A very young, very smooth-faced, and very farby me as a private in the 3rd Pennsylvania Heavy Artillery, Battery B

As my final passion post of the year, I felt it would be appropriate to close with a summary of what this wonderful hobby has done for me over the years. Reenacting’s been a pretty long road for me. When I first started off, I was a shy little pre-teen kid who barely had a uniform put together. I joined up with a unit from the nearby town of Boalsburg and manned an artillery piece. I was really quiet at that stage of my life, both outside reenacting and inside. When I went to a reenactment, I generally would keep to myself and not talk much. When I did, I was usually so petrified of social interaction that I would stumble over my words and seem silly. Yeah, I was only a kid then, but still, I was pretty awkward.

As the years went on, I met more people within the hobby and actually found myself making friends. I met other reenactors my age and started to make some pretty strong bonds with people. I think it was at this point that I really started to learn the idea of social conversation and finesse. Honestly, I credit my younger years in reenacting with teaching me how to be more socially outgoing. Reenacting can be a pretty social thing to do. You communicate with your friends in your unit, people in other units, and the spectators who come to see you. Around the age of fifteen, I got the (looking back, rather silly) idea into my head to form my own unit and be an officer.

Me on the far right in command of a company. Too much hair, too high of rank, and not enough facial hair…

For a year or two, I served as a captain in command of a small company. Granted, I was pretty wet behind the ears and had no business being an officer yet, but alas! the foolishness of youth. Yet in this capacity, I found myself attending officers’ meetings, coordinating with other company commanders and battalion commanders. I had to conduct myself, even at that young age, in a fairly professional manner (the officer life is very politicky). I think it was that sort of interaction that I found myself in that really taught me how to obtain a professional attitude when I needed one and how to interact with superiors and peers.

Me and that big chucklehead Chase a few years ago, looking like 19th century badasses.

After a couple years wearing some gold bars on my shoulders, I figured it would be best to just step back into the ranks and be a regular old private. True, the uniform isn’t as sexy, but things are more fun and there’s nowhere near as much responsibility! Even so, I continued to grow personally and socially. I made so many networking connections through these years in reenacting. By meeting new people at each event, hanging out with them, and marching alongside them, I tied myself to people I never would have known without reenacting. For instance, through reenacting I met a real British person for the first time! A real Brit! (Understand, I come from a very rural place that doesn’t get many outsiders). I met numerous specialists in the field of historical interpretation, where I very well may make my career. I got in touch with so many interesting people. Hell, I met my best friend through reenacting. My boy Chase Hornberger and I go way back. That kid’s like a brother to me. We’ve shot at each other, we’ve had fist-fights together, we carried each other out of battle when one of us was wounded. I must say, reenacting set me up with a pretty cool friendship.

Today, reenacting is still doing me some wonders. The volunteer work I did and leadership skills I developed through the hobby has taken me far. You better believe that on my application to PSU, I mentioned the fact that I’m basically an amateur history teacher and I have commanded a twenty-man company. The strong background into historical research methods that the hobby taught me has given me an edge in the pursuit of my history degree. I think the coolest thing reenacting has done for me, though, has just recently come to fruition. Thanks to the capabilities of historical instruction and education that my dearly beloved hobby has taught me, I received a position as an intern this summer at Gettysburg National Military Park.

When I’m out there educating the public on those hallowed fields this summer, I’ll have the wearing of that old blue coat to thank.

I don’t think I ever could have gotten such an amazing opportunity were it not for the social and interpretive skills that reenacting has taught me. Reenacting has taken me pretty far thus far. Having it in my life in the developmental stages of my teenage years I think really influenced for the better the sort of person I am and what I am capable of society. But just because I’m in college now and my career – whatever it may be – looms over the horizon, that doesn’t mean I intend to lay my rifle down and hang up my hat! As long as I can, I hope to keep getting back out in the field with all my friends for a nice long trip back into history. No matter what sort of attire I end up wearing for my career – be it a black suit and tie of a government man or the forest green trousers and gray shirt of a NPS park ranger – part of my heart will always belong to the wearing of that old blue uniform and the shouldering of that heavy old rifle.

Cheers, friends, and keep your powder dry!

So, you’re a spectator visiting a reenactment. Things are looking pretty cool. You’re in a pretty period looking camp, with all the men living in cramped little tents and with their weapons all stacked neatly in a line at the head of the company street. The men of the company you’re walking past are just finishing up their mid-day meal of unpleasant salt pork and unbreakable hardtack. Suddenly, bugles begin blowing across the camps and the company falls into formation. The men take their rifles from the stacks and stand at attention, preparing to head off to combat. In your eyes, things are looking pretty freakin’ cool. “Wow, this must be exactly what it was like!” … And then two privates in the front rank of the company strike up the following banter:

“Dude, you see that staff officer walking over there? So, yeah, he’s got a daughter our age, and I’m friends with her on Facebook. Sooooooooo hawt, man.”

“I believe it, man.”

“Dude, dude, dude! Look, there she is! In the lilac hoop skirt!”

“Daaaaaaaamn, bro. She looks like Jennifer Lawrence, and I ain’t gonna lie, that corset she’s got on is definitely a plus one. You think she’d stitch up that hole in my shirt sleeve? Honestly, if that chick can do a mean back-stitch, I’m gonna be all over that.”

FARBS: Don’t let them ruin the moment…

Yup, your nice period moment where everything seemed exactly like it must have been back in 1864. Gone. Yeah, you’re suddenly right back in 2014 and strikingly aware that all these guys standing in line with guns are not Federal soldiers, but just a bunch of sweaty, smelly modern guys with a weird hobby who didn’t feel like taking up golfing. If this ever happens to you, I AM SO SORRY, and I sincerely apologize for the dinguses (yes, dingus, it’s a great word) who committed the act. Most of us in the reenacting community try our best to keep things as period accurate as possible, even in our conversations.

When we try to keep our terminology and discussion topics in a period appropriate manner, we call this “doing first-person.” First-person refers to not necessarily being at an event to be a historical interpreter as we may sometimes do, but instead being a walking museum. We do this not only for the benefit of visitors so they can get a better feel for the era, but also for our own sake so we can better immerse ourselves in the setting and get what we term a “period moment.” These moments are something that all reenactors strive for. They’re points at an event where everything is just so realistic to the period that you actually stop for a second and think, “My God… This is what it was like…” And you feel as if you’re really there. These tend to be some pretty powerful moments for us personally because we put so much time, work, research, and passion into the history of this era. Doing first-person is always one of the most effective ways to cause a period moment.

In order for we reenactors to do first-person, we have to do a fair amount of research to find out what people in the 1860s actually talked like and talked about. To be honest, it can be a pretty cool anthropological study to do this. Often times, we read through letters, diaries, or other first-person accounts of the era to get a feel for the dialect of the times. We also do all we can to adapt proper accents to the origin of the particular unit we’re portraying. (For the 20th Maine, we’d adapt a New England accent, but not quite as strong as we know it today. For the 29th New York, a regiment made up largely of German immigrants, we may do what we can to use a German accent or maybe work some German into our discussions. For a Southern regiment, like the 14th South Carolina, you bet we’re going to use quite a sloooooooow drawwwwwwwl.) As far as actual terminology, things can be a little different from how we talk today and a lot of the colloquialisms used can sound pretty quaint – as they should! For instance, some period terms might include swapping “between” for “betwixt,” “guys” for “pards” or “fellas,” “played out” for “tired,” or “skedaddle” for “run away.” A typical conversation in a Civil War camp might sound a little like this:

Being authentic is sexy.

“Hey, you boys hear about First Sergeant Jones over in Company E? I hear tell he’s come down with an ugly spell of the Kentucky quicksteps. Hear he’s feelin’ right mean as of late.”

“I confess, I ain’t very much surprised, considerin’ the brass went n’ put camp downstream of the sinks. Jones had it comin’ anyway. Ol’ feller was crazier’n a shithouse rat n’ was always fit to be tied ’bout somethin’.”

“I’m just glad it ain’t me. I got a fair share of troubles as it is. Went n’ picked up the rheumatiz last winter in my knee. Cain’t hardly get it to bend on some cold mornings.”

As you can see, slang was pretty different back then. (I personally love to study profanity of the era. Though I included a little in that example, I won’t go into detail on it here.) Talking like this in period topics can really add to the feel of the event, both for spectators and for reenactors. In the next post, we’ll talk about acting as far as how we reenactors act out on the field of battle!

Also, as a little bonus for you, I run a Facebook page that’s pretty popular within the hobby called “The Best of Reenactor Memes.” Here’s a couple memes for you just because why not.

My buddy Chase made this one at my expense…

But it’s ok, because he’s my best buddy.

And just to let you know what to stay away from should you go to a reenactment. This picture is known in the hobby to pretty be a typical definition of a “farb,” or inauthentic reenactor.

Good day, twenty-first century readers! In my last post, I talked a little bit about some of the logistics for planning and setting up a reenactment. I discussed a lot of the hard work that goes into getting an event site good to go for the big weekend (or week, in some cases), like finding appropriate and interesting land to use, constructing earthworks or other resources for the landscape of the battlefield, and establishing a script or plan of action for the opposing forces. Today, I’ll get into some of the really tough grunt work of getting these time travel trips ready.

The Federal camp at the 150th anniversary commemoration of the Battle of Shiloh in Tennessee was noted to be basically a swamp and infested with ticks. Yummy, just yummy. Photo courtesy of Simon Taylor.

As time draws closer to the event weekend, organizers should already have a good site picked out for the event with much of the aesthetic work already in progress. Any removable modern items should be moved away from the event site, a decent battlefield should be picked out, and a general plan of what will happen where should be established. The next big step is selecting campsites for each side. This can be a little tough, because as reenactors, we can be a little picky about where we set up camp. Sure, if it’s a pretty crappy campsite, we deal with it, but we of course want to be comfy if we can. Generally when selecting areas for camps, organizers should try to avoid really marshy ground (sure, it’s easy to hammer in your tent stakes, but trust me, it sucks to sleep on…). Such areas can of course cause you to wake up in a muddy pile of muck and can be host to mosquitoes and all sorts of other nasty wee beasties. Camps should also be situated under some decent tree cover to offer some protection in case of inclement weather. Also, camps set up in valleys or low points in the local topography generally turn out REALLY bad if it rains. Where does rain go if the ground is already saturated? Why, downhill of course. Keep your campgrounds high!

I swear, I’ve never done this… But I know someone who did. What happens in the Army of the Potomac stays in the Army of the Potomac.

In the case of events that are more oriented for less “hardcore” reenactors, event organizers should also make arrangements for proper “latrines.” By this, I basically mean they have to haul in porta-johns. If it’s a really big reenactment, like the annual (and infamously historically inaccurate…) Gettysburg reenactment, they also make sure that if the – ahem – latrines get too full and yucky, the – ahem – “honey dippers” get called in to clean things up. Yeah. If it were my choice, I wouldn’t put up with that. Everybody would do it like they original fellas did: once the regiment made camp, a latrine ditch was establish some distance away, and was covered over when they left. Easy! But, I’ll concede, some of the old fogies aren’t that sprightly anymore, so they do what they gotta do.

This… This just depresses me…

If you’re putting on a legit, decent-quality reenactment, this one can be pretty challenging: providing food for the troops!  This can be done a number of ways. Some less involved organizers might decide to not even offer anything, which we don’t really mind all that much, and we just bring our own food. Some smaller local-based events often times will offer reenactors a nice dinner on Saturday evening, usually something like barbecue or roast chicken. However, this is generally not very authentic and isn’t done at some of the more immersive events. The absolute best and most impressive method of feeding the boys in the field is giving them rations exactly like what the original soldiers had. This can often be a COLOSSAL undertaking, so sometimes event organizers and coordinators will leave food provisions up to the general staffs of each army or to lower level staff officers. Regardless of how it’s done, we reenactors usually pay into it all beforehand so we can all

My boys of the 151st Pennsylvania cooking their rations in winter camp.

get grub. Depending on how much food needs to be provided, we may have to each contribute $10-$25  so the food coordinators can purchase provisions. Provisions that are often issued at events are hardtack (a very hard cracker), salt pork or beef (a very heavily salted piece of meat that is meant to stay preserved, not to be tasty), fresh beef (PLEASE give me fresh, not salted…), coffee beans, or other fresh produce. As an example, at 150th Antietam, each man in my regiment, the 4th Texas, was issued rations of green corn, unripe apples, a slab of fresh beef, and a cup of flour. At 150th Gettysburg, we in the Iron Brigade were issued a few pieces of hardtack, some salt pork, and whatever else we could scrounge up from trades. As you can see, food can of course be covered in a period accurate manner, but there’s one thing that sadly can’t… Water! Today, our bodies aren’t used to the microbes and whatnot in creeks and rivers that the boys of blue and gray were able to stomach. What’s more, many potential water sources today are a little more polluted than they were in the 1860s. Trust me, you don’t want to fill your canteen in the Potomac. To supply us water, event organizers have to have water brought to the site, often in big tanks called water buffalos or even in huge tanker trucks. Sometimes, we try to camouflage these water sources so they aren’t so glaringly modern-looking, but there’s only so much we can do.

So, that’s what goes into making a reenactment happen! And that’s just for making it possible for us reenactors to do it! You’ve got to do publicity on top of that to ensure people come out to see it, that way all this hard work won’t go unnoticed!

I was recently having a chat over the phone with my long-time reenacting friend, Chase. We were both geeking out over the prospect of a sweet new event being held down in Arkansas next June called the Red River Campaign. A full week-long event, about a thousand of us would spend the week on the prowl through 60 miles of southern back country, a regiment of Federals and a regiment of Confederates hunting each other in the hazy forests of the Deep South. As awesome as all this sounds, I had to stop and think, “Holy crap, this is going to be sheer hell for the event organizers. Having to feed a thousand men for seven days?”  I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty glad I’m not organizing the Red River Campaign. But it got me to thinking, there’s A LOT that goes into organizing a reenactment, even just a weekend event, and it’s often more than spectators – or even we reenactors – expect.

The first thing you’ve got to get down for organizing an event is finding a place to do it. This is easier said than done. I mean, sure, if you really want to, you can organize a reenactment on a local soccer field or fairground, but the thing is that most reenactors won’t show up and it simply won’t be a good experience for anybody. We reenactors want to do our thing on unique and interesting ground with few modern intrusions where we can have a pretty impressive fight. If we get some land like that to play around with, nine times out of ten we will put on an awesome show for the spectators if it is a public event.

This 150th anniversary reenactment of the Battle of Antietam was held on a farm four miles from Antietam National Battlefield in nearby Boonsboro, Maryland. Photo courtesy of Oak Hill Studio.

But getting the land to put on a reenactment isn’t always easy. If we are putting on an anniversary reenactment of a particular battle, we often cannot do it on the original battlefield as most major Civil War battlefields are owned by the National Park Service, who, understandably, does not permit a couple thousand armed men to rampage over their land and make a mess. Often times, the reenactment must be held at an adjacent property, like a nearby farm or woodland preserve. Some land owners are kind enough to allow us to use their land free of charge so long as we clean up afterwards, but other proprietors request payment for the land usage.

Organizers digging trenches during the planning stage of a reenactment to be held this April. Picture courtesy of John Pagano.

The next big step is planning the event itself. What exactly is the event going to entail? If it’s a recreation of a real battle, how are we going to properly recreate portions of the fighting? If it’s just a hypothetical scenario, what can be done to make the experience of the event as good and historically accurate as possible? In some cases to accomplish this, event organizers have to put together a “script” for the reenactment. If we’re recreating a real battle, this script will detail out to commanding officers, “Ok, at 6:30 AM, 1st Brigade will advance into the clearing and commence firing on the right flank of the Chesapeake Volunteer Guard. At 7:15 AM, the Liberty Rifles will march up the eastern road and support 3rd battalion in their assault on General Anders’ center-front.” Sometimes to prepare the event site for the scenario, work needs to be done on the land. Entrenchments may need to be dug, trees may need to be cut, fences may need to be built, and crops may need to be planted. At 2012’s Maryland, My Maryland event in Boonsboro, MD, an entire acre-wide cornfield was planted specifically for reenactors to fight through (don’t worry, all the corn grown in the field was stripped from the stalks before the event and donated to a local food pantry).

Tune in next week to learn how we deal with actually having to take care of a couple thousand hungry, smelly men for a weekend!

Just like my last passion blog entry, I am telling the story of my own experiences as if they were through the eyes of a real Civil War soldier. In this entry, I will complete the telling of my experience on Culp’s Hill at the Battle of Gettysburg.

Map of the second day at the Battle of Gettysburg. Culp’s Hill is located just southeast of town.

We rose up from behind the barricade, and 500 rifles leveled down the hill. As the officers screamed the order, the wall exploded in a blaze of fire and we showered the charging rebels with a staggering volley. It was the first shot I’d fired in anger. I didn’t aim for anyone in particular. You scarcely had to, there were so many of them. I don’t know if I hit anyone or if I killed anyone that first shot, but it would scarcely matter later, for there were times I knew I had brought a man down. As we reloaded, the rebs struggled up to a fair distance from our entrenchments and took cover wherever they could – behind trees, under fallen logs, under rock ledges. Digging in their heels in their own positions and laying down amidst the brush, they began to fire up at us, taking careful, calculated shots at us. The officers gave us the order to fire at will and the men began opening up fire and random intervals, making a staccato roar that rarely seemed to cease.

The men of the 150th New York rest in between attacks. Chase and I pictured at the right.

As bullets whizzed over our heads, Chase and I kept our heads low and below the brim of the barricade. We’d rise up in tandem, firing down into the woods, now filling with smoke, as the other reloaded. At times, the rebel line would shudder, and at last they began to fall back down the hill to reform. We were left momentarily in comparative silence. The boys of the 150th New York took out new packages of ammunition from their cartridge boxes and prepared for the next wave that was sure to come. I looked to my right and saw that Chase was shaking. He was horrifically shaken by the firing, and with some effort from other men of the company, we managed to calm him down.

That shrill shriek, the rebel yell, broke the silence again, and up the hill they came screaming again. Again we waited, and again we poured another volley into them. After firing, I lingered too long above the cover of the barricade and took a bullet to my left forearm. Chase, again shaken beyond belief, dragged me a few yards behind the barricade and tried to bind up the wound. Trying to calm him, I told him I’d manage and that he should return to the firing line. Dazed and confused, I lay against a tree watching the carnage unfold around me. A good number of men in the regiment had also been hit. Some were lucky and slightly wounded like me. A good number, however, were dead, head wounds mostly. As I looked down the line, I heard the sickening slap of lead hitting flesh near me, and turned in time to see Chase, my best friend, writhing in agony on the ground, shot in the throat. I scrambled over to him and screamed for help, from anyone at all. He didn’t last much longer after that. He died in my arms, and as the battle died away, night fell, and the rebs retreated down the hill into the darkness, I wept over his body while other men of the company gathered around. After a while, I brought myself to leave him and stand alone by the barricade. Around my feet was the tattered detritus of battle: torn cartridge papers, broken equipment, leaves clipped by bullets from the trees. Down below, in the darkness, the fireflies emerged, alighting the hell-stricken forest. But their beauty was pointless amidst the pitiful cries and moans of dying Confederate soldiers on the slopes below. I watched the little yellow lights hover over some motionless gray masses just down the hill from the barricade and thought what hell war was.

We buried Chase that night on the hill, his blanket for a burial shroud. I sent his personal effects home to his mother and father.

Video credit – Andrew Prasse/HistoricSandusky – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UD6mbdrpl6w

In the process of thinking about what to write for this blog, I’ve decided that I’ll attempt to start a sort of series of stories. These are all stories of my experiences in Civil War reenacting through years, but told from the point of view of a Civil War soldier as if it were all happening for real. For my first post in this series, I’ll give a slightly condensed form of my experience at the Battle of Gettysburg. This reenactment took place at the end of last June. (Note, as reenactors, we are also actors, so we really get into these things.)

A Private of the 150th New York Infantry, July 2nd, 1863

Culp’s Hill, southwest of the town of Gettysburg

We had been put in place up on this wooded hill beyond the town. I must confess, it was an ugly place. The woods were pretty well overgrown and great massive boulders were strewn across the hill. Ugly as it was, it was a hell of a place for defense, so I could scarcely complain. There were about 500 of us in the 150th New York that evening. I won’t lie, we were completely green. We’d never so much as fired a shot in the direction of the enemy. Regardless of our inexperience, they put us up on the line. We’d built a good solid barricade up on the hill, made of good stout tree trunks, limbs, rocks, and earth. As the sun began its descent to the horizon, we huddled close to the barricade, most of us sitting up against it and smoking our pipes and cigars as our officers looked on. I sat next to my best friend Chase, smoking away at some cherry tobacco in our pipes and reading through a week-old newspaper from Washington. Aside from the muttering of the men around us, the hill was quiet.

A picket came running in from down the hill, stating he’d seen movement of a body of rebs down the hill. Officers began to congregate behind us with some apprehension on their faces, but we kept to ourselves. Soon, bugles were blown and company officers rushed to their men. Lieutenant Bowser, a favorite of our company, came briskly to us and ordered us to load. I admit, fear struck into me at this point. Something was clearly coming, there was no doubt of that. Emptying our pipes and opening our cartridge boxes, we loaded our rifles as we gazed out over the barricade into the darkening forest below. To the left and right of me, hundreds of men extended along the barricade, but we all went silent, all waiting, all watching, preparing for something to happen. You could have heard a pin drop on that line.

Almost like the slow beginnings of rain, we heard a soft crackling from below, the snapping of twigs and the crunching of leaves – the sounds of men in motion. They were climbing. How many of the enemy were on their way, we couldn’t say. We couldn’t even explain what the enemy looked like, we’d never even seen them in person, yet now we knelt behind the barricade, waiting for them to come. If you trained your eye through the trees below, you could see them: men in gray and tan, with loaded rifles and shining bayonets pointed toward us. Onward they came. It was they who broke the silence first, emitting a sound I’d never heard in my life and never care to hear again. Like the whoop of an Indian or the scream of a fox, they all let loose this horrific scream, the infamous rebel yell. It swept up through the trees and the rocks, over the barricade, and pierced our hearts with a shrill and ringing fear. It was then that they ran. Screaming. Shouting. Running right toward us with a sole purpose: kill or be killed. And we rose from behind the barricade to meet them…

To be continued next week.

With the coming of the new year, America has come upon the sesquicentennial of 1864, the bloodiest year of its civil war. Many historians consider ’64 the beginning of the end for the Confederacy in the storytelling of America’s most fatal struggle. In 1861, the war was young and so at heart were the men who fought it. The people of both North and South thought it would be a quick war, all won by a single glorious victory, and all the boys would

The beautiful war that was not to be – the 7th New York State Militia marches down Broadway in April,1861

come marching home to parades on warm, sunny days as their sweethearts hold them arm in arm. 1862 killed that notion. ’62 brought America’s young and inexperienced warriors into horrific combat on the banks of the Mississippi at Shiloh, Tennessee, brutal killing on the banks of Antietam Creek in Maryland, and ruthless struggle at Fredericksburg, Virginia. 1863 sent men through the hell that now comes to mind when one hears the names “Chancellorsville,” “Gettysburg,” and “Chickamauga.” By 1864, the men in blue and gray had marched to hell and back. They all had seen men die, seen their friends perish right in front of them. They all had been fighting in a war they were not certain they would see the end of. In the memory of those who know the story of the war, 1864 echoes with a solemn darkness, like the closing of a cemetery’s wrought iron gate on a late autumn day.

This May will be the 150th anniversary of the day an ancestor of mine descended into the war’s most terrifying battle and lived to tell the tale. Pvt. Jeremiah Stailey, an uncle on my

The reality of war – Skeletal remains of lost soldiers in the darkness of the Wilderness, 1864

mother’s side, was a Federal soldier with the 7th Pennsylvania Reserves. He had seen battle in numerous actions earlier in the war, and was wounded in America’s bloodiest single day at the Battle of Antietam in 1862. In 1864, he would see the side of war that the hand-printed lithographs and parlor paintings didn’t show. He and his regiment entered battle in Virginia’s “Wilderness” on May 5, 1864. The Wilderness is a massive forest in the backcountry of Spotsylvania County, a confused and tangled mass of undergrowth gathered at the ankles of old and gnarled trees spread out over 70 square miles. The disastrous Battle of Chancellorsville had been fought within the forest the previous year, and the the moldered remains of the fallen remained unburied throughout the underbrush. It was almost like the setting of some psychological horror movie. By fate, the armies of Generals Lee and Grant met there in sudden combat. At a crossroads of lost and meandering roads in the ancient forest, 160,000 men slammed together in a crash of fire and lead. Lines of men threw themselves into the tangled briars

Richmond’s Libby Prison – Jeremiah Stailey’s personal hell for over a year

and brush as bullets hailed all around them. Gunfire set the dry underbrush aflame, sending massive forest fires across the Wilderness, roasting the wounded alive in many cases. In the middle of all this hell, the 7th Pennsylvania Reserves plunged headlong into the fire, blazing away at the enemy as darkness fell upon the battlefield. In the confusion, the 7th became surrounded by the enemy and was forced to surrender. Jeremiah Stailey was taken prisoner and sent to Libby Prison in Richmond, Virginia, where he endured abuse by the guards, starvation, and disease. The experience of captivity left him effectively crippled for life. Pvt. Stailey served through some of the most fearful engagements of the war and saw things that even a historian would find difficulty describing. It was in the year 1864, 150 years ago, that he saw the worst of it.

As I did last semester, my passion blog this semester will be on the topic of my hobby of Civil War reenacting. To recap for any new viewers of my blog, as a Civil War reenactor, I represent the life of the average soldier of the Civil War. Though I predominantly wear the blue and serve the United States, I on occasion will don a gray uniform and represent a soldier of the Confederacy. I wear everything that the original soldier would have worn and endure nearly all of the same hardships that they did. I spare myself no extra comfort in this. I do all this for multiple reasons: I’ve made some of the best friends I have through reenacting, and the camaraderie I share with them is indescribable. I enjoy testing myself and immersing myself in the experience of our forefathers. I love to help educate the public and teach them about what their ancestors experienced. Foremost, I do all this to honor the memory of the hundreds of thousands of men who fought and died in the bloodiest days of our nation’s history.

I had a powerful and eventful season of campaigns and fights in 2013 (1863). I stood sentry duty in the bitter winds of March on the front lines, helped train new recruits back home in the pleasant days of May, and found myself on the killing fields of Gettysburg in the stifling heat of July. ’63 was quite a ride for me, but needless to say, I’m ready to take on ’64. As we enter this fourth year of the American Civil War’s sesquicentennial commemoration, we arrive upon the latter years of the war. In these tumultuous months comprising 1864 and 1865, we will come upon some of the most horrific and fatal battles ever to be seen on the American continent. This year will take me from the siege lines around a plantation called Bermuda Hundred, to a muddy field at New Market, Virginia, to a dark and deadly forest ominously named The Wilderness, to the trenches surrounding the city of Petersburg, Virginia. This year is bound to provide some memorable experiences for me as I furthermore embark on this crusade to see through the eyes of my forefathers.

In prior posts, I’ve talked about some awesome things in reenacting that are pretty huge: the sun being blotted out of the sky by gunsmoke at Antietam, the huge volleys we poured into the Confederates on Culp’s Hill at Gettysburg, things like that. I won’t deny, big things like that are PRETTY SWEET. But sometimes in reenacting, it’s the little things that happen at events that really make things cool. Sometimes as reenactors, we get what we call “period moments,” where we feel like we’ve left the modern day and have been transported back to the time period. Often times, it’s a little thing that makes you have a moment like that. This is one moment where, even though I wasn’t really having a great time, I seriously had one of those moments.

The occasion occurred over a year and a half ago in March of 2012. About a dozen or so of us were having a training and drill weekend on a friend’s property just outside of Gettysburg, PA. The house and adjoining property had been used as a field hospital by the Confederates during the Battle of Gettysburg and it was well-known the dozens of men had perished of their wounds in and around the house. Though it cannot be said for sure how many, a number of those men still rest on the property in unmarked graves. (I digress, those were just some really cool and moderately creepy details about the place.) I was pretty atrociously sick that weekend. (I came out of that weekend with full-blown bronchitis, pink-eye, and a horrific case of poison ivy. Where the latter two came from, I have no idea.) But despite my sickness, I was happy to be out in the field with the boys. We set up in a patch of thick, marshy woods and began to dig rifle pits. Rifle pits are essentially small fortifications meant to shelter a few men. My best friend Chase and I began digging our own, we dug down about a foot into the ground and piled up tree limbs in front. We stretched our tent over the small trench and laid down pine boughs on the ground for some nice cushioning – we were to sleep in our rifle pits over the chilly March night. We threw down our blankets inside our shelter and made this little ditch in the dirt home. As my illness got worse and I began coughing violently if I so much as spoke, it was agreed by the other fellows that it would be best if I bundled up inside my rifle pit and be excluded from any further work. So, there I lay, inside the tiny shelter of sticks, mud, and canvas, bundled up in a government-issue blanket with a scarf wrapped around my head like a little Russian babushka, all while hacking continuously and shivering like a dog. To put it plainly, I was miserable. But then I thought to myself, “You

A very sick me lounging by the rifle pit.

know, this is what it was like. These guys suffered a hell of a lot worse than this, but this is a taste of what it was really like to be in their position.” In between shuddering coughs, I smiled to myself. As crazy as it sounds, it was pretty cool. (No need to worry about my sanity. Around nightfall, my friends agreed it was best if I slept inside the nice, heated old house instead of out in the rifle pits. So, instead of catching pneumonia or God knows what in the bitter cold, I slept inside the notably haunted old house, nicely knocked out by Nyquil. This was the ONLY time I will admit to copping out on authenticity.)

Post-script – I wrote most of this in a tongue-and-cheek style. Don’t think that I intentionally was like, “Aw, sick, brah! I’m wicked under-the-weather! This is going to be SO authentic!” No, that’s just silly. It was just a horrible misfortune that happened to befall me that I wasn’t really all that pleased about. Safety comes first. 😉

Post-post-script – I just realized that this is the last passion post. Well then, I suppose this will be a one-part series. 🙁 In that case, ta-ta from 1863!

A fight that I’ll hardly ever forget was my venture into the infamous Cornfield at Antietam with the 4th Texas Infantry (yes, I was a Confederate, but only once).

On September 17, 1862, the bloodiest day in American history, Federal troops under

General Joseph Hooker

General George B. McClellan pressed forward in a massive morning attack against General Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia. The morning attack, led by General Joseph Hooker, slammed into the Confederate left. It was directed across a mile of ground, much of which traversed a cornfield owned by the Miller family along the Hagerstown Turnpike. The attack threw back large amounts of the Confederate left wing… Until the approach of the division of General John Bell Hood, including his mighty Texas Brigade.

General John Bell Hood

Hood’s Texas Brigade was one of the most feared and respected units in the Army of Northern Virginia. Having come a long way from home to fight, the rugged men from Texas were some outlandish fellows, but were seasoned fighters. My place was that of a soldier in one of the regiments of the Texas Brigade, the 4th Texas Infantry. When they entered the fight that morning, they’d come straight up from their camp, having not eaten in two days and being forced to miss breakfast that morning. When we were called into the attack to repulse Hooker’s Federals, I too had had no breakfast. Though my hunger was not quite as fierce as that of Hood’s

original boys, I was a hungry man, and was none too pleased about being thrown into the fight without some food in my belly. We were called quickly to attention, formed a column in the woods we were stationed in, and marched out toward the sound of the fighting. The roar of battle was thunderous, and I must confess, I’ve never heard such noise. It was about 7:00 AM, and the sun was up, but I was stunned at the fact that we could not see it; the sun was literally blotted out, completely blocked from our vision by gunsmoke. I’d heard of such things happening during the real war, but I’d never seen it.

We were marched out into a wide open pasture, surrounded in the thick smoke by other regiments and brigades of men. We heard the incredible firing of musketry in the cornfield, and above it all we heard the monumental crash of artillery blazing away across the field. As we waited to deploy into the field, from our ranks emerged one man – a man holding a fiddle. This man began pacing up and down the line, sawing away at the fiddle with a beautifully and hauntingly lively spirit. The whole regiment began cheering and screaming the hellacious rebel yell, and all as one, our voices lifted to the air. The command was given, and into the deep and hazy cornfield we went.

The Charge of the Texas Brigade into the Cornfield

As we made our way through the corn, I tried to see ahead, but I could see nothing through the stalks of green and the smoke of steel gray. Then we came upon them: bodies, dead and wounded, from the fighting that had preceded us here. Blue and gray were intermingled. I saw some faces I knew. At this point, I forgot I was a reenactor. This was no reenactment. I was there. I could tell by the faces of the men around me that they all were thinking the exact same thing. Their expressions were somewhere between horror and awe. Some men had tears running from their eyes.

Suddenly a volley ripped into us from ahead. We’d finally encountered the enemy. We couldn’t see them, but we knew they were there, thousands of them. Through the smoke, we could see the flashes of their gunfire and hear the shouts of their commanders. We traded volleys for minutes that seemed like hours. I couldn’t tell how much damage we were inflicting, only that we were losing men by the dozens. The fire grew and grew, and we were forced to retreat through the remnants of the trampled corn to the pastures beyond.

Some amazing views from the fighting that morning in the infamous Cornfield

The mighty Texas Brigade in the Cornfield at Antietam