Tuesday, 30 June 1998, 1700 hours(5:00 p.m. Birmingham time)
 
 

Left Birmingham with Trooper Bob Hines, who drove up from Mobile to rendezvous at my homestead. We spend 45 minutes rearranging the load to fit the cab and bed of my pickup. Left behind the following: one bale of tent straw, six gallons of drinking water and assorted snack foods, beer and soda in order to accomodate the gear of another trooper who had to fly up to Gettysburg.

I don't know how the old guys did it -- operating on nothing more than their horses could carry. We seem to have so much "stuff."
 
 

Wednesday, 1 July, 0030 hours(12:30 a.m. Eastern Time)
 
 

After two long bottlenecks -- afternoon traffic leaving Birmingham -- one roadside halt to adjust covers over the equipment, and a dinner break, we arrive at a campground east of Knoxville, TN where we'll spend the night and meet two other troopers including our company sergeant. It's a clear, cool night, free of the humidity further south, and we pitch a tent and fall asleep. Only dimly are we aware that our two mates arrive an hour later and pitch their tent next to ours.
 
 

Wednesday, 0730 hours(7:30 a.m. Eastern Time)
 
 

We rise early, break camp and prepare for the day-long trip to Gettysburg. The camp ground has a good restaurant and other amenities. I savor a morning shower, knowing it may be days before I get another, and we know Gettysburg will be hot, hot, hot.

There's an adage that, "you always forget something." I'm concerned because I don't seem to have forgotten a thing this time. Bob Lynn, our sergeant, makes up for that, however, informing us over breakfast that he's forgotten our company guidon -- our unit standard. Worse, he got a half-mile down the road and had to go return home for his guitar. Retrieving the guitar, he forgot the guidon again!

As we drive, I remember that today, July 1st, isn't just the first day of the Battle of Gettysburg, but also the day Teddy Roosevelt's Rough Riders assaulted San Juan Heights outside Santiago, Cuba. 1 July 1898.
 
 

Wednesday afternoon
 
 

Easy travelling, almost boring. Interstate most of the way and lovely weather. Hot -- but we see this beautiful countryside from an airconditioned, vehicle, stocked with snacks, drinks and reading material, and rolling at 70 miles an hour.

The men we represent marched the narrow, hot, dusty roads of Virginia, Maryland and Pennsylvania, taking 30 days to cover the same amount of ground we cover in fourteen hours. What can we ever really know of their experience? Still, we seek that elusive understanding -- some of us, anyway. And this week, we hope, will bring us closer to that grail.
 
 

Wednesday, 1830 hours(6:30 p.m. Gettysburg time)
 
 

Finally, we arrive. Not in Gettysburg, exactly, but Freedom Township,two miles south of the town, where the event is taking place. Event managers and battle staff have been in the area for several days already -- and actually working on site prep for many months. Troops have been coming in since the weekend.

Hines and I roll along Pumping Station Road, past the event site on the farm of Mrs. Nancy Bushey, and see the reconstructed stone wall and the Bloody Angle where Pickett's Virginians came to grief. Our necks crane. We exclaim at once -- "there it is, the Wall."

The field is smaller than the actual ground, but the resemblance is strong in the rolling terrain, the carefully placed wall, and in the road that runs perhaps four hundred yards in front of it. That dirt strip, bordered by wooden post-and-rail fences for several hundred yards across the big meadow, will stand in for the Emmitsburg Road.

The registration barn is the same one used as a Confederate hospital and surgery in the film, "Gettysburg." The line is long, stretching out the front door of the barn and around a nearby foodstand, then back out to the large meadow behind which has become a parking lot. Still, there are many volunteers working inside and they are very efficient. The line moves pretty fast and the whole process takes about 40 minutes.

Upon leaving the barn, I make a mandatory purchase -- event tee shirts for the family, including my daughter's father-in-law -- a brother reenactor who can't make it here. Pleasant surprise -- the three shirts are only $22 total.
 
 

Leaving registration, we fall in behind several horse trailers -- mounted cav -- heading in the general direction of our camps. It's slow going for traffic is already building, but we hear the big crush won't come until tomorrow, Thursday. Hines and I congratulate ourselves for arriving early.

The roads going into the camp are graded and gravelled, and, with the dry weather, in very good condition. Also, the gravel helps keep down dust -- another good thing. A nice evening breeze is building as we proceed.

This is one BIG farm! As I understand it, 300 acres. But I'm not a farm person and thus no very good judge of the size of a parcel of land. Yet, maybe the 300 acres is just the area where we'll fight -- yeah, this seems a whole lot bigger than that.

Our camps are on open ground at the top of a small but steep ridge, between a wood that houses Federal infantry, and another meadow that's home to the Confederate cavalry. This field is pockmarked everywhere with the hard-baked hoofprints of the cattle that have occupied it before us. In some places one hazards a broken ankle by taking one's eyes off the ground, even when walking.
 
 

Wednesday, 1 July 1998, 2030 hours(8:30 p.m.)
 
 

We are now set up. Two tents for Hines and me, two for Bob Lynn and Mike Kooker who travelled with us. Hines and I will sleep in my pup tent, or "dog," as we call it, and keep most of our gear: weapons, ammo, coolers, in my A-frame, or "wedge." Stuff!

Our company street is orderly and short. We're expecting at most twelve troopers from C/1. Men from another unit will extend the street to the end of the row. All around us are scores of tents of other dismounted cav units, representing both eastern and western regiments. Some we've worked with before, others we've heard of, and many we'll see for the first time. We expect it will be the largest dismounted cav force ever assembled for any reenactment -- with the mounted, perhaps the largest cav force outside the actual military since the Civil War.
 
 
 
 

The rules of this event, expected to be the largest Civil War reenactment ever, are strict about "Farb," the disease of modern reenactors. "Farbisms" -- evidence of "Farb" -- are strictly proscribed.

"Farb" refers to anything not period-correct being worn, used or engaged in by reenactors. Modern eyeglasses, beer cans, coolers, wristwatches, incorrect uniform parts or equipment -- all these and many more are "Farb." Look behind every tent flap and you'll see -- horrors -- "Farb"! Right now the camp is well-policed, and there's not much visible evidence of 1998. Not yet. But as the days roll by and the event matures, we know from experience that the "Farbisms" will increase.
 
 

Once set up, Hines and I decide to call home and let our families know we made it OK. We know from the trek in that this will take awhile, but we're told we can keep vehicles in camp tonight, so we won't have to walk back or take one of the shuttle buses -- large hay wagons towed by equally large tractors that ride like a rockslide.

The wagons make the rounds within the camps. Travel between the camp entrances, registration, phones and other external sites is by big yellow school buses. It's a simple, dependable shuttle system, albeit slow -- just because there are -- and will be -- so many thousands using it.

We get out easily enough, but it takes awhile. Night is falling and people and vehicles are still flowing steadily into camp. If this is less than what's expected tomorrow, we're even happier that we arrived today.

It takes about 40 minutes to find the phone bank and place our calls. On the way back, we stop at the Sutlers area and I buy a new carbine to replace the one I'm selling. Enroute back, we find the road up to the cavalry camp closed for the night. Too many vehicles have gone into the camp and stayed, and no more will be allowed in until morning. We drive all the way back to registration, park, and catch a shuttle -- a school bus. We hear we'll have to return tomorrow and move the truck to a designated parking area.

Wonderful! Bloody lovely!

The bus eventually drops us at the Confederate infantry camp and we stumble uphill along a dark dirt road that eventually leads us "home."
 
 

* * * * *
 
 
 
 
 
 

2230 hours (10:30 p.m.)
 
 

We finally return to camp and eat dinner. Mine is an MRE -- Meals Ready to Eat -- army field rations. Very useful now and pretty good, considering I haven't eaten since lunch. A cold beer from my cooler, a good cigar and some light conversation among the boys already in camp -- then it's into the blankets. The night is cool with a gentle breeze -- we drop the rear flap on the tent and sleep like a couple of rocks.
 
 

Thursday, 2 July 1998, approx. 0830 hours (8:30 a.m.)
 
 

It's a lovely morning. The sun is already well above the horizon and promising a pretty warm day. Just now, as we breakfast on coffee and whatever we have available -- couple of bagels for me -- a nice breeze wafts across our camp area. But we're camped in the open, though, so later on that sun will be anything but friendly.

We've been promised a free day today, and we'll make good use of it. After a leisurely breakfast, I stroll two streets over and look up an old friend in a nearby camp -- one we met and worked with at the Herr Ridge event here three summers ago. Regimental Sergeant Major(RSM) Larry Smythe of the 18th Penna. Cav. is doing well -- we chat some, catch up, and I invite him and his pards to visit our camp that evening.

After awhile, Hines and I decide to move my truck and do some shopping in the sutler area...we leave camp about 0900 -- 9:00 a.m.
 
 

Thursday, 1600 hours (about 4:00 p.m.)
 
 

Hines and I have roamed over the camp this morning, using the shuttles and our LPC's -- Leather Personnel Carriers. Shoes. After moving my truck from the administration barn to Federal parking, we shuttle back to the sutler area to browse and shop.

The day is warm, the area crowded with reenactors, with many spectators in evidence as well. We left our uniform coats at camp, of course, but walking in wool trousers raises a clamminess on the lower reaches that grows more uncomfortable each hour.
 
 
 
 

After all the walking, looking and spending we can handle, we find a sutler with cold drinks for sale, and purchase large containers of fresh, ice-cold lemonade. Nearby is a cool, breezy spot under a large tent with open sides. We flop on soft grass with our backs against a bale of straw to rest, sip and watch the crowd.
 
 

This is the day when the heaviest "incoming" was expected, and it looks like the predictions are correct. We watch an endless stream of vehicles and people flow past our corner. Vehicles from many states go by -- and from Canadadian provinces, too -- even one from Alaska. All sorts of period costumes mingle with the non-period, casual garb of spectators and event staff. All ages are represented, from senior citizens to babes in arms -- or at least in strollers. One or two even roll by in period wheelchairs.

We've already seen a small contingent of British reenactors here, and met a group of Germans who've come to portray the 96th Pennsylvania -- one of the regiments of German immigrants that fought here 135 years ago. As we walk through the sutler areas we also hear voices from Australia. The outback twang raises a smile and a Yankee double-take.

We imagine that this will, indeed, be the largest reenactment ever staged. On the field tomorrow and the days after we'll see nearly full size battalions and regiments. We'll get a sense of how these long-ago armies actually looked, and perhaps understand a little better what it was like to be part of them.

We are quiet awhile, thinking about that .
 
 

Something has to be said -- something very good -- about all the people who've planned, organized and are executing this event. Experience has shown that if something can go wrong at a national event, especially one of this magnitude, it probably will. Yet, after nearly 24 hours on the site, we are powerfully impressed by the smoothness and efficiency we've seen.

To be sure, there are inconveniences and delays -- quite a few. It could not be otherwise in something of this sort. But the two or more years of planning and organizing that have gone into the 135th Gettysburg are showing -- and showing well.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

The volunteers we've seen for the most part have been both helpful and friendly. They seem to be from every civic and community group in south central Pennsylvania, and whose individual members behave in most cases as if our impressions of the region depend solely upon them.

Don't laugh, but the most impressive thing for many of us is the care taken to service the portable toilets. There's a long bank of them just steps from our camp and we've seen them serviced at least twice since we arrived. And that attention to duty would continue through the entire event.

Water is plentiful; 20,000-gallon tankers are on site and kept full. Ice patrols roll through the camps twice a day and bags are available at three dollars per. Coolers are thus kept cool and personal use of ice augments the large amounts of water we all consume, for continued safety and health.

Hines and I begin to thank the volunteers we meet -- each one, individually, in order that we may somehow recognize and appreciate their hard work individually and as a group. We hear as we circulate the groans and complaints of many reenactors -- some quite whining and immature. It's human nature, of course, but in this case it's emphatically not deserved -- no matter what temporary inconveniences we must bear. And we're all here by choice, afterall, able to leave anytime.
 
 

Thursday, 2330 hours, 11:30 p.m.
 
 

The night is pleasantly cool, at least compared to Alabama. Dean Barber, Curtis Carpenter and our two new recruits, Howard Hunt and Mike Hurley, cooked dinner. Dessert -- or was it a garnish of some sort? -- amounted to one animal cracker per man. Afterward, a fireside evening. Dean picks his banjo, and we sing, drink a beer or two, smoke cigars and talk -- the range of conversation is broad, but nothing very deep. Our bunch nearly always gets along well together and tonight is no exception. We are all pumped for the Buford scenario tomorrow and want to be sharp. No one goes overboard on the libation.
 
 

Presently, Larry Smythe and his pards from the 18th Penna. Vol. Cav. come by and share the campfire and music with us. One or two others passing by our company street also drift in -- including a Reb infantryman with a mean harmonica who plays a soft backup to Dean's banjo.
 
 

Now it must be said that Dean Barber is a serious banjo picker -- clawhammer style, five string, Civil War and Appalachin stuff, mostly -- and his "musicales" have become a fixture in our camp. He's a focal point for us in many ways, and his music is one of the things that coheres us as a group. I imagine it must have been like this in some of the old boys' camps long ago.

Presently, re-bonded among ourselves and for the morrow, we drift to our tents and sleep -- anticipating what we all know will be a bright moment for us down the years.
 
 

* * * *
 
 

Friday, 3 July 1998, 0700 hours(7:00 a.m.)
 
 

Reveille at 0600. We turn out for drill an hour later with the sun already a huge red, rising ball over nearby trees, promising much heat.
 
 

Today is the BIG one for us all -- the opening gun of the Battle of Gettysburg, in which we, as dismounted cavalry, will shine. We'll represent Brigadier General John Buford's stand with two brigades of cavalry, fighting dismounted, which held the terrain from Culp's Hill to the Roundtops against the initial Confederate advance. For serious cavalry reenactors, especially the dismounted, Buford's stand is something of a touchstone event.

We've come a long way for one two-hour fight, and for most this will be the high point of the event.

At drill, there's the usual shuffle and sorting-out process, and finally we are formed into three battalions of about a hundred men each. Three hundred dismounted blue cav! Unheard of! Deployed on the field, we'll be an impressive sight. We'll drill by companies now, to get used to working with new boys. And for this event -- we've been talking about it for months -- period bugle calls will be used.

For this week, we'll assemble, fall in, march, deploy, advance and retire by the bugle -- used with verbal orders, of course, since most of us probably know little more than "Charge," and "Taps." The last time these historic calls ordered the lives and evolutions of masses of mounted or dismounted men might have been sometime in the 1940s.
 
 
 
 
 
 

During drill, we learn that we've been unexpectedly assigned to a small morning fight that no one really wants. It's to please some early spectators and accomodate a small group of Confederate dismounted who, we hear, refuse to galvanize -- that is, change coats -- in order to be in on this afternoon's big fish-fry. They want their "moment in the sun," and Federal Headquarters has asked our wing command to help them out.

We're decidedly unhappy with this "twofer." Our dismounted commander, Lt. Col. Kevin Duke, brings general laughter when says he's tempted to show how effective Rebel marksmanship can be by having us all go down at the first volley. The boys think that's a pretty fair idea. Our attitude is, 'keep it short, get it over with and get on with the Buford fight.'
 
 

Drill lasts about an hour, and we work on moving from column of fours into column of twos, deploying by companies into skirmish order, advance and retire, and the four main firing commands. On the advance we often use what we call 'rolling thunder,' -- each rank advancing through the formation from rear to front and firing as it comes online. Done smoothly, it's impressive and we should have enough room to perform it here.

We're dismissed from drill shortly after 0800 -- eight o'clock -- and the heat can already be felt. We're given orders to drink all the water we can hold, get rid of it, and drink some more. We walk the few steps to our camp and gather under a large tent fly to eat, talk, load weapons, fill canteens -- and drink. Water!
 
 

Friday, 3 July 1998, 1000 hours(10:00 a.m.)
 
 

We fall in fully accoutered and march out for the battle area perhaps a mile away. The route is mostly downhill over dirt tracks and through rough fields pockmarked with cattle tracks. We will do this four times today, up and down, through two battles -- one down, three to go.

Our destination is the reconstructed "Stone Wall" that will stand in for Cemetery Ridge during Pickett's assault on Sunday. Right now it's our position and we form along it, facing the Confederates uphill in front of us. Approaching the wall, we get a sense of past reality -- the lengthy procedure required to deploy large bodies of soldiers into a 19th century fighting line.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Executed by trained troops, the complicated procedure surely had precision and a sense of inevitability about it. Done by us, it no doubt lacks something -- but never having seen the real thing, I can't imagine how much that might be. Probably quite a lot.
 
 

Friday, 3 July, 1200 hours( 12 Noon)
 
 

We keep the fight short. "Farby," we term it. After trading a few volleys, we go over the wall and overwhelm the small Confederate contingent who -- had they been experienced, regular troops -- would have tried to stand against us only as a last resort. We outnumber them something like five or six to one. My section captures four of them and I act as one of the guards -- gives us all a little rest.
 
 

These men are Confederates from New Jersey doing a Virginia cavalry unit. Oh, well -- we are Federals from Alabama. Strange war then, strange hobby now. Our battalion sergeant major -- Curtis Carpenter, detailed to wing staff for the event -- gallops up and tells me to get the mens' parole and turn 'em loose. As he gallops off, he hollers back, "Take all their money, too." "It's Confederate," I reply. "So what," he grins, "they might win."

Obedient to orders, I tell the prisoners to come clean, and one hands me a $50 bill. Like some parts of this hobby, it bears only a surface resemblance to the real thing. I thank the donor, a sergeant, telling him I'll keep the banknote since I hear the South is going to rise again.

Long march back to camp -- mostly uphill and steep. I've worked hard to get in shape for this and so far it's paying off. But the hill is a real SOB and by the time we get back to camp, it's been named -- marked forever as Coronary Hill.
 
 

* * * *
 
 

We have a bit less than three hours to rest and prepare for the Buford scenario late this afternoon. Three hours in which to drink water, reload weapons, relax and talk about what's coming. It was Buford's stand that began the battle, and we will be the key element in its recreaction.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Friday, 3 July 1998, 1500 hours(3:00 p.m.)
 
 

Shouted commands reinforced by the bugles call us to the parade ground. Soon, we are moving out in columns of four, which then become twos as we enter a nearby wood. Our command will march us at least part way in the shade, and, despite the narrower way and rocky trail beneath our feet, we are grateful for the relief from the hot sun.

Our way leads through the camps of our infantry, some already forming as we pass. They watch us with interest and we set a brisk pace -- show them how dismounted can move. I manage a glance behind and see the blue snake bobbing and shifting as it moves. A thrill passes through me and I feel the beginnings of a time trip pulling at the edge of my personal reality.

Passing the camps of the Iron Brigade, "them damned black hat fellers," the Rebs called them, Hines calls out, "we'll hook 'em, boys -- you clean 'em and fry 'em." "Don't be late," someone else calls. "O, we'll be there... sooner or later," is the reply. "Well, then, you'll see a lot of dead cavalry- men," I call. Buford's troopers had a long fight that morning -- from the first round fired around seven a.m. to the arrival of the I Corps some three hours later. It was an exact reversal of the old cliche about the cavalry getting there in the nick of time. This time, the plodding infantry will pull our butts out of a crack.
 
 

As we pass from the wood to the meadow beyond, a band plays us through. They strike up the song of the cav -- the GarryOwen. Although closely associated with Custer and the 7th U.S. Cavalry from 1876, it is an ancient Irish tune that was well known to both armies in "our" war. The sprightly refrain, well-played, gets the boys pumped, and along the column many whistle and sing and thank the bandsmen as they pass.

As we enter the meadow, we see far away the grandstands filled with spectators and a long, sweeping semi-circle of them stretching to our right around the borders of the field. I can't well estimate distance, but it seems to me they're at least a half-mile away. We'll be told later that some 30,000 were on hand, and the figure sounds right from what I can see. However many there are, it's the largest crowd I've ever seen or hope to see at a reenactment.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Halfway across our field, a nearly dry stream moves sluggishly through a deep gully several hundred yards long. One of our 100-man battalions is in position about 200 yards in front of it, awaiting the appearance of the Confederate force. The other two battalions make for the ditch as orders are passed along the colum to get into it, lie down and stay out of sight. "Do not put your heads up to watch the fight," we're told, "and do not call to our pards when they pass through." We grin, knowing we've a nasty little surprise in store for the Rebel infantry as they advance.

We learn later that Lt. Col, Duke persuaded the cavalry command to let us use this terrain feature in the battle plan, although it had been overlooked when the scenario was drawn up. This is why the boys respond so well to Kevin. He knows and loves dismounted cav, leads them with efficiency and not a little flair, and always looks for ways to improve our lot. What is about to happen will turn out to be a major highlight of our time here, and become known among us as the Fight at Duke's Ditch!
 
 

Once in the gully, we wait in the heat, relaxing as much as possible, drinking water and talking in low tones. The hot sun hammers us from a clear sky and, even lying still, I'm bathed in sweat. Soon, the popping of musketry from the distant hillside, and the answering fire of carbines announces that the ball has begun.

Although we can see nothing, we hear the firing coming closer and rising in volume until it is one continuous rolling rattle, punctuated by volleys from our front line and an occasional round from our artillery support. We now hear commands distinctly where before they were inarticulate shouts. My carbine is loaded and capped. I have three additional rounds between the fingers of my left gauntlet and two caps between my front teeth. Ready as I can possibly be, I drowse in the heat and, without realizing it, drift off to sleep.

"Hey, Hickory!" comes the urgent voice of Bob Hines next to me.

"Huh??" I grunt, startled at his voice and a nudge in my ribs.

"Wake up," he says, grinning. "You're snoring, for cryin' out loud. You'll give away our position."

Awake, I roll over, getting my feet under me. Not long now...
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Suddenly our forward line, driven in by the Confederate infantry, is leaping and scrambling across the ditch. "Hey," calls a passing trooper, "there's men in here." The first line passes through and goes into position slightly uphill and a few yards behind us. "Now, now," I say to myself -- and suddenly the command, "RISE!" is shouted down our front, passed urgently along by the company and platoon leaders.

Two battalions rise as one! -- 200 men from teenagers to late middle age lunge from the ditch with the energy of high excitement that battle brings. Our line forms quickly, smoothly, atop the bank and starts a half left wheel in front of the Rebel advance. Completely surprised, the two enemy brigades immediately before us halt and prepare to face this sudden, powerful threat to their front and left flank. As one trooper put it later, "you could almost hear the screech of brakes when we popped out of the ditch.

We kneel in our "open order" position, the dismounted fighting stance with fifteen feet between each trooper, and slam a volley into the Confederates. Their line stops cold. We see some hits. Hurrah! Firing commands ring out along our line and we respond with great relish, alternately firing by volley and by file. My heart seems to beat almost as loud in my head as the crash of gunfire ringing in my ears. The sound rolls out across the valley like a mighty wave, and clouds of blackpowder smoke billow upward in its wake.
 
 

The Rebel attack is stalled only temporarily, however, and we know their advance will soon resume. It does, and a long, hot fight begins. We withdraw by short distances, in scrambles and rushes, continually firing and forming new lines. Here's Duke's Ditch again! This time we're crossing in the opposite direction, moving back up the hill whence we came -- a hill that becomes longer at every step.

The hot sun, the thick wool uniforms, the exertion, and the drain of the earlier fight are catching up to us. Already, men have gone down from the heat all over our front, and once the scenario stops so an EMT crew can evacuate two heat casualties to an emergency medical station in a barn to our right rear. But the fight goes on, and so do we. Yet even as we form, fire, retire and reform, I see an advancing column of infantry moving downhill to our left. Supports have finally arrived. Are we happy to see them? Hell, yes!!
 
 

At last, we are pulled out of action. Along the crest of the hill behind us, solid blue lines of infantry, rifles at right shoulder shift, are double quicking into regimental and battalion front. As each component of the huge force comes into line, it moves past us toward the advancing butternuts. Literally thousands of infantry are now on the field, and their volleys crash out on the afternoon air, while other units keep coming up, and coming, and coming, and coming. A line from the Battle Hymn comes to mind -- "burnished rows of steel." Indeed!

Oh, it's good they've come. I made it through, but now that it's over I am exhausted, lightheaded. I stop at the top of the rise near the EMT barn, barely walk the few yards to it. I find a friendly oak with some shade, strip off my equipment and coat, and collapse gratefully in its shade.

While I rest and polish off the contents of my canteen, I notice the landoffice business the EMTs are doing. Soldiers in all stages of fatigue and dehydration walk into the barn, or -- in the case of two -- are carried in from ambulances which arrive and depart with efficiency. Cots and chairs inside are rapidly filled and the corners become stockpiles of weapons and coats. EMT volunteers distribute quantities of icewater inside, going solicitously from man to man.
 
 

In the barnyard, 'ice angels' in period costume do the same, passing out ice and water to tired men sitting or lying about. One offers me a hatful of ice and I fill my forage cap and clap it back on my head with a grateful sigh. After awhile, feeling better, though still weak, I rise and trudge to the barn. Flopped in a vacant lawn chair, I ask for icewater and quickly down the contents of two large glasses. Looking around, I notice that most of the men are younger than I, and realize that the heat respects neither youth nor age. For the umpteenth time that day, I'm thankful for the extra training I've put myself through for this event.

At last, perhaps an hour later, I collect my gear and leave, walking with two men from another unit in our camp. As we pass through the fields toward the long hill ahead, we see soldiers and civilians en masse -- all moving behind the fighting, which swept on both sides of the barn some time ago. The phrase, 'wake of battle' runs through my mind, and I think of descriptions I've read of the retreat from First Bull Run.
 
 
 
 
 
 

It seems to me that, except for the difference in civilian attire, the men in those long ago armies would quickly recognize this scene.
 
 

"Coronary Hill" seems much longer and steeper than it was in the morning, and I move slowly with frequent stops. The weak feeling persists and it's a stranger to me -- a very unwelcome one. At last I get into camp, the boys glad to see me -- a little worried, it seems. Doc Greg Phillips, our senior corporal, also had some problems with the heat and we commiserate.

It's our mess's night to provide dinner but my three pards let me out of the cooking chore and I promise to clean up. After eating, I feel much better but have the 'slows' for sure. The cleanup -- though easy -- takes all my energy. I tell our sergeant I don't know if I can fight tomorrow. My heart seems to be writing checks my body can't cash.

As night falls, Doc Greg and I sprawl on the ground before my tent, talking. I'm relaxed and enormously tired, yet resisting sleep. Men come and go, stepping over us as we lay. After awhile, Doc is snoring -- asleep on the ground in the middle of the company street. He has been on the move almost 24 hours by airline and rental car, getting here just in time to fight this after- noon. He's as out of gas as I am.

I try to rise but cannot. Cramps in my thighs send sharp pains shooting along both legs. I've felt this before when running -- fatigue and dehydration, pure and simple. I take a pain reliever and try to walk off the cramps. When they recede, I fall into my tent where Hines is already sacked out. Soon sleep overwhelms me and the long day is finally complete.
 
 

Saturday, 4 July 1998, 0800 hours(8:00 a.m.)
 
 

The day is hot, but during the morning cloud cover comes in, and a welcome breeze. Perhaps there's a shower in the offing as well -- it feels a little like it. One of the things we've all hoped to miss at Gettysburg is a deadening downpour such as we've experienced at several big events in the past two years. So far we've avoided that here -- but, with the dry heat, a shower would be real nice. One thing we haven't seen is deer ticks...little critters with annoying bites which carry the dangerous Lyme disease. We expected them...prepared for them...and haven't seen a single one. No one, however, is complaining.
 
 
 
 

When it comes to heat, Pennsylvania can't begin to match Alabama.

The difference is lower humidity. The high humidity we're used to in the South quickly saps all human energy and makes summer reenacting an exercise for the truly demented. Pennsylvania summers are much drier, and thus easier on us. Although, as I learned yesterday, they can still wear you down. Nevertheless, the feeling among Southerners here is, "Hey -- we can fight all day in this stuff!" And, generally, that's been quite true.
 
 

Today's event will be much shorter for us -- although the infantry has been fighting since mid-morning and will continue until quite late in the day. The webfeet are reenacting the Wheatfield, Devil's Den, Little Roundtop and Culp's Hill actions of the Second Day at Gettysburg. We are recreating several cavalry fights around the main battle, specifically Custer's clash with the tardy Jeb Stuart at Hanover. We'll not be under Lt. Col. Duke today, but under "Custer" himself -- which means the dismounted force may see less action and the mounted more.
 
 

Saturday, 1030 hours(10:30 a.m.)
 
 

Dean Barber, Mike Kooker("Private Glory") and I drift through the infantry camps, taking in the sights, snapping a few "likenesses" here and there and, in the process, we latch onto a real, live reporter. Nancy Jennis Olds is a reporter/photographer covering the event for the Civil War Times. We introduce ourselves and immediately begin telling her of the "Rebels among Rebels" -- the Alabama Unionists whom we portray. She senses a story angle and returns with us to camp, there to meet the rest of the boys.

Well, conversation is friendly and lively. Notes are taken and photos, too. Since we forgot to bring our company guidon -- thanks, Sarge! -- we pillage the flag of Company D, 4th U.S. from Capt. Bob DuBose's tent. Folded to obscure the unit designator, it momentarily becomes ours. We all express the hope that we'll read about ourselves in the newspaper when it writes up the doings here. After much conversation and an exchange of names and addresses, she moseys along on her picture-taking rounds and we go back to preparations for the afternoon fight.
 
 
 
 
 
 

Saturday, 4 June 1998, 1230 hours(12:30 p.m.)
 
 

Shortly after noon, we march out along the same rocky trail we took yesterday through the infantry camps. We look well worn. There's some personal pride in my impression of a late-war, western Federal cavalry trooper with the well-campaigned look I've seen in many photos. It's a look our whole unit tries to project, and I think we do pretty well.

We move rapidly at "route step, arms at will" -- meaning carbines slung in any manner comfortable for the individual trooper, and each man walking at his own pace. It creates the look of men at ease with their equipment and themselves -- veterans.
 
 

Most of the Federal infantry camps are empty, or nearly so, as we pass through, their troops already involved in various scenarios. Others, waiting to enter the later fights, watch us pass. They, too, look worn after a couple of days in the field. "The war's that way, boys," we hear a couple of times as we pass. But it's respectful, it seems to me. Perhaps word of our stand at Duke's Ditch has filtered down to our infantry, as well as to the Rebs whom we surprised.

Today, though, the action will fall to others, at least initially. Our 4th Battalion marches to the hillside overlooking Duke's Ditch and the field where we fought the day before. We fought back up that same hillside yesterday while retiring, but today it's our ampitheater to watch the mounted clash on the flat below. Reserve status isn't our first choice, but we assume we'll be called upon sometime, especially if Lt.Col. Duke has his way.
 
 

1400 hours(2:00 p.m.)
 
 

Some 200 yards below us, Custer's Michigan Brigade duels with Confederate mounted across the ditch. Approximately between the two forces a dirt road bordered by post-and-rail fences bisects the field for several hundred yards. During Pickett's scenario tomorrow, it will double as the famous Emmittsburg Road, but today it's simply an interesting terrain feature and -- oooops -- apparently a route for curious spectators to get closer to the action than the rules allow!!
 
 
 
 
 
 

As Yanks and Rebs exchange volleys across the ditch and road, two decidedly overweight civilians with their video camera and a small boy in tow, amble along the road from our right, heading for the center of the battle area. Worse, our officers with their long glasses determine that a member of the event security staff is escorting them -- violating rules which he's been appointed to enforce.

As we watch the unconscious quartet amble closer to the "war," we offer derisive shouts and catcalls which we know they can't hear. But we're amazed at how unaware they are of danger, especially with their child.

When it's clear they have no intention of stopping short of a close encounter, a cease-fire is ordered and our overall cav commander, Craig Beachler, rides down to give them the word. Beachler, we understand, is a retired navy chief petty officer, who, we imagine, knows how to dress down those he finds out of order. Very soon, the strays head in the opposite direction -- first at a walk, then at a shambling run. Their retrograde movement brings a full-throated Hurrah!!! from all of us, and one or two caps tossed in the air. Our attention turns once more to the battle resuming below.
 
 

As the scenario progresses we see, as we so often have, Confederate troops taking very few hits in proportion to the intensity of our fire. On the far hillside whence they came this day, we see two, perhaps three "bodies," no more. Of course, as we're using short barreled carbines with a more limited range than infantry muskets, that makes some sense. But as the Confederates advance, it also makes sense that the number of casualties would increase as they come within our effective range. But, no. While I observe a fair number of casualties on our side of the line, few Rebels are down. We're told later that one Confederate took a "hit" near the road on our front, and a watching EMT crew rushed up to him, thinking he might be in real trouble. "Get out of here," the 'casualty' reportedly told them -- "I'm dead."

Finally, about halfway through the scenario, or a little more, our dismounted battalion is ordered into the fray. We go forward at the double quick and plunge into Duke's Ditch, where we pulled off our surprise yesterday. No lying low this time, though. We're immediately ordered forward to capture a Rebel gun which has been pushed forward to enfilade the battalion on our left.
 
 
 
 

Scarcely have we eliminated that threat than we're flanked in turn by Confederate mounted approaching close on our right. We quickly refuse our flank and give them several volleys at about thirty yards range. Nevertheless, they sit their horses and pop away at us with pistols and shotguns despite the intensity of our fire. This disrespect for our fire appears ridiculous, especially as they are big, fat targets up on their nags. Adding insult to injury, they edge their mounts closer to our line. One of these "kevlar confederates" directly in front of me finally takes a hit, folding over his pommel in response to a round from me.

As if by unspoken consent, none of the Federals opposing this motley bunch takes a hit either. Several of us shout insults at the Rebel horsemen as they draw closer. When we get the order to pull back across the ditch and form line on the slope, I turn and raise my right hand, middle finger extended, in a very specific salute to our Confederate bretheren.

We form line about fifty yards back of the ditch and are soon ordered to refuse again -- that is, to form a defensive line at right angles to the main force, to confront a threat to our flank. We outnumber the Rebel mounted about two to one at this point. But, again playing by their own rules, they begin edging their horses close to our line and well inside the twenty-five yard fire safety zone. "Let's get some help here," someone yells, and our command appears to have seen our situation. Soon friendly mounted thunders in from our right, and the Confederates call it a day, withdrawing at an insolent walk back to their own lines across the ditch. They're committed more to making some obscure point than to following the event safety rules they accepted in registration.
 
 

A few minutes later we're withdrawn to a position of rest near the same large barn where I rested after Friday's fight. After catching our breath, the battalion is formed up and marched off the field in column of twos. I'm still peeved, as are others among us, at the behavior of the Rebel mounted, and the perfectly needless incident with the civilians whose presence on the field delayed the fight. As we march off the field, that little group of Sunday strollers is standing along the path watching us leave. Unable to resist giving them a piece of my mind, I bark as we pass, "you had no damn business on that battlefield."
 
 
 
 

Late in the afternoon, a soft rain begins to fall. We're assured it's nothing more than an evening shower, typical of Pennsylvania this time of year -- 'just enough to cut the dust'. That's fine with us -- dust and dryness have been such as to make the rain welcome, but we don't want to end our stay here in a downpour and up to our backsides in mud. I decide to go down to the public phones and call home. It's a two-and-a-half hour round trip by shuttle and shoe leather, and I'm glad to get "home." With a cooling breeze and the soft pattering of rain on the tent, sleep comes easily.
 
 

* * * * *
 
 

Sunday, 5 July, 0800(8:00 a.m.)
 
 

We fall in for drill under a mostly cloudy sky, but with the promise that the day will become mostly sunny, warm and generally pleasant. A morning breeze is welcome.

Perhaps because of services rendered, and the general respect our commander has among his peers, we've been awarded a spot with the Federal infantry at "The Wall." We'll be there with the dusty blue ranks chosen to receive Pickett's Charge -- to relive the doomed assault that represented the high tide of the Confederacy a few miles away at a low stone wall near a copse of trees. There are, however, some conditions. We must shed our cav identity for the occasion: no boots, no yellow trim or rank stripes, no side- arms, and saber belts must be worn without shoulder straps. We'll carry our carbines and musketoons, however.

Drill this morning consists of learning to fire in two ranks, front rank kneeling and rear rank standing. We're told off by height, taller men in the rear. As the men in back step forward to fire, we must lean far out and over so as not to "ring the bell" of the men kneeling directly in front. That means the short-barrelled carbines must extend well forward so the detonation of the weapon will not totally deafen, nor the blast injure, anyone in the front rank.

Our boys and the other Western units have used this technique before, but many other units have not. The practice is necessary.
 
 
 
 

1200 hours(12:00 Noon)
 
 

Full of excitement and anticipation, we form up and move out in column of fours, forming in twos as we enter the woods path through the infantry camps. To be on "The Wall" with our infantry bretheren is a cause for pride, an emotional moment we know we'll grasp close and carry with us for years to come. Four of our boys from the 1st -- Dean Barber, Doc Greg Phillips, Mike Turner and Mike Kooker -- have chosen to don gray and butternut for the occasion, to relive the Confederate experience of the massive assault. They'll form with the 19th Alabama, and make the charge with them.
 
 

We move at route step and it's not long before someone along the line begins to whistle. The Battle Hymn of the Republic. Soon the whistling moves along the column, coming loud and clear. By choice, we are inheritors of the legacy created in this beautiful countryside seven generations ago -- in fields very close to where we are, on a hot summer day very like this. What continuity of experience! In this place, in the hours ahead, we're linked to those who went before by bonds no less strong for being unseen

Some of us, from total physical unfitness, have no business here. Such a man marches directly in front of me...a short, obese "soldier" whose burden of gear is more than he can carry. As we leave the woods and start down the steep, grassy hill toward the battle plain, the man cannot walk or balance or even carry his own equipment. Two of his mates grasp his arms, relieve him of his weapon, and half carry him down to a more level area, where he struggles unsuccessfully to keep pace the rest of the way.

By now we're singing in chorus all up and down the column -- Billy "Squeezebox," our battalion 'character' and free soul from Company C, 7th Tennessee, scampers alongside -- barefoot, to be sure! -- chanting the verses to Boney Was A Warrior while we all join the chorus. Billy has been reenacting so long he was here ten years ago for the 125th Gettysburg anniversary, in 1988!

Following Billy's lead and singing lustily, we reach the line of the Stone Wall and pass large bodies of Federal infantry as we move to our position.
 
 
 

"Who're those guys?" the query comes as we pass one such unit. I don't catch the reply, but I imagine we look rather rangy and worn as we slouch along past "smarter" eastern units; dismounted cav from "Uncle Billy" Sherman's army, the boys who "liberated" Georgia and the Carolinas.

Strictly speaking -- historically -- we shouldn't be here. But more than one of us had ancestors who fought on this ground, and in spirit it's as much ours as anyone's.
 
 

1230 hours(12:30 p.m.)

Today we're in reserve -- at a point perhaps 200 yards behind The Wall, on the right of the Federal line right next to the grandstand, now filled to capacity under a sunny sky with a light breeze and a handful of broken clouds. Immediately to our left stands a full battery of Federal artillery, nine guns, ten-pounder Parrot rifles and 12-pounder smoothbore "Napoleons," ready to "speak" to the force across the valley. Many, if not most of us, have brought small pocket point-and-shoot cameras to the field. Suitably wrapped or painted, of course, so as not to appear too anachronistic. We snap away briskly at the activity before us...the guns, brigades of infantry moving into position, anything and everything is a "target of opportunity" as we strive to record these moments.

"Commanding" the Federal force this day is Major General Winfield Scott Hancock -- "Hancock the Superb" -- present with his staff a few yards from the battery. Unknown to us, "Hancock" is none other than actor Brian Mallon who portrayed him in the film Gettysburg, to which almost any of us can quote at least half the lines from memory. Had we but known -- what an extra dash of adrenalin it would have brought to the moment. Nonetheless, our excitement rises as we see the gun crews prepare their pieces.
 
 

1315 hours(1:15 p.m.)
 
 

While anachronistic helicopters with their camera crews buzz overhead, the signal shot comes from the Rebel batteries on the far side of the small valley. The 'clap' of the round reaches us a moment after we see the smoke belch from the Confederate lines. Instantly, our gunners are at attention, and within moments the first rounds begin to answer from the battery on our left.
 

The firing is measured and steady, not at all hurried. Safety is the first priority...haste with the guns can be very dangerous. And as the artillery is close to the crowd, no one wants an accident to spoil this day.

Soon, the air over both Union and Confederate lines is thick with powder smoke, rising on the slight breeze to hang over the troops and the crowd. Now we see "Hancock" and his staff gathered to our rear, waiting for his dramatic moment. During the actual battle in 1863, Hancock acted heroically to steady his troops under the terrific Confederate artillery fire -- still the largest known artillery barrage ever heard on the North American continent. He did so by riding slowly along his lines, seemingly oblivious to his own personal danger as a ranking officer on horseback exposed to the enemy gunners. Now he's about to do so again.
 
 

All at once, "Hancock" wheels his mount under tight rein, and rides to his right behind us, his staff following closely. The breeze catches his Second Corps headquarters flag, that great bold, blue flag, and extends it behind him as the small group reaches the right of our lines and proceeds along in front of the crowd. As though on cue, yet only because they are caught up in the moment, the troops just in front of us begin to chant his name... "HAN-cock,

HAN-cock," comes the cry, and all along the lines it rolls! Thousands of men in blue, completely in the moment yet one with the storied past, raise their cry of tribute to the rider and the eternal glory that he represents. "HAN-cock... HAN-cock..." Their chants follow him down the entire line as he rides, dying away at last in the crash of the guns that swallows all in their maelstrom of noise.
 
 

Overhead, bursting fireworks, representing Confederate shellfire, shower paper "shrapnel" upon us. Men touched by these fragments take "hits" for the crowd, and a medical team works just behind us attending the "wounded" and "dying" dragged there by mates who then hurry back to the line.

Across the little valley, the Confederate troops, probably as many or perhaps more than actually made the 1863 assault, wait in a wooded grove for the word to advance. Annoyed at the constantly buzzing camera 'copters over their lines, some Rebels on the far right of the position, well away from the crowd, conspire to run out on the field and lie in formtion to flash a message to the offending whirlies. Their bodies spell out a traditional Anglo-Saxon vulgarism. Invisible to the audience and the rest of both armies, the message is as clear as an upthrust finger to observers above. Soon the pilots turn their birds and head back across the valley -- to hover above and annoy the Yankees for the remainder of the afternoon.
 
 

1345 hours(1:45 p.m.)
 
 

At last the bombardment ceases and we see great movements within the grove opposite. Soon the Confederates emerge on the field in a rapidly extending line of battle that grows by the moment, at last stretching across our entire front. When the brigades are sorted out, the butternut and gray ranks, musket barrels gleaming in the warm sun, dress their lines and begin to step off.

A hush falls over the Federal lines as the advance begins. Red battle- flags, unfurled, wave gently in the breeze above the marching units. A glance at the audience reveals cameras of every size and description pointed toward the Confederate battle line. Quite a few of our boys have also turned tourist for the moment and are snapping away.

Now the Federal artillery begins to fire at the Rebels, presenting a warm welcome to the marching line. Here and there a gap opens among them, but casualties are hard to see from such a distance. After a time, the Rebels reach the post and rail fences along the "Emmitsburg Road" and climb over them or tear them down to make a passage. Our artillery continues its death song, joined now by rolling volleys of musketry from the blue ranks down by the Wall. Many of the "enemy" already lie sprawled on the field before us, and their ranks thin with every step.

Finally, a few rods from our wall, the remaining Rebels break into a run. Their neat ranks dissolve into a spearhead pointed at the center of our line, and from which pieces rapidly break off as men fall in ever larger numbers. I see one...two...battle flags go down, only to be quickly snatched up by other hands.

Now, we reserves are called to attention and ordered to assume our two-rank firing position. Upon command we adjust our sights for maximum elevation and raise our muzzles to accomodate the distance -- as well as safety so close to our mates. The front rank fires and kneels to reload, as we in the rear step forward close behind and unleash our own volley upon command.

Seemingly on automatic, we continue to fire by ranks, adding our own noise and enthusiasm to the spectacle before us. The plain to our front is littered with "dead" and "wounded" Confederates, singly or in clumps, lying still or making slow, jerky moves. Soon the Rebel assault, having reached its high-water mark, is falling back, leaving many dead, wounded and prisoners behind. As they retreat, we hear triumphant cries from the Federals at the wall: "FRED-ricks-burg...FRED-ricks-burg." The chants are a goad, reminding the retreating butternuts that what they wrought upon us at the Rappahannock a few months earlier has been returned in full measure in the fields of Pennsylvania.
 
 

Now, at last, it is over. Near us, the crowd, heretofore mesmerized by the scene before them, returns to the present, and the reality of exiting these crowded fields. Our command is called to attention, and, with words of praise, dismissed -- some to join the throng on the adjacent road heading for their vehicles, others to march back to our camps and prepare for the long journey home. It will be hours yet before we can leave, for the narrow country roads hereabouts will support just so much humanity at one time.

We later learn that the event managers, restricted by local ordinance to 15,000 reenactors, actually had closer to 25,000 military and 7,000 civilian reenactors...a record for an event that we think will stand for years. As for the audience, we hear that daily attendance was between 30,000 and 35,000.
 
 

As I join other troops and civilians on the road, it occurs to me that the scenes in these fields over the past week were about as strange and unusual in present time as the hellish reality was to those who lived here 135 years ago.

Except for hundreds of cases of heat prostration, a heart attack death and -- we'll learn later -- one Confederate actually shot by one of his own mates accidentally, we leave behind none of the carnage and human suffering of that earlier time. Quite the contrary.

As I plod with the crowd up the two-lane macadam road to my vehicle, I experience comraderie and congratulations all along the way. Greetings and handshakes are legion among the soldiers I pass: "Great job guys."
 
 
 
 
 
 

"You all really looked good out there." "Nice job, Yank!" "You guys really looked awesome coming across that field, Reb!"

The crowd seems equally high on the events of the day, chatting unrestrainedly to strangers in blue and gray. "I never realized," says one spectator, "how big a battle this really was. You all were wonderful." Hot, tired, wanting no more than a shower and a cool place, and facing a two-day trip home, I yet feel my stride lengthen and my fatigue, for the moment, fade.

My carbine slung over my shoulder in period style, heel plates clicking firmly on the pavement, I walk firmly, enjoying the looks coming my way. Bathed in sweat and body odor, and the afterglow of a week-long time trip, I swig carelessly from the canteen clutched firmly in one hand. I'm enjoying this last walk from the battlefield as much as I've enjoyed anything in a very long time.

When at last I reach the parking lot and my truck, I gratefully strip off my leather, steel and wool. Jumping in, I fire up the engine, flip the air conditioning to max, drop the seat back and let the coolness wash over me. Thanks to modern technology, the musty interior is soon bearable -- the 1860s end here. It's time to go home.
 
 

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