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