The past weekend was spent at Fort Washita in southern Oklahoma, and I received training to be an infantry soldier in a Civil War reenacting unit called The Trans-Mississippi Rifles (TMR). The event was called a spring muster, and although it wasn't exactly a relaxing weekend, it was an enjoyable one.
The TMR at Fort Washita
The TMR portrays a Confederate unit, but their passion is not in seeing the Confederacy rise again--their passion is in reenacting, preserving our history, and attempting to experience a small slice of what the men who served in the Civil War went through and what their lives were like. They are involved in something that is truly unique, and what they do is more significant to them than just a hobby. I have begun to understand their passion for reenacting and why they would spend their weekend (their time away from work that most people view as a time to relax) marching around for hours in a hot wool uniform, wearing very uncomfortable shoes, and carrying a nine-pound rifle that makes your arm sore after about ten minutes. At the end of the weekend, with sore feet, a right arm that was now three inches longer from toting around that musket, and a very tired body, I found myself wanting to do it all again.
We arrived at Fort Washita on Friday afternoon, and after unloading our gear, I had a chance to meet some of the folks in the TMR. Fort Washita would be our home for the weekend, and we lived in the barracks and slept on straw filled mattresses supported by a lattice work of rope (that squeaks at the slightest movement or even when you just breath) woven through a wooden bunk frame. That evening we sang Civil War songs accompanied by Roger Epps on banjo and guitar, and went to bed fairly early. Reveille would be at 6:00 am, and Saturday would prove to be a workout.
In the morning, after a ceremonial raising of the colors and a breakfast of oatmeal that was cooked over a fire, the drilling began. We marched all morning to the commands of 1st Sergeant Lynn Shackelford. When the soldiers in the Civil War were on the move, they would march in columns of four because that was the width of the old dirt roads. The officers needed to be able to maneuver their men on the battlefield efficiently, as well as move them from these columns of four into a line of battle position quickly. With commands like, "By Company into line!" they could. I learned how it was done the way that the actual soldiers did, through demonstration, instruction, and repetition.
We marched for hours that day while carrying our nine-pound rifles. Unfortunately, I must admit that it became grueling. This was discomforting news because it shed light on the fact that I, along with the majority of 20th-century men, was truly a physical wimp. The men who served in the Civil War marched like that day after day, most of the time without eating or sleeping much. Stonewall Jackson would sometimes move his tired and hungry men (known as "Jackson's Foot Calvary") twenty-five miles in one day.
Now I realize that what I am about to tell you will cause many of the TMR members to hide their face in their hands and possibly cry out, "Why did he write about that?" or "Did he have to include a picture?" when they see that it is published on the internet. I apologize for any grief that my friends in the TMR may experience, but I have to think about the smiles that it will bring to those who are following my journey on their computers.
Marching to the commands of 1st Sergeant Shackleford
Somehow the ladies at Fort Washita convinced our Captain into letting them give the men an hour of instruction on two dances that were common to the Civil War years--the Virginia Reel and the Waltz. Since there weren't enough ladies to supply the men with female partners for the Virginia Reel--you guessed it, the soldiers were forced to dance with each other. Fortunately, our 1st Sergeant refused to see his men have to waltz with each other, and we spent the extra time required to be able to alternate with female partners for that particular dance.
The Virginia Reel, military style
Reveille on Sunday was at 6:30 am, and because I was obviously now in the military, that is when I got up. I discovered that there are particular muscles in my legs that must only be used for marching, and they were definitely sore. The morning was filled with even more drilling and a period church service conducted by Roger Epps. The afternoon, and the entire weekend, was topped off with a memorial service by the TMR at Fort Washita's Confederate Cemetery. After the ceremony, I was given permission by Captain Harding to participate in a future event at Fort Gibson. My training was complete.
The ladies (under the protection of the TMR) at Fort Washita
Monday, April 19, 1999: Ponca City
I spent last weekend at Fort Gibson, Oklahoma, participating in three battles as a guest of the TMR. It was my second experience as "Private Hall" in the Confederate States Army but my first time actually firing rounds of black powder at Federal soldiers. It was also my first experience with marching into battle in a battalion that included other infantry units, an artillery unit, and the Colonel giving commands from horseback. The days were spent in battle, and the nights were filled with Civil War songs around the campfire. I have enjoyed my time spent with the TMR immensely, and agreed to yet another much larger event at Fayetteville, Arkansas, in June.
A Confederate artillery unit
The most memorable battle for me was on Saturday afternoon. As we marched out of camp and onto the battlefield, there was a line of ladies dressed in period clothing , waving hankies and wishing all of us a safe return. For a brief moment, I actually felt a strange sense of what it is like to march into battle, not really knowing if you would come back home alive and well with all of your limbs still attached.
Shooting at the Federals
We continued to fire and advance on the Federal troops, and eventually I decided that it was time for me to take a hit. I fell to the ground screaming in pain. Although what remained of our battalion kept advancing on the Federals, many of our boys had gone down during this particular volley. There were dead bodies in gray and blue uniforms all around me.
The wounded and the dead
The Federals finally surrendered, but when it came time for the dead soldiers to arise, an aide from the medical unit ran up and told me to stay down. A horse drawn wagon (Civil War ambulance) was on its way to take me back to the hospital. When the ambulance arrived, I was picked up and put into the wagon, and the trip to the hospital began. It was an extremely rough ride, and at times I wished that I had remained deceased on that soft piece of battlefield where I went down.
We arrived at the hospital, and the medical unit aides carried me over to the front porch and set me down with the rest of wounded. I could see my friend, Nate, who marched right next to me through all the drilling and onto the battlefield. He was propped up against a wall with bloody bandages wrapped around his arm. One of the soldiers from another Confederate unit went into shock and passed away. A few of us had seen him on the battlefield, but no one knew his name or what unit he belonged to.
I had been hit in the stomach and had lost a lot of blood, but the nurses assured me that I would live. They offered me whiskey for the pain, but I told them, in my best weak and in pain with a southern accent performance, "I am a good Christian boy, ma'am. The Lord will be my strength through the pain."
A woman sat down by my side and began to read the Scriptures to me, and I overheard the doctor say that one of my Confederate brothers would have to have his leg removed. It was Art McDown from the TMR, and he was pleading with the doctor about his decision to amputate. Art was worried about how he would take care of his farm and provide for his family if he were to return home with only one leg. However, the decision was final, and the amputation was performed.
The doctor came over to warn me that it was going to be painful, but he had to remove the Yankee bullet from my stomach. I clinched my teeth and tried to feel the pain in a sterling, "there's a doctor digging around in my stomach without anesthetic" Hollywood performance. After the bullet was removed, the operation was over. I released a few more moans of pain, and then laid still.
The woman who was reading the Bible to me returned to my side and began to read from Psalms. I figured that now was as good a time as any to perish, so I quietly died. A sheet was drawn over my face, and I became one of the many who died in battle while fighting for their rights and their freedom.
The whole battle was series of jumping in and out of reality for me. There were moments that I felt like, "This is really happening. I might die out here," as well as moments when reality crept in and said, "There aren't any bullets in anyone's rifles. I might just see that guy I'm shooting at later today, and we will talk about how enjoyable the battle was for each of us." Fortunately, I was kept so busy trying to load and fire my weapon as fast as my inexperience at firing a black powder musket would allow, and this kept me out of the real world as much as could be expected.
Of course, I knew that all my friends would be resurrected after each battle, and that I could take off the uniform on Sunday and drive back to a comfortable home after a stop at Sonic for a lemon-berry slush, but for brief moments I could make all the amenities and luxuries that awaited me go away, and I could feel what they must have felt. Those "magic moments" when you travel back in time and actually feel what it was like are what, I believe, most reenactors are striving for and what Civil War reenacting is all about.
I now understand the passion that reenactors have. It begins with reading the journals, the letters that the soldiers wrote to loved ones, and about the actual battles that took place. After having an understanding of the incredible amount of adversity that the men who served in the Civil War experienced and the camaraderie that those adverse times produced, the reenactors set out to actually feel what it was like.
For a weekend, I spent 24 hours a day in a wool uniform, lived in a canvas tent, marched in uncomfortable shoes while carrying a heavy musket, and watched friends fall to the ground after taking a hit from a Federal bullet. The soldiers in the Civil War lived that way day after day, never knowing when it would be over or when they would die.
Pvt. Reeves, Capt. Harding, Cpl. Wilson, Sgt. Frye of the TMR
Three cheers for the battalion
Thursday, May 13, 1999: Ponca City
After returning to the wonderful world of unemployment, I have taken on the full time job of building a web site that will explain the past year of my life. The travel logs must be edited for the public and all my spelling and grammar errors must be corrected. The whole project with building the site and tweaking all the pictures into the pages with text has been quite overwhelming. Soon it will be finished though, and I am looking forward to the subsequent feeling of accomplishment that I hope will follow.
The past weekend was spent at Fort Washita in southern Oklahoma, and I received training to be an infantry soldier in a Civil War reenacting unit called The Trans-Mississippi Rifles (TMR). The event was called a spring muster, and although it wasn't exactly a relaxing weekend, it was an enjoyable one.
