Monday, Monday*

OK, I'm not a big fan of poetry, not against it mind you, just not a fan.  Most of the poetry I'm familiar with is the lyrics of several Fighter Pilot songs.  Most definitely not appropriate for Sarge's delicate ears.

So, you ain't getting poetry today.

I thought about a food posting based on a story our DIL told at brunch today.  Seems one of my former students, who went to Med School, got married, has a kid and another on the way and works in the Urgent Care Clinic in town (i.e. She Done Good!), volunteered to provide a meal for the Men's ACTS retreat recently.  However something, based no doubt on all the factors outlined in that sentence, caused her to forget her commitment until the last minute.

Reaching deep into her culinary repertoire, she produced a sumptuous meal that was well appreciated by all.  She called it "Nut Pate with a grape reduction compote served on a Brioche".

Doing research for how to expand that into a post, I found several sites that transformed a normal item into a culinary legend.  My personal favorite? "Pan seared yeast leavened flat bread with tomato herb curdled dairy accompaniment".   Made some of that one night last week

But, nah, that ain't it either.

Based on a comment of one of Sarge's posts last week, I thought about talking about my terrain walk of the Vicksburg battlefield with the other 49 Students in my SAMS class.  Quite interesting.  Given that I was one of 3 non-Army students (1 Navy O-4 Logistician, 1 AF O-4 Logistician and Moi), we were a little out of our league.

The school had assigned roles to each of the students in the class based on their MOS.  So an Infantry guy was Grant (He's now the current USARPAC Commander, he was my roommate on these trips and running buddy. (reminder to self, never choose an infantry guy to run with.)). Another was Pemberton. 

So on and so on.

Documented evidence to the contrary, historians believe that Air Power's role in the Civil War was limited to observation balloons and they weren't used at Vicksburg.
Source

So, my role was as a Union Cavalry officer.  Run around, causing havoc where ever he happened to have the opportunity.  Havoc is my middle name.

No, I don't have a clue what his name was.

In any case, we're walking various battlefields (because the Vicksburg campaign raged from Vicksburg to Jackson and New Orleans to almost Memphis) and at each point, the students whose assigned persona took part in that portion of the campaign would talk about that person's actions, results, accomplishments and mistakes.

The first battlefield we visited, mostly because we arrived late in the day, and they wanted to get the terrain walk started, was on the riverfront in Vicksburg itself.  We walked a mile or so away from the preserved fortifications and found a trenchline that was more or less intact.

So, the folks with speaking parts began speaking, I'm looking around and trying to figure out how anybody knew what was going on.  You couldn't see squat for trees and vines and other foliage.

Yes, the fighter pilot was learning.

We visited "Grant's Ditch", an attempt to dig a canal that would bypass Vicksburg cutting it off while simultaneously opening up the Mississippi.  This engineering feet was conducted on what very loosely was called an island.  It actually was a swamp.  

Yes, it was a terrain walk, we walked in the swamp.  No, I wasn't enthused.

Needless to say, the person charged as Grant's engineer detailed many mistakes and failures.

Finally, it's the third and last day and we're going East of Vicksburg about 20 miles (AKA 20 minutes in a bus, about 4 days when marching, fortunately the instructors didn't have 4 days).

Grant has three columns moving toward's Pemberton's forces on the high ground known as Champion Hill.  At last, poor naive me thinks.  We'll be able to see something.

Source

Not so much.  Also, the road wasn't paved when we were there, it was dirt.  Since it had been raining most of the time we were in Vicksburg, it wasn't actually dirt, it was mud.  The Army spared no expense to help me experience just how good they've got it. 

So, we're standing in the mud and driving rain, I give my spiel how the cavalry had spotted a weakness in Pemberton's position which if exploited could split the Confederate forces and allow then to be cut off.  

Cheers rained from my fellow students as I finished my brilliant analysis which I'd found from the diary of whomever it was I was supposed to be that day and had read to them.

We then trudged back down the road to the waiting busses.  As I'm slogging along, in the mud and water, I kick my foot against what I think is a rock.  My big toe is screaming at me.  I fish in the puddle for the offending rock and pull out a portion of what appeared to have once been a sphere about 6 inches in diameter and made of iron, convex on one side, concave on the other.  It was the remnants of a cannon ball that had exploded there during the battle.

Unfortunately, based on the National Park Services rules, I was not allowed to keep it.

Given that my big toe was sprained, I believe, that not only was I the last casualty of Pearl Harbor, but I was also the last casualty of the Civil War.

And that's my claim to fame.

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