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The shock of losing your spouse

I've never really put into words the story of losing my first wife about 14 years ago.  It's not something you ever prepare for and don't even think about.  You expect to lose your grandparents and your parents and you become older, that's pretty much a given.  But I don't believe many think too much about losing your wife for husband.k

My loss came on a late winter's eve when I least expected it.  Pat had been in declining health with some major heart issues but seemed to be doing well.  After a couple of hospital stays and some time in rehab at Heartland Healthcare in Henry she was a little more active than she had been.

One day she told me that there was a seminar at Heartland that she would like to attend so I agreed to take her to Henry.  I dropped her off and left to run some errands and returned to wait for her to finish.  I was sitting in the lobby near the door where I had a partial view of the nurses station down the hall.  I saw Pat walk to the nurses station where she was talking with ladies she knew from her previous stays.  She then disappeared from my view and I figured she had moved to another position out of my view.  A couple of minutes went by and I noticed some of the CNA's scurrying around the nurses station.  As I watched this I was thinking this can't be good so I got up and walked down the hall to find Pat on the floor in the midst of a heart attack.  As I watched I had a sinking feeling that she might not survive this.  She was not conscious but was breathing.  The ambulance finally showed up and they were going to transport her to Perry Memorial in Princeton.

I left behind the ambulance on what by now were some icy roads and the trip seemed like it would never end.  We finally arrived at the hospital where they rushed her into the ER and began trying to ,keep her alive.  The doctors worked on her for a while and then one came out and told me I better come in because it didn't look good.  I went in and was able to talk to Pat but she was barely coherent.  The doctors were wanting to life-flight her to Peoria but the weather was bad enough to ground the helicopters so that was out of the question.

Previous to all of this Pat and I had had a discussion months ago about being kept alive by machine because of her earlier close calls.  We both agreed that neither of us would want to live under those conditions.  And because of the amount of time between Pat going down at the nursing home and finally arriving at the hospital I was having serious doubts about her survival and what shape would she be in if she did survive. 

So, as I stood beside her in the ER she had another incident so the doctors jumped back in to try and keep her breathing.  I watched this for a few minutes and finally told them to stop.  They stopped and stood back while I went to Pat to try and talk to her.  I knew at this point she was not going to make it.  She was getting weaker by the second and I told her I loved her and didn't want her to go.  She told she loved me and a moment later she was gone.  Before she passed I had asked for last rites to be administered and they were.

The rest of what happened in the hospital is a blur and I really don't remember it.  I then walked outside to my van and got in.

I think then I was in shock and at that point had never felt so alone in my entire life.  I just sat stunned in the parking lot for about 20 minutes.  I finally headed for home knowing I was going to make some phone calls.

The first person I called was my brother Tom and filled him in.  I was, by this time, starting to come apart.  I asked Tom to make the call to the rest of the family as I didn't think I could hold it together enough to make the calls.

Pat and I had been married almost 37 years and I had dated her for three years before we got married so by the time she passed I had spent 2/3 of my life with her.  I was lost and was in no way prepared to deal with her passing.  Coming home to an empty house was a new reality for me and I have to say it was difficult.  With Pat gone now I had only the cats, and they were pretty much hers anyway.

I don't really know what the point of me writing this is but I just felt it was time for me to put it on paper.  You just never know what the good Lord will put on your plate and some things are a real test.

Civil War Reenacting; How I Started in the Hobby, Part 1

I began reading books about the Civil War when I was in high school, in fact, I read everyone in the high school library.  Although we didn't have an extensive library I was able to get the basic history of the war from what was there.

As I got older I still was interested in the war and later discovered there were groups who actually reenacted Civil War battles.  I thought I'd like to check it out and saw an ad for an event at the Chicago Historical Society.  My wife and I went down but the event had been moved inside because of the weather.  I met members of the group, a Union group from Joliet, IL, who basically said because I lived in Chicago that I was too far away and they didn't want me.  I'm thinking that's no way to grow a group and by the way, kindly go fuck yourself.

Shortly after that I took a job that required me to move to North Carolina.  I went to work for Dynamic Graphics from Peoria, IL and took their southeast territory, six states, including Kentucky, Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, North Carolina and South Carolina.  I chose that territory because of the number of Civil War battlefields.  The other territory I could have taken was Washington and Oregon.  No thanks.

After moving to Gastonia, NC I began again to think about Civil War reenacting when my aunt sent me a newspaper clipping about an event which was happening locally.  I decided to go to the event and met members of the 49th North Carolina who were very cordial and interested in having me join their group even though I was a Yankee.  So here I am about to join a Confederate reenacting group but I was so eager to become involved that I didn't care which side, just let me at it.

One of the first events I went to was the re-dedication of the North Carolina monument in Gettysburg, Pa.  The monument had been removed from the battlefield and sent to Cincinnati, OH to be refurbished.  For the re-dedication the Park Service wanted some reenactors from North Carolina to be part of the ceremony.  I don't remember how many went but they were from several groups in North Carolina.  I remember there were men from the 26th NC, 49th NC, 31st NC, and 6th NC.  So here I am in borrowed uniform, accouterments, hat, shoes and gun.  Nervous as hell because I barely knew any of the drill or manual of arms.

Dealing with the Park Service was one giant pain in the ass in those days.  First, all our weapons had to be inspected by their "black powder" expert, who was a lady ranger that had just completed her certification.  She was a smug asshole who thought she was an expert on everything black powder.  She managed to piss off everyone, even the veterans in the hobby.  My weapon failed inspection because of a tiny crack in the wood stock which meant I wouldn't be able to fire for the weekend.  The park service also wouldn't allow the reenactors to bring any powder or caps and they handed out what our firing squad would need for the ceremonial volleys.

The statue depicts four Confederate soldiers leaning forward in a charging position. One solider kneels down and points toward the enemy in the front. It was designed by Gutzon Borglum, who is most famous for sculpting Mount Rushmore. 

When we arrived for the weekend we camped behind Seminary Ridge where the Confederate troops staged for the 3rd day battle of Gettysburg.  One of the reasons the wanted North Carolina reenactors was to have them stand guard at the statue until the unveiling ceremony.  We all got to choose what watch we wanted to stand and I got the 1 a.m. to 2 a.m. watch with another member of the 49th, Brad Bush.  I have to admit it was kind of spooky being on Seminary Ridge in the middle of the night.  There was a slight breeze making a little noise as it passed over the tarp covered statue and rustled the leaves.  When our watch ended there were several who decided to walk the route of Pickett's Charge.  I just wanted to sit there for a while and soak it all in, then decided I'd like to do that too.  I started into the wheat field and had gone a hundred yards or so when my eyes started to itch so I decided to turn back and go to the camp.  As I was walking down Seminary Ridge I couldn't help but notice how quiet it was... dead quiet.  Then, suddenly from above my head, a very loud WHO, WHO!  A damn owl hooted and damn near gave me a heart attack.  Scared the crap out of me.  

The next morning we did the ceremony, which went off without a hitch and so ended my first Civil War event.  I was hooked and eager to go to the next event.

I will say that over the course of some thirty years in the hobby I was able to learn a helluva lot about the war and participate in some events that armchair historians will never experience, ever.  I was eager to learn more about the daily life of the Civil War soldiers, how they lived, what they ate, how they drilled and prepared for battle.  Over the years I did get a taste, a very small taste of their lives.  The only element we didn't have to worry about as reenactors was death.  When we died in a battle we were resurrected when it was over so we could go to work on Monday.

I don't know how many parts this will take for me to tell this story but if it interests you check back occasionally and I'll also put a link on Facebook.  I plan on detailing some of the experiences which I felt were unique and will generalize on others.  I hope you will enjoy my looking back on over thirty years in the hobby.

Things I didn't expect...

When I began to have problems with my left leg last summer I never in my wildest dreams imagined it would morph into what it did.  After the operation in July to remove the bone in my left foot I expected it to heal and go on with my life.

As July turned into August and I returned to the Wound Clinic for my weekly appointment I thought my foot was healing, however I was experiencing mounting pain and not at the site of the surgery but along the bottom of my foot.  I complained weekly about the pain only to have nothing done about it.  Toward the end of August after more complaints about the pain I was instructed to go to the ER where they would administer a bag of antibiotics in case of "possible" infection.

While this was going on I was dealing with recurring bouts of depression which would only last a couple of days.  But even with that, I couldn't get any work done because I was in so much pain.  I normally have a great outlook on life and figure everything will work itself out.  But still I was dogged with periods of staring out the window wondering what was going on in my life.  I can't even describe what was going on in my head but whatever it was I was having trouble pulling out of it.  Performing my everyday tasks was becoming much more difficult because of the pain.  I continued to do my grocery shopping because I didn't feel right asking someone else to do it.  The shopping cart became my crutch to get around the store.  Without something to hang on to there was no way I could have walked through the store.  It got to the point where I was having one of the kids take my groceries to the van and put them in while I lagged behind just trying to make it back to the car.  It had gotten so bad that when I got into the van I had to grab my left pant leg and physically pull my leg into the van.

Bear in mind that all this time I had two magazines to publish but would often find myself sitting at the computer just staring at the screen or turning my chair and looking out the window.  By the middle of September the pain was excruciating and was destroying my ability to concentrate on anything.  My last two trips to the Wound Clinic I had to call the receptionist and have someone come to the parking lot with a wheelchair so I could get inside for my appointments.  They were also kind enough to take me back to my van in a wheelchair.

While all this was going on I had prescription painkillers which were supposed to be taken every 4-6 hours.  I took them and kept to the prescribed dosage.  I was scared of becoming addicted to them and fortunately for me I have a very high pain threshold so was able to limit myself.  I've always used the painkillers to just tamp down the pain to a tolerable level because I've never had a painkiller that actually took the pain completely away.

Depression was taking its toll on me and I even quit going to the museum in Lacon where I have volunteered since 1993.  I just couldn't face the pain and effort to go there and try and put on a happy face.  Around the middle of September I had two trips to the ER at Proctor and on the second trip I was finally admitted and they actually started running tests.  After a couple of days my podiatrist came to see me and tell me I had Osteomyelitis (bone infection) and they recommended an AKA, which in hospital lingo means Above Knee Amputation.  I didn't hesitate a nanosecond before saying, "Just do it."  If it would end the pain I was all for it.  Apparently after a nuclear test they discovered the infection was too far spread in the bone to save.

When I came out of surgery the pain was gone but little did I realize just how much my life was going to change.  I was in the hospital for a little over two weeks before being sent to Heartland Healthcare in Henry.  I chose Heartland because I had heard they had an excellent therapy department and would be a big help in getting me ready to eventually go home and resume a somewhat normal life.  While at Heartland I continued to suffer bouts of depression having to deal with all I saw going on around me.  Those of you who read my COUNTING FLOWERS ON THE WALL... are aware of a lot of what I went through.  I tried to be as honest as I could about my thoughts and feelings. 

Now that I'm home I'm still dealing with minor depression on some days but for the most part I'm doing well.  The one person who has been there through this whole deal is my house keeper/friend Brandy Bridges.  She took care of Callie while I was gone, got my mail and brought things to the nursing home that I needed.  Now Brandy comes by daily and changes the dressing on my leg and does my laundry and shopping.  I've come to depend on Brandy and sometimes I think she's like a Mom figure. lol  She has turned out to be my guardian angel.

What I learned in rehab is being put to use daily and without that program I wouldn't be able to survive here basically by myself.  I don't know yet where I will be doing therapy to learn to walk on my new leg but I'm hoping I can return to Heartland on an outpatient basis.  We'll see, first I have to get the leg.

I wrote this to just put some of my feelings on paper (or in the ether) but it helps me to deal with what is going on whether anyone reads this blog or not.  If you do thank you.

Catching up... a little.

I created this blog in 2013 and promptly forgot about it so I thought I would come back and post things I really don't want to put on Facebook.

I've been wanting to post a story I wrote for a Creative Writing Class I took at IVCC ten or twelve years ago.  It was a course in their Adult Education program and was once a week for ten weeks as I remember.

Each class we had to turn in a short piece which was critiqued by the whole class.  The work included short stories and haiku's.  I really like the haiku's and wrote some humorous ones.  Now I don't think I remember how to do those.

For the final of the class we were to write a ten-page paper on whatever subject we wanted.  I chose to write a first person story weaving together anecdotes from my years as a Civil War reenactor.  I labored over it intensely.  My biggest problem with writing it was staying in the proper tense. I finished it, turned it in and got an A for my troubles.  The professor was a great teacher and I enjoyed him thoroughly.  I thought about signing up for another of his classes but found he had taken a job at another college further away.

This piece was titled "Boys of '62" and was written by me portraying my great-great-grandfather Isaac Vaughn.  Isaac enlisted in the Union Army in August of 1862 from Wenona, IL.  The other characters in the story are fellow reenactors and some of the names are real and some are first-person names.  This is written to reflect the thoughts and social mores of the era.  Some of the language is coarse.

The Boys of ’62

by Rick Keating

We’ve been marching since early this morning, choking on the cloud of dust raised by                    thousands of tramping feet on the dirt road.  Being the rear guard of the brigade is  supposed to be an honor — some honor — we can’t even tell what color our clothes are anymore.

All being from Wenona, we joined together, me, Oran Southwell, Calvin Lightheart, and Thomas Adams; back in August of ’62 when the call went out for more troops.  We all thought this would be our great adventure. 

Oran first suggested we join, telling the rest of us it’s our duty.  Oran is always making stump speeches about one cause or another.  He is an ardent Lincoln supporter, especially after seeing Lincoln debate Stephen A. Douglas in Ottawa back in 1858, and he believes strongly that the Union should be preserved.  He doesn’t much care about the niggers at all.  None of us have given much thought to them.  Hell, none of us have ever seen one. 

We all thought this would be our great adventure.  What could be more patriotic than fighting to preserve our sacred Union?  To defeat the secesh traitors and put them back in their places is all we talked about.  How we were going to be so brave, making grand and glorious charges, all being heroes.

It hasn’t worked out that way.  Mostly our soldiering life is drilling, marching, drilling, marching and more marching.  Up to this point we’ve been in a few scrapes but none of the four of us have been hurt.  Many in our company weren’t as lucky.  Quite a few have been wounded and two killed.  I knew the boys, and mourned their loss, but the life of a soldier doesn’t leave much time to think about missing comrades when you have to worry about your own survival.  For the most part we don’t know where we are, where we are going, or when we will get our next meal.

This march has been uneventful so far.  We’re going to take a rest, as the colonel has called a halt for twenty minutes.  Calvin is digging in his haversack for coffee.  I’ve never seen a man who could get a fire going in such a short time, but we have to have our coffee.  Oran can’t build a fire worth a damn but he’s not bashful about putting his cup in somebody else’s fire.  When it comes to boiling your coffee all’s fair.

Calvin Lightheart is another case.  He’s a rather simple farm boy, a big strapping lad and strong as an ox.  He’s a friend to everyone and a good soldier.  He doesn’t much like all the marching we do and wants to transfer to the gunboats ever since he saw them on the Cumberland River.  Thank God for Calvin, he always gets our fire going for coffee which seems to be our only staple along with the hardtack.

While we rest we try and beat some of the dust out of our clothes and clean up a little.  Sometimes we don’t get to wash for a week or more.  During times of drought we would rather have water to drink than to bathe with.  But let us get near any kind of stream and we are in as fast as we can get our clothes off.  First we wash, then we try and wash our uniforms.  Often we don’t have time to dry them because the drums beat assembly so we hurriedly dress and march off in wet clothes.  Such is the lot of the soldier.

Our company captain, Henry Simonton, from Magnolia, tells us we are relieved of rear guard duty and assigned to advance guard and he’s taking us on a scout in front of the brigade.  We are to go two or three miles ahead of the brigade and see if we can find any secesh.

We all gulp down our coffee, strap on our knapsacks and move toward the head of the brigade. 

“Hey, Isaac,” Calvin calls back to me from a few ranks up, “do you suppose we’re going to the river to look for gunboats?” 

“How the hell would I know, Calvin?  The colonel didn’t consult with me before handing out orders,” I replied.   

“I’d sure like to get transferred to the gunboats, Isaac.  You know you don’t have to march when you serve on a gunboat.  You can just sit on deck and dangle your feet over the side, you can fish…” 

“Bullshit!” roars Oran.  “Who told you that?”

“Some sailors,” says Calvin.

Oran really lit into Calvin.  “And you believed them?  Why you have to be the dumbest farmer I ever knew.  Did you get kicked in the head by your mule?  You get on a gunboat Calvin and you’ll be dodging cannonballs not minié balls.  God damn…”

“They wouldn’t lie to me would they, Oran?” Calvin replied.

“Oh, no,” Oran says, “those sailor boys would never lie to you.  Calvin, I can still see the hoof prints on your forehead, Calvin, you dumb ass.”  And so it goes as we continue down the road.  

About a mile from the brigade Captain Henry has us deploy in a skirmish line which stretches out a couple of hundred yards on either side of the road.  On our end the brush is fairly thick and it’s taking us longer to make the advance. 

After an hour or so we come upon a dry creek bed where Captain Henry calls a halt.  We take up a position on the bank across the creek bed and rest for a while.  As we are lying on the bank we hear a few horses to our front.  Peering over the edge of the bank and through the brush we see several Confederate cavalry who are, no doubt, looking for us. 

It’s just a small squad on a scout and we want to empty their saddles, but Henry makes us lie there quietly.  As long as they don’t spot us Henry doesn’t want to take a chance of bringing on a general engagement. 

“C’mon, Henry, let us take a shot at those troopers,” Calvin says, “We could drop them right quick!”

“Calvin, you couldn’t hit a bull in the ass with a bass fiddle at this distance,” Henry replies.

“Aw, c’mon, Captain Henry, you know we’re good shots.”

“Just get back down behind the bank and be quiet,” says Henry.

We’re too far from the brigade to get any support if this erupts into pitched fighting, so we lay there and wait until they ride back into the brush and disappear.

We have gone as far as we are supposed to and now are waiting for the rest of the brigade to come up the road.  We know there are Confederates somewhere in our front, but have no idea how many or what  — infantry, cavalry or artillery.  After waiting a couple of hours we’re starting to worry about where the brigade is.

A few moments later a courier rides up with orders to fall back to the brigade and make camp for the night.  Henry assembles the company on the road and we start back to the brigade.  Upon reaching the campsite for the night we begin to put up our shebangs.

Suddenly — off to the left we hear the rattle of musketry.  The right wing of the brigade is camped across a dry creek (the same one we had occupied a couple of miles away) and was under attack by a small Confederate battalion.

The long roll is beating… we all grab our leathers and muskets and fall in.  Quickly, the colonel directs our company and two others to cross the creek and wait in the edge of the woods.  We double-quick to our position while the two other companies run down the creek bed to try and flank the Confederates.

“Hey, Isaac,” Thomas calls out, “We’re going to give them hell now!  We’re going to make Jeff Davis howl.”

“You best not be worrying about Jeff Davis,” I reply, “because I don’t think he’s here!”

The right wing is dug in and giving the rebels hell when we get to the edge of the woods.  They stopped firing so we could deploy in their front and start firing.  As we deployed most of the right wing came out and aligned to our left.  The rebels were looking pretty confident until our other two companies come out of the woods on their flank and pour a murderous fire into them.  They were trying to unlimber a cannon, screened by their battle line, but were taking so many casualties they had to skedaddle.  We chased them across this long field and into the woods on the other end where they disappeared in the fading light.  We only have a few men wounded but they left many killed and wounded behind as they fled.  A burial detail will be sent out after dark.  The wounded will be sent back to a field hospital and from there to some prison camp.

We return to camp and begin building fires so we could cook our food.  Out of the darkness come Charles and Jason with a large ham and sweet potatoes they had foraged.  Nobody asks, but we all know they were in some farmer’s smokehouse.  There are strict orders against foraging, but if you don’t get caught, who cares? 

More than once we’ve had local farmers coming into camp complaining to the colonel that some “damn Yankees” stole his cow or pig and he wanted it back.  Usually, by the time the farmers arrive to complain, the critters are already roasting over the fire.  They’re hard to identify in that state.  I think we’ve got some boys who could butcher a hog on the march and not even break a sweat.

The evening is cool and comfortable as we settle down for some restful sleep. Word is we are going to be on the march early in the morning. 

No sooner did we lay down and Oran starts snoring.  After a few minutes of this ungodly noise the boys start throwing pieces of bark, sticks and small stones trying to wake him.  Calvin finally just rolls him over and he stops.  Oran didn’t even wake up.

Before dawn the sergeants are going through camp waking everyone up.  Normally we awake to fifes and drums, but with the Confederates so close we didn’t want them to know what we were up to.  With a heavy fog hanging we could barely see across camp, let alone know where the enemy was.

The boys get up and stoke the fires to boil coffee and cook our saltpork and hardtack.  As I’m kneeling in the dirt packing my knapsack the shooting starts. 

“Thomas,” I yell, “get up… we’re being attacked!  Get up, damn you!”

Calvin kicks him in the backside and hollers, “Thomas, the rebs are here.  Get yore ass up or yore gonna get captured.”  Calvin gives Thomas another kick and runs away.

Captain Henry tries to stop Calvin but gets knocked to the ground for his effort as Calvin runs toward the road.  Oran, is coming back from the sinks when the action starts, sees Calvin running toward him in a state of panic.

“Calvin… stop, damn you!” Oran shouts as he knocks Calvin down, “Get your ass back in line, I’m not going to let you be a coward.” 

With that Oran drags Calvin back by his leathers and drops him beside his musket.  “Get up and fire that goddamn thing or I’ll kill you myself.”

Evidently our pickets were pulled in too early and the rebels are now crashing through the underbrush, the “rebel yell” piercing the air as they come.  In the fog we can’t tell for sure how many there are, but at the moment we’re being overwhelmed.  More of the boys are breaking and running and now it’s a stampede to get out of camp.  Food is still frying on the fire, equipment is laying everywhere, and we just get the hell out of there.  We run a few hundred yards before the officers can stop us and reassemble the companies.  Now the fog is beginning to lift so the colonel is sending a skirmish company back to try and figure out how big a force attacked our camp.  After a few minutes we hear our skirmish line open up on the rebels.  The colonel sends another company in support and when they arrive our skirmishers are driving off the rebels.  It turns out to be two companies of reb skirmishers preceding a Confederate brigade.  They discovered we had no pickets out and in an act of daring decided to surprise us for breakfast… and did they ever.

Our skirmishers clear away the intruders and we return to our camp to reclaim our belongings. 

“I didn’t mean to run,” Calvin sobs, tears running down his face, “ I was so scared, I’m sorry fellers, so sorry…”

“C’mon, Calvin,” Oran says, “you’ll be all right, get your stuff together, we’re leaving pretty quick.”

 We all feel bad for Calvin, secretly thinking it could have been any one of us who ran but Calvin seems to be pulling himself together.  Plenty of the boys ran this morning in the panic, Calvin wasn’t alone, he was just the first to try and skedaddle.

Several rebs were captured and we learn they are from a Confederate brigade, which is very close.  Since our nearest support is at least a day behind us with the baggage and ammunition trains the colonel has no choice but to retreat rather than bring on a fight here.

Turning around we march about a mile and turn off the road into the dry creek.  It’s very difficult marching, the bottom of the creek is made up of stones the size of apples and the boys are stumbling and falling, cursing all the while.

We walk a half-mile in the creek bed and turn into the woods.  We are in a column of fours but there is no room on the path so we form a single line and follow the narrow trail through the woods.  Our company is near the tail end of the column so we can see the long line of blue uniforms stretching out ahead of us and disappearing in the trees.  Up and down, from hill to ravine, it’s very tough terrain.  Many of the boys are played out and have to drop beside the trail, hoping they will be able to catch up with us later. 

As we walk along I can hear Calvin start up about the gunboats again.  This time Thomas Adams is giving Calvin a hard time.  No argument could change Calvin’s mind… he wanted a transfer to the gunboats.

Thomas Adams came to America from Ireland and is a farmer near Wenona.  He’s whip thin and an amusing rascal who loves to play jokes on the boys.  Thomas is also the heaviest sleeper I have ever known, which is why Calvin and I couldn’t wake him when the Confederates hit our camp earlier this morning.  He annoys the captain with his gambling and drinking and jokes.  One night after the captain crawled into his shelter Thomas and Calvin stacked a large pile of wood in the front so Captain Henry couldn’t get out in the morning.  Lucky for us Henry thought it was funny.

 After an hour on the trail a ten-minute halt is called so we can catch our breath and take a drink of water.  We find a tree and sit against it, some drifting off for a short nap.  Others answer nature’s call further back in the woods.  Again, Calvin has a small fire going trying to get it hot enough to make a cup of coffee.  Calvin, Oran, Thomas and I cluster around the tiny fire shoving our tin cups in hoping to have enough time to bring it to a boil.  Just as the water begins to boil and the smashed coffee beans come to the top word comes to fall in and resume the march… but we’re successful and coffee is made.  Falling in, we start down the trail trying to carry our cups of steaming coffee, cursing as it spills and burns our hands, but otherwise enjoying the refreshment.

We continue through the woods for a couple of hours finally coming out on another dirt road turning south to find our division and the wagon trains.  As the day wears on we cover a good many miles stopping about 6:30 to make camp.  None of us have any idea where we are until Captain Henry stops and tells us we’ve gone about twenty miles that day and are approaching Resaca, Georgia.

Our regimental Commissary Sergeant arrives with salt beef, coffee, sugar, carrots and potatoes and proceeds to issue rations to our regiment.  We will eat no rancid salt pork tonight, probably rancid salt beef instead.

Before dawn the fifes and drums play reveille and we get up to fall in for roll call.  Next it’s a mad scramble to cook breakfast before it’s time to march.  Oran still has some bacon in his haversack so the four of us share it along with coffee and hardtack.  With full stomachs we’re ready for the day.

“Fellers, I’m sorry I ran yesterday, I don’t know what came over me.  I just had the most awful feeling… I was so scared… I just ran.” Calvin says.

“Forget it,” says Thomas, “if you had gotten me up earlier I would have gone with you, Calvin.”

“I’m not writing letters to your mothers explaining why you two were shot in the back,” Oran replies, “so next time the shooting starts you boys just remember why we enlisted in this man’s army…”

“Easy, Oran,” I say, “ now is not the time for one of your long-winded speeches.  We all know why we joined and we’ll all do the best we can.  Calvin just got a little scared, he’ll be all right in the next go ‘round.”

Assembly plays and we fall into line and head to the south again until we come into a large open area, maybe a mile across.  Here the general commanding the division orders the first brigade to deploy in line of battle on the right of the road and our brigade to deploy on the left. 

Across the field is the beginning of the forest and our scouts tell us the secesh is deployed somewhere in the woods.  Our skirmishers go out to cover the brigade front and begin advancing toward the woods.  We follow several hundred yards behind and watch as the skirmishers disappear into the tree line.  We still hear no firing and march on.  The brigade is now at the edge of the woods and the colonel orders us forward into the trees.

Moving into the woods we see nothing but underbrush, trees and vines.  Almost immediately our formation breaks up.  Our knapsacks are catching in the tree limbs and vines, which are everywhere.  The boys are falling over vines running along the ground, getting hung up in the brambles and sticker bushes.  This is a nightmare.  Captain Henry finally gets our company into a single line and we hack our way through this jungle, which seems to take forever.  We wonder where our skirmishers are, figuring they’re lost in the woods like we seem to be.

All of a sudden we pop into a little open area, look to our front and see at least two companies of Confederate infantry only about 50 yards away.  They immediately open fire on us.  Henry deploys our company and orders us to fire at will.  We’re separated from the rest of our regiment and we suspect the whole unit is broken up into groups fighting independently.  We’re outnumbered in our front so Henry moves our rear rank out to the left to cover the Confederate’s front.  Our boys are lying on the forest floor to reload and rising up to fire.  We’ve got good cover here.  The enemy is on a little knoll in the woods and have very little cover.  The air is filled with minié balls, zipping through the leaves and severing small branches.  Bark from the trees showers us as we rise up to fire.  We’re afraid the Johnnies are going to figure out they outnumber us and make a charge so Captain Henry orders us to advance on the enemy.

“Forward, boys,” he shouts and we rise and begin to advance toward the knoll.  The enemy is startled and begins to fall back as we halt after moving about twenty yards forward.  Once again the firing becomes intense. 

I look to my right and see Calvin and he’s standing his ground.  I know he won’t run again.

“Give ‘em hell, Calvin,” I shout over the din.

He looked back at me, smiled, and kept loading.

So far we only have a few wounded in our company, but I can see many Confederate casualties lying in front of their battle line.

As our little battle rages on we are joined by some of our skirmishers who are armed with Henry repeating rifles.  The Henry's add a lot of firepower against muzzle loading muskets and really begin to rip the Confederate line apart.  Our other companies to the right are also pushing the enemy back and we all advance a little further.

Just as Henry is ordering us forward once more he notices two mountain howitzers being pushed up to the knoll beside the two companies in our front.  We turn our attention to trying to shoot the gun crew, but the guns were loaded when they pushed them up.  Henry sees the gunners put in the friction primers and pull the lanyards taut.  He yells, “Everybody down!”  As we hit the dirt the woods explode with two loads of canister and we’re showered with debris from the trees and vines.  The smoke from the howitzers hangs in the woods obscuring us from the enemy.  Henry orders an advance and we rise up and dash into the smoke hitting the Confederate line like a freight train.  Vicious hand-to-hand fighting follows — men clubbing each other with their muskets, fists, tree branches and anything else they can find. 

A reserve company from our regiment jumps in to help us and we’re able to drive the enemy off the knoll, capturing the two mountain howitzers and a number of prisoners.  Our section is clear for the moment.  We let the reserves take care of the prisoners while we try and take a drink and then look for our wounded and dead.

“Shit,” Oran shouts, “Calvin’s hit, it’s bad.”

I run to Oran and kneel down beside him and Calvin.  Oran is cradling Calvin’s head in his arm and trying to stop the bleeding with his other hand.  Calvin is wounded in the gut and it looks bad.

He looks at me and says, “Isaac, do you think I can get transferred to the gunboats now?”

“I reckon you can, Calvin.”

“I didn’t run today, Isaac.”

“We knew you wouldn’t, Calvin.” Oran replied.

“Am I gonna die, Oran?” Calvin asks.

“We won’t let you die, Calvin.”

“I didn’t run today…”

Thomas has taken a ball in the head, but lucky for him it must have ricocheted off a tree or something because by the time it hit him in the forehead it was pretty well spent, leaving him with a large lump which is turning black and blue.  Thomas is cursing a blue streak and holding his head.  Oran tells Thomas about Calvin but Thomas is still dazed and it doesn’t register. 

Our company lost 6 killed, Calvin among them, and 14 wounded.

Our day was not done.  A messenger arrives from the colonel ordering us to the battalion right flank.  Henry orders us to double-quick and when we get to the right flank we come out on a dirt road — and there in front of us is the left flank of the Confederate battle line.

We fire into them, killing many with our first volley, they panic and begin to break and run.  As we reload, another company of Union soldiers rushes in front of us and gives chase to the fleeing enemy.  Henry orders us to rest beside the road – nobody argued with him – we just collapsed in the weeds. 

The firing stops and as we lay beside the road other companies round up the prisoners and march them off to the rear for their trip north and prison.  Henry sends a squad back into the woods to round up our stragglers and any walking wounded they can find.  They return a short while later with a dozen men in tow, and Thomas.  He is still cursing the secesh.

The Ordnance Sergeant and his detail move through the regiment replenishing our ammunition.  Some of the boys have emptied their cartridge boxes and have been taking cartridges and caps from the dead and wounded. 

We’re glad this day was coming to a close.  Our march since this morning covered 22 miles before the battle.  Everyone was dog tired and I don’t think we could have gone another mile.

Tomorrow could be another battle.  We’re told we’re very near Resaca now and the Confederates are digging in and are expected to make a stand.  General Sherman has arrived with the rest of the army and is riding through our lines.  The boys cheer long and loud for “Uncle Billy.”  We would follow him to the Gates of Hell just like we followed General Grant before he was sent east. 

As the sun is setting we can hear the distant ring of axes as the Confederates are no doubt building earthworks.  We can’t see them but we can certainly hear them as we roll up in our blankets and try to get some sleep.  It’s a rather warm evening and hardly anyone is bothering to build  shebangs.

In the distance a Confederate band begins to play and our camp is silent as everybody listens to their music.  When they stop our band begins to play.  It’s hard to imagine as we lay there listening to this beautiful music that tomorrow we’ll try just as hard to kill them as they will us. 

The morning dawns hot and muggy.  Everyone is up and there’s an ominous feeling, boys are clustered in small groups talking quietly.  Many are writing their names on scraps of paper and pinning them to their uniforms so if they are killed they won’t be buried as an unknown.  They are also discarding their dice and playing cards so mother won’t know what they learned in the army.

Word comes to stack our knapsacks and leave the walking wounded to guard them.  This is not good.  Everyone is quiet as we form up.

As I look around I notice Oran and Thomas are quiet, most likely thinking about poor Calvin.  I think about what this day might bring, of home, of how mother and father are.  I wonder if they are thinking of me.  I think of Calvin Lightheart and regret not being able to give him a proper burial.  I wonder how this turned from patriotic duty to the dirty job it seems to be now.

“Uncle Billy” waits beside the road as we march past toward Resaca.  A mile later we find ourselves behind a railroad grade formed in a line of battle.  We can see the Confederate earthworks and their damned flags in the distance. 

This is shaping up to be the biggest battle we’ve been in so far and we’re all scared as hell.  I’m not having any thoughts of grand and glorious charges now, only of surviving.  Looking around me I realize the other boys are having the same thoughts.  This isn’t at all what we thought it was going to be.

Now seems like a good time to pin my name on my coat.

I've created this blog to, as the title says, ramble on about things that interest me.  And there's plenty in this life that interests me.

The world around me interests me.  I live in a small rural community surrounded by corn and bean fields and in this area of central Illinois you really see the change of seasons, driven home by the farming process, planting season, growing season, and harvest season followed by the winter months of barren fields.  I find it all beautiful in it's own way.

Spring reminds me of getting ready for a race but this one is with Mother Nature.  Watching the farmers scurrying around prepping the fields and getting ready to plant.  Then all the machinery moving on the local roads going from field to field to get the seeds in.  Is it too wet, is it to dry, will this get in before the next storm coming across the plains.

The soil right around here is extremely good and in recent years the crops have been good.  It's amazing to watch how fast the corn grows.  Remember the old adage "when the corn is knee-high by the 4th of July?"  Around here the corn is usually over 5 feet tall by the 4th of July.

Right now, early September, the corn is starting to dry out, turning from the rich green color to a dry yellow and most likely in about three or four weeks they will start picking depending on the moisture in the corn.  Once the harvest starts it's like the end of a race.  You'll see two combines  working a field with, in some cases, semis driving along side the combine and corn being transferred as they continue down the field.  It's an awesome sight.

It's going to be a while before they get into the fields to begin harvest but here's a pic from a couple of years ago.

I'll continue rambling another time.