Sir,

Beg to report on our engagement in Gettysburg the weekend of July 4, 5 and 6 commemorating the 145th anniversary of the Great Battle.  It was a glorious event that left all who represented the 44th Georgia profoundly moved and proud to be a part of this historic milestone.

The 145th Gettysburg Re-enactment was held on the Redding Farm, 3 miles north of the town.  It was lovely ground with Confederate and Union campsites on opposing hills overlooking a valley of rolling farmland that leveled off to a half-mile plot serving as the battlefield.

The Confederate encampment sat on two tracks:  one wedged into the side of a sloping hill in which some of the cannon and limbers were stationed, and a long, open field higher up the crest of the same hill.  Acres of tents filled this plateau, which was divided by wide paths and angled off into a myriad of company streets.  As we arrived, it was obvious that this was more than an encampment; this weekend the hill was home to a small city. 

It was at the field at the crest of the hill where the 44th camped. Both fields on the hill were connected with a steep path that during the three days alternated between gravel road and mud pit; and it was on this road that we tramped down past the Redding farmhouse and onto the battlefield and when the hard day’s work was done, back up again to our tents.

Representing the 44th were Capt. Clark VanBuskirk and Betty VanBuskirk; Sergeants Mike Ferry and Rick Sasor; Corporal Jonathan Sasor; Privates Billy Rengle, Ken Doran, Clark R. VanBuskirk, Dan Kimball, Pioneer Anthony Ferry and Yours Truly. Also on hand were Michale Hewitt and Jean Arello.  We were joined by members of the 30th Virginia, 7th Virginia Calvary, 1st C.S. Regulars, 2nd Florida and 2nd Texas regiments to form the left wing of a battalion commanded by Col. Duffie Miller.    Local newspapers estimated that between 13,000 and 15,000 re-enactors and nearly 500 horses participated in the three-day event.  In our company, we numbered 22 the first day of battle and increased to 33 rifles and officers by Sunday.

It rained each day, mostly in spurts, sometimes in downpours, with Friday being the steadiest of the heavy weather.  One could not help but notice that as the closer we came to a first call for each assembly, the clouds thickened.  And it wasn’t until each time we counted off in columns of two’s that the heavens took that opportunity to open up.  Even with the rain falling, the heat persisted.  Our officers reminded us to keep drinking water and replenish our canteens regularly.

The battle on Friday, July 4, was for possession of Cemetery Hill.  We formed ranks and stood in line for quite some time as the rain gave us a good soaking.  In time, we slogged down the gravel road and eventually made our way to the field where the Yankees were lined up and waiting.  Our battalion formed at a right angle to the Yankee left flank.  After cannon and muskets from the enemy opened up, the order was given for us to move.  We marched at the left oblique for some distance and then wheeled right into a battle line to face the enemy in a smartly executed maneuver that took us to a creek of one to two feet in depth. 

The boys sprinted through the creek as if it were no more than a dip in our path.  We raced to a point directly across the Union line where we poured volley after volley into them.  The volleys were crisp whether delivered by the entire left wing, by company, or by file.  We kept the firing hot, taking turns carrying our wounded behind our lines to the creek and coolly filled gaps when necessary. 

After fierce exchanges, we were ordered to load and hold fire.  When the smoke lifted, we eventually pulled the entire battalion back to the creek.  Our rest was brief when the Colonel told us we had done enough for the day and we were ordered back to camp.  But before we marched back, the colonel said how proud he was of our performance, how well we had moved into position amid the whirlwind of fire around us and how closely we had followed orders.  This was a sentiment echoed by Capt. VanBuskirk who told us even the General remarked how pleased and proud he was of our action that day.

Dawn on Saturday brought a heavy fog.  As we formed for an early morning drill, the rain once again pelted us.  We marched without muskets and practiced moving in various formations in and out of battle lines and moving to fill gaps in the lines, as well as avoiding obstructions.  The air was heavy and the heat started to build as we practiced moving from column of fours into battle lines, up and down the hill, through gullies, in potholes and in patches of poison ivy.

Back at camp, the rain stopped and did not return until the afternoon’s first call.  Our wet gear got soaked even more as we again stood for some time in formation, awaiting orders to move out.  This time, we were to engage the Union forces at the Klingle Farm.  Our company was among the vanguard of our force as we again made the trek down the gravel path, now slippery with mud that stuck to the soles of our Brogans making every step risky and heavier. 

The battalion entered the battlefield with enthusiasm as we formed ranks and awaited orders.  Again, we moved across the creek and formed on the enemy’s left flank, but after holding that position without firing a shot, we were then ordered back behind the creek and further away from the Union line.  For a while, the two armies glared at each other. 

Then, we noticed puffs of white smoke and heard faint pops of a volley from a company of impudent Yankees off to the distance on our extreme left, breaking the quiet that had settled on the field.  This was followed by sporadic volleys from enemy companies down their line until one of our companies returned fire.  At that point cannons opened up and the fight was again engaged. 

There was some confusion in our movements, and we eventually found ourselves formed by a rail fence firing into a company of enemy Zouaves, their red shirts making easy targets through the smoke.  There again came a lull in the fighting and the two armies watched each other cautiously.  Jeers were hurled back and forth, some good-natured, some not.  After a while, we noticed pieces of the Union line pulling back, and eventually so did the Zouaves to our front.  The Yankees left the field – and the day -- to us.

When we returned to camp, Sergeant Ferry led a cooking detail and that produced a stew containing carrots, potatoes and some kind of unidentified meat.  Few questioned the contents as it was consumed heartily.  And completely.

The sun made a brief appearance Sunday morning, respectfully in time for church services.  By Sunday, the boys were a bit warn from the heat, the rain, and the fighting, but our spirits were still strong as we readied for the final charge – Pickett’s Charge -against the enemy that afternoon.  Many passed the morning resting, while others began stowing gear and neatening up the camp in preparation for the last event.

At 1:30 the first call came, and the heavens responded with several rolls of thunder.  Clouds again thickened, but this time, the rain held off until we completed counting off.  Fortunately it lasted for only as long as we had to stand in line awaiting the order to move out and completely stopped by time we were midway down the gravel road.  Our line halted briefly under the trees by the Redding farmhouse affording us the chance to see the long line of Rebels moving into position down the quarter-mile path that led to the battlefield.  Behind us were more or our troops stacking up the gravel road up the hill and awaiting their turn to move.  We were told that our numbers had increased overnight and it was not known how many Confederates would be on the field this day. 

By time we crossed the road that divided the farm from the battlefield and moved to a staging area along the field’s edge, the sun was out strong and steady, heating up the afternoon.  We stacked arms while the rest of the troops followed us down from the farmhouse.  We rested, chatted lightly and took ice from Good Samaritans who fanned out among our ranks.  Captain VanBuskirk walked down our line checking the state of our health, shaking the hand of each man in his command encouraging us for the work ahead, and thanking us for joining in this honored re-enactment.

Looking around, we noticed more Rebel troops pouring down farmhouse path onto the field, extending our line further and further down until the dark macadam of the county road and the gray and butternut uniforms of our boys were indistinguishable.  And more kept coming.  And more were behind them awaiting their turn on the gravel road that led to our camp up the hill almost a mile away.  We stood awestruck at the inexorable surge of men, an unstoppable force.  To those of us who watched, it was an astounding and relentless show of pride in the gray uniform and devotion to the memory of those who made the immortal charge we now were waiting to recreate 145 summers later. 

As we watched this magnificent display, the infamous Rebel Yell rose up involuntarily from our ranks.  The cry rose to a pitch that I’m sure echoed from the farm, past the town of Gettysburg and to the ridges and stony hills of the Great Battlefield. 

And then the cannons opened up, one spine-tingling blast of fury and smoke after another.  The company hurried back to get on line where we could watch the fireworks and await orders to unstack arms and begin the march.  Every so often, one of our cannon would belch a colossal boom from a double canister round, evoking a flurry of waving hats and more hurrahs.  Many in line joked about ignoring the outcome of history and taking the stone wall anyway.

The cannons traded rounds for some time.  As their fire slowed, we began to hear the shouting of orders from down the line.  It was time to go in.

We stepped off in a battle line behind a company of Virginians.  About 30 yards out, we marched at the oblique and then wheeled right into a straight line to position ourselves again cross the creek at a point where there was a makeshift footbridge.  The Yankees -- shoulder to shoulder along the entire length of the stone wall and moving to reinforce their flanks -- hurled volley after volley at us.  By this time all the long gray lines were in motion across the entire field, converging toward the angle in the stone wall.  While we crossed the footbridge in columns of two, other units to the left and behind couldn’t wait and dashed down the embankment of the creek and sloshed through the knee-high water. 

Once over the creek, we reformed our battle line, and let loose a volley to support the charging Virginians in our front.  Withering return fire from the Yankees had devastating effect on them as they fell in groups. 

Now it was our turn.  We gave the Blue bellies a precision volley and then came the order to charge.  With a final Rebel Yell we raced to the Yankee position, and into their line of fire.  We took our hits and fulfilled our mission.  To our left, the rest of the long gray line continued to struggle up the slope to the angle in the stone wall, but the strength of the enemy position and the concentration of fire on our boys was too much to overcome.

The fighting then wound down and soon a quiet settled over the field.  A bugler played taps and all uncovered to pay honor to the soldiers of both armies who fought bravely –- and who gave the last full measure -- at Picketts Charge.

By the slope near the stone wall, soldiers in Blue and Gray mingled for a while shaking hands, exchanging hugs. The day ended with a slow walk back to camp where the 44th was dismissed.

Submitted with my Compliments,

Pvt. Mike Lordi

July 9, 2008