The Road to Gettysburg

(Original)

I want to say that the year in which this tale took place was 1966. I can't say for sure but I know that I was about 13 (which would have been '66) as I remember needing to shave and I remember a distinct interest in the fairer sex about that time. More on that in a bit. With that being said...

So, there I was...*

A number of my new friends in junior high school (wasn't called "middle school" back then, a term I don't care for as I'm an old fuddy-duddy school) were participating in this Civil War reenactment group. (Yes, Civil War, that's what we Yankees call it, it's what I grew up with, you Southrons can hold yer water for the nonce.)

As I was a student of all things military, and the centennial of that great blood-letting had just passed, I was keen to join. Mom and Dad had heard of this reenacting thing and immediately had visions of lots of money going towards this particular hobby. But, my friends assured them that the firearms were provided, as was some of the equipment, all that the parental units needed to provide was clothing.

Alas, while I had envisioned uniforms like those in the opening photo, 'twas not to be. For, and I am ashamed to say this, we were "farbs." (Which regardless of what the link states, I've always maintained that the word derives from the German for color, i.e., Farbe.

Mom sallied forth and purchased the requisite dark blue shirt and trousers which were de rigueur for our unit. Both items were manufactured by a clothing firm yclept "Big Yank." Which I suppose was at least trending toward the correct sentiment, the Yank bit anyway. (Noun, not verb. Behave ye varlets.)

Once this kitting out had occurred, I went to my first "muster" of my new unit. We were apparently reenacting the 9th Vermont Infantry, the real soldiers of that unit would no doubt be aghast at our clothing (though it was far more comfortable and rugged than the stuff worn in the 1860s, Hell, it was better than some of the "Made in China" crap that's sold now, but I digress) and our youth.

The average age, as I recall, was 'round about thirteen. We had two old farts in charge, as I look back on it, they were both kinda sorta backwoods knuckleheads, but I'll get to that later. We marched back and forth a bit, were issued our rifles, kepis, belts (with US belt buckles) and cap and cartridge boxes. (The cap box was a small affair worn on the belt which held the percussion caps needed to fire the weapon, while the cartridge box was slung over the shoulder to hang at the right hip.) Other than the uniforms, we didn't look half bad. But farbs we were, there's no mistaking it.

A few days after I had "joined up," the word came down that the unit would be going to Gettysburg, for to stem the Rebel invasion, er, for to participate in a battle reenactment.

"Gee Mom and Dad, all my friends are going." was my plea.

"Well, I'll speak to the head knucklehead about it." sayeth my dear old Dad.

Words were exchanged, permission was given, and after much wailing, gnashing of teeth, and rending of garments, Mother consented to her oldest young'un heading off to faux war.

With much excitement I rendezvoused with my brothers in arms and we boarded a big blue school bus to head from Vermont to out meeting with destiny in Pennsylvania. (Imagine my child-like wonder at boarding my very first Air Force Blue Goose bus in later years, recalling the trip to Gettysburg.)

Anyhoo. We were on the road, it would take two days as much of the Eisenhower Interstate System was still being built. Even with the interstate I doubt that old bus could make the trip in less than two days.

The first day's trip ended on a little farm just outside Binghamton, New York. The leader of our merry band, we happy few, went up to the farmhouse and con permiso "might me and the boys camp out here on your front lawn?"

"No."

"Really? What if I offered you a few bucks?"

"Well, you can park the bus right there on the road to the barn. But keep your misfits off the lawn!"

So Chief Knucklehead (CK) returned to our chariot and asked the lads to pony up a buck a head so that he could pay the inhospitable harpy, er, farm lady so that we might bide a while on her dirt road. Amidst much grumbling each of us handed over a bit from our limited stash of ducats and watched as CK returned to the farmhouse, cap in hand, and forked over the extortion money, er, "lodging fee."

Some of us thought it might be a good idea to go into town for to find some provender as the two knuckleheads in charge had brought food for themselves but made no provision for the lads in their charge. (Upon returning to Vermont, my Dad was barely dissuaded from shooting CK and his obese compatriot, or Knucklehead Number Two (KN2) as I shall refer to him now. Can't believe how innocent those days were. A bunch of 12 and 13 year olds in the charge of a couple of rural dimwits.)

So into town we went. Found a Friendly's Restaurant right away, well, after walking the better part of a mile, and went on in to get some grub. Satiated, we were having rather too much post meal fun, and were, somewhat politely, asked to depart the premises. To which one of my compatriots commented, "Well, it isn't all that friendly here, is it? You should change the name of the place to..."

"GET OUT! NOW!"

Off we went, back to our roadside caravanserai where, it now being dark, we boarded the bus and attempted to catch 20 winks.

But it was hot and humid, and the mosquitoes were having a field day supping on our blood. It was too damned hot to try and sleep on that bus, sitting up, so off we got and proceeded to lie upon the earth with naught but a single blanket to cover us.

CK yelled at us to stay off the lawn. With a few muttered "go fire truck yourself" from the lads, we ignored CK and tried to sleep. Well, dontcha know it but him and KN2 both got off the bus and joined us on the grass. Where, with a rumble of thunder, it began to rain. Heavily.

Looking about, a few of us got under the bus. Where the downpour was lessened and the flashing lightning and thunder could be semi-ignored. Well, except for all the water running down the ruts of that dirt road out to the barn, we were somewhat sheltered. And there was enough room between the wheel ruts for most of us to stretch out and visit the land of Nod, however briefly.

For it didn't seem that long before CK and KN2 got us up and back on the bus. Bright and early it was, seems that our presence on that little farm was no longer welcomed. Seems that CK and KN2 had been up to the farmhouse, begging for a cup of coffee, and had been unceremoniously "sent off." Shotguns may or may not have been involved, I can't really say.

So back on the road we were, driving to the sound of the guns as it were. On the road to Gettysburg.

Stay tuned for part 2 (maybe more), "Thunder" Near Gettysburg. (I don't want this post to drift into the "TL;DR" category. I do tend to get long winded at times. So the tale will continue on the morrow. Patience me lads and lasses!)




* SJC