Into The Piney Woods AAR

[Charles Heath]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

C'mon, Marvin, the food wasn't that bad.

[LibertyHallVols]

Gotta keep the facts on the table with this one…

Some things missing from that lengthy AAR that I think are worthy of note. Having to endure a tirade of profanity and being called a porcinosexual in front of the assembled battalion, I feel entitled to point out some factual inaccuracies.

Missing from the Tuesday AAR:
Despite having a sergeant at his disposal, Lt. Commissariat neglected to let the battalion staff know that the officers’ food was ready for them on Tuesday morning
… or that it was about to be packed on the wagons
… or that it was packed on the wagons and the wagons were gone.

So, when company officers start asking “when are we going to get OUR rations?”, I had no answer for them. For want of sending a sergeant on a 5-minute run to inform us, company officers and battalion staff marched eight miles, all day, on only the rations they could beg from their men.

What are described as, “Visigoths, Huns, and Raiders of the Lost Beef Ration” was your battalion commander, with my assistance at his direction, attempting to feed his hungry officers. You had been instructed to ensure they were fed when we stopped for the day, yet when we stopped, neither you nor your sergeant were to be found. Taking matters into his own hands, Terry set about feeding his men. As the battalion commander, Terry was well within his rights to ensure that his men were fed. Indeed, it was his responsibility!

Prior to feeding company officers and staff, we prepared three buckets of lemonade to be delivered to each company. I heard from several men the next day that the lemonade helped them all a great deal. Yeah, me an’ Terry… we’re such dicks.

The “scene not unlike Pearl Harbor on the afternoon of 7 December 1941” was, in reality, a series of neatly stacked boxes. As a box was removed from the wagon, its contents were inspected for the officers’ rations. Finding none, each box was stacked neatly to the side. I respect other peoples’ property and treat it as such. You’re welcome for the free wagon unload, by the way.

I hate thieves, too. However, I think you handled the situation poorly. The battalion assembled for this event was a fantastic group of men with whom I am proud to be associated. Last Thursday night, I saw the men of this hobby at their finest, helping each other (even reeactors they'd never met!) through hypothermia, keeping each other warm and spirits high. The battalion didn’t steal anything from you and didn’t deserve the treatment you gave it. At worst, one person took something, but it is also possible that the boiler was just lost.

Had you brought your problem to staff, we could have taken it to the company commanders. Company commanders could have talked to their NCO’s and resolved the issue.

Back at the first Mill Springs event in the 1990’s, I was sergeant of the guard for Medich’s Battalion on Saturday night. Tom Jessen left a tin candle lantern for the use of the guards that night. I never laid a hand on that lantern. I never lit the candle, nor used it for light. However, when it turned up missing the next morning and couldn’t be found, Tom didn’t get mad or make accusations. He was (and is) a gentleman and a friend. I ran to sulters’ row and bought him a new one. He told me that wasn’t necessary, but I said that it was lost on my shift, so it was my responsibility.

I have every confidence that you would have had a similar result had you treated the battalion with some respect that morning. You will find that people will go out of their way for you when treated with dignity and respect.

Charles, I truly appreciate what you bring to the hobby and the efforts you take to provide good, authentic rations for the men at these events. It adds a whole new dimension to the experience in the hobby. It takes a lot of hard work and I know and respect that. We all worked hard last week. We were all tired and cold. Lots of guys lost gear. Please remember that we're all in this together and that people are more important than a piece of tin.

[Charles Heath]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Ending the SW Louisiana Drought or Let's Hold A Reenactment AAR: Part IV of MCMXLVIX

The Bayou Yeti has big red eyes.

Day 5: The Soggy Bottom Boys

The rain held up long enough for people to crawl inside their shebangs and get some good fires going. About the time we settled down for a good snooze the phones/radios/sat phones started crackling, buzzing, and, as the old folks would say "jumping off the hook." Well, sorta, as it seems the sat phones weren't getting a signal either due to rainfall or the pine trees. Folks, you know you are way out in the woods when you are too far out for satellite coverage. Tom and Fred had that "what now?" look on their faces, and then everything worked fine when they moved to a slightly higher elevation or less tree filled locale.

People were having hypothermia symptoms, and while the "Big Butternut Man Love Pile" on the other side of the creek seemed to be working for them, some of the Indigo Boys were having a tough time of it. Fred went to go check on the battalion, and came back with the news that they were singing, joking, building bonfires, and generally having as good of a time as if they had broken into their whiskey rations. About that time, Marvin had to ease on due to one of his carpool mates having had just enough wet weather fun. Eventually, I moved into Marvin's billet and got some sleep.

Morning found most of the boys ready to go into a soggy day. Someone would mention later in the day that it dropped to 35 degrees F later that night. The cold wouldn't effect the ammunition, as it stayed dry under cover anyway. The rations were damp, but useable. The hardbread took the brunt of the moisture. For most people, that would represent an improvement. The hardest hit appeared to be our four legged friends who were shivering, and obviously not very happy about the situation. Back home, they wouldn't have been tethered to a tree, and would have been able to move around a bit to warm up, and maybe event take shelter in a run-in shed.

Fred mentioned we could push on and get to the parking area from this camp, and skip the Friday night camp. Most of us who have been in the woods before know that it's not the first wet soggy night that gets you, but the second wet soggy night when fuel is wet, and pretty much everything else is too. Funny thing is, the army clothing does work as a system, and once the body heat begins to force the wool to wick on a rapid basis, the water is pulled from all manner of clothing. That is, if the rain stops. The rain did not stop.

As we loaded the wagons, we noticed the empty tin pails from the night before had at least 3" of water in them. Considering they are tapered, and the trees allow for drippage, this is not a precise measurement, but still a good sign it had rained a right fair amount. The Teamsters were concerned about the amount (depth) of mud on the trail back to the gravel road, and the slick grass going up the hill by the white banded pine trees. One of the mules indicated a possible sore shoulder. We had heard one of the oxen had trouble the day before, but didn't know for sure if this was draft animal or a reference to Ox's injury. We'd seen Ox the day before with crutches nearby, so that part of the rumor was confirmed.

I mention the animals often. The Teamsters (and I include Gery and his ox handlers in this) were up before the troops, went to bed after the troops, and took beyond excellent care of their beasts of burden. The grooming (some troops helped), watering, feding, harnessing and unharnessing, and general care of the critters was paramount. No hoof. No mule. No wagon. These men love their animals, and it shows. Nathan pointed out something to me about the wagons that I didn't know, and that was the nails on our old wooden boxes were starting to ease from the wood, and chew up the wagon floors and sides. Since we had a hammer, and he asked for the nails to be tapped down we complied with this request at the Wednesday night camp. Some of the nails were so loose that they were backing out before we could get the boxes reloaded. Maybe it's time for us to retire these boxes after well over a dozen years and get some new ones. A few of mine do resemble relics.

By the way, the dog's name was Shiloh. Maybe not, but that's what it sounded like, so that is what we called her. Having a camp dog hang around again was fun, and she understood the true meaning of bacon. It's funny how the camp dog could figure out where and when to eat, yet the bulk of our officers could not. Just the facts, and we didn't even send Shiloh any pre-event emails.

We learned it was time to go, and that we would be pushing on to the Monday night camps. The wagons were packed with the rations in the green wagon, and the camp gear in the black wagon. An amazing amount of soldier gear suddenly appeared out of nowhere and was placed in the black wagon. We supposed it came from folks who had headed to Camp Reovery. None of it was marked (that we could tell) or spot inventoried. Fortunately, we'd anticipated this two days before and offloaded the empty ration boxes with Phil.

One young man came over to get his hatchet. That hatchet rattled around in the bottom of a kettle since Day 1. I'm glad it was reunited with its owner. A party celebrating this reunion was held in Room 122 of the nearest Best Western.

Will and I would go on foot to the gravel road and meet up with Nathan and the wagons after they retraced their Thursday afternoon route. Ethan Morgan would accompany us, and I have to say Nathan took care of Ethan as if he were his own son. Ethan took us along the green trail and we were able to actually get to the paved road, and ahead of the wagons. I recognized part of that route from BGR, and had wondered if I'd ever see that pretty little valley again. The little stream that was barely able to fill a dipper two years ago was now calf-deep. The campsite with the bent/leaning tree was still there. ITPW had cured the drought.

Once we got on the road, Ethan linked up with his dad, Larry, as if by careful coordination. Not to be rude, but knowing I needed to get back to the CS camp before or at the same time as the wagons, I turned and started beating feet westward at a good clip. In a few minutes the sound of steel wheels on asphalt let us know the wagons were still behind us but not by much. Will hitched a ride on a wagon, so at least one of us would be with the gear when it arrived. After the shameful Tuesday night incident, it was safe to assume a pair of unattended wagons would become as if miniature post-bomb Hiroshima and Nagasaki dioramas.

Hank-The-Dutchman came along about that time, and offered me a ride. Not knowing a good number of the federals were already back in camp via mechanized transportation, I hesitated, but then accepted. I really did want to walk the whole distance, even if the majority of my trek was dictated by the wagon wheel tracks. What we didn't know was the rain was getting ready to get serious after a nice long warm up session.

I regretted leaving the Gatling Gun and the 5,000 rounds with the Bayou Yeti.

Hank-The-Dutchman dumped me off at the federal camp, and we started gathering up the tribe for the movement to the CS camp to await the wagons. We also started getting gear to folks who needed to take it home. A dipper here, a canteen there, and Will was going to finish the solution to the great stupid & fragile personal luxury gear problem before heading to the wagon park. Thank God almighty that needless aggravation on the part of one individual was going to be over.

It was hard not being able to stand around, shoot the breeze, gladhand, grin and backslap, but work remained to be done. Silas and I went over to the wagon park to await the wagons. His function in life was to let folks in the US camp know the wagons arrived. The wagons, even at a trot, took a while to come up. Yes, we could have sung "wait for the wagons" but I noticed a nice outhouse in need of a seat warming. Heated! Plenty of toilet paper! Flushed well! Hey, who wouldn't want to be a soldier!

White waiting in the rain by a park sign, Chuck Reynolds came up and said hello. We last saw each other at Marmy's Raid. I'm hoping he can join us during the Iron Prospecting event in June, and not long after that, Hank Trent comes out of the wilderness after a 31-mile hike. He had completed the entire loop. Personally, I'm glad Hank didn't spend Friday night by himself in the rain. Loads of folks coming up thanking Will (in abenstia) and I for the repairs, coffee, hot food, and the usual stuff. At least the quartermaster, commissary, and ordnance stuff went fairly well as a battalion function. Frankly, we were too busy to wonder what the other battalion staff was doing.

The wagons arrived, and we felt fortunate to get our own gear. The teamsters helped remove the tarps (literally cutting ropes) and then retired to the warmth of a heated gooseneck trailer. They deserved every bit of praise they could get for the ITPW event, and I made sure I thanked them before departing the scene of the Second Great Wagon Raid of the week. The Teamsters (and this includes Gery and The Four Kings) made the event for me. Okay, well, next to the Bayou Yeti, that is. I'd say more about this incident, but "the other nathan" pretty much covered it well as an eyewitness in another thread.

We sorted out boxes, kettles, pails, utensils, knives, ration bags, condiments, bottles, tins, and whatnot in the rain. Considering how fast this happened, and the impatience shown on the part of some individuals, we did a darn good job. Not all of the items were claimed, but everyone who has been in the hobby more than 15 minutes knows to follow the wagons to the wagon park to retrieve their gear. Folks who had knapsacks, blanket rolls, muskets, canteens, and haversacks on the wagons probably felt good to get their gear back at that point. I know I did. I was placing our food service gear in a neatly organized pile prior to loading into the NC Subaru and NJ Honda, and some folks were still trying to run off with it. Oy! Amazing!

Once we were collected, packed, and ready to go, Rob C., Will T., Billy B., Caleb H. and myself got on the road to visit with Miss Bertie, Mizz Lawson, Shawnra, Andrew, Todd, "Sgt. Ugg" (you know who you are), Brooke, and assorted kind people who allow us to abuse their shower facilities. That shower felt good. This "feral goat" was happy to defunk. In the process, I ran into Russ Stanley. Russ was the reb who received a handful of dried apple rings at Pea Soup Creek. That's funny. That really is funny.

Plugging in a set of coordinates (somewhere) on Rob's TomTom, we moved out via interstate to Vicksburg. One of the things we wanted to do was visit the Iowa monument as a way to pay our respects.

(To Be Continued.)

[Horace]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Many thanks to everyone who made this happen.
Here's a transcript of the diary I kept during the event, and some sketches. It reflects the ground's eye view of a private in Company G, 24th Iowa V. I. It took a while to transcribe and edit, being at times illegible and incoherent.

Mar. 9th, 1864
Slept here in the woods a few miles from Natchitoches last night. Raccoons or coyotes ran off with most of my food. They left me some damn figs.
It’s about 8:00 P.M. Three companies of the 24th are assembled here. Faces illuminated by candles and campfires stretching out of sight into the forest. Pork ration is being boiled in camp kettles hung on long poles. Laughter and voices in a low buzz drifting through the darkness. Now a slide whistle, a bones player, a banjo.
Bobo and Cornbread are talking. I can’t see them at all. They’re behind the little lantern I have here on the ground to write by. They’re just voices in the dark even thought they’re about two feet away. A sergeant is yelling out “Fourth section!” I don’t listen beyond that. That’s not my section.
Mules braying and heehawing - the noise appears out of nowhere, cuts through every other sound with a crazy sawing and snorting, and is gone again.
We’re still waiting for our three day’s rations to be issued. I’ve arranged to trade some pork for candles and cheese with some of the ‘pie eaters’ in B Co.. I hope they’re not asleep by the time we get our issue.
We’re wondering how it will go over the coming days...gathered in little groups.
There was confusion earlier about where our company would camp, and about the rounds issue. Some lieutenant I didn’t know overheard this, pointed to an orderly and told me to talk to him about it. I had just asked the orderly this very question, but had to turn back around again and pretend to be waiting to ask him the same question, while coming up with a different one about something I already knew in order not to agitate the orderly by asking him the same question twice, while also not asking it so loud that the lieutenant heard me asking him a different question than the one I had been instructed to ask, until I saw the officer move off. Oh, authority.
I have to pack up my gear for tomorrow. Reveille at six. Hardtack going in the haversack makes a clacking noise. Bobo’s candle ran out so he lights a pile of pine needles to see by. He just tosses another handful in the pile every so often to keep the light going. The orange light from his improvised candle flickers along the ground until it meets the silver grey light of the moon, latticed by the branches overhead, and swallowed by the shadows.
Fleecy clouds sailing above the tops of the pines move faster than I think I’ve ever seen clouds move. It’s as if they’re being pulled across the sky together by someone tring to run away with them. The moon dims and reappears and dims again. In the time it takes to write it, the sky is clear again. The moon glowing bright again through the trees - the man in the moon. He’s always there. We see him. The rebs see him. People in France and China see him.

Mar. 10th
Up at dawn of course. Fumbling in the dark, still ‘getting my legs’.
Battalion formation. We’re all inspected, pushed and prodded. We have stacked arms and broken ranks. Everyone sitting down or milling around, waiting. The sky goes from grey to light blue, more fleecy clouds moving fast and low.
Our section was informed that we would be the advance patrol, the very front of the regiment, today.
9:30 A.M. approx. - Deployed as skirmishers; moving through a field, I saw rebs formed on the other side of the clearing, hidden in the thicket. Suddenly there were faces among the trees. I yelled out and went down on my stomach. I thought I might have just enough time to get to a tree stump a few feet ahead to my left before they fired a volley, or just enough time not to. Not a place you’d want to be in, laying prone in an open field in sight of the rebels, weighing these two options. They fired their volley, and it seems to have gone high because I’m writing this. Our skirmish line rushed forward as they moved back into the woods.
We raced after them, up and down hills, through the brambles and deadfall. Two of us tripped over vines and went down on our faces. Then I was pitched headlong off my feet with a grunt and a clatter before I could do anything about it.
We returned to the path we’d been on, went into a loose column formation again and took turns as lead man on the road, at the point of the spear. We redeployed, moving down into a swale. I was on the far left of the skirmish line and was able to see the rebs formed up close on our right, on high ground past a bend in the road. We half wheeled and pushed forward, splashing through a creek, and up toward them, the rest of the column following and going into line. The cover was better here and I ‘felt my oats’ a little. Our company and the two behind us pushed the rebs over the top of the rise. Now we have moved back down into the swale and are resting on the trail near that creek.
I saw Cornbread up on the skirmish line with blood on his face, but could tell it was only from the brambles. Soon after, I could see that something else had brought him down. He had a leg injury that was hurting him considerable. He was doubled up with his face in a grimace. We had to leave him for the ambulances. I hated to see it. Bobo stayed with him for a while.
We have a local guide who will not stop insulting us - a regular stream of invective and criticism and what old Dick Taylor’s going to do to us, and what a fatface the major is and on and on. He calls himself the Professor, because he had a job at a Ladies Academy somewhere once, probably cleaning the stables.
The ground here seems to be devoid of dirt. It’s either white sand, black sand, burnt orange clay, or occasionally a light moss-green dust. The dust coats our shoes and make them look as if they're rotting off.
In camp. Five men lost in the company today from heat and exhaustion. The other companies suffered too. There were injuries also, from scrambling through these thickets. We marched about 8 1/2 miles today, up and down steep hills created by gullies for a good part of the way. Knapsack straps feel like a demon is riding my back and sinking its claws into my shoulders. We’re unused to marching. I hope I will acclimate tomorrow.
We encountered the rebs three times today and compelled them to withdraw. The night is warm. Our blankets are laid out. The moon shines through the pines.

Mar.11th
Firing on the picket line last night. Lots of yelling and confusion for a couple of minutes. Our third sergeant is orderly right now due to attrition. My section corporal is a private.
I was up early as part of a detail that moved boxes off of the commissary wagons up to another road where they will be reloaded, so the wagons can make it out of these sandy trails where we’re camped. Some of the crates were nation heavy, especially for 5:30 in the morning. Commissary Sgt. Heath gave us some coffee which was appreciated. Sgt. Heath blows up from time to time, but he generally blows up those who outrank him, so I don’t mind so much.
Last night we were told to be ready to move today at 6:15. A.M., right after roll call. We just had roll and were told to be ready to go at 7:15. It’s all in the three years.
9 A.M. or so. Ten minute break. Hands are numb from knapsack straps. Eat a hardtack. Guzzle water from the stream. Prepare for what’s next. I put a little cheese on the corners of the hardtack as bait, and bite them together. Without boiling a hard cracker a little, it’s a real expedition to bite past the corners.
About noon - “Louisiana fifty yards at a time.” someone said. Marching in the blustery rain. The sky is the color of an egg.
The one thing I see all day long is the column in front of me. Snaking out below me is the best way I like to view it. When we are going uphill I glance up, waiting for the moment when I see the hats descend out of sight again, and I know how far I have to go. Up and down up and down. The terrain is nothing but enormous mounds between creeks. We just climbed a particularly long and winding hill. The trail was cut straight up through the loam at one point where the hill must have been deemed too steep for a winding trail. This long, steep path was ankle deep in sand, fine and deep as you’d find on a beach. The local people call it the Hill of Death, it turns out. I’m glad I’m at the top of it.
When a halt is called we kneel and wait to start again. Some of us take the chance of sitting. The relief afforded by stretching out and letting that pack slide up off of one’s shoulders is immeasurable. All is right with the world. I seem to be the barometer of when we will resume the march, because generally the moment I stretch out is when we hear “Attention battalion! Shoulder arms!” somewhere ahead of us, and we have to stagger to our feet again.
For the moment however we are able to rest. We are all seated on either side of a bend in the trail, between a mud puddle in the middle of the road about three feet wide and 15 feet long. Some of us are napping with hats over faces, some talking and making ribald jokes. An aspiring gospel sharp in the next company down the trail is giving an impromptu bible sermon that doesn’t seem too well received. Someone yells “we said Amen already!” Someone else makes a comment about someone’s wife that would probably result in a fist fight anywhere but here. And we’re on our feet again...
Another stop. These hills continue unabated. When the air won’t fit in my lungs anymore and my shoulders feel like they’ve been in a vice my whole life and my legs are on fire is generally when the trail turns to sand and the hill gets steeper.
We miss Cornbread considerably. He is the spirit of friendly mayhem, and will always be there for you at the pinch. We hope he will rejoin the mess soon. It’s just Bobo and me right now. There were four of us, but one was transferred, and Cornbread is rendered limply for now.
Along the way we have lost others. They seem to turn grey. Their eyes go dull. I saw one man next to me at a rest stop go to his knees vomiting. The march has just simply caught up with them this time. It can happen to any of us. My right calf has been threatening to knot up, and I favor the left leg on the hills, hoping I will not have to fall out too. I believe we have lost seven out of 30 so far in this company. Some will rejoin us. Some may not be able to. No telling when we will see them again.
Later - We found the rebels behind works on a hill and went into line of battle and up that damn hill to try pushing them off. All we pushed were our casualty figures. Wounded have been retrieved. We built our own works down in the flats of the hill and lined up our gum blankets behind them next to the gun stacks. Rebs remain on the hill, but I don’t think they can afford to tarry long.
Mail has just come up. I have three letters. Skirmishing has started out front.
Later - skirmishing turned to a regular fight. No time to read letters. My section was quick timed out to the left where we deployed in front of a thicket. All we could see ahead were one or two cavalrymen out in the woods and an almost impenetrable series of brambles, trees and vines in front. Volleys continued to our right. As a joke we ran out one man at a time about 15 feet. Each one would fire, get a cheer and run back to the line grinning, followed by the next.
After about eight of us had engaged in this silliness someone pointed to our left. I looked, and no more than 70 feet away I saw a line of rebels facing us in a perfect flanking formation. My heart dropped. The rebs gave us a volley and all was mayhem. I thought for a moment we might be able to wheel to meet them, but they were practically among us, so we scattered like rabbits. I saw Capt. Murray over my shoulder. He bellowed “Where are you going?” then looked behind, let forth an oath, added “Retreat” as an afterthought, and dusted out with the rest of us. I ran straight into a hanging vine and didn’t expect to disentangle myself before being scooped up by the rebels howling on our heels. I managed to extricate myself and sprinted toward the main line, which had refused itself to meet this attack. I headed straight for it, expecting to move through it in order to reform, but saw Capt. Holloway of Co. B out in front of them, sword in hand, yelling “Get out of the way!” as they were about to deliver a volley, and so I veered right to avoid it.
Looking to my right at this moment it appeared that the bottom was out of the tub. Rebels were running pell mell behind us yipping like coyotes, headed for our works. I later found out from Bobo that he had been dressing a chicken in front of the works as this occurred, and his hands were covered in blood, but he was unarmed. He picked up a stick, bounced it off a johnny's head and ran back behind the works with them right behind. We didn’t even lose the chicken.
I ran past the works to a creek, loading as I went, hunkered down behind the embankment and found myself there with Corporal Coats, my new firing partner. My hands were shaking as I loaded and fired. We crept forward again, tree to tree, to find a scene of chaos. The rebs had been beaten back. There were a few of them down in the mud and a good dozen prisoners. How we turned that attack I don’t think I will ever understand. I don’t think they even scooped any of us.
I helped escort three of the rebs behind the breastworks. They turned out to be two cajuns and some sort of Englishman who must have been swept off a Louisiana wharf somewhere into the rebel army.
One of the cajuns was ordered to sit down and didn’t understand, so the guard pushed him down. He said “C’est l’hospitalite yankee.” I understood and said “C’etait votre hospitalite la!” pointing to the woods where we’d been attacked. He shrugged, and this set off an argument between the English rebel and me, with interjections in French, until the sergeant told us all to shut up.
These prisoners were marched off to a spot with the others. I was sent off on a detail to guard three of them while they gathered their firewood for the night. They were strapping fellows, their faces set in shock and anger at being captured. They were taking their minds off their plight by throwing themselves into the task. They didn’t look at us, nor did I look them in the eye. I wanted to say I felt sorry because I did, but no one spoke. They were yanking angrily at dead branches and quickly accrued a pile of wood. Later, these same boys accepted a sip of coffee from a guard, talked to him a little and were later seen around the fire they’d built, laughing a little with their comrades. We guarded them for an hour or so and were relieved.
Back w. my section now, exchanging stories about the fight. I need to get some sleep. We have first picket.

Mar. 11th (actually the 12th)
Stopped on the trail. I just came in with an armful of firewood, dropped it down, and a little scorpion walked out to announce its presence. This ain’t Iowa.
We were shaken awake last night at midnight to relieve the picket. God damn I was angry to be rolling my blanket and fumbling in the dark and cold for my traps. We marched out a few rods to the reserve. My section was sent directly out to the sentry line. It was the longest two hours of my life, just like last time. I dropped my pack and just stood next to a tree in the cold dark while the clock ran backward. I could see the light of the reserve fire behind me, could see the rebel campfires on the hill, see the shapes of the sentries to my left and right, and nothing else to do but stand and watch. It went on and on. After a forever and a half the relief came. My heart lept. I got back to the reserve, curled up in a ball by the fire, pulled my gum blanket over my head and good bye.
This morning we fixed bayonets and swept up that hill again to find nothing, which was fine by me. We went back into column and continued on.
Here on the trail we are able to cook up some dinner. The rain is starting to spatter. Bobo is strategizing a way to make potato salad. We have desiccated potatoes. He has some vinegar. If we run across any farms or refugees out here and we can trade an egg, we can do it. Something to look forward to.
This morning our section was detailed to get commissary wagons up a steep hill. We positioned ourselves in staggered lines up the sides of the road. A dog was sent ahead for the mules to chase, and away they went banging and clattering past us. We jumped behind and pushed till we gave out, then were replaced by two or three more until the hill was topped. Then we did it again with the next wagon. The mules stalled a couple of times and had to be coaxed and cursed by the skinners as we strained at the wagons from behind.
I am gulping down grits from my boiler. We are about to fall in again.
Another stop. We ran up against the rebels’ heels again a little while ago. This time we were at the top of a hill, but the johnnies wouldn’t oblige us with a charge. Co. G is in the reserve today, and so we have little idea what’s going on up ahead, just as we didn’t know what was going on behind us a couple of days ago when we were out in front.
We deployed behind the skirmishers and headed down the hill to the sound of muskets popping. I could spot rebels running out in the woods. They were soon gone. When I catch a glimpse of them it’s like seeing animals off in the forest. I get a twinge. I wonder what we look like to them.
On the march, Lt. Thomason will belt forth a song from time to time:
“I’m a rowdy soul, I’m a rowdy soul,
and I don’t care whether I work or not!”
This helps our spirits more than one would imagine. We swing into step at the sound and join in the choruses. Someone will dust off a tune and belt it out all up and down the column throughout the day, as we claw our way up and down these hills.
Later...dark and wet. We continued the march, met rebs on yet another hillock. Went into line in the rain. Stopped at a creek and exchanged volleys. Rebs had almost taken some wagons that had somehow gotten in front of us. Minies were singing, bark was flying. It was harrowing but little damage done, mostly to the trees. I loaded and fired as fast as I could. Spilled half a cartridge on my hand, found out how that feels on bramble scratches. Any spilled powder turns to a runny black liquid in this rain.
We retired out of range to the side of a hill. Poor campsite. Bobo and I went to building fires in the rain, with a will. Cpl. Berezuk started buttoning shelter halves together. Soon we had a decent shelter of twelve halves, secured to trees, and a roaring fire. Another four halves have appeared in a line to our left, with men wedged in sideways. It looks like half of an arab sleeper coach that sank into the ground. Together, the shelters make an L around the fire.
The rain is pouring down. I am squeezed under the canvas with my elbow in Bobo’s chest trying to see what I am writing with a candle stuck in a bayonet socket. The rain spatters and drums on top of the open fronted tent. Men milling around the fire hold out steaming coats and blankets, attempting to dry them. Shelter is starting to leak. Cold, numb and achy, but glad to be off the march. No picket duty for us tonight, thankfully.
I was finally able to read letters from yesterday, when rebs interrupted. I pray we will be able to get some sleep and shelter won’t leak too much. All my possessions are knocked to sh*t, soaked and clotted into a lump in my knapsack. Not sure how many miles we’ve done in the last three days. At least 20, I’d venture.
A couple boys in F Co. seem to have been overcome by the cold and were sent over to B Co.’s fire to recoup. Here we are snug. So long as we aren’t attacked we will be fine. I wouldn’t put it past the rebs. We can hold them off. My musket is cleaned and ready. The adjutant visited our fire and wound up sitting with us for a bit, cross legged, just beyond the line of rain in front of us.
Wet blankets and wet shelter halves make for heavy knapsacks in the morning. This worries me. I hope I will be able to keep up tomorrow. The damned weight of that pack will be my biggest enemy - I hope - and it may be what causes me to fall out. I will do my best not to let it. Lord give me strength tomorrow. I am going to try to answer a letter in this damn wetness. All for now.

[PogueMahone]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Todd,

This is one of the best diary accounts of a modern event I've read. The sketches are great. Thanks!

[Old Reb]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Excellent prose from a privates point of view. After reading 'who go my (fill in the blank)' it was a refreshing relief to read something akin to a real soldier would have written. Excellent!

[Gallinipper]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Does it really matter how cold or wet it gets, when you have Mr. Heath's cooking to sustain you? (There's one to ponder!)

Rich Croxton

[Gallo de Cielo]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Todd,

That was a truly fine offering. Thank you for posting that, along with your sketches.

I would nominate all three as potential AC cover images.

Clearly it varried person to person but you "got" what Tom and I hoped you'd get. I think many more did as well.

Kind regards,

[Charles Heath]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Todd, that was simply outstanding!

[ButtermilkRanger]

AAR from a Cavalry perspective

In Camp near Henderson's Hill

Col. William Vincent
2nd Louisiana Cavalry, Commanding
General Taylor's Army

Col. Vincent,

Upon receiving your orders of the 8th instant, I reported with a small detachment of mounted men, my multatto manservant and a young civilian refugee to Col. Walker's headquarters near Kisatchie Bayou. Upon arrival, I immediately detailed a squad of men to scour the countryside to procure forage for our mounts. I likewise detailed my quartermaster to draw rations for the men and contracted with the civilian teamsters to hire out my boy and the refugee. After receiving orders from Col. Walker, my men were mounted and led the advance guard of our Confederate forces as we marched out of camp. Our orders were soon countermanded by Col. Walker and we were asked to report to the rear as scouts to ascertain the numbers of General Banks' advanced guard. Finding a vantage point upon high ground, I dismounted my men to rest our horses and deployed scouts to a forward location. We remained in this position for some time until finally hearing the rather loud advance of the Federal column. Unfortunately, my scouts were spotted by the Federal advance guard, who deployed as skirmishers to meet my small detachment. I prudently withdrew our small force cross-country for several miles until regaining our own army. We then dismounted to support our infantry in an ambuscade of the Federals across an open field, one of the few in the area. We managed to hold our position on the Federal right flank until forced to withdraw. I must mention First Sergeant Alliston for commendation at this point. Sgt. Alliston cared more for the safety of his men than for his own and was nearly captured himself as he waited behind to ensure his men withdrew orderly.

As ordered, my detachment withdrew ahead of our main column and dismounted as pickets to rest our horses and guard a small bridge. After our infantry arrived, we were ordered to support Capt. Jackman's company of foreign-born from New Orleans and delay the advance of the Federals as much as possible as our own forces withdrew further up Red River. We deployed as skirmishers, remaining mounted, and fought several delaying actions the remainder of the day. In the afternoon, Col. Walker ordered us to go into camp and serve as pickets until being relieved by the infantry. I detailed four men to perform constant viligilence over our horses for the remainder of the night. One horse, showing symptoms of lameness, had to be cared for at the teamster's wagon. Both horse and trooper arrived in short order.

I ordered Sgt. Alliston to call boots and saddles before 4 o'clock in the morning on the second day of the campaign. Some of the men were unaccustomed to packing personal belongings, loading weapons, caring for their mounts, and saddling in complete darkness, but did a fine job despite the inconvenience. We moved out ahead of our advanced guard and dismounted to await the movement of our main column. During this time, one of my men became violently ill, but refused to be detailed to the rear. I had the fortune of commanding a hardy group of soldiers. Also during this time, a small contingent of civilian refugees came up the road we guarded. They seemed disheartened and obviously were fleeing for their lives. This sense of abandon must have affected our leadership as our army began a retreat in earnest. My detachment was again detailed as an advance guard performing scouting duties. I respectfully requested permission from Col. Walker on several occassions to be allowed to hold the high ground and attack the pursuing Federals, but to no avail. The fight seemed to have left the good Colonel. The terrain that day was often rugged and steep and very unlike the low country along the Atchafalaya from which my company was drawn. Water for our horses was also in short supply. We did encounter the civilian refugees at one point. Despite their dire straits, the ladyfolk embodied the best in southern virtue and offered my men the last of their cornbread. I was touched by such a gesture. I conversed with these citizens and found that they were lately of Cloutierville and headed with all due haste to Natchitoches, where they hoped to stay with relatives. Bidding these fine people good-bye, we continued forward until we received an order from Col. Walker to find a position of defensive advantage near a water source. This we did, occupying a hill near a small stream. We immediately scouted the area, posted pickets, and begain construction on crude earthworks in preparation for the arrival of our infantry forces, which did arrive in short order. Upon arrival of our forces, we were once again posted as advance pickets to engage the advance guard of the Federal army. We did this until forced to fall back.

Upon falling back to our own forces, I was ordered to deploy a line along our right flank and to scout the Federal position. I deployed scouts along the entire Federal line, which allowed us to gather critical information on troop strength, positions of companies, supply wagons, and so forth. Later that afternoon, after the miraculous arrival of our own supply wagon through the Federal lines, I was ordered to advance on the Federal front while a much larger force flanked the Federals through the thick wooded terrain. The fight was fierce and often hand to hand. One of my troopers saw Col. Walker about to be captured and tackled the would-be assailant. At the same time, a flanking maneuver by the enemy nearly captured our horses at the top of the knoll. Had it not been for the reinforcements sent to that position, I fear that our horses would have been lost.

Col. Walker eventually withdrew our forces back to a position of safety and my pickets and scouts were relieved by the infantry. Morale, after the previous two days' fighting was at a low. Luckily, my servant, detailed with the wagon, had found a box that had bounced off of a fleeing citizen's wagon. Upon closer inspection, the package turned out to be a gift from a local mother to her son serving our country in Georgia. I hardly think she minded that her gifts never reached her intended target, but were heartily enjoyed by my men instead.

Before retiring for the evening and posting horse guards, I was able to ascertain that our mounts were becoming greatly used up. The steep climbs of the day had produced tired and sore muscles and great care would need to be taken to ensure our mounts remained serviceable. Again, my men, barely rested, were mounted before dawn the following morning. It would be a morning of sadness as we discovered that one of our men, wounded in the previous day's fighting, succumbed to his wounds. He was burried beneath a tree by his comrades and a crude marker placed on his grave. He rests there still, only 20 miles from the place of his birth. We also discovered that the Red River country has largely been spared the ravages of war and the grain we foraged here was of better quality than that to which we had become accustomed to in the Calcasieu region. One of our horses began to show signs of collic and had to be detailed ahead with the teamsters. This was a hard blow on my own morale as it took two men and horses out of service for the remainder of the day. This day saw a struggle by our teamsters as our army continued to retreat through rugged country. I caught a few glimpses of my manservant and the refugee as they carried the contents of the wagon over the hill by hand. We were soon dismounted at the rear of the army to once again perform rear-guard delaying actions. This we accomplished in short order. We remained at the rear of our army, seeing little action, the remainder of the day as the rain began to come down on man and beast alike.

Later on the afternoon of the 12th, I dismounted my small force in a thick stand of trees with a view of the road to await the approach of the Federal army. We waited for several hours in the rain, my men without waterproofing and often falling asleep in a standing position. I fought the need for slumber myself and silently cursed the sloathfullness of the Yankee invaders. Eventually, the advance guard came into view and we were able to delay their advance briefly until falling back to another position. This Federal advance guard must have had plenty of rest and tasty rations as they were soon upon us, almost with superhuman speed. With weapons fouling in the inclement weather, we were forced to beat a hasty retreat to our own forces now encamped near Henderson's Hill.

At this writing, our men and horses are greatly used up and the weather continues to worsen. We are completely without shelter and our men are poorly equipped for the cold weather. Our horses are showing the strain of three days of hard fighting and are greatly sore. They will require at least a half-day of rest before we are able to ride. My weapons are mostly fouled and my ammunition is becoming damp in the incessant rain. Our infantry have been ordered to deploy pickets in spite of the weather, but I wonder if they are more concerned with their own comfort and survival than with the survival of our command. Our teamsters report that a large Federal force is in the vicinity, but I have not yet seen evidence of this. I do not believe that the Federals will have the heart to invest this place in this cold, driving rain. Even if they do, I fear that our men and horses are in too poor of health to meet them successfully.

I await your arrival with reinforcements and further orders.

I remain, respectfully,

Capt. L.A. Morgan, Commanding
Co. A, 2nd La. Cavalry

[Cottoncarder]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

AAR Into the Piney Woods

Day one: Unloaded Marcella at the appointed point at the intersection of the 59 and Sandstone trail around 2:00 PM on Monday. Russ Stanley followed us in order to then move the trailer to the pick up point in the “fish hook” and provide a ride back. Brooke knocked Andy’s jar of Cherry Bounce out of the back of the trailer during the unloading process and broke it the pieces. Found that my bottle of Brooke’s shine as well as the brown jug of spiced rum didn’t make the trip across country so we started off our journey completely dry. We had ¾ of a mile to cover, so got on the trail right away. From this point we went live and are refugees from Compti on our way to the Sabine River and Texas to the safety of our sister Ella after being left homeless by Bank’s troops in the area. Easy going the first night, but cussing the extra weight of blankets and oil cloth. Camped and had a nice supper of pork, fried Irish potatoes, mustard greens and bread.

Day two: Had a good breakfast of eggs, bacon and bread. Hit a solid ledge of rock to go down but are thankful we aren’t going up instead. Unloaded Marcella and with Brother on yoke guided her down slowly on wheel. Brother climbed back up and used the rocks as a recliner as we rested. Weather is hot and I’m soaked with sweat and probably smell like a feral goat. Quit and camped about 3:00 PM but think we came up short of our mark. Terrain is slowing us down. We are tired and I figured it better to camp by water and looked at terrain ahead. Took a bath in the creek. Sure felt good. Packed Brothers knee with mud. Heard the coyotes we had been tracking. Frightened Daughter a bit because she mistook them for possible loose and pillaging Negras we had heard about. Also heard a buck grunt in the creek below. Both deer and hog tracks everywhere but not a sight of one. Hogs are shy and no bear print. Good sign. Slept well.

Day three: Had a nice breakfast of gruel and bacon and ate the last of our bread. Could see dark clouds gathering behind us for a storm and it began raining about a half hour later. Went a ways and got sunk deep in a rut. Had to unload again and go on wheel. Daughter hurt her hand while on wheel. Slipped and got it caught in the spoke. Think she broke a finger or two but trying to keep her calm by not expressing my thought. Brother is chirping away that he thinks they are broke and I want to pick up a big stick and thrash him! Packed her hand and went on. Trail is in poor shape and we encountered many obstacles including sink holes. Had to cord up ruts twice. Daughter is doing well in spite of the pain. I got in the yoke with Brother on wheel and Daughter pushing with her good hand and shoulder. Very slow going and we are falling behind. Stopped at around 3:00 PM and while Brother and Daughter set up camp, I contemplated the rut to figure the best way out. No way to go around it, we have to go over it. Had a nice supper of bacon and sweet taters. Daughter’s request and I think she deserved it. Corded up the uphill rut to conquer in the morning.

Day four: Had a nice breakfast of grits and left over bacon and some dried fruit. Spotted someone on the trail, the first we had seen in three days. One of our soldiers. After talking to him a bit, he seemed trustworthy and offered to help us along. Made much better time today with his help. Got to a nice cross road and put down on high ground in the heavy rain. Walked ahead a bit and determined we can go no further until the rain lets up and the trail dries out. Some folks on foot looking for a runaway Negra passed by and spoke to us for a few minutes giving us news of troop movements in the area, then went on. Put up shelter and kept Daughter warm.

I would like to thank Fred Baker and Tom Yearby for a most excellent event. By far the most authentic experience I have ever had in terms of physical and mental challenge appropriate for the period. The mere mental challenge of figuring out how to get around all those obstacles in the trail alone is priceless in terms of gained experience. Rain and difficulties? So what! It don’t get better than this in terms of a realism. My big question is when are we doing this again? Bully!

Thanks also go to Terre Lawson for being there right on her spot and although we weren’t able to get to her due to conditions was solidly there to help the others in desperate need ahead of us. Thank goodness you were there to help those fine folks out.

Lastly, but not least the Suck Up award squarely goes to Shawnra Green (AKA Daughter) who did in fact break one finger and fractured the one next to it but, kept going for a day and a half in spite of it. Darl’in, you put many of the boys to shame with that one!

[Cottoncarder]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Posted twice.

[MO-Pard]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Many thanks to everyone who made this happen.
Here's a transcript of the diary I kept during the event, and some sketches. It reflects the ground's eye view of a private in Company G, 24th Iowa V. I. It took a while to transcribe and edit, being at times illegible and incoherent.

Mar. 9th, 1864
Slept here in the woods a few miles from Natchitoches last night. Raccoons or coyotes ran off with most of my food. They left me some damn figs.
It’s about 8:00 P.M. Three companies of the 24th are assembled here. Faces illuminated by candles and campfires stretching out of sight into the forest. Pork ration is being boiled in camp kettles hung on long poles. Laughter and voices in a low buzz drifting through the darkness. Now a slide whistle, a bones player, a banjo.
Bobo and Cornbread are talking. I can’t see them at all. They’re behind the little lantern I have here on the ground to write by. They’re just voices in the dark even thought they’re about two feet away. A sergeant is yelling out “Fourth section!” I don’t listen beyond that. That’s not my section.
Mules braying and heehawing - the noise appears out of nowhere, cuts through every other sound with a crazy sawing and snorting, and is gone again.
We’re still waiting for our three day’s rations to be issued. I’ve arranged to trade some pork for candles and cheese with some of the ‘pie eaters’ in B Co.. I hope they’re not asleep by the time we get our issue.
We’re wondering how it will go over the coming days...gathered in little groups.
There was confusion earlier about where our company would camp, and about the rounds issue. Some lieutenant I didn’t know overheard this, pointed to an orderly and told me to talk to him about it. I had just asked the orderly this very question, but had to turn back around again and pretend to be waiting to ask him the same question, while coming up with a different one about something I already knew in order not to agitate the orderly by asking him the same question twice, while also not asking it so loud that the lieutenant heard me asking him a different question than the one I had been instructed to ask, until I saw the officer move off. Oh, authority.
I have to pack up my gear for tomorrow. Reveille at six. Hardtack going in the haversack makes a clacking noise. Bobo’s candle ran out so he lights a pile of pine needles to see by. He just tosses another handful in the pile every so often to keep the light going. The orange light from his improvised candle flickers along the ground until it meets the silver grey light of the moon, latticed by the branches overhead, and swallowed by the shadows.
Fleecy clouds sailing above the tops of the pines move faster than I think I’ve ever seen clouds move. It’s as if they’re being pulled across the sky together by someone tring to run away with them. The moon dims and reappears and dims again. In the time it takes to write it, the sky is clear again. The moon glowing bright again through the trees - the man in the moon. He’s always there. We see him. The rebs see him. People in France and China see him.

Mar. 10th
Up at dawn of course. Fumbling in the dark, still ‘getting my legs’.
Battalion formation. We’re all inspected, pushed and prodded. We have stacked arms and broken ranks. Everyone sitting down or milling around, waiting. The sky goes from grey to light blue, more fleecy clouds moving fast and low.
Our section was informed that we would be the advance patrol, the very front of the regiment, today.
9:30 A.M. approx. - Deployed as skirmishers; moving through a field, I saw rebs formed on the other side of the clearing, hidden in the thicket. Suddenly there were faces among the trees. I yelled out and went down on my stomach. I thought I might have just enough time to get to a tree stump a few feet ahead to my left before they fired a volley, or just enough time not to. Not a place you’d want to be in, laying prone in an open field in sight of the rebels, weighing these two options. They fired their volley, and it seems to have gone high because I’m writing this. Our skirmish line rushed forward as they moved back into the woods.
We raced after them, up and down hills, through the brambles and deadfall. Two of us tripped over vines and went down on our faces. Then I was pitched headlong off my feet with a grunt and a clatter before I could do anything about it.
We returned to the path we’d been on, went into a loose column formation again and took turns as lead man on the road, at the point of the spear. We redeployed, moving down into a swale. I was on the far left of the skirmish line and was able to see the rebs formed up close on our right, on high ground past a bend in the road. We half wheeled and pushed forward, splashing through a creek, and up toward them, the rest of the column following and going into line. The cover was better here and I ‘felt my oats’ a little. Our company and the two behind us pushed the rebs over the top of the rise. Now we have moved back down into the swale and are resting on the trail near that creek.
I saw Cornbread up on the skirmish line with blood on his face, but could tell it was only from the brambles. Soon after, I could see that something else had brought him down. He had a leg injury that was hurting him considerable. He was doubled up with his face in a grimace. We had to leave him for the ambulances. I hated to see it. Bobo stayed with him for a while.
We have a local guide who will not stop insulting us - a regular stream of invective and criticism and what old Dick Taylor’s going to do to us, and what a fatface the major is and on and on. He calls himself the Professor, because he had a job at a Ladies Academy somewhere once, probably cleaning the stables.
The ground here seems to be devoid of dirt. It’s either white sand, black sand, burnt orange clay, or occasionally a light moss-green dust. The dust coats our shoes and make them look as if they're rotting off.
In camp. Five men lost in the company today from heat and exhaustion. The other companies suffered too. There were injuries also, from scrambling through these thickets. We marched about 8 1/2 miles today, up and down steep hills created by gullies for a good part of the way. Knapsack straps feel like a demon is riding my back and sinking its claws into my shoulders. We’re unused to marching. I hope I will acclimate tomorrow.
We encountered the rebs three times today and compelled them to withdraw. The night is warm. Our blankets are laid out. The moon shines through the pines.

Mar.11th
Firing on the picket line last night. Lots of yelling and confusion for a couple of minutes. Our third sergeant is orderly right now due to attrition. My section corporal is a private.
I was up early as part of a detail that moved boxes off of the commissary wagons up to another road where they will be reloaded, so the wagons can make it out of these sandy trails where we’re camped. Some of the crates were nation heavy, especially for 5:30 in the morning. Commissary Sgt. Heath gave us some coffee which was appreciated. Sgt. Heath blows up from time to time, but he generally blows up those who outrank him, so I don’t mind so much.
Last night we were told to be ready to move today at 6:15. A.M., right after roll call. We just had roll and were told to be ready to go at 7:15. It’s all in the three years.
9 A.M. or so. Ten minute break. Hands are numb from knapsack straps. Eat a hardtack. Guzzle water from the stream. Prepare for what’s next. I put a little cheese on the corners of the hardtack as bait, and bite them together. Without boiling a hard cracker a little, it’s a real expedition to bite past the corners.
About noon - “Louisiana fifty yards at a time.” someone said. Marching in the blustery rain. The sky is the color of an egg.
The one thing I see all day long is the column in front of me. Snaking out below me is the best way I like to view it. When we are going uphill I glance up, waiting for the moment when I see the hats descend out of sight again, and I know how far I have to go. Up and down up and down. The terrain is nothing but enormous mounds between creeks. We just climbed a particularly long and winding hill. The trail was cut straight up through the loam at one point where the hill must have been deemed too steep for a winding trail. This long, steep path was ankle deep in sand, fine and deep as you’d find on a beach. The local people call it the Hill of Death, it turns out. I’m glad I’m at the top of it.
When a halt is called we kneel and wait to start again. Some of us take the chance of sitting. The relief afforded by stretching out and letting that pack slide up off of one’s shoulders is immeasurable. All is right with the world. I seem to be the barometer of when we will resume the march, because generally the moment I stretch out is when we hear “Attention battalion! Shoulder arms!” somewhere ahead of us, and we have to stagger to our feet again.
For the moment however we are able to rest. We are all seated on either side of a bend in the trail, between a mud puddle in the middle of the road about three feet wide and 15 feet long. Some of us are napping with hats over faces, some talking and making ribald jokes. An aspiring gospel sharp in the next company down the trail is giving an impromptu bible sermon that doesn’t seem too well received. Someone yells “we said Amen already!” Someone else makes a comment about someone’s wife that would probably result in a fist fight anywhere but here. And we’re on our feet again...
Another stop. These hills continue unabated. When the air won’t fit in my lungs anymore and my shoulders feel like they’ve been in a vice my whole life and my legs are on fire is generally when the trail turns to sand and the hill gets steeper.
We miss Cornbread considerably. He is the spirit of friendly mayhem, and will always be there for you at the pinch. We hope he will rejoin the mess soon. It’s just Bobo and me right now. There were four of us, but one was transferred, and Cornbread is rendered limply for now.
Along the way we have lost others. They seem to turn grey. Their eyes go dull. I saw one man next to me at a rest stop go to his knees vomiting. The march has just simply caught up with them this time. It can happen to any of us. My right calf has been threatening to knot up, and I favor the left leg on the hills, hoping I will not have to fall out too. I believe we have lost seven out of 30 so far in this company. Some will rejoin us. Some may not be able to. No telling when we will see them again.
Later - We found the rebels behind works on a hill and went into line of battle and up that damn hill to try pushing them off. All we pushed were our casualty figures. Wounded have been retrieved. We built our own works down in the flats of the hill and lined up our gum blankets behind them next to the gun stacks. Rebs remain on the hill, but I don’t think they can afford to tarry long.
Mail has just come up. I have three letters. Skirmishing has started out front.
Later - skirmishing turned to a regular fight. No time to read letters. My section was quick timed out to the left where we deployed in front of a thicket. All we could see ahead were one or two cavalrymen out in the woods and an almost impenetrable series of brambles, trees and vines in front. Volleys continued to our right. As a joke we ran out one man at a time about 15 feet. Each one would fire, get a cheer and run back to the line grinning, followed by the next.
After about eight of us had engaged in this silliness someone pointed to our left. I looked, and no more than 70 feet away I saw a line of rebels facing us in a perfect flanking formation. My heart dropped. The rebs gave us a volley and all was mayhem. I thought for a moment we might be able to wheel to meet them, but they were practically among us, so we scattered like rabbits. I saw Capt. Murray over my shoulder. He bellowed “Where are you going?” then looked behind, let forth an oath, added “Retreat” as an afterthought, and dusted out with the rest of us. I ran straight into a hanging vine and didn’t expect to disentangle myself before being scooped up by the rebels howling on our heels. I managed to extricate myself and sprinted toward the main line, which had refused itself to meet this attack. I headed straight for it, expecting to move through it in order to reform, but saw Capt. Holloway of Co. B out in front of them, sword in hand, yelling “Get out of the way!” as they were about to deliver a volley, and so I veered right to avoid it.
Looking to my right at this moment it appeared that the bottom was out of the tub. Rebels were running pell mell behind us yipping like coyotes, headed for our works. I later found out from Bobo that he had been dressing a chicken in front of the works as this occurred, and his hands were covered in blood, but he was unarmed. He picked up a stick, bounced it off a johnny's head and ran back behind the works with them right behind. We didn’t even lose the chicken.
I ran past the works to a creek, loading as I went, hunkered down behind the embankment and found myself there with Corporal Coats, my new firing partner. My hands were shaking as I loaded and fired. We crept forward again, tree to tree, to find a scene of chaos. The rebs had been beaten back. There were a few of them down in the mud and a good dozen prisoners. How we turned that attack I don’t think I will ever understand. I don’t think they even scooped any of us.
I helped escort three of the rebs behind the breastworks. They turned out to be two cajuns and some sort of Englishman who must have been swept off a Louisiana wharf somewhere into the rebel army.
One of the cajuns was ordered to sit down and didn’t understand, so the guard pushed him down. He said “C’est l’hospitalite yankee.” I understood and said “C’etait votre hospitalite la!” pointing to the woods where we’d been attacked. He shrugged, and this set off an argument between the English rebel and me, with interjections in French, until the sergeant told us all to shut up.
These prisoners were marched off to a spot with the others. I was sent off on a detail to guard three of them while they gathered their firewood for the night. They were strapping fellows, their faces set in shock and anger at being captured. They were taking their minds off their plight by throwing themselves into the task. They didn’t look at us, nor did I look them in the eye. I wanted to say I felt sorry because I did, but no one spoke. They were yanking angrily at dead branches and quickly accrued a pile of wood. Later, these same boys accepted a sip of coffee from a guard, talked to him a little and were later seen around the fire they’d built, laughing a little with their comrades. We guarded them for an hour or so and were relieved.
Back w. my section now, exchanging stories about the fight. I need to get some sleep. We have first picket.

Mar. 11th (actually the 12th)
Stopped on the trail. I just came in with an armful of firewood, dropped it down, and a little scorpion walked out to announce its presence. This ain’t Iowa.
We were shaken awake last night at midnight to relieve the picket. God damn I was angry to be rolling my blanket and fumbling in the dark and cold for my traps. We marched out a few rods to the reserve. My section was sent directly out to the sentry line. It was the longest two hours of my life, just like last time. I dropped my pack and just stood next to a tree in the cold dark while the clock ran backward. I could see the light of the reserve fire behind me, could see the rebel campfires on the hill, see the shapes of the sentries to my left and right, and nothing else to do but stand and watch. It went on and on. After a forever and a half the relief came. My heart lept. I got back to the reserve, curled up in a ball by the fire, pulled my gum blanket over my head and good bye.
This morning we fixed bayonets and swept up that hill again to find nothing, which was fine by me. We went back into column and continued on.
Here on the trail we are able to cook up some dinner. The rain is starting to spatter. Bobo is strategizing a way to make potato salad. We have desiccated potatoes. He has some vinegar. If we run across any farms or refugees out here and we can trade an egg, we can do it. Something to look forward to.
This morning our section was detailed to get commissary wagons up a steep hill. We positioned ourselves in staggered lines up the sides of the road. A dog was sent ahead for the mules to chase, and away they went banging and clattering past us. We jumped behind and pushed till we gave out, then were replaced by two or three more until the hill was topped. Then we did it again with the next wagon. The mules stalled a couple of times and had to be coaxed and cursed by the skinners as we strained at the wagons from behind.
I am gulping down grits from my boiler. We are about to fall in again.
Another stop. We ran up against the rebels’ heels again a little while ago. This time we were at the top of a hill, but the johnnies wouldn’t oblige us with a charge. Co. G is in the reserve today, and so we have little idea what’s going on up ahead, just as we didn’t know what was going on behind us a couple of days ago when we were out in front.
We deployed behind the skirmishers and headed down the hill to the sound of muskets popping. I could spot rebels running out in the woods. They were soon gone. When I catch a glimpse of them it’s like seeing animals off in the forest. I get a twinge. I wonder what we look like to them.
On the march, Lt. Thomason will belt forth a song from time to time:
“I’m a rowdy soul, I’m a rowdy soul,
and I don’t care whether I work or not!”
This helps our spirits more than one would imagine. We swing into step at the sound and join in the choruses. Someone will dust off a tune and belt it out all up and down the column throughout the day, as we claw our way up and down these hills.
Later...dark and wet. We continued the march, met rebs on yet another hillock. Went into line in the rain. Stopped at a creek and exchanged volleys. Rebs had almost taken some wagons that had somehow gotten in front of us. Minies were singing, bark was flying. It was harrowing but little damage done, mostly to the trees. I loaded and fired as fast as I could. Spilled half a cartridge on my hand, found out how that feels on bramble scratches. Any spilled powder turns to a runny black liquid in this rain.
We retired out of range to the side of a hill. Poor campsite. Bobo and I went to building fires in the rain, with a will. Cpl. Berezuk started buttoning shelter halves together. Soon we had a decent shelter of twelve halves, secured to trees, and a roaring fire. Another four halves have appeared in a line to our left, with men wedged in sideways. It looks like half of an arab sleeper coach that sank into the ground. Together, the shelters make an L around the fire.
The rain is pouring down. I am squeezed under the canvas with my elbow in Bobo’s chest trying to see what I am writing with a candle stuck in a bayonet socket. The rain spatters and drums on top of the open fronted tent. Men milling around the fire hold out steaming coats and blankets, attempting to dry them. Shelter is starting to leak. Cold, numb and achy, but glad to be off the march. No picket duty for us tonight, thankfully.
I was finally able to read letters from yesterday, when rebs interrupted. I pray we will be able to get some sleep and shelter won’t leak too much. All my possessions are knocked to sh*t, soaked and clotted into a lump in my knapsack. Not sure how many miles we’ve done in the last three days. At least 20, I’d venture.
A couple boys in F Co. seem to have been overcome by the cold and were sent over to B Co.’s fire to recoup. Here we are snug. So long as we aren’t attacked we will be fine. I wouldn’t put it past the rebs. We can hold them off. My musket is cleaned and ready. The adjutant visited our fire and wound up sitting with us for a bit, cross legged, just beyond the line of rain in front of us.
Wet blankets and wet shelter halves make for heavy knapsacks in the morning. This worries me. I hope I will be able to keep up tomorrow. The damned weight of that pack will be my biggest enemy - I hope - and it may be what causes me to fall out. I will do my best not to let it. Lord give me strength tomorrow. I am going to try to answer a letter in this damn wetness. All for now.

Great Journal!

Wished I had, and forgot prior to recommend our lads do the same.

Enjoyed it and the sketches. My Corporal, Dan Hadley, will probably have some sketches as well from the CS side to post.

[Mcouioui]

Axel, our Belgian comrade, begun a diary in French, it will be necessary to you to translate him, for those whom that interests, but it is really very interesting, the continuation soon :)

Forest de Louisiane, lundi 9 mars
Quelque chose se prépare, on dit dans le camp que les Yankee arrivent. A part de nombreux mouvements de troupes, la journée n’est cependant pas différente des précédentes. La plus grande partie de notre régiment (28th Louisiana) s’est mise en route hier déjà. Trois compagnies sont restées au bivouac avec le lieutenant-colonel. Ma compagnie (compagnie D)compte une bonne vingtaine d’hommes dont la plus part sont des immigrés d’europe. Il y a des anglais, écossais, irlandais et français. Avec ces derniers je passe le plus clair de mon temps. Les autres nous appellent le French Mess. Il y a le Caporal La Plume, William, Rougeau, Régis et moi-même.

Mis à part le drill, la journée aura été marqué par la rencontre d’un esclave en fuite attrapé et mis au service du lieutenant-colonel. Il se nomme Edouard. Il devait être esclave de bonne famille car il est cultivé et sais se conduire. Quand il n’est pas mis au travail, il aime rester à proximité de notre compagnie. Je suppose qu’il doit se sentir rassuré auprès d’immigrés dont l’esclavage n’existe plus dans leur pays d’origine.

Visiblement aucun mouvement n’est prévu pour ce soir. Cependant, nous avons ordre d’être près à partir aussitôt qu’on nous mettra en route. La fin de la colonne des chariots de la brigade s’arrête à proximité et nous percevons deux jours de rations : Une grosse tranche de porc salé, une poignée de riz et une de café, cinq hartack, un petit morceau de fromage (quel luxe !) et quelques morceau de pommes séchées.

Malgré les rumeurs de bataille, la soirée se passe sous un ciel dégagé et des températures chaudes. Le French Mess cuisine et chante près du feu. Régis nous chante des airs de sa Bretagne et Edouard, l’esclave, nous rejoint et pousse à son tour la chansonnette. Je fais de même quand j’arrive à reprendre le refrain et j’accompagne l’air de tambourinements de morceau de bois.

Cependant, nous devons coucher tôt, car nous devrons peut être nous mettre en route avant le lever du soleil. De sous ma couverture j’entends les chariots se remettre en route et des cavaliers arriver avant de sombrer dans le sommeil.

[s]Forest de Louisiane, Mardi 10 mars[/s]

Vers cinq heure, les sergents nous réveillent. Il faut vite replier nos sacs et boire une tasse de café. Le bataillon va se mettre en route. Pendant le déjeuner, je remarque qu’une dizaine de cavaliers ont fait leur apparition à côté de notre camp.

Le colonel ordonne de former le bataillon. Il nous annonce que notre armée se replie et que nous formons l’arrière garde. Il annonce aussi que le 2nd Louisiana cavalery a été attaqué et que la dizaine de cavaliers présents près de nous sont la seule cavalerie qu’il nous reste à proximité…

Après quelques manœuvres, nous nous mettons en route par un petit chemin de terre. La compagnie D forme l’arrière garde de l’arrière garde. Pour se faire, le 2e platoon reste à 200 mètre à distance du bataillon. D’abords en tirailleur avant que le colonel de les remettent en colonne car le bataillon doit progresser rapidement. La chaleur est oppressante et des soldats montre des signes de fatigue. L’hiver a été dur et certains ne s’en remettent pas. Cependant nous progressons résolument et aucun contact avec l’ennemi n’est à signaler.

Nous puisons fréquemment dans les ruisseaux abondants dans cette région.

Vers le milieu de la journée, la bataillon reçois l’ordre de se former en ligne à la lisière du bois face à une clairière. Le bruit cours que l’arrière garde doit ralentir l’avance de l’armée fédérale. L’entièreté du bataillon se forme à gauche du chemin face à la clairière à l’exception de mon peloton qui est déployé en ligne à droite. On nous ordonne de ne pas forcer sur les abris et de ne pas gêner le passage des chevaux sur le chemin. Si les yankee’s arrivent, nous ne leur déchargerons qu’une volée avant de fuir. La compagnie D devra permettre aux deux autres compagnies de partir en bon ordre.

Cependant, le temps passe et aucun mouvement face à nous. Une compagnie est chargée de se replier et de remplir les gourdes en nous attendant. Nous avons espoir de ne pas être si près de l’ennemi.

Après une heure, je pense, des silhouettes provoquent l’émoi dans les rangs. Cependant, il ne s’agit que de la compagnie de cavalerie. Malheureusement porteurs d’une mauvaise nouvelle. Les fédéraux seront là d’ici un quart d’heure.

Chacun à son tour croit les voir arriver avant que je les voie de mes propres yeux. Une colonne descend les hauteurs pour pénétrer dans la clairière. Le colonel nous dit de mettre notre viseur sur 200 yards. Quelle idée ! Je ne vise pas, je tir moi. Quelques instants se passent avant que je vois les premiers tirailleurs dans la clairière, bientôt suivis d’une impressionnante ligne dont le centre porte les couleurs régimentaires. Rapidement l’autre compagnie exécute un feu de compagnie avant de partir rapidement par la route. Le 2e peloton tir à son tour avant de nous laisser seul. Nous tirons et rechargeons en courant dos à l’ennemi.

Les yankee’s sont juste derrière nous et il sera dur de les distancer…

[ButtermilkRanger]

Re: Into The Piney Woods AAR

Yeah, what he said.