory at some
point, but I don't remember when – it just wasn't the main objective.
We faced, on the other hand, a group of Confederates who comprised,
in addition to the majority of living historians, a few men who
appeared more interested in their personal fantasy of the war, and
seemed to feel that somehow, in this game of firing blanks at fellow
actors, they could attach to themselves a portion of the gallantry
and sacrifice of the real soldiers. It's an extreme form of the
madness all of us reenactors have, and it's as pitiable as it is
dismaying. I think those most dismayed were those among us who often,
or mainly, portray Confederates and have to view these creatures as
compatriots.
We rested some time on the Brock Road discussing this and
related matters, including the previous evening's ration issue and
intermittent issues with the water. What was the point of continuing,
we wondered, if we were going to have to continue to deal with
largely undisciplined clowns? There seemed a growing consensus among
the staff that, if things didn't change significantly, we'd leave the
event. In any case, we were done for the afternoon – things had
become unsafe, the men were exhausted, and if forced to fight again
there was a chance someone would end up with a face full of black
powder. If I had had to write my after-action at that time, it would
have been titled "Recon, Strike Three."
At 2:45 Col. Culberson issued an officers' and orderlies'
call and announced his decision to march back to our jump-off point,
build hasty works, then rest and attempt to salvage the scenario on
the morrow. Everyone agreed and the OC accordingly notified his
counterparts.
A few moments later, as if to confirm our growing impression
of yahooism, I espied a character leaning into the roadway from the
intersection of the Brock and mud roads, and staring at us as if we
had no eyes to see him. I pointed him out to the Colonel as he
stepped into the roadway and began to swagger toward us brandishing a
carbine. It was hard to say what he was. He appeared to base his
impression not on any actual Civil War soldier, but upon a bandit in
a Max Sennett silent comedy. The Colonel asked me to accompany him as
he went to parley but I'd only taken a few steps when the vaquero
began gesticulating furiously. As I continued forward, he whipped his
carbine around to a firing position and yelled, "I'll shoot you dead,
Yank!"
"Oh, grow up," I replied.
Culberson asked me to stay and went up to personally
ascertain whether this Australopithecine Cavalier had a cerebral
cortex sufficient to sustain human speech. It transpired that our
accoster was a member of the celebrated "Critter Company," recently
returned from an expedition in which, in addition to skirmishing with
our own cavalry, they'd looted the hospital and pillaged Division
Headquarters, both bits of gallantry being facilitated by the lack of
any opposition – or indeed, weapons -- at either of the objectives.
After a brief chat we let them pass and then took the mud
road back to the jump off point. Schnapps walked point with Major
Cross, not so much to court danger as to try to get over the really
wet spots before they'd been churned up by the rest of the battalion.
Not that we weren't expecting trouble: Major Murley, who'd unloaded a
few cylinders into the graybacks already that day, suggested we go
back with fixed bayonets at arms port, just in case, but Culberson
opined that it would be unnecessary, as it indeed proved to be. At
length we found ourselves back where we stacked arms earlier, but
this time found another random group of banditti skirmishing with a
handful of our boys who were already there. After a little while the
Colonel directed Adjutant Mordin to take the battalion and fire a
volley or two to disperse them. This he did, and soon a flag of truce
appeared. "What do you want?" "Your water and women!" Another volley
brought them to a more reasoned understanding, and ultimately we
watered them and sent them home.
The Colonel and Adjutant discussed the logistics of setting
up camp in works thrown up in this part of the woods. It would place
us under cover, yet leave us exposed all night to the raids of the
enemy. Beyond that, it was damp and tangled ground. Captain Grimes of
C Company suggested that we instead withdraw to the next field back,
adjacent to the road, where we would be on high ground, in touch with
our communications, and, due to the terrain, largely protected from
harassment. The Colonel agreed and we made the move, finding a grove
of cedars just as a light rain broke out.
A few of our ranks had already begun to leave the event, and
the rain accelerated the movement. Those of us who stayed began to
fix up shelters – most of staff under a tarp, Jari and I under the
second worst shebang in history. Our roof consisted of one shelter
half, with another draped behind us on the uphill side, against which
we stacked our gear. We each had our own gum blanket to lie on, and I
had another to cover both of us against the inevitable leaks. We had
to crouch with our knees up or lie in a cramping fetal position, but
it was the best I could think of at the time, being exhausted,
dehydrated, nauseated, and not feeling too good in the bowels,
either. After mentioning how hungry he was, Jari dropped off to
sleep. I watched the officers build a fire in the rain against the
background of a grove of cedars and a soft gray sky and thought
again, as I had at Berkeley a few summers ago, how beautiful even the
least comfortable place could be.
The Adjutant suggested I collect the rolls. He received a
look that I fear was neither friendly nor obedient, but after a few
minutes of rest I complied. Company A still had 21 men; Company B, 22
(one in hospital); Company C, 29; and Company E, 13. With staff this
made 85 – about 30% less than we began the morning with.
The rain would continue nearly all night, with intervals of
drizzle that seemed like rain because of the residue dripping from
the cedars. While some of the shebangs were wonderful examples of the
soldier's craft, others were less so, and some of the boys became
drenched and sick. Early in the evening a pair of OCs came to
headquarters and an impassioned discussion followed about the event
so far and what we hoped for on the morrow. Desiring to conserve his
men, the Colonel decided against posting guards, ordering us to
ignore any interlopers, if they could find us. In the morning we'd
take our position and wait – all day it had been our one battalion
attacking their two; now, Johnny could try his luck.
I woke about 4:50 Sunday morning to find the Sergt. Major
already up. He collected the morning reports, allowing me to attempt
to clean my Springfield. I'd wrapped it in one side of my ground
sheet, but this did little good – it looked like it had a bad case of
eczema and, in any event, I hadn't washed out the bore after the 56
rounds I'd fired Saturday. I put about half a canteen of unheated
water down the bore in five or six rinsings, tried to dry it a little
with a couple of domet flannel patches on a worm, then took out the
cleanout screw and – with a decidedly non-period drill bit – worked
on the impacted powder in the firing chamber. After a few minutes I
got it somewhat clear and did the same with the cone. I had no
reasonable expectation that it would fire.
As the Sergeant Major collected the reports he gave the
numbers to the Adjutant and the returns to me. I stuffed them into my
blouse pocket. Looking at the stained and soggy forms afterward, I
found that I'd lost Company A's, but I'm sure they still had 19 or 20
men left. Company B had 19 for duty and 1 sick. Company C had 22 men.
Company E had fallen to a Lieutenant and four enlisted. With 74 men,
the regiment had lost over a third of its strength.
Who stayed? I'm certain we had some truly hard-core soldiers –
men who were skilled, experienced, and crazy enough to enjoy what
they'd been through. If there were more than 20 of those I'd be
surprised. The rest were a collection of various types. Some, I'm
sure, were determined to prove their manhood by staying. Others had
long rides home, and leaving Saturday in their exhausted condition to
march two miles with a full pack in the rain and then drive six or
nine hours to get home was more problematical than staying, however
bad conditions got. In my case, my ride was with the Adjutant, and I
couldn't leave unless he did. And being the Adjutant, he wouldn't
leave because he had stripes and, like other staff, felt some
responsibility to stay as long as a man could. But if he did have to
leave, I wouldn't have wasted any time looking for another ride. I'd
have been packed before he was.
Those who left included the sick and those who had the fewest
obstacles to getting home. Company E lost the most because they had
the most people in commuting distance. And I don't blame them for
leaving. Anyone who humped a pack through Saturday's fighting had
encountered as much authenticity – and worse – as any sane person
should have to bear. I only wish they could have been teleported back
for the closing ceremony with the rest of us.
In any case, we formed three companies for the battle,
amalgamating the survivors of E with B. We would also have our ten
mounted cavalry – a most welcome reinforcement.
At daybreak we could already hear the occasional echo of
Confederate bugles, so we lost no time preparing for the day's fight.
We would make our stand on high ground, in the field next to the
cedars. Looking toward Johnny's probable approach route, the cedars
were on the right and right rear of our position, the road home
across our rear, and the road to the mud road and Brock's Road on our
left. Further to the left were two fields bounded by ditches and
hedges of wildflowers. To our front the ground fell to another
beshrubbed border and a stream. Across the stream was another field,
rising up to forest, with forest on either side.
The Colonel's plan, loosely based on Morgan's at the Cowpens,
was not just to await the rebel attack, but to lure them into a
situation favorable of counterattack. To that end, he would place the
color company in the field across the stream, backed on the culvert
as a line of retreat. He himself would stand with the colors, make
himself as prominent as possible, and, if we had any luck, the CS
might think this group the bulk of our forces. Back across the
stream, in our field, the cavalry would deploy to the right of the
culvert, hidden behind a group of cedars. Company B would take
position on high ground in the road leading down to the culvert.
Company A would set up on our right. When the Johnny's attacked, C
would retire to a point between B and A, their withdrawal covered by
the cavalry. The OCs were informed that if the Confederates broke the
safety zone and approached within 20 yards of our line, the 7th Maine
would fix bayonets. We had no intention of thrusting them into the
rebs, but we wouldn't stop them from impaling themselves, either.
We deployed as planned, and Company C crossed into the
neighboring field. We could hear frequent bugling from the enemy, as
well as shouts and massed volleys as they cleared their weapons. And
yet we waited so long, I thought we might not see them before the
nominal end of the event at 9 a.m. I was posted with Lieutenant
Herzog of Co. E at the intersection in the rear of our position to
keep an eye out for a flank attack (until relieved by Joey Bordonaro
of the Cavalry), and several times asked him for the time. But well
before nine shots broke out on the left of Company C.
I loaded. The firing quieted for awhile and I began to chat
with old friends in Company B. The skirmishing resumed, but didn't
seem serious. Someone suggested Schnapps harangue the workers, so I
pulled out a copy of Karl Marx's November, 1861 letter to Die Presse
and began reading his condemnation of the Confederacy's disingenuous
claim to be fighting a defensive war. The boys seemed amused at
first, but quickly had all the fun they could get from it. As I was
trying to stuff the document back in my clerk's kit, Lt. Col. Murley
called me over. I thought he was just going to oppress me, but when I
got over he pointed to the ridge opposite us, where a long line of
Confederate skirmishers emerged from the woods, with formed troops
behind them, and headed for Culberson and Company C.
This is called having an eye for the terrain. I would have
thought the Colonel could see them, but Murley saw that the field
plateaued a bit before sloping down, and that the Johnnies were
invisible to the Colonel. I jogged down and pointed out where they'd
deployed. A few moments later the first heads appeared over the rise
and Culberson began to reel in his command. I stayed to fire a couple
of rounds and, satisfied that the Springfield actually worked,
retired up the hill, with Company C in feigned disorder behind me and
the Johnnies howling after us. Atop the hill, behind Company B (see
above, re "Shirker" card) I noted a detachment of 6 or 8 rebs in the
tree line to our right. They apparently had orders to screen their
right flank, as they did not advance very far. Sergeant Maranto,
Corpl. Endlein and a couple of other men of Company B took them under
fire, as did I, from our extreme left (i.e., further to the rear than
any other Union soldier pretending to be a combatant – again,
see "Shirker").
But that was a side show to the main event. Once Company C
cleared the culvert, Captain Kiger of Company B had his men pouring
volleys into the pursuing Johnnies. This held them long enough for
Company C to re-form and add their fire. The Confederate advance
continued, but in some confusion. Company C fell back, unmasking our
Cavalry, who charged in and unloaded their carbines and revolvers on
the rebs, thus covering Company C's withdrawal before riding off to
safety themselves. As Company C took its stand atop the rise, Company
A rose from the meadow grass like the British Guards at Waterloo and
added their disciplined fire to the chorus of Union rifles. The
Confederates never got close enough to cause us to fix bayonets and,
in the furor, took real as well as nominal casualties, including one
man burned by a muzzle flash from his rear file mate.
Soon the familiar bugle call sounded and we ceased fire. The
Union and Confederate lines looked at each other, not necessarily as
friends (though there were plenty of those on both sides), but with
mutual respect for what we'd been through all weekend. The
Confederates cheered us and we saluted them with a volley at extreme
elevation. The officers made speeches, the men hurrahed the officers.
Some rebels began singing "Dixie" and some of us replied
with "Kingdom Coming." In time, though, all the cheering ended and we
packed up for home.
Staff again had the option of having their knapsacks sent
back in the wagon, but Murley, Villanueva, and Schnapps elected to
carry theirs. It was perhaps a mistake for Schnapps, since he had all
his paper and a shelter half that, wet as it was, weighed six times
what he was used to, but he tried it anyway.
A word about that paperwork, before I forget. It was clear
early on that most of the forms and clerical supplies brought for
verisimilitude would prove unnecessary and at the very least
inconvenient. Lord knows -- sweat, rain, and an overfull schedule are
not conducive to completing the over-elaborate forms of the period.
It leads one to a real appreciation of what our ancestors were able
to achieve in this work as well as the more dramatic aspects of the
war, but also to an understanding of why they sometimes let things
slide. As it was, I made the greatest use of my pocket notebook and
hardly touched my portfolio. My traveling inkwell did not see the
outside of my kit after about noon on Friday. The papers I received
from the companies, while reasonably completed Saturday morning,
swiftly degenerated, so that many submitted later and on Sunday
lacked the date, the company designation, or a legible signature. I
mention this not as a criticism, but as an illustration of the
practical limitations of office work in the field. Whatever
criticisms others may make of the event, I found it greatly useful to
the research of The Scrivener's Mess, and of value in planning the
clerical side of future events.
We made our march back. It was only a couple of miles, more
or less, and Josh and I had practiced five mile marches in full kit
on the W&OD trail numerous times, so it ought to have been a breeze.
But our jaunts on the trail have never followed 40 hours of
campaigning, with perhaps 4 devoted to sleep and the remainder to
some form of work, fueled only by a few pieces of pork, a handful of
crackers, and two or three blessed cups of coffee. We sang at the
start of this march, but by the end I was dragging, and had Jari not
broken out the bugle a few hundred yards from the parking lot, I'd
have fallen out. As it was, we marched in as a regiment, in step, at
shoulder arms and, though clearly tired, hung around for the final
regimental photo before breaking up.
I often wonder, at events like these, just how much more I
can take. This was especially the case this time, with all the
problems of Recons past and present. Yet as I look back, I feel very
grateful to have made it through, and for the friendship and
dedication of so many. The forums will echo with criticisms and
complaints, with accusations and suggestions, with diatribes and
defenses. But as I type this today, I only wish to say, both to the
organizers and all the attendees, thank you. Thank you very much.
Except you yahoos out there. Geez, read a book...
I submit this so everone can hear what Mr Schaffner thought of the event.
Mr. Cleaveland, we normally don't allow the posting of other's writing without their permission. But since Mr. Schaffner has posted some additional information without an apparent complaint, we will leave it up, watching carefully.
Mr. Schaffner, if you would prefer we pull this post, give the word.
Mike Chapman
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