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  • A clerks AAR

    AAR from the fed side.Recon III – A Walk in the Park
    an After-Action Report by Corpl. M. A. Schaffner
    Regimental Clerk, 7th Maine Volunteer Infantry

    Arrived about 11 a.m. Friday morning, April 30, 2004 – no,
    make that May 1, 1864 -- at registration near Culpeper's municipal
    airport in the company of Lieutenant Josh Mordin, regimental
    adjutant, and Mark Maranto, second sergeant Co. B. Passed
    registration, picked up a casualty chit ("Shirker" – like I needed to
    be told), headed for the Union assembly area about a mile away.
    Dawdled there awhile, then marched to HQ with Mordin and Maranto. A
    few other fellows were there; after a while more of dawdling, I
    issued company B's stationery supply to Sgt. Maranto, giving my
    invoice and taking his receipt, then did the same with a
    representative of Co. E. Picked a tick or two off my trowsers, then
    accompanied the Adjutant and General Air out to view the proposed
    bivouac area, a rather gnarly meadow next to a swamp.

    1st Sgt. Jurand arrived and immediately took charge of Co. C.
    After falling the men in for an initial roll call, he asked them to
    bear with him because it was his first gig as top sergeant. I would
    never have guessed, and suspect neither would they – not then, and
    certainly not by the end of the event. Anyway, I stuck him with a
    stationery issue and he then marched his people off to the bivouac.

    Col. Culberson arrived and the Adjutant briefed him on the
    situation, which was not much, except we had no water and no clue
    about rations. The three of us ascended a nearby hill (from which
    Buford had watched part of the battle of Brandy Station, I hear).
    Corpl. Peterson had indicated it had a commanding view of the
    surrounding countryside. Indeed it did, and we saw Co. C setting up
    in the field next to the one Air had shown us. We didn't think to
    tell him to change as it looked better than the original one.
    Culberson went over a map with Mordin, explaining the plan for the
    evening and the next morning, much of which was lost on me, a mere
    clerk.

    Speaking of clerking, I'd brought a full set of back-up forms
    and blank paper in my clerk's haversack, as well as traveling
    inkwell, pens and holders, pencils, and such sundries as india rubber
    erasers and gum bands. To this, Mallen Cunningham added a gift of
    about five pounds of morning reports, consolidated morning reports,
    guard reports, and the like. A little later, Colonel Culberson made
    me a gift of about another five pounds of letterhead and message
    blanks. I thanked them both and began to wonder whether I ought to
    throw away my blanket to compensate for the additional weight.

    The rest of the afternoon passed with a variety of
    preparatory activities and complaints. The Lister bags were late
    arriving and even later in getting to their proper positions. Co. A
    marched up as a group – not all of them, but in perfect order and
    with Captain Piering in the lead. I directed him to what I thought
    the bivouac site was, noted his concern about the lack of water (and
    its implications for the overall event), and issued him his
    stationery on the march, halting only to sign the invoice and
    receipt.

    It turned out that the various companies were scattered, in
    part from lack of supervision, but also because both the field
    initially pointed out and the one Co. C set up in were being sprayed
    with noxious chemicals. Tim O'Neill showed, took stock of the
    situation with Col. Culberson, and it was decided to move the
    battalion to a pretty knoll across the swamp from the initially
    intended camp site. I'd seen nothing of the cavalry save a picket of
    three dismounts, so I asked Mr. O'Neill to convey the cavalry's
    stationery issue to them. Good sport that he is, he did so, and I
    have his signature on the receipt to prove it.

    We established our bivouac on the knoll, directing new
    arrivals to their companies, and getting fires started for the
    rations that seemingly would never arrive. Ultimately the wagon came
    at about 8 p.m. and the issue occurred in the dark, with consequent
    confusion in distribution to the men, especially those already posted
    on guard. On returning, the wagon took out our first casualty of the
    event, QM Lieutenant Pannier, who had arrived sick and somehow failed
    to get better by lying out in a pasture for several hours communing
    with ticks and meadow voles and watching the vultures circle the
    nearby woods.

    About rations. Given the distribution problem, staff seemed
    generally to agree that the benefits of the present practice
    (issuance with period forms, authentic food) in no way justified the
    cost in terms of time and effort. Alternatives might include
    individual issuance at registration (with surplus given to charity
    or, if possible, retained for future events), or simply requiring
    people to bring their own food in accordance with event standards,
    with an appropriate reduction in registration fees. The first
    alternative would require much more upfront work from the commissary,
    and the second would make for another inspection issue, but both
    would reduce the hassle for officers and men.

    Sergeant Major Charles "Amos" Reynolds (who, by the way,
    bears an astonishing resemblance to Michel Ney) held the first
    orderly call at 6:15 p.m. Highlights: tomorrow's reveille would occur
    at 5 a.m., "by boot" (no bugle); we would move at 6 a.m. at the
    latest, all cups secured to keep the noise of random kitchenware from
    alerting the enemy to our position. Tonight there'd be an officers'
    soiree at 7 p.m. and Guard Mount at 7:45 – Co. A to provide the
    officer of the Guard; Co. B the sergeant; each company to provide a
    corporal and nine men; two privates for HQ water detail; build fires
    now; the Sgt. Major would collect the morning reports before 6 a.m.
    tomorrow.

    Guard mount provided something of a challenge. Co. A had been
    detached to protect division HQ, a deployment noted in the first two
    missives of the campaign, one from the Colonel and one from Capt.
    Piering, both of which missed each other in transit, despite the
    heroic courier services of Pvt. Peter Cross (who actually ran to
    Division HQ and back). The numbers required from each company would
    actually take most of the available privates. In a rough count around
    7 p.m., Co. A had 19 bodies, B had 17, and C had 14, including
    officers, NCOs, and musicians. I have no record of E's count. For the
    night's guard, the sign was "mud," the countersign "blood," and the
    parole "Zeus."

    By 10:20 p.m., Co. A had an aggregate strength of 22 men; B,
    19; C, 25; and E, 13; for a total of 79. To this we could add 8
    staff, Lt. Col. Murley having appeared, though not on the original
    roster, to make up for the loss of the stricken Lt. Pannier.

    After a beautiful rendition of "Taps" by our principal
    musician, Jari Villanueva,
    I passed a reasonably pleasant night in the field, waking
    occasionally to the stars of heaven and the snores of my comrades,
    all the while serenaded by the dogs of a neighboring plantation. I
    woke for good around 4 a.m. and found that plans had changed –
    reveille at 7 and assembly at Division HQ at 8. Given the change,
    Jari blew reveille and the battalion rose with a will. The morning
    reports now showed the battalion at an aggregate of 117 men: 8 staff,
    25 in Co. A, 28 in Co. B, 30 in Co. C, and 26 in Co. E. I had seen
    none of the cavalry, who had a roster strength of 15 men, and would
    bring our actual field strength very close to the number registered.

    As we suited up for the move to Division, I managed to
    entangle myself in my own canteen strap. I still don't know how I did
    this, but I took it as a possible good luck sign. As I told the
    fellow who helped me extricate myself, "I screw something up in every
    event; let this be the worst thing that happens." The first bit of
    luck came in being treated as a member of regimental staff in the way
    that mattered most – I got to put my knapsack (with most of the
    additional paperwork) on the wagon with the packs of the regimental
    and company officers. This was not so much a privilege, I was told,
    as a reflection of the fact that the officers were going to have to
    do a lot of running around. Whatever – I was relieved, and Schnapps
    breathed not a word about proletarian solidarity. The sun rose
    bright, promising a warm day.

    En route to Division we were in good spirits, and Schnapps
    even sang "Morgenrot" without attracting too many catcalls. We picked
    up the guard, then marched down the road in the direction of
    yesterday's assembly area. We twice deployed flankers from Co. B, but
    on the wrong side of the road, on rough ground, and with no attempt
    to slow the marching column to allow them to actually deploy on the
    flank. The result was a couple of squads of men who were fairly worn
    before the party even started.

    Perhaps halfway back to the assembly area we turned onto a
    road to our right, which led through a couple of fields of high
    grass, wildflowers, scrub, and poison ivy, pocked with groundhog
    burrows and ancient swales, and bounded by bocage or brambly forest.
    It was the sort of beautiful Virginia countryside that I would only
    actually walk through in a heavy wool suit, nothing else being proof
    against the flora. In the second field we deployed flankers to the
    left facing the forest, sent Co. A ahead as advance guard, and sent
    forth the remaining three companies in column of companies. I think
    the main force was to move to a far corner of the field and a mud
    road leading to the "Brock Road" – a hard surface road from which we
    could deploy into the "Wilderness" and "sweep" a Confederate force
    (said to be two or three times our number) into whatever dustbin the
    higher ups wished.

    Or perhaps the column of companies came after the initial
    deployment. The events of the day would cloud my memory of the
    morning. In any case, the ball opened long before we saw anything of
    the Brock Road. Adjutant Mordin, Sergt. Maj. Reynolds, and I
    accompanied a platoon of B Company into the woods to our left to
    screen the flank of our main advance. We were soon engaged by divers
    numbers of rebels – a handful on the far left, then more and more as
    we got further in the woods. I used the occasion of our first fire to
    play my "Shirker" card, running back and saying to Lt. Mordin, "I've
    got to get back to regiment!" "Get back in line!" he ordered sternly,
    brandishing his sword. "But I'm only a clerk!" "I don't care! Get
    back there and do your duty!"

    The scrap on the left resulted in B's 1st platoon – under
    Major Cross as wing commander – becoming utterly separated from the
    rest of the line. I scrambled forward and ultimately found a line of
    blue in front. I let Mordin know, and briefly the link was
    reestablished, but the appearance of more and more seccesh on the
    left led the line to drift further to the right and, as I fell in
    with these men (Co. E, I believe), I lost track of everyone in the
    unit I began the show with. The rest of the fight was a confusion of
    frantic firing and lurching through the jungled landscape. When the
    firing ceased, by bugle, I came upon the mud road and saw the colors.
    After an interesting encounter with an English confederate corpse,
    whom I escorted to a nearby field where he rejoined his fellows, I
    found the command, now represented by Lt. Col. Murley and Jari. Col.
    Culberson was a casualty, the Sergt. Major had been captured, no one
    knew where the Adjutant was, nor the entire flanking platoon of Co.
    B. A roll call at 10:20 a.m. showed Co. A with 22 men, B with 19, C
    with 25, and E with 13. Some of the missing were casualties, but many
    had simply become separated from their units. The regimental clerk
    had fired 20 rounds.

    It appeared that the OCs had stopped the fight not only
    because ranges had dropped to dangerously close, but a good deal of
    the CS force had moved through the field I'd escorted the Johnny
    corpse to, and that field was out of bounds. In the discussions that
    followed our rough handling, Lt. Col. Murley placed Major Cross under
    arrest. Major Cross challenged Lt. Col. Murley to a duel. I noted the
    arrest but had to remind both parties of the prohibition against
    dueling in the Articles of War.

    We retired to the field from which we'd made the attack,
    stacked arms, and took roll again. At 11:00 a.m. the 7th Maine had 23
    men in Co. A, 28 in Co. B, 28 in Co. C, and 20 in Co. E. Two men were
    missing from Company E as was Lieutenant Emerson of Company B. Co.
    E's men soon were accounted for, but no one knew what had happened to
    Emerson. He'd last been seen by the Sergt. Major, who told him to run
    as part of our flankers were overrun by a small group of Confederates
    who appeared not to be under any particular command. The OC got on
    his phone and tried to find out if he'd been captured or had shown up
    somewhere else. No one knew, cavalry patrols failed to find any sign,
    and the command debated the necessity of sending out search parties.

    As we waited for word of Emerson, we refilled canteens, ate
    lunch, and attended to various chores. Many men napped, happy for the
    chance to drop their packs. I spread out a gum blanket and tried to
    dry my sack coat. Corpl. Endlein of Co. B borrowed a pencil and began
    to write a letter. Sgt. Maranto replaced a braces button on his
    trowsers, then lent me his housewife so I could do the same with
    mine. Ned Smith and Hiram Walker of Co. B engaged in lively, Maine-
    accented discussions of home and other subjects. In between these
    activities we picked off the occasional tick.

    At some point in our rest, seemingly to provide further
    amusement, a gang of free radical rebs showed at the corner of the
    field fed by the mud road, deployed into a skirmish line and began to
    fire at us. There were about six of them, and some eighty of us. "Oh,
    no," said one of the Mainers, more in exasperation than anything
    else. "Ignore them," said the Colonel. But the best response came
    from one of the privates, who simply looked over at the Johnnies and
    began slowly to clap his hands. In a little while, the entire
    battalion was applauding derisively. In turn, the CS officer in
    command looked, as Adjutant Mordin later observed, somewhat like he'd
    walked downstairs to the tree Christmas morning and found all the
    presents gone. The OC went over to the band of CS and they soon left.

    Yet it was a sign of a problem that would recur.

    Some time after noon we received word that Lieutenant Emerson
    had found his way to Division HQ after successfully evading his
    pursuers. With that and the return of the remainder of our
    casualties, Col. Culberson decided that we would try again to fulfill
    our mission, despite the disparity in numbers and signs of sporadic
    misbehavior among our opponents. The new plan called for two or three
    companies to enter the woods in a column of companies in skirmish
    order, with the balance of our forces on the road or as a reserve.

    As the deployment began, I accompanied the Sergt. Major
    behind the first company. We soon encountered the enemy. We drove
    them for awhile – another hot fight in the vines and brambles – and
    ultimately into a clump on the road, where they stood rather like
    Braddock's command, refusing to budge, or fall (the latter an option
    denied to the 44th Foot), despite the additional pressure coming from
    our people on the road. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop,
    since it was clear we'd only encountered part of the Confederate
    force. But the rest of their army failed to show. I felt like we'd
    fairly bagged this lot – the better part of one of their battalions
    it seemed – and thus had a good shot at defeating them in detail. As
    it was, the fight stopped because the ranges had again grown too
    short. The Confederates moved away, and we had to restart against
    their entire force.

    Not long after, the attack resumed with the bulk of our force
    again in skirmish order. We advanced a few score yards into the
    woods, but soon ran into several groups of Confederates who
    counterattacked vigorously. Perhaps too vigorously – we became
    overextended, and fell back gradually, while the CS came on in
    numbers at the run. I fell in with Company A and teamed with one of
    their privates as comrades in battle, alternating shots. At one point
    I asked which company he was in (which is the only reason I know); he
    told me, then asked, "What company are you?" "I'm the regimental
    clerk," I said. "Great."

    But I should have loaded nibs in the barrel. The Johnnies
    poured on like an Impi in a butternut remake of Zulu. The OCs would
    later explain that the numbers system had broken down and they were
    reduced to simply grabbing men and telling them they were hit, which
    also seemed to have little effect on the rebs. Many Confederates
    were, in fact, running nearly into the muzzles of our guns. At one
    point the Sergt. Major actually stepped between the lines,
    shouting, "What the hell are you doing!", only to be ignored or
    jeered. As the entire scenario had broken down into something like a
    mainstream, powder-burning "tactical," the bugles soon rang out the
    cease fire again. In all the excitement the clerk had fired another
    36 rounds since the morning's fight.

    As the lines separated and the Union forces marched back to
    the mud road -- thence to the Brock Road for the afternoon scenario --
    a group of nearby rebels jeered derisively. They added a variety of
    insults, all more or less accusing us of hiding behind our bugle
    calls. On our part, we felt that we'd fairly won the first two
    encounters – the first by default because of the CS boundary
    violation and the second by driving the forces in front of us into an
    untenable position on the road. But this third scenario seemed to
    show that the event might not deliver on the promise of something
    more than the lowest form of powderfest. The problem lay not with the
    Confederates as a whole – the majority of whom are as fine men and
    living historians as one would find anywhere – as perhaps with the
    command structure. There were only two OCs for the whole force, and
    many of the companies did not seem to operate as parts of a
    battalion, but as autonomous workers' collectives, each in search of
    their individual utopia, which resembled each other only in offering
    the opportunity to shoot Yanks. This, combined with the confused
    nature of the fighting and the terrain, allowed the yahoo element to
    express itself, and the fighting to correspondingly degenerate.

    It's hard to say what would have made a difference. More OCs
    perhaps, or enforcement of general results in addition to individual
    casualties ("You've lost a third of your men, Captain; you have to
    take cover now"). But no rules would make a difference without
    players willing to abide by them. The 7th Maine represented an
    amalgamation of men and units who all signed on to represent the
    regiment as realistically as possible. In all the communications
    before the event – and God knows there were a lot – the emphasis fell
    on authenticity in kit and behavior, on organization, first person,
    and the history of not only the regiment, but of the towns the
    companies came from. I'm sure someone mentioned victory at some
    point, but I don't remember when – it just wasn't the main objective.
    We faced, on the other hand, a group of Confederates who comprised,
    in addition to the majority of living historians, a few men who
    appeared more interested in their personal fantasy of the war, and
    seemed to feel that somehow, in this game of firing blanks at fellow
    actors, they could attach to themselves a portion of the gallantry
    and sacrifice of the real soldiers. It's an extreme form of the
    madness all of us reenactors have, and it's as pitiable as it is
    dismaying. I think those most dismayed were those among us who often,
    or mainly, portray Confederates and have to view these creatures as
    compatriots.

    We rested some time on the Brock Road discussing this and
    related matters, including the previous evening's ration issue and
    intermittent issues with the water. What was the point of continuing,
    we wondered, if we were going to have to continue to deal with
    largely undisciplined clowns? There seemed a growing consensus among
    the staff that, if things didn't change significantly, we'd leave the
    event. In any case, we were done for the afternoon – things had
    become unsafe, the men were exhausted, and if forced to fight again
    there was a chance someone would end up with a face full of black
    powder. If I had had to write my after-action at that time, it would
    have been titled "Recon, Strike Three."

    At 2:45 Col. Culberson issued an officers' and orderlies'
    call and announced his decision to march back to our jump-off point,
    build hasty works, then rest and attempt to salvage the scenario on
    the morrow. Everyone agreed and the OC accordingly notified his
    counterparts.

    A few moments later, as if to confirm our growing impression
    of yahooism, I espied a character leaning into the roadway from the
    intersection of the Brock and mud roads, and staring at us as if we
    had no eyes to see him. I pointed him out to the Colonel as he
    stepped into the roadway and began to swagger toward us brandishing a
    carbine. It was hard to say what he was. He appeared to base his
    impression not on any actual Civil War soldier, but upon a bandit in
    a Max Sennett silent comedy. The Colonel asked me to accompany him as
    he went to parley but I'd only taken a few steps when the vaquero
    began gesticulating furiously. As I continued forward, he whipped his
    carbine around to a firing position and yelled, "I'll shoot you dead,
    Yank!"

    "Oh, grow up," I replied.

    Culberson asked me to stay and went up to personally
    ascertain whether this Australopithecine Cavalier had a cerebral
    cortex sufficient to sustain human speech. It transpired that our
    accoster was a member of the celebrated "Critter Company," recently
    returned from an expedition in which, in addition to skirmishing with
    our own cavalry, they'd looted the hospital and pillaged Division
    Headquarters, both bits of gallantry being facilitated by the lack of
    any opposition – or indeed, weapons -- at either of the objectives.

    After a brief chat we let them pass and then took the mud
    road back to the jump off point. Schnapps walked point with Major
    Cross, not so much to court danger as to try to get over the really
    wet spots before they'd been churned up by the rest of the battalion.
    Not that we weren't expecting trouble: Major Murley, who'd unloaded a
    few cylinders into the graybacks already that day, suggested we go
    back with fixed bayonets at arms port, just in case, but Culberson
    opined that it would be unnecessary, as it indeed proved to be. At
    length we found ourselves back where we stacked arms earlier, but
    this time found another random group of banditti skirmishing with a
    handful of our boys who were already there. After a little while the
    Colonel directed Adjutant Mordin to take the battalion and fire a
    volley or two to disperse them. This he did, and soon a flag of truce
    appeared. "What do you want?" "Your water and women!" Another volley
    brought them to a more reasoned understanding, and ultimately we
    watered them and sent them home.

    The Colonel and Adjutant discussed the logistics of setting
    up camp in works thrown up in this part of the woods. It would place
    us under cover, yet leave us exposed all night to the raids of the
    enemy. Beyond that, it was damp and tangled ground. Captain Grimes of
    C Company suggested that we instead withdraw to the next field back,
    adjacent to the road, where we would be on high ground, in touch with
    our communications, and, due to the terrain, largely protected from
    harassment. The Colonel agreed and we made the move, finding a grove
    of cedars just as a light rain broke out.

    A few of our ranks had already begun to leave the event, and
    the rain accelerated the movement. Those of us who stayed began to
    fix up shelters – most of staff under a tarp, Jari and I under the
    second worst shebang in history. Our roof consisted of one shelter
    half, with another draped behind us on the uphill side, against which
    we stacked our gear. We each had our own gum blanket to lie on, and I
    had another to cover both of us against the inevitable leaks. We had
    to crouch with our knees up or lie in a cramping fetal position, but
    it was the best I could think of at the time, being exhausted,
    dehydrated, nauseated, and not feeling too good in the bowels,
    either. After mentioning how hungry he was, Jari dropped off to
    sleep. I watched the officers build a fire in the rain against the
    background of a grove of cedars and a soft gray sky and thought
    again, as I had at Berkeley a few summers ago, how beautiful even the
    least comfortable place could be.

    The Adjutant suggested I collect the rolls. He received a
    look that I fear was neither friendly nor obedient, but after a few
    minutes of rest I complied. Company A still had 21 men; Company B, 22
    (one in hospital); Company C, 29; and Company E, 13. With staff this
    made 85 – about 30% less than we began the morning with.

    The rain would continue nearly all night, with intervals of
    drizzle that seemed like rain because of the residue dripping from
    the cedars. While some of the shebangs were wonderful examples of the
    soldier's craft, others were less so, and some of the boys became
    drenched and sick. Early in the evening a pair of OCs came to
    headquarters and an impassioned discussion followed about the event
    so far and what we hoped for on the morrow. Desiring to conserve his
    men, the Colonel decided against posting guards, ordering us to
    ignore any interlopers, if they could find us. In the morning we'd
    take our position and wait – all day it had been our one battalion
    attacking their two; now, Johnny could try his luck.

    I woke about 4:50 Sunday morning to find the Sergt. Major
    already up. He collected the morning reports, allowing me to attempt
    to clean my Springfield. I'd wrapped it in one side of my ground
    sheet, but this did little good – it looked like it had a bad case of
    eczema and, in any event, I hadn't washed out the bore after the 56
    rounds I'd fired Saturday. I put about half a canteen of unheated
    water down the bore in five or six rinsings, tried to dry it a little
    with a couple of domet flannel patches on a worm, then took out the
    cleanout screw and – with a decidedly non-period drill bit – worked
    on the impacted powder in the firing chamber. After a few minutes I
    got it somewhat clear and did the same with the cone. I had no
    reasonable expectation that it would fire.

    As the Sergeant Major collected the reports he gave the
    numbers to the Adjutant and the returns to me. I stuffed them into my
    blouse pocket. Looking at the stained and soggy forms afterward, I
    found that I'd lost Company A's, but I'm sure they still had 19 or 20
    men left. Company B had 19 for duty and 1 sick. Company C had 22 men.
    Company E had fallen to a Lieutenant and four enlisted. With 74 men,
    the regiment had lost over a third of its strength.

    Who stayed? I'm certain we had some truly hard-core soldiers –
    men who were skilled, experienced, and crazy enough to enjoy what
    they'd been through. If there were more than 20 of those I'd be
    surprised. The rest were a collection of various types. Some, I'm
    sure, were determined to prove their manhood by staying. Others had
    long rides home, and leaving Saturday in their exhausted condition to
    march two miles with a full pack in the rain and then drive six or
    nine hours to get home was more problematical than staying, however
    bad conditions got. In my case, my ride was with the Adjutant, and I
    couldn't leave unless he did. And being the Adjutant, he wouldn't
    leave because he had stripes and, like other staff, felt some
    responsibility to stay as long as a man could. But if he did have to
    leave, I wouldn't have wasted any time looking for another ride. I'd
    have been packed before he was.

    Those who left included the sick and those who had the fewest
    obstacles to getting home. Company E lost the most because they had
    the most people in commuting distance. And I don't blame them for
    leaving. Anyone who humped a pack through Saturday's fighting had
    encountered as much authenticity – and worse – as any sane person
    should have to bear. I only wish they could have been teleported back
    for the closing ceremony with the rest of us.

    In any case, we formed three companies for the battle,
    amalgamating the survivors of E with B. We would also have our ten
    mounted cavalry – a most welcome reinforcement.

    At daybreak we could already hear the occasional echo of
    Confederate bugles, so we lost no time preparing for the day's fight.
    We would make our stand on high ground, in the field next to the
    cedars. Looking toward Johnny's probable approach route, the cedars
    were on the right and right rear of our position, the road home
    across our rear, and the road to the mud road and Brock's Road on our
    left. Further to the left were two fields bounded by ditches and
    hedges of wildflowers. To our front the ground fell to another
    beshrubbed border and a stream. Across the stream was another field,
    rising up to forest, with forest on either side.

    The Colonel's plan, loosely based on Morgan's at the Cowpens,
    was not just to await the rebel attack, but to lure them into a
    situation favorable of counterattack. To that end, he would place the
    color company in the field across the stream, backed on the culvert
    as a line of retreat. He himself would stand with the colors, make
    himself as prominent as possible, and, if we had any luck, the CS
    might think this group the bulk of our forces. Back across the
    stream, in our field, the cavalry would deploy to the right of the
    culvert, hidden behind a group of cedars. Company B would take
    position on high ground in the road leading down to the culvert.
    Company A would set up on our right. When the Johnny's attacked, C
    would retire to a point between B and A, their withdrawal covered by
    the cavalry. The OCs were informed that if the Confederates broke the
    safety zone and approached within 20 yards of our line, the 7th Maine
    would fix bayonets. We had no intention of thrusting them into the
    rebs, but we wouldn't stop them from impaling themselves, either.

    We deployed as planned, and Company C crossed into the
    neighboring field. We could hear frequent bugling from the enemy, as
    well as shouts and massed volleys as they cleared their weapons. And
    yet we waited so long, I thought we might not see them before the
    nominal end of the event at 9 a.m. I was posted with Lieutenant
    Herzog of Co. E at the intersection in the rear of our position to
    keep an eye out for a flank attack (until relieved by Joey Bordonaro
    of the Cavalry), and several times asked him for the time. But well
    before nine shots broke out on the left of Company C.

    I loaded. The firing quieted for awhile and I began to chat
    with old friends in Company B. The skirmishing resumed, but didn't
    seem serious. Someone suggested Schnapps harangue the workers, so I
    pulled out a copy of Karl Marx's November, 1861 letter to Die Presse
    and began reading his condemnation of the Confederacy's disingenuous
    claim to be fighting a defensive war. The boys seemed amused at
    first, but quickly had all the fun they could get from it. As I was
    trying to stuff the document back in my clerk's kit, Lt. Col. Murley
    called me over. I thought he was just going to oppress me, but when I
    got over he pointed to the ridge opposite us, where a long line of
    Confederate skirmishers emerged from the woods, with formed troops
    behind them, and headed for Culberson and Company C.

    This is called having an eye for the terrain. I would have
    thought the Colonel could see them, but Murley saw that the field
    plateaued a bit before sloping down, and that the Johnnies were
    invisible to the Colonel. I jogged down and pointed out where they'd
    deployed. A few moments later the first heads appeared over the rise
    and Culberson began to reel in his command. I stayed to fire a couple
    of rounds and, satisfied that the Springfield actually worked,
    retired up the hill, with Company C in feigned disorder behind me and
    the Johnnies howling after us. Atop the hill, behind Company B (see
    above, re "Shirker" card) I noted a detachment of 6 or 8 rebs in the
    tree line to our right. They apparently had orders to screen their
    right flank, as they did not advance very far. Sergeant Maranto,
    Corpl. Endlein and a couple of other men of Company B took them under
    fire, as did I, from our extreme left (i.e., further to the rear than
    any other Union soldier pretending to be a combatant – again,
    see "Shirker").

    But that was a side show to the main event. Once Company C
    cleared the culvert, Captain Kiger of Company B had his men pouring
    volleys into the pursuing Johnnies. This held them long enough for
    Company C to re-form and add their fire. The Confederate advance
    continued, but in some confusion. Company C fell back, unmasking our
    Cavalry, who charged in and unloaded their carbines and revolvers on
    the rebs, thus covering Company C's withdrawal before riding off to
    safety themselves. As Company C took its stand atop the rise, Company
    A rose from the meadow grass like the British Guards at Waterloo and
    added their disciplined fire to the chorus of Union rifles. The
    Confederates never got close enough to cause us to fix bayonets and,
    in the furor, took real as well as nominal casualties, including one
    man burned by a muzzle flash from his rear file mate.

    Soon the familiar bugle call sounded and we ceased fire. The
    Union and Confederate lines looked at each other, not necessarily as
    friends (though there were plenty of those on both sides), but with
    mutual respect for what we'd been through all weekend. The
    Confederates cheered us and we saluted them with a volley at extreme
    elevation. The officers made speeches, the men hurrahed the officers.
    Some rebels began singing "Dixie" and some of us replied
    with "Kingdom Coming." In time, though, all the cheering ended and we
    packed up for home.

    Staff again had the option of having their knapsacks sent
    back in the wagon, but Murley, Villanueva, and Schnapps elected to
    carry theirs. It was perhaps a mistake for Schnapps, since he had all
    his paper and a shelter half that, wet as it was, weighed six times
    what he was used to, but he tried it anyway.

    A word about that paperwork, before I forget. It was clear
    early on that most of the forms and clerical supplies brought for
    verisimilitude would prove unnecessary and at the very least
    inconvenient. Lord knows -- sweat, rain, and an overfull schedule are
    not conducive to completing the over-elaborate forms of the period.
    It leads one to a real appreciation of what our ancestors were able
    to achieve in this work as well as the more dramatic aspects of the
    war, but also to an understanding of why they sometimes let things
    slide. As it was, I made the greatest use of my pocket notebook and
    hardly touched my portfolio. My traveling inkwell did not see the
    outside of my kit after about noon on Friday. The papers I received
    from the companies, while reasonably completed Saturday morning,
    swiftly degenerated, so that many submitted later and on Sunday
    lacked the date, the company designation, or a legible signature. I
    mention this not as a criticism, but as an illustration of the
    practical limitations of office work in the field. Whatever
    criticisms others may make of the event, I found it greatly useful to
    the research of The Scrivener's Mess, and of value in planning the
    clerical side of future events.

    We made our march back. It was only a couple of miles, more
    or less, and Josh and I had practiced five mile marches in full kit
    on the W&OD trail numerous times, so it ought to have been a breeze.
    But our jaunts on the trail have never followed 40 hours of
    campaigning, with perhaps 4 devoted to sleep and the remainder to
    some form of work, fueled only by a few pieces of pork, a handful of
    crackers, and two or three blessed cups of coffee. We sang at the
    start of this march, but by the end I was dragging, and had Jari not
    broken out the bugle a few hundred yards from the parking lot, I'd
    have fallen out. As it was, we marched in as a regiment, in step, at
    shoulder arms and, though clearly tired, hung around for the final
    regimental photo before breaking up.

    I often wonder, at events like these, just how much more I
    can take. This was especially the case this time, with all the
    problems of Recons past and present. Yet as I look back, I feel very
    grateful to have made it through, and for the friendship and
    dedication of so many. The forums will echo with criticisms and
    complaints, with accusations and suggestions, with diatribes and
    defenses. But as I type this today, I only wish to say, both to the
    organizers and all the attendees, thank you. Thank you very much.

    Except you yahoos out there. Geez, read a book...

    I submit this so everone can hear what Mr Schaffner thought of the event.

    Mr. Cleaveland, we normally don't allow the posting of other's writing without their permission. But since Mr. Schaffner has posted some additional information without an apparent complaint, we will leave it up, watching carefully.

    Mr. Schaffner, if you would prefer we pull this post, give the word.

    Mike Chapman
    Last edited by dusty27; 05-12-2004, 10:58 AM.
    [FONT=Georgia]John Cleaveland[/FONT]

  • #2
    Re: A clerks AAR

    Thanks, Mr. Cleaveland. I just want to add the following footnotes, which did not survive the translation to posting online:


    1. [in first paragraph] Each company received a roster and a packet of documents including morning reports, blank rosters, forms 21, 13 (or 15), and 52, invoices, receipts, and passes. Not that they needed all of them, but I figured they would have had them anyway.

    2. [re: Mallen Cunningham] A founding member of The Scrivener’s Mess and connoisseur of period paperwork, with a vast and varied personal collection. Also a hell of a soldier.

    3. [re: the song "Morgenrot"] According to Bell Irvin Wiley, the most popular song of German soldiers in the Civil War. See http://ingeb.org/Lieder/morgenro.html for lyrics and melody.

    4. [re: the "second worst shebang in history"] I don’t know what the worst shebang in history was, but I assume that in all history there must have been one worse than ours. After all, I don’t want to exaggerate.

    5. [re: Union cavalry in Sunday's engagement] The CS “Critter Company” on the other hand, so bold in Saturday’s work, was nowhere to be seen on Sunday.

    6. [re: Union deployment on Sunday, and the Cowpens] Rev War, but a classic – the American version of Cannae.

    7. [re: Karl Marx's letter to Die Presse] http.https://www.marxists.org/archive/mar...1861/11/07.htm Go ahead, check it out. Karl Marx also believed, it is rumored, that the sun rose in the east and set in the west. He wasn’t wrong about everything.
    Michael A. Schaffner

    Comment


    • #3
      Re: A clerks AAR

      Folks,

      I'm pretty sure I didn't invent post-event feces flinging, but am credited in some circles with applying a turbocharger (and maybe a JATO tank) to the process. Mea culpa, but we need to figure out a way to resolve things peaceably. Having mumbled the following in a thread about a week ago, I'd like to post it over here, before the next layer of unhappy emails get posted, and cast a pall over a fine event.

      "These events, when successful are very good things, however, it appears the 24 hour "honeymoon" period has ended, and the carping, backbiting, and mud slinging has begun once again. Instead of making the "camplaigner" stereotype come true, take the time to bring out the positives, and build upon what just happened. Most of all, if you enjoyed this event, as others have in other places for many years, take the time to express delight about those features you most enjoyed, and if there are things you didn't like, make positive suggestions as to future corrective measures whether it's hay, water, or some lights at registration. Those are positive things."

      I'm not a peacemaker, and sure as sugar don't claim to be one, but pick up the phone and have some laughs with each other. Heck, even I thought Pvt Schnapps was describing my twin brother Guy Musgrove. :wink_smil

      Charles Heath
      Last edited by Charles Heath; 05-12-2004, 09:06 AM. Reason: spelling, old age, night blindness
      [B]Charles Heath[/B]
      [EMAIL="heath9999@aol.com"]heath9999@aol.com[/EMAIL]

      [URL="http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Spanglers_Spring_Living_History/"]12 - 14 Jun 09 Hoosiers at Gettysburg[/URL]

      [EMAIL="heath9999@aol.com"]17-19 Jul 09 Mumford/GCV Carpe Eventum [/EMAIL]

      [EMAIL="beatlefans1@verizon.net"]31 Jul - 2 Aug 09 Texans at Gettysburg [/EMAIL]

      [EMAIL="JDO@npmhu.org"] 11-13 Sep 09 Fortress Monroe [/EMAIL]

      [URL="http://groups.yahoo.com/group/Elmira_Death_March/?yguid=25647636"]2-4 Oct 09 Death March XI - Corduroy[/URL]

      [EMAIL="oldsoldier51@yahoo.com"] G'burg Memorial March [/EMAIL]

      Comment


      • #4
        Re: A clerks AAR

        No event is ever perfect, but everyone left this one (that I saw) with a grin.

        That matters!

        Yes there were issues, and they need to be addressed. But the success of the event was seen in the smiles on the men in the ranks.

        AAR out as soon as I get the adjutants notes-
        S. Chris Anders

        "Authenticity Glorifies the Campaign"

        Comment


        • #5
          Re: A clerks AAR

          I see that the biased press hasn't changed over the years. I guess it is the views of a Lilliputian minded reporter.

          Note to officers: You can give the men a break and still run the camp in a military way. Half do picket and the other half rest.

          I am not sure that I attended the same event as the clerk because I enjoyed myself.

          Ron Roth

          Comment


          • #6
            my objections to this kind of AAR

            I copied and posted this persons AAR here because it offends me and I thought it should be brought to the attention our wing of the hobby.

            I find this type of AAR to be the most destructive to any attempt at uniting our wing of the hobbies efforts at achieving any scale for our events.

            It does this by at once being contemptuous of the efforts of others in trying to put on a decent event and then by being holier than thou about its own achievements for the weekend.

            It does this by putting down anyone not in their immediate circle of pards, Slamming on impressions and actions of others without the least thought how they might not be right or at least off way off base in their observations. When called to account for this one gets the smug type of reply I got in challenging the veracity of this AAR.

            Its condescending witticisms and slightly veiled insults offend me to no end.

            What bothers me most is how by posting it in a semi public forum it went unchallenged, even by people who knew parts of it to be biased to the point of lies, but will not take it author to task.

            Mostly what offends me about this type of post is it stinks of elitism. It smells of the type of elitism that has driven off more would be authentics than any other single thing an authentic could do. I find this type of AAR unexcusable
            Last edited by Cleaveland; 05-12-2004, 08:59 PM.
            [FONT=Georgia]John Cleaveland[/FONT]

            Comment


            • #7
              Re: my objections to this kind of AAR

              Originally posted by Cleaveland
              I copied and posted this persons AAR here because it offends me and I thought it should be brought to the attention our wing of the hobby.

              I find this type of AAR to be the most destructive to any attempt at uniting our wing of the hobbies efforts at achieving any scale for our events...........................

              What bothers me most is how by posting it in a semi public forum it went unchallenged, even by people who knew parts of it to be biased to the point of lies, but will not take it author to task.

              Mostly what offends me about this type of post is it stinks of elitism. It smells of the type of elitism that has driven off more would be authentics than any other single thing an authentic could do. I find this type of AAR unexcusable
              Mr. Cleaveland,

              My understanding is you post this ARR just to start more mud slinging!
              This AAR is just a view of one person and not the view of the whole 7th Maine. I know Mike and I can say that he is no elitist and never will be. The thought of Mike being called an elitist is almost comical to say the least. I also saw some yahoo on the rebel side, but I know that they were the minority. If people take offence to Mike's AAR then they need to discuss it with him not blast it to the masses.

              That my two cents,
              Mark
              [FONT=Courier New]Mark Maranto[/FONT]

              Comment


              • #8
                Re: A clerks AAR

                Ok, message sent.

                The parties involved can take this up amongst themselves in private.

                In my opinion, a lot is being made of one man's opinion of the event.

                Thread closed
                Mike "Dusty" Chapman

                Member: CWT, CVBT, NTHP, MOC, KBA, Stonewall Jackson House, Mosby Heritage Foundation

                "I would have posted this on the preservation folder, but nobody reads that!" - Christopher Daley

                The AC was not started with the beginner in mind. - Jim Kindred

                Comment

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