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Local Civil War soldiers fight it out at Gettysburg
The idea that any one of us might one day make a decision that will change the course of the history of the world might be a little disconcerting. It would be a heavy burden to bear, to be sure, especially when we don’t know when that day might come, or what decision will do the changing.
But the reality is that, over the course of three days in 1863, men from this area — regular folks like us who lived along the meandering Pompton and Pequannock rivers in the farmland that made up Passaic and Morris counties — actually did do things that have resonated across the ages and swayed the course of events over the centuries.
Those men were, by all accounts, just like us, the only difference being that they were born earlier. They saw the same snows fall on the same hills, watched the same rivers flood in the early spring, and walked the same main streets that we do today.
Now, they are buried in our towns, mute witnesses watching from beneath stone slabs as we wait at the Ringwood Avenue traffic light or amble out of a Pequannock town meeting, utterly absorbed in our everyday lives.
In their own lives, though, they were extraordinary. And at Gettysburg, the little Pennsylvania hamlet of then 2,500 situated just 10 miles from the Maryland border, they proved it in a fashion that ensured that word of their deeds would live far longer than their bodies.
In some ways, they were like the town of Gettysburg itself — famous for nothing in particular before 170,000 soldiers converged there and caused its name to become immediately synonymous with death and devastation on an unimaginable scale, and put it on par with places like Marathon, Hastings, and Waterloo in how it would affect the path of the human race.
It may sound like hyperbole, but it is assuredly not. The importance of what happened on the overgrown, rocky heights around Gettysburg over the course of those three balmy days 150 years ago cannot be overstated, and how those brave souls from Morris and Passaic counties fought can never be forgotten.
Longest spring on record
If, after the disastrous Battle of Fredericksburg in December 1862, the Union cause had seemed bleak, by the late spring of 1863, it was in total shambles.
The northern Army of the Potomac had been taken over by a new general, the Massachusetts-born "Fighting Joe" Hooker, and he promptly whipped the soldiers back into shape before taking them into action at Chancellorsville that May, where he was promptly defeated in spectacular fashion.
As usual, the army had performed well, but the overwhelming incompetence of its commander, who was replaced soon after, led it to failure.
General George Meade replaced Hooker, and he followed the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia north as it invaded Pennsylvania in the hopes that one last, great victory, this time on northern soil, would either clear the path to Washington or bring about foreign intervention from England or France.
Using the mountains of Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley as a screen, the Southerners, commanded by the legendary Robert E. Lee, were likely headed toward Harrisburg until a chance run-in between a brigade of Confederate infantry and some Union cavalry sparked the bloodiest battle in American history.
The first day’s fight
Legends abound about why exactly the rebels were marching down the Chambersburg Pike on the morning of July 1. Popular myth says that Confederate division commander Harry Heth had heard that there were shoes in Gettysburg, and moved to seize them for his troops, many of whom had made the long walk from Virginia barefoot. Others say he knew exactly what awaited him.
Regardless, when his lead brigades ran into the Union cavalry of General John Buford, a fight quickly ensued. Buford, a career soldier, recognized the value of the series of ridges around Gettysburg, and his men used their new breach-loading carbines to fight a frustrating delaying action that gave the Union infantry time to arrive.
Soon, thousands from each side had arrived, and units dove headlong into the battle as commanders from both armies sent couriers to other commanders telling them to get to the little crossroads with all possible speed. By the afternoon, Union soldiers had formed a wide semi-circle northwest of the town that held against repeated attacks until eventually, outflanked and outnumbered, they broke and ran.
It looked as if the Army of the Potomac had been defeated once again, but slowly, the panicking troops rallied on a hill with a cemetery on it just south of the town, and the Confederates, tired and disorganized, rested instead of pressing the attack.
More federal troops arrived that night, and by morning, the Confederates were facing a fortified position that extended east to neighboring Culp’s Hill.
‘They held their own’
By the morning of July 2, the Union line resembled a gigantic fish hook, with the barb at Culp’s Hill and the shank on Cemetery Ridge, which ran south away from Cemetery Hill before culminating in two rocky hills: Little Round Top and Big Round Top.
With federal troops now firmly entrenched on the high ground and the prospects of a frontal assault looking grim, Lee ordered General James Longstreet to take the 17,000 men of his I Corps and turn the Union left to attack Cemetery Ridge and the Round Tops.
Standing in his way was the Union III Corps, led by a New York Democrat named Dan Sickles. Sickles, who was made a general more because of his political affiliations than his expertise in the field, decided that the ground in front of Cemetery Ridge looked a bit higher, and thought that moving his men forward might give them a better position. What it really did, however, was create an isolated salient in the Union line; now, the shank sat a mile in front of the rest of the hook.
A good many Morris County troops were with Sickles that day, and many, like those in the 7th and 8th New Jersey, would be in the forefront of the action.
The 7th was a veteran unit that had fought in the war’s most vicious battles, and among them was the 23-year-old Lewis Kerr, who was very likely a resident of Pequannock and would be buried in the graveyard of the First Reformed Church of Pompton Plains.
David Hann, a New Jersey reenactor who has been portraying a 7th New Jersey soldier for the past 27 years, said that unlike many other regiments, the 7th was made up of men from every corner of the state.
"Passaic County had a company, Morris County had a company…and you had firemen from Hoboken, watermen from Cape May, and German iron molders [in the same regiment]," Hann said.
The 7th’s mission was to support Battery B of the 1st New Jersey Light Artillery, which also had a strong Morris County contingent made up of 18-year-old Theodore F. Ackerman, 21-year-old Charles Monks, and James B. Onderdonk (age unknown), all of whom were from Pequannock and are now interred at the First Reformed Church of Pompton Plains.
Butler was also represented, and working the cannons alongside their Pequannock brethren were 17-year-old Abram Brown, 24-year-old James Walker, and John Luther (age unknown). They now lie in the borough’s Manning Avenue graveyard.
The Jerseymen were in a precarious position, however, and none realized it faster than Meade himself. Just as he was about to order them back into line, however, Longstreet’s attack began, and it was Battery B’s guns, commanded by A. Judson Clark, who "announced to the assembled corps commanders that ‘the ball had opened,’" Samuel Toombs wrote in his 1888 book "New Jersey Troops in the Gettysburg Campaign."
Southerners had emerged from the woods Battery B’s front, but the heavy lead shells quickly made them decide against attacking.
"[Clark] opened fire, using shell and shrapnel, firing slowly with good effect… the fire of the battery drove [the rebels] back to the cover of the woods," wrote Sergeant Leander McChesney in his book "History of Battery B."
Clark wrote in his official report that after repelling the attack with canister shot — tin shells filled with hundreds of little lead balls that exploded like a shotgun shell — his guns engaged the rebel artillery in a duel that the New Jerseyans would convincingly win.
"[Clark] passed from gun to gun directing the fire of each, character of missile and time of fuse," wrote McChesney. "As soon as he was satisfied with the effect of battery fire, he gave the order ‘Fire at will,’ and from that moment our six Parrott guns poured a stream of shell and shrapnel into the enemy’s batteries."
Soon, however, other rebel batteries opened on them with what Clark called a "rapid and severe" fire, and Longstreet’s infantry came in hard behind it. Battery B, along with the 7th — which Toombs wrote was forced to helplessly endure the duel — would soon be engaged in one of the most violent maelstroms of war ever seen on this earth.
Clark’s Morris County cannons, which kept up a "very destructive" fire, opened wide gaps in the Confederate ranks moving toward the Peach Orchard, and dying and mutilated men fell by the score. Still, all along the line, the Southerners surged.
The nearby 8th New Jersey, which was the home unit of Pequannock’s George Decker and Henry Morgan as well as Butler’s Isaac Ogden, was ordered to cross a nearby (and soon to be infamous) wheat field and take up a position behind a stone wall, Toombs wrote.
Numbering just 198 men, they were struck head-on by General James Kershaw’s brigade of South Carolinians, which numbered somewhere around 1,300, and in a few minutes, a "sharp, severe, and bloody struggle" commenced, wrote Toombs.
"The 8th fought with the gallantry and bravery which proved them worthy followers of the heroic Kearny," he wrote. "Their ranks were rapidly thinned, and as they fell slowly back, their colors became entangled in a tree. The remnant of brave fellows rallied around them with cheers and re-formed to meet the advancing foe. At this point the 8th was subjected to a severe musketry fire and sustained heavy losses."
Their colonel fell wounded, and by the time the regiment was relieved, it had lost nearly a third of its strength.
South Carolina and New Jersey would prove to be mortal enemies that day, and Hann said that just as the 7th’s colonel, Louis Francine, was about to order the regiment backwards to avoid the cannonade, Battery B came under direct assault from Kershaw’s Carolinians.
Battery B limbered up quickly as its horse-drawn pieces tore through the 7th’s ranks, creating a mass of confusion. To counter this, Francine had all 331 men fire once at the incoming rebels, and then ordered a bayonet charge to distract them from the retreating cannons.
Soon, the "devoted little band swept across the field with shouts of confidence," Toombs wrote, but quickly, the "hopelessness of the 7th’s effort was apparent, and all knew that any further advance meant certain annihilation for the brave Jerseymen."
"[A charge] was attempted, but the enemy’s fire was so severe that we were compelled to fall back," the 7th’s Major Frederick Cooper later wrote.
Francine went down, mortally wounded, as did Lieutenant-Colonel Price, who rallied the regiment until he himself fell. Cooper took over, and withdrew under heavy attack. The regiment lost nearly 40 percent of its number, but Kerr would survive.
Battery B, which now has a large monument on the field, fired 1,300 rounds at Gettysburg — so many, Hann said, that the barrels of their cannons had to be scrapped after the battle.
And the 7th, Hann said with no small degree of pride, had proved its mettle.
"They really stood tall against Kershaw, and you’re talking about a regiment against a brigade," he said. "The 7th New Jersey held their own."
The 13th at Culp’s Hill
Meanwhile, the men of the 13th New Jersey held a position on the extreme right flank of the Union line — at the barb, as opposed to the shank — and in that regiment were two soldiers from Pompton Lakes: the 27-year-old Capt. David Austen Ryerson and his 25-year-old brother, Peter.
It is written in the "Biographical and Genealogical History of the City of Newark and Essex County" that the brothers were of Huguenot descent, their ancestors having arrived from Holland in the earliest part of the 18th century and settling in the Pompton Valley shortly thereafter.
They’d signed up for the 13th in the summer of 1862, and at least one source attributes the decision to grief over the death of their 63-year-old father, who’d been killed leading a regiment of New Jerseyans at the 1862 Battle of Williamsburg.
The 13th had survived a lead baptism at Antietam, and by Gettysburg was considered a strong, reliable group of about 360 veterans. During the day on July 2, it had been shuffled around to provide support to whomever was being attacked, but found itself back on Culp’s Hill in the early hours of July 3 just as the Union troops were attacking to recoup ground lost the previous night.
"The Union artillery opened along the whole line, and from this time until ten o'clock a fierce, stubborn, and desperate battle was waged. On the success of the Twelfth Corps now depended the safety of the army," Toombs wrote, somewhat dramatically. "The continued roll of musketry, the deafening roar of the artillery were listened to by the waiting army with apprehension. The long lines of wounded men being carried to the rear gave evidence of the severity of the struggle."
As the fight raged, the 13th stayed mostly in support until David Ryerson’s company became embroiled in a southern counterattack.
The Confederates, consisting of mostly men from Stonewall Jackson’s legendary legions, "fought madly," said Toombs, "heroically and with a bravery which only Jackson’s men could show, but they were at a disadvantage — the Union line, sheltered by the rocks and immense boulders up to the face of which the rebels charged again and again, enabled them to inflict serious injury upon their assailants, and heavy as the Union loss [were] that of the enemy was [terrible]."
Ryerson’s company helped repulse the attack and send the rebels streaming back in disorder.
"At the first fire [the Confederates] were completely checked, and at the second they broke in confusion and fled, leaving their dead and wounded on the field," wrote one veteran.
Sometime during the fight, however, David Ryerson was shot. How serious it was, or where he was hit, is unknown, but it was serious enough that he was listed as a casualty. However, he would not follow his father’s footsteps to the other side just yet — he would live, to fight again another day.
And the Union position — all of it — was safe.
Their legacy
As the smoke cleared on the evening of July 3, it was not yet clear that the battle was over. However, heavy rains moved into the area on July 4, and Lee began the process of staging a slow, painful retreat back to Virginia. After a combined 51,000 American casualties, the great fight was over.
There would be more battles, of course — the war would last for two more grueling years — and hundreds of thousands more would die, but the southern army would never again be that strong, and the northerners would never again come so close to total defeat.
The great invasion was turned back, and the men of Morris and Passaic counties had stood firm in defense of their homes, which for once, had not seemed so distant.
Many would serve out the remainder of the war, and some would not survive it. But all who fought on the fields of Gettysburg would be able to say, without exaggeration, that they’d helped breathe new life into a nation that, at least for a few days, was in its death throes.
They were, and still are, heroes deserving of the highest honors.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/community/history/more_history_news/216388111_Local_Civil_War_soldiers_fight_it_out_at_Gettysburg.html
Civil War, New Jersey, Gettysburg, History
But the reality is that, over the course of three days in 1863, men from this area — regular folks like us who lived along the meandering Pompton and Pequannock rivers in the farmland that made up Passaic and Morris counties — actually did do things that have resonated across the ages and swayed the course of events over the centuries.
Those men were, by all accounts, just like us, the only difference being that they were born earlier. They saw the same snows fall on the same hills, watched the same rivers flood in the early spring, and walked the same main streets that we do today.
Now, they are buried in our towns, mute witnesses watching from beneath stone slabs as we wait at the Ringwood Avenue traffic light or amble out of a Pequannock town meeting, utterly absorbed in our everyday lives.
In their own lives, though, they were extraordinary. And at Gettysburg, the little Pennsylvania hamlet of then 2,500 situated just 10 miles from the Maryland border, they proved it in a fashion that ensured that word of their deeds would live far longer than their bodies.
In some ways, they were like the town of Gettysburg itself — famous for nothing in particular before 170,000 soldiers converged there and caused its name to become immediately synonymous with death and devastation on an unimaginable scale, and put it on par with places like Marathon, Hastings, and Waterloo in how it would affect the path of the human race.
It may sound like hyperbole, but it is assuredly not. The importance of what happened on the overgrown, rocky heights around Gettysburg over the course of those three balmy days 150 years ago cannot be overstated, and how those brave souls from Morris and Passaic counties fought can never be forgotten.
Longest spring on record
If, after the disastrous Battle of Fredericksburg in December 1862, the Union cause had seemed bleak, by the late spring of 1863, it was in total shambles.
The northern Army of the Potomac had been taken over by a new general, the Massachusetts-born "Fighting Joe" Hooker, and he promptly whipped the soldiers back into shape before taking them into action at Chancellorsville that May, where he was promptly defeated in spectacular fashion.
As usual, the army had performed well, but the overwhelming incompetence of its commander, who was replaced soon after, led it to failure.
General George Meade replaced Hooker, and he followed the Confederate Army of Northern Virginia north as it invaded Pennsylvania in the hopes that one last, great victory, this time on northern soil, would either clear the path to Washington or bring about foreign intervention from England or France.
Using the mountains of Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley as a screen, the Southerners, commanded by the legendary Robert E. Lee, were likely headed toward Harrisburg until a chance run-in between a brigade of Confederate infantry and some Union cavalry sparked the bloodiest battle in American history.
The first day’s fight
Legends abound about why exactly the rebels were marching down the Chambersburg Pike on the morning of July 1. Popular myth says that Confederate division commander Harry Heth had heard that there were shoes in Gettysburg, and moved to seize them for his troops, many of whom had made the long walk from Virginia barefoot. Others say he knew exactly what awaited him.
Regardless, when his lead brigades ran into the Union cavalry of General John Buford, a fight quickly ensued. Buford, a career soldier, recognized the value of the series of ridges around Gettysburg, and his men used their new breach-loading carbines to fight a frustrating delaying action that gave the Union infantry time to arrive.
Soon, thousands from each side had arrived, and units dove headlong into the battle as commanders from both armies sent couriers to other commanders telling them to get to the little crossroads with all possible speed. By the afternoon, Union soldiers had formed a wide semi-circle northwest of the town that held against repeated attacks until eventually, outflanked and outnumbered, they broke and ran.
It looked as if the Army of the Potomac had been defeated once again, but slowly, the panicking troops rallied on a hill with a cemetery on it just south of the town, and the Confederates, tired and disorganized, rested instead of pressing the attack.
More federal troops arrived that night, and by morning, the Confederates were facing a fortified position that extended east to neighboring Culp’s Hill.
‘They held their own’
By the morning of July 2, the Union line resembled a gigantic fish hook, with the barb at Culp’s Hill and the shank on Cemetery Ridge, which ran south away from Cemetery Hill before culminating in two rocky hills: Little Round Top and Big Round Top.
With federal troops now firmly entrenched on the high ground and the prospects of a frontal assault looking grim, Lee ordered General James Longstreet to take the 17,000 men of his I Corps and turn the Union left to attack Cemetery Ridge and the Round Tops.
Standing in his way was the Union III Corps, led by a New York Democrat named Dan Sickles. Sickles, who was made a general more because of his political affiliations than his expertise in the field, decided that the ground in front of Cemetery Ridge looked a bit higher, and thought that moving his men forward might give them a better position. What it really did, however, was create an isolated salient in the Union line; now, the shank sat a mile in front of the rest of the hook.
A good many Morris County troops were with Sickles that day, and many, like those in the 7th and 8th New Jersey, would be in the forefront of the action.
The 7th was a veteran unit that had fought in the war’s most vicious battles, and among them was the 23-year-old Lewis Kerr, who was very likely a resident of Pequannock and would be buried in the graveyard of the First Reformed Church of Pompton Plains.
David Hann, a New Jersey reenactor who has been portraying a 7th New Jersey soldier for the past 27 years, said that unlike many other regiments, the 7th was made up of men from every corner of the state.
"Passaic County had a company, Morris County had a company…and you had firemen from Hoboken, watermen from Cape May, and German iron molders [in the same regiment]," Hann said.
The 7th’s mission was to support Battery B of the 1st New Jersey Light Artillery, which also had a strong Morris County contingent made up of 18-year-old Theodore F. Ackerman, 21-year-old Charles Monks, and James B. Onderdonk (age unknown), all of whom were from Pequannock and are now interred at the First Reformed Church of Pompton Plains.
Butler was also represented, and working the cannons alongside their Pequannock brethren were 17-year-old Abram Brown, 24-year-old James Walker, and John Luther (age unknown). They now lie in the borough’s Manning Avenue graveyard.
The Jerseymen were in a precarious position, however, and none realized it faster than Meade himself. Just as he was about to order them back into line, however, Longstreet’s attack began, and it was Battery B’s guns, commanded by A. Judson Clark, who "announced to the assembled corps commanders that ‘the ball had opened,’" Samuel Toombs wrote in his 1888 book "New Jersey Troops in the Gettysburg Campaign."
Southerners had emerged from the woods Battery B’s front, but the heavy lead shells quickly made them decide against attacking.
"[Clark] opened fire, using shell and shrapnel, firing slowly with good effect… the fire of the battery drove [the rebels] back to the cover of the woods," wrote Sergeant Leander McChesney in his book "History of Battery B."
Clark wrote in his official report that after repelling the attack with canister shot — tin shells filled with hundreds of little lead balls that exploded like a shotgun shell — his guns engaged the rebel artillery in a duel that the New Jerseyans would convincingly win.
"[Clark] passed from gun to gun directing the fire of each, character of missile and time of fuse," wrote McChesney. "As soon as he was satisfied with the effect of battery fire, he gave the order ‘Fire at will,’ and from that moment our six Parrott guns poured a stream of shell and shrapnel into the enemy’s batteries."
Soon, however, other rebel batteries opened on them with what Clark called a "rapid and severe" fire, and Longstreet’s infantry came in hard behind it. Battery B, along with the 7th — which Toombs wrote was forced to helplessly endure the duel — would soon be engaged in one of the most violent maelstroms of war ever seen on this earth.
Clark’s Morris County cannons, which kept up a "very destructive" fire, opened wide gaps in the Confederate ranks moving toward the Peach Orchard, and dying and mutilated men fell by the score. Still, all along the line, the Southerners surged.
The nearby 8th New Jersey, which was the home unit of Pequannock’s George Decker and Henry Morgan as well as Butler’s Isaac Ogden, was ordered to cross a nearby (and soon to be infamous) wheat field and take up a position behind a stone wall, Toombs wrote.
Numbering just 198 men, they were struck head-on by General James Kershaw’s brigade of South Carolinians, which numbered somewhere around 1,300, and in a few minutes, a "sharp, severe, and bloody struggle" commenced, wrote Toombs.
"The 8th fought with the gallantry and bravery which proved them worthy followers of the heroic Kearny," he wrote. "Their ranks were rapidly thinned, and as they fell slowly back, their colors became entangled in a tree. The remnant of brave fellows rallied around them with cheers and re-formed to meet the advancing foe. At this point the 8th was subjected to a severe musketry fire and sustained heavy losses."
Their colonel fell wounded, and by the time the regiment was relieved, it had lost nearly a third of its strength.
South Carolina and New Jersey would prove to be mortal enemies that day, and Hann said that just as the 7th’s colonel, Louis Francine, was about to order the regiment backwards to avoid the cannonade, Battery B came under direct assault from Kershaw’s Carolinians.
Battery B limbered up quickly as its horse-drawn pieces tore through the 7th’s ranks, creating a mass of confusion. To counter this, Francine had all 331 men fire once at the incoming rebels, and then ordered a bayonet charge to distract them from the retreating cannons.
Soon, the "devoted little band swept across the field with shouts of confidence," Toombs wrote, but quickly, the "hopelessness of the 7th’s effort was apparent, and all knew that any further advance meant certain annihilation for the brave Jerseymen."
"[A charge] was attempted, but the enemy’s fire was so severe that we were compelled to fall back," the 7th’s Major Frederick Cooper later wrote.
Francine went down, mortally wounded, as did Lieutenant-Colonel Price, who rallied the regiment until he himself fell. Cooper took over, and withdrew under heavy attack. The regiment lost nearly 40 percent of its number, but Kerr would survive.
Battery B, which now has a large monument on the field, fired 1,300 rounds at Gettysburg — so many, Hann said, that the barrels of their cannons had to be scrapped after the battle.
And the 7th, Hann said with no small degree of pride, had proved its mettle.
"They really stood tall against Kershaw, and you’re talking about a regiment against a brigade," he said. "The 7th New Jersey held their own."
The 13th at Culp’s Hill
Meanwhile, the men of the 13th New Jersey held a position on the extreme right flank of the Union line — at the barb, as opposed to the shank — and in that regiment were two soldiers from Pompton Lakes: the 27-year-old Capt. David Austen Ryerson and his 25-year-old brother, Peter.
It is written in the "Biographical and Genealogical History of the City of Newark and Essex County" that the brothers were of Huguenot descent, their ancestors having arrived from Holland in the earliest part of the 18th century and settling in the Pompton Valley shortly thereafter.
They’d signed up for the 13th in the summer of 1862, and at least one source attributes the decision to grief over the death of their 63-year-old father, who’d been killed leading a regiment of New Jerseyans at the 1862 Battle of Williamsburg.
The 13th had survived a lead baptism at Antietam, and by Gettysburg was considered a strong, reliable group of about 360 veterans. During the day on July 2, it had been shuffled around to provide support to whomever was being attacked, but found itself back on Culp’s Hill in the early hours of July 3 just as the Union troops were attacking to recoup ground lost the previous night.
"The Union artillery opened along the whole line, and from this time until ten o'clock a fierce, stubborn, and desperate battle was waged. On the success of the Twelfth Corps now depended the safety of the army," Toombs wrote, somewhat dramatically. "The continued roll of musketry, the deafening roar of the artillery were listened to by the waiting army with apprehension. The long lines of wounded men being carried to the rear gave evidence of the severity of the struggle."
As the fight raged, the 13th stayed mostly in support until David Ryerson’s company became embroiled in a southern counterattack.
The Confederates, consisting of mostly men from Stonewall Jackson’s legendary legions, "fought madly," said Toombs, "heroically and with a bravery which only Jackson’s men could show, but they were at a disadvantage — the Union line, sheltered by the rocks and immense boulders up to the face of which the rebels charged again and again, enabled them to inflict serious injury upon their assailants, and heavy as the Union loss [were] that of the enemy was [terrible]."
Ryerson’s company helped repulse the attack and send the rebels streaming back in disorder.
"At the first fire [the Confederates] were completely checked, and at the second they broke in confusion and fled, leaving their dead and wounded on the field," wrote one veteran.
Sometime during the fight, however, David Ryerson was shot. How serious it was, or where he was hit, is unknown, but it was serious enough that he was listed as a casualty. However, he would not follow his father’s footsteps to the other side just yet — he would live, to fight again another day.
And the Union position — all of it — was safe.
Their legacy
As the smoke cleared on the evening of July 3, it was not yet clear that the battle was over. However, heavy rains moved into the area on July 4, and Lee began the process of staging a slow, painful retreat back to Virginia. After a combined 51,000 American casualties, the great fight was over.
There would be more battles, of course — the war would last for two more grueling years — and hundreds of thousands more would die, but the southern army would never again be that strong, and the northerners would never again come so close to total defeat.
The great invasion was turned back, and the men of Morris and Passaic counties had stood firm in defense of their homes, which for once, had not seemed so distant.
Many would serve out the remainder of the war, and some would not survive it. But all who fought on the fields of Gettysburg would be able to say, without exaggeration, that they’d helped breathe new life into a nation that, at least for a few days, was in its death throes.
They were, and still are, heroes deserving of the highest honors.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/community/history/more_history_news/216388111_Local_Civil_War_soldiers_fight_it_out_at_Gettysburg.html
Civil War, New Jersey, Gettysburg, History
Wise words from an old redcoat
Wander the green grasses of Boston Common as I did on a warm April day, and you might come across him, pacing this way and that in front of the Tremont Street Visitor’s Center. You’ll immediately know who I’m talking about, because even in this ancient city, where history seeps through every cobblestone, he’ll be the only one wearing the blood red uniform of a British redcoat.
His name is Michael Szkolka. He’s a professor of history at Quincy College who came to Boston four decades ago for school and never left. He has a master’s in history from the University of Massachusetts, does some Revolutionary War reenacting on the side, has never acted or gotten on stage, and is a poor guitar player.
But something happens when the short, stocky 61-year-old (who both looks and sounds remarkably like Liam Neeson) wraps that uniform around his shoulders — it’s as if the old Common, once used as the site of public hangings and the base camp of the British Army, reawakens, and he is the only one that sees it.
And twice a day, most days, it’s his job to make us see it too, as he leads groups around part of the city’s "Freedom Trail," a 2.5-mile walking path that brings visitors to the city’s most historic colonial sites.
Two months ago, my girlfriend and I had the good fortune of stumbling upon his tour. Well, we thought it good fortune. Others … well, let’s just say that if you’re looking for coddling (and really, who wants that while on vacation?) he is not the man to see. Not about history, at least. Or politics. Or religion. Or … you get the point.
"A lot of these tour guides are actors," he says gazing at a loud bonnet-wearing young woman who stands on a bench gesturing wildly while going through her script. "I am not an actor," he says with cold disdain.
A young boy waves out the window of his tour bus. He doesn’t wave back. He portrays a redcoat, he says, because the uniform is attractive, and if he’s going to reenact, he won’t wear shabbier clothes than he does in real life. And if you’re looking for a conventional tour, his opening line will shatter your illusions.
"History is not here to make you feel good," he tells the small group, a tight smile on his lips. "It’s here to make you feel guilty."
And that line is why he is so damned good at what he does — because for Szkolka, it’s not about comforting the line of tourists trailing behind him with the old bedtime tales of American history that they were raised on. It’s about the truth.
He tells us bluntly that America didn’t win because we fought like Indians while the British lined up in neat rows. We won because of our resilience, and because by the end of the war, other nations were bankrolling our fight and Britain was more or less fighting a world war on several continents.
Also, Paul Revere didn’t ride through quiet city Boston screaming "the British are coming" on that fabled night in April 1775, he says, because all colonists back then considered themselves British. (Revere really said "The regulars are coming.") Plus, shouting warnings on what was actually a very secret mission would be very ill-advised.
One by one, the dogmatic stories about the group of musket-toting farmers who gutshot an empire die sudden deaths. Sometimes this offends his audience, but for Szkolka, that’s the price of admission to an alternate view that he says is based on evidence and source material, not wishful thinking.
"When the British talk about the American Revolution, they speak objectively about it: ‘We should have done this better, that better.’ When Americans talk about the revolution, it’s ‘The world’s begun anew,’" he later said. "I don’t know that I disagree with that, but I don’t believe it with the intensity that a lot of other people do."
And, as his words claw apart time and jar open a window to the past lives of the Massachusetts State House, the Granary Burial Ground, and the Old South Meeting House, he is also subtly (okay, maybe not so subtly) holding the mirror up to us as well and showing that, what with America’s recent foreign wars, trampling of civil liberties, and propensity for acting like the bully on the block, we aren’t much different from those old redcoats.
His uniform, in fact, might just symbolize America in the 21st century as much as it does Britain in the 18th.
"I think we’re much more like them than we like to admit," he said.
But that’s not to say that he’s anti-American, or just another college professor who has read too much Howard Zinn. On the contrary, he considers his refusal to accept history as it is spoon-fed to the masses almost his duty as an American.
"I think it’s patriotic to not blindly accept things, but to seek out the truth on these issues," he said. "Let’s examine this, let’s take a look at the facts instead of the platitudes and the clichés of our early education."
And, as he casts aside this platitude and that, he wins over his audience, who he said tend to be "overwhelmingly accepting" of his ideas.
It’s not just left-wingers who like him, either — many on the right side of the political spectrum appreciate his passion for history as much as the liberals appreciate his dispelling of American myth.
At the end of his tour, Szkolka delivers his final soliloquy outside the legendary Faneuil Hall, known to many as the "Cradle of Liberty."
It’s here, in front of an imposing statue of the fiery Samuel Adams, who once gave many a rousing speech inside the building’s brick-and-mortar walls, that Szkolka delivers his own call to arms and beseeches listeners to put down their iPhones, turn off "American Idol," and make an effort to participate in the form of government their forebears created through blood.
I personally believe that this discourse, which he so eloquently delivers after eviscerating a few last farcical tales, should be read by all Americans. Here is but a piece, provided by him:
"It is our job as citizens of free nations to vote in the elections, participate in government, and read our history," he said. "It is our purpose to read our history, as it will tell us about our past (well, decidedly that). But also, it gives insights into our present, as well as helps us shape the future — whatever that might be … it is also the best way to honor our 1770s ancestors who won independence from Britain — this was no small task. More importantly, we must endeavor to preserve democracy for our children ... and our grandchildren. And if we accomplish this task, we have done our job as a generation. And at the least the study of history and its application to our lives will make us better citizens from any country from which we may herald. I believe that. Deeply, in fact."
I happen to agree.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/news/215022331_Wise_words_from_an_old_redcoat.html?page=all
 |
| The only picture of Szkolka we got... |
His name is Michael Szkolka. He’s a professor of history at Quincy College who came to Boston four decades ago for school and never left. He has a master’s in history from the University of Massachusetts, does some Revolutionary War reenacting on the side, has never acted or gotten on stage, and is a poor guitar player.
But something happens when the short, stocky 61-year-old (who both looks and sounds remarkably like Liam Neeson) wraps that uniform around his shoulders — it’s as if the old Common, once used as the site of public hangings and the base camp of the British Army, reawakens, and he is the only one that sees it.
And twice a day, most days, it’s his job to make us see it too, as he leads groups around part of the city’s "Freedom Trail," a 2.5-mile walking path that brings visitors to the city’s most historic colonial sites.
Two months ago, my girlfriend and I had the good fortune of stumbling upon his tour. Well, we thought it good fortune. Others … well, let’s just say that if you’re looking for coddling (and really, who wants that while on vacation?) he is not the man to see. Not about history, at least. Or politics. Or religion. Or … you get the point.
"A lot of these tour guides are actors," he says gazing at a loud bonnet-wearing young woman who stands on a bench gesturing wildly while going through her script. "I am not an actor," he says with cold disdain.
A young boy waves out the window of his tour bus. He doesn’t wave back. He portrays a redcoat, he says, because the uniform is attractive, and if he’s going to reenact, he won’t wear shabbier clothes than he does in real life. And if you’re looking for a conventional tour, his opening line will shatter your illusions.
"History is not here to make you feel good," he tells the small group, a tight smile on his lips. "It’s here to make you feel guilty."
And that line is why he is so damned good at what he does — because for Szkolka, it’s not about comforting the line of tourists trailing behind him with the old bedtime tales of American history that they were raised on. It’s about the truth.
He tells us bluntly that America didn’t win because we fought like Indians while the British lined up in neat rows. We won because of our resilience, and because by the end of the war, other nations were bankrolling our fight and Britain was more or less fighting a world war on several continents.
Also, Paul Revere didn’t ride through quiet city Boston screaming "the British are coming" on that fabled night in April 1775, he says, because all colonists back then considered themselves British. (Revere really said "The regulars are coming.") Plus, shouting warnings on what was actually a very secret mission would be very ill-advised.
One by one, the dogmatic stories about the group of musket-toting farmers who gutshot an empire die sudden deaths. Sometimes this offends his audience, but for Szkolka, that’s the price of admission to an alternate view that he says is based on evidence and source material, not wishful thinking.
"When the British talk about the American Revolution, they speak objectively about it: ‘We should have done this better, that better.’ When Americans talk about the revolution, it’s ‘The world’s begun anew,’" he later said. "I don’t know that I disagree with that, but I don’t believe it with the intensity that a lot of other people do."
And, as his words claw apart time and jar open a window to the past lives of the Massachusetts State House, the Granary Burial Ground, and the Old South Meeting House, he is also subtly (okay, maybe not so subtly) holding the mirror up to us as well and showing that, what with America’s recent foreign wars, trampling of civil liberties, and propensity for acting like the bully on the block, we aren’t much different from those old redcoats.
His uniform, in fact, might just symbolize America in the 21st century as much as it does Britain in the 18th.
"I think we’re much more like them than we like to admit," he said.
But that’s not to say that he’s anti-American, or just another college professor who has read too much Howard Zinn. On the contrary, he considers his refusal to accept history as it is spoon-fed to the masses almost his duty as an American.
"I think it’s patriotic to not blindly accept things, but to seek out the truth on these issues," he said. "Let’s examine this, let’s take a look at the facts instead of the platitudes and the clichés of our early education."
And, as he casts aside this platitude and that, he wins over his audience, who he said tend to be "overwhelmingly accepting" of his ideas.
It’s not just left-wingers who like him, either — many on the right side of the political spectrum appreciate his passion for history as much as the liberals appreciate his dispelling of American myth.
At the end of his tour, Szkolka delivers his final soliloquy outside the legendary Faneuil Hall, known to many as the "Cradle of Liberty."
It’s here, in front of an imposing statue of the fiery Samuel Adams, who once gave many a rousing speech inside the building’s brick-and-mortar walls, that Szkolka delivers his own call to arms and beseeches listeners to put down their iPhones, turn off "American Idol," and make an effort to participate in the form of government their forebears created through blood.
I personally believe that this discourse, which he so eloquently delivers after eviscerating a few last farcical tales, should be read by all Americans. Here is but a piece, provided by him:
"It is our job as citizens of free nations to vote in the elections, participate in government, and read our history," he said. "It is our purpose to read our history, as it will tell us about our past (well, decidedly that). But also, it gives insights into our present, as well as helps us shape the future — whatever that might be … it is also the best way to honor our 1770s ancestors who won independence from Britain — this was no small task. More importantly, we must endeavor to preserve democracy for our children ... and our grandchildren. And if we accomplish this task, we have done our job as a generation. And at the least the study of history and its application to our lives will make us better citizens from any country from which we may herald. I believe that. Deeply, in fact."
I happen to agree.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/news/215022331_Wise_words_from_an_old_redcoat.html?page=all
New Jersey reenactors take the field for Gettysburg's 150th anniversary
An hour-and-a-half before the searing July sun breaks the horizon over the rolling fields of southern Pennsylvania, a bugle call cuts through the darkness to stir a still-sleeping army from its slumber.
Slowly, ghostly figures tumble out of their canvas tombs to light the fires that will boil their morning coffee and cook their breakfast bacon. Before long, after more snooze-button-style bugling, more men emerge, buttoning shirts and pulling on blue woolen jackets before the morning roll is called.
It's not the first time that these fields, which are located just a few miles northeast of the small village of Gettysburg, Pa., have seen this spectacle, but if things don't change soon, it might be one of the last.
Undoubtedly, Civil War reenacting is a bit of an odd pastime, and few who are not in "the hobby," as it's called by those in the know, can understand what drives thousands of men, women, and children to dress up in Victorian era clothing to party like it's 1863. Tell someone, with any degree of seriousness, that you're a reenactor yourself, and you can quite literally watch the look on their face change to what can only be described as a cross between incredulousness and pity.
In reality, though, this peculiar pursuit is much closer to a massive theater production than many in the public realize, and it's designed to breathe temporary life into the shadows of history for a few short days to give citizens a lesson they couldn't glean from their high school teachers.
And it certainly does that - from the loud, flea-market atmosphere of Sutler's Row to the sulfur clouds floating over the swarms of rifle-toting men that fight out the battle, the sights and sounds offered by the 150th reenactment of the Battle of Gettysburg could not be replicated in any classroom.
Sadly, though, as the current flock of reenactors continues to gray, the future of this undertaking may be in danger. Although about 8,000 living historians make the trek to the hamlet 40 miles from Harrisburg, it's a far cry from the now-legendary 135th anniversary, which had a remarkable 40,000.
On top of that, a civil war has erupted within the hobby itself as a growing number of reenactors - called "campaigners" or "progressives" by their mainstream counterparts - have split away to form their own groups that take the term "living history" to an extreme. They held their own event the weekend prior, and this not only cut into the number of participants at the official reenactment, but led to widespread confusion amongst the general public about which show is the "real" one.
This combination of an aging population and brutal internal politics may be creating a death spiral for the hobby, one that many, like West Milford's Mike Belgie and his reenacting compatriots, want to avoid at all costs.
A dying breed
For years, many thought that Gettysburg's sesquicentennial anniversary would be the hobby's moment of glory, especially after the triumphant 135th saw tens of thousands of Union and Confederate troops take to the field to perform a raucous full-scale recreation of the infamous Pickett's Charge.
And, although numbers aren't crucial to the reenactors themselves - Belgie says they often enjoy smaller performances more than these "mega-events" because of the increased flexibility and decreased stress - there was a sense that the 150th would draw far more participants than ended up coming, and the low turnout has several wondering if this anniversary was a "coup de grace" instead.
But still, most believe that at least one of the two major engagements held on Saturday, July 6, was a success. Without the numbers, they aren't as muscular as they perhaps could have been, but they are active and intense, and every unit gets to "burn some powder," as they say.
Belgie, 57, is an 18-year veteran of this hobby, and is reasonably high on the reenactor food chain; as a major, he fleshes out part of the body of a half-dozen men who serve on the staff of General Tony Daniels, commander of the Union Army's 2nd Division.
Tall and skinny with gray curly hair, a gray goatee, and a set of glasses permanently affixed to the bridge of his nose, Belgie is a laid-back sort who makes his living as a photographer but is also an ex-Deadhead, ex-security contractor, ex-everything kind of guy.
Daniels, 66, might be described as his opposite. Shorter and thicker, with a weather-beaten face and a dark beard, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Ulysses S. Grant and was born in Newark on 85th anniversary of the Battle of Antietam. A Verona native, he taught history for years in Jackson Township, and speaks carefully and deliberately. The letters "SPQR" - the initials of a Latin phrase once emblazoned on the standards of the Roman legions - are tattooed across his left shoulder.
The mercury rises quickly Saturday morning, and as it does, there is some doubt among Daniels' staff as to whether they, or many of their men will participate in the afternoon battle, which is slated to start at 1 p.m. As the hour nears and other units assemble, that doubt strengthens as the mercury climbs past 90, and although a few gear up, Daniels, Belgie, and many of their 800 or so reenactors don't leave the shade of their tents.
At this point, it's far hotter for the recreation than it was for the actual engagement.
The battle kicks off 20 minutes late and is something of a mess from the start. Although the artillery cannonade is fearsome, the main infantry battle occurs over a quarter-mile from where the spectators sit and is blocked by a grove of trees.
As the standing-room-only crowd follows the fight, many end up crashing through a camp and breaking through a thin line of woods before coming out far too close to the action for the comfort of either the reenactors or the event staff, and several women on horseback ride the length of the unruly line, screaming at the onlookers to clear the area. Their efforts are met with a mix of begrudging acquiescence and, in some instances, belligerence, and in the end, it's only the threat of police intervention that accomplishes their goal.
Afterward, back at the cluster of five or six tents that makes up the 2nd division headquarters, the few officers who took the field reveal that the scenario strayed so far from the script that it eventually turned into an impromptu "tactical" - an unscripted battle that is more like living chess than a well-rehearsed play.
"It went well," one officer says, grabbing a Yuengling out of the wooden cooler marked "Adams Express."
"Yeah? I heard it was a cluster-[expletive]," Daniels replies quietly.
"Well... We had a small but effective force," the officer says with a grin. "I think it went very well. The men were happy."
Lunch is served shortly afterward, and a lazy afternoon passes as black ants crawl across the table and horseflies abuse everything with a pulse. The staff drinks cold lagers while discussing everything from (of course) reenactor politics to New York Giants football (Daniels had season tickets for years). Nearby, a band plays poor renditions of rarely heard songs like "Battle Cry of Freedom" and "Bonnie Blue Flag" on the violin.
By the time 5:30 p.m. rolls around, though, the staff is ready to get moving - the sun has tumbled lower in the sky, and a slight wind has made the heat more bearable.
As the men - along with the occasional woman - form up, Daniels mounts Gabriel, the massive 2,000-pound black horse that he rides into battle, and takes his place at the head of the line. He is an imposing sight.
Belgie used to ride, he says, but his back no longer can take the abuse, and a couple of close calls with an unbroken steed a few years back means that he now walks into his fights.
This time, the reenactment appears to go off without a hitch. Few of the officers know which particular piece of the battle they're reenacting, but they know the script and stick to it as Union troops take their positions in a dark woodline at the crest of a steep hill. The Southerners meet with success initially as they fight their way up the slope, but the closer they get to the top, the more blue lines step forward out of the thick leaves and ambush them.
By the time they reach the crest, many have fallen, and the Southerners realize that, having marched into the open end of a horseshoe, they're being enveloped by Union troops who send volley after volley into their flanks.
The federal fire intensifies, and cannons boom in the background. Understanding what the man next to you is saying is, at times, impossible, even though reenactors use only partial charges; if they were using real cartridges, every rifle would be several times louder, and the artillery would literally be deafening. The real battle, it's said, was heard 140 miles away in Pittsburgh.
By the time the bugles blow the "cease fire," it's clear that this is a resounding victory for the Union. When the voice of a woman singing "God Bless of America" clamors out of the loudspeakers, all hats come off, and the thousands on the field fall silent.
After the battle, the feeling in camp is markedly lighter, and the officers smile like a boxer who's just finished his bout.
"The boys had fun today," Daniels says to no one in particular. All nod in agreement.
But, while it was a good reenactment, it is clear that it could have been far larger and far more impressive if more men had shown up.
A 'general collapse'
Hours later, Belgie sips from an aged tin beer stein as he speaks about the day's battle and the divide that's driven down participation. What we're seeing, he says, is not an implosion of the reenactor community - it's more of a "general collapse."
The campaigner group, named the "Blue-Gray Alliance," had maybe 8,000 in its reenactment the week before, but regardless, only about 2,000 would have actually participated in this event, Belgie says. The rest have little regard for mainstream events, which tend to stay close to the history books on the battlefield, but are more laid back in camp. The site of women in the "company streets" (the lanes between the tents), enlisted men with tents larger than they should have, and cars and trucks visible in the distance as there are here would be unacceptable.
Cell phones are banned, coolers aren't allowed, and beer is a no-no. Spectators, Belgie says, are more of a bother than a blessing to them.
"They would rather do it for the reenactors, by the reenactors - that's their motto," he says. "They don't want modern intrusions... You actually cross a time line, and when you cross that line, it is 1863. This is Gettysburg."
He's participated in events like this - most reenactors have at one point or another - but the rules get tiresome, and truly living in the field like it's the mid-19th century is less than pleasant if you're strict about it. And one can't help but get the feeling that mainstreamers roll their eyes at the thought of being "authentic."
"Authentic? The last authentic Civil War soldier was (Alfred) Woolson, and he died in 1956," Belgie says. "Everybody since then is just a reenactor. We're just recreating history so the public gets some education that they didn't get in school."
Pennsylvanian Carl Popadick, another long-time member of Daniels' staff who also portrays pirates, Revolutionary War soldiers, and everyone in between, is a bit more blunt about his feelings.
"They just don't give a [expletive]. They don't care if they teach anybody anything. They didn't want spectators, but to pull something off that size, they needed spectators to pay the way," he says. "They're just using the public - they don't care if they have a good sightline. They don't care if they're comfortable in the field or they have water. It's, 'We got your 20 bucks to get in, so we can have an event for ourselves.'"
Daniels agrees, and it's likely the history teacher in him speaking when he calls the campaigners "exceptionally selfish." And for those that sit around his camp table, drinking beer and whiskey and smoking cigars by candlelight late into the midnight hours, this blatant disregard for the public is a cardinal sin.
"We have a different slant in that we try to portray it as historically accurate as possible for the public to see. Those guys are just in it for themselves," he says. "The event last weekend, they had a handful of spectators, and they didn't care. They didn't even want [them]."
And the idea that the campaigners, who seem to have an increasing amount of influence, are trying to wrestle the entire hobby in that direction, is intolerable, even more so because they're meeting with some success - two years ago, no mention of this war between the reenactors was heard around anyone's table.
Now, it's a constant topic of conversation.
'The kids today are air-conditioned'
The other thing that worries the old guard is that the youth don't seem particularly inclined to take up the mantle that is slowly being abdicated by the graybeards. With many of the current crop of Baby Boomer reenactors reaching the age of 60 or 65, coming out into the field for a weekend isn't an option anymore, Belgie says.
"It's just physically impossible, and in fact, it's dangerous to your health," he says.
New members are needed if the hobby hopes to survive, because guys like him are "gettin' kind of tired."
Where that new blood comes from, however, is still unknown, and with kids spending their free time in front of iPhone screens and Xbox games, convincing them to come out for a weekend to learn to shoot a black powder rifle is harder than one might think.
"The kids today are air conditioned... They're not outdoor people," he says. "I could go to any high school in the country and say, 'We're not gonna' fight a battle, but we're going to go out and camp... You're going to have a rubber blanket, two wool blankets, it'll be a 90-degree day, you're going to put on three layers of wool and carry a musket that weighs 18 pounds,' and they're going to look at me like I got three heads."
Southerners tend to have better luck keeping their numbers up, and Belgie attributes this what he considers a mix of a "good propaganda system" that makes them believe that the South will "rise again" and the anti-government tendencies of its people.
Add to that the relative oddity of actually becoming a Civil War reenactor - which Belgie says has always earned him queer looks, no matter the year - and it's a tough sell to the Millennials.
Nearly everyone on Daniels' staff echoes the same sentiment; they wish they could get their kids to join them, but it rarely happens.
Belgie also notes that they've tried to help African-American regiments, such as the United States Colored Troops (USCT) and the 54th Massachusetts, recruit, but there's been a dismal response - even though 180,000 black soldiers served in the real Union ranks.
"We've tried to help [those units], but they just can't get any interest out of their communities," he says. "They're like, 'You're kidding right? I'm not doing that.'"
Daniels admits that the low turnout for Gettysburg is "a bad sign, no two ways about it," and worries that the hobby might someday shrink in popularity to that of, say, Revolutionary War reenacting, which was immensely popular during the 1970s but is now a shell of what it once was. But he seems more optimistic than Belgie, and believes that a TV miniseries like Ken Burns' 1990 PBS special "The Civil War," or a new movie in the fashion of "Glory" or "Gettysburg" could kick start things again.
"We are a culture that is attuned to what we see on television," he says.
The next couple years will be tough, though, as many old-time reenactors who stuck around just to see the Gettysburg sesquicentennial will now likely retire, he says.
"Right after this event, it's going to be like you pulled the plug in the bathtub. You're going to lose probably a quarter of the guys who are here, because they were staying in it for this," he says. "This is going to have a marked effect on reenacting."
There are some connections that will continue regardless, though, and Popadick points out that people are still closer to the Civil War than they ever were to the Revolution because of heirlooms like letters, Bibles, and other artifacts that are still being passed down within families.
"[They say] 'Oh, I still have my great-grandad's Bible, his glasses, the hat he wore.... So that's still getting passed down, and that's going to help keep this alive," he says.
Daniels also notes that over the last two years, he's seen more young kids around the camp than he used to, and there's always the hope that as the economy improves, reenactors who are either out of work or can't take off the necessary days may begin showing up again. Also, better paychecks mean that more beginners might be inclined to spend the initial $1,500 that it costs to outfit oneself with the appropriate gear.
"The economy has a lot to do with it, the price of gas has a lot to do with it, the weather obviously has a lot to do with it, but I'm feeling a little better about the hobby now than [last year]," Daniels says. "Not like super-optimistic, but I'm thinking, 'Hey you know what...'"
Nothing has been formally proposed among the reenacting hierarchy to prop up the faltering numbers.
A thing worth saving
Ask a reenactor why, what with its back to the ropes, "the hobby" is worth saving, and you'll get a variety of answers.
Daniels is of the opinion that it's important to educate the public on its history, and points out that the crushing multitudes of participants and spectators do, in fact, boost the local economy of whatever town an event is held in.
Popadick says it's important because in a nation that's famously ignorant of its own past, knowing what happened before helps us understand what's going on today. People in the British Isles, he says, not only know what happened 300 years ago, but understand that it transcends the centuries and still affects current events.
In America, that's not the case.
"Our average kids don't know anything about our history, or what happened in any time period," he says. "And what happened in the Civil War definitely affected the way we live today - it literally made America."
Plus, he points out, where else could a conversation like this even take place outside of this atmosphere?
Belgie's answer is perhaps the most revealing. It was the family stories about his great-great grandfather, William C. Louderback, a coal miner who served with the 79th Pennsylvania Volunteers, that piqued his initial interest in the war. Louderback, after all, had been a part of General Sherman's infamous "March to the Sea," which burned its way through Georgia in 1864, and saw action at several brutal battles.
But it was something that happened after Belgie's first night in the field nearly 20 years ago that cemented his place in the ranks.
He'd been dropped off that weekend by his "better half" and told, more or less, "See ya Sunday." When he arrived at the site, the reenactors pointed to a low "dog tent," told him that's where he was sleeping, and gave him a wool uniform to wear.
The next morning, he says, he awoke to a scene that was out of place in time.
"I looked out, and there's five guys sitting around a fire, they've got their pipper on [it], they're boiling coffee, they got the little pans out and they're making bacon, and I'm like, "[Expletive], this is what my great-great-grandfather saw,'" he says. "That's it. You know what I mean?"
Suddenly, he chokes up.
"God, that was a long time ago," he says quietly, sending a thousand-yard stare into the distance.
"You can read a book," Belgie says, pausing momentarily. "It ain't the same....We can't lose this. And I don't know how we're gonna save it, but there's got to be a way to do it."
Whatever their plan is, they'd better start soon. Or else, like the souls of the men they portray, they may end up haunting these fields, wondering what went wrong, and wishing they had one last chance to do it differently.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/community/history/more_history_news/215471381_New_Jersey_reenactors_take_the_field_for_Gettysburg_s_150th_anniversary.html?page=all
Slowly, ghostly figures tumble out of their canvas tombs to light the fires that will boil their morning coffee and cook their breakfast bacon. Before long, after more snooze-button-style bugling, more men emerge, buttoning shirts and pulling on blue woolen jackets before the morning roll is called.
It's not the first time that these fields, which are located just a few miles northeast of the small village of Gettysburg, Pa., have seen this spectacle, but if things don't change soon, it might be one of the last.
Undoubtedly, Civil War reenacting is a bit of an odd pastime, and few who are not in "the hobby," as it's called by those in the know, can understand what drives thousands of men, women, and children to dress up in Victorian era clothing to party like it's 1863. Tell someone, with any degree of seriousness, that you're a reenactor yourself, and you can quite literally watch the look on their face change to what can only be described as a cross between incredulousness and pity.
In reality, though, this peculiar pursuit is much closer to a massive theater production than many in the public realize, and it's designed to breathe temporary life into the shadows of history for a few short days to give citizens a lesson they couldn't glean from their high school teachers.
And it certainly does that - from the loud, flea-market atmosphere of Sutler's Row to the sulfur clouds floating over the swarms of rifle-toting men that fight out the battle, the sights and sounds offered by the 150th reenactment of the Battle of Gettysburg could not be replicated in any classroom.
Sadly, though, as the current flock of reenactors continues to gray, the future of this undertaking may be in danger. Although about 8,000 living historians make the trek to the hamlet 40 miles from Harrisburg, it's a far cry from the now-legendary 135th anniversary, which had a remarkable 40,000.
On top of that, a civil war has erupted within the hobby itself as a growing number of reenactors - called "campaigners" or "progressives" by their mainstream counterparts - have split away to form their own groups that take the term "living history" to an extreme. They held their own event the weekend prior, and this not only cut into the number of participants at the official reenactment, but led to widespread confusion amongst the general public about which show is the "real" one.
This combination of an aging population and brutal internal politics may be creating a death spiral for the hobby, one that many, like West Milford's Mike Belgie and his reenacting compatriots, want to avoid at all costs.
A dying breed
For years, many thought that Gettysburg's sesquicentennial anniversary would be the hobby's moment of glory, especially after the triumphant 135th saw tens of thousands of Union and Confederate troops take to the field to perform a raucous full-scale recreation of the infamous Pickett's Charge.
And, although numbers aren't crucial to the reenactors themselves - Belgie says they often enjoy smaller performances more than these "mega-events" because of the increased flexibility and decreased stress - there was a sense that the 150th would draw far more participants than ended up coming, and the low turnout has several wondering if this anniversary was a "coup de grace" instead.
But still, most believe that at least one of the two major engagements held on Saturday, July 6, was a success. Without the numbers, they aren't as muscular as they perhaps could have been, but they are active and intense, and every unit gets to "burn some powder," as they say.
Belgie, 57, is an 18-year veteran of this hobby, and is reasonably high on the reenactor food chain; as a major, he fleshes out part of the body of a half-dozen men who serve on the staff of General Tony Daniels, commander of the Union Army's 2nd Division.
Tall and skinny with gray curly hair, a gray goatee, and a set of glasses permanently affixed to the bridge of his nose, Belgie is a laid-back sort who makes his living as a photographer but is also an ex-Deadhead, ex-security contractor, ex-everything kind of guy.
Daniels, 66, might be described as his opposite. Shorter and thicker, with a weather-beaten face and a dark beard, he bears an uncanny resemblance to Ulysses S. Grant and was born in Newark on 85th anniversary of the Battle of Antietam. A Verona native, he taught history for years in Jackson Township, and speaks carefully and deliberately. The letters "SPQR" - the initials of a Latin phrase once emblazoned on the standards of the Roman legions - are tattooed across his left shoulder.
The mercury rises quickly Saturday morning, and as it does, there is some doubt among Daniels' staff as to whether they, or many of their men will participate in the afternoon battle, which is slated to start at 1 p.m. As the hour nears and other units assemble, that doubt strengthens as the mercury climbs past 90, and although a few gear up, Daniels, Belgie, and many of their 800 or so reenactors don't leave the shade of their tents.
At this point, it's far hotter for the recreation than it was for the actual engagement.
The battle kicks off 20 minutes late and is something of a mess from the start. Although the artillery cannonade is fearsome, the main infantry battle occurs over a quarter-mile from where the spectators sit and is blocked by a grove of trees.
As the standing-room-only crowd follows the fight, many end up crashing through a camp and breaking through a thin line of woods before coming out far too close to the action for the comfort of either the reenactors or the event staff, and several women on horseback ride the length of the unruly line, screaming at the onlookers to clear the area. Their efforts are met with a mix of begrudging acquiescence and, in some instances, belligerence, and in the end, it's only the threat of police intervention that accomplishes their goal.
Afterward, back at the cluster of five or six tents that makes up the 2nd division headquarters, the few officers who took the field reveal that the scenario strayed so far from the script that it eventually turned into an impromptu "tactical" - an unscripted battle that is more like living chess than a well-rehearsed play.
"It went well," one officer says, grabbing a Yuengling out of the wooden cooler marked "Adams Express."
"Yeah? I heard it was a cluster-[expletive]," Daniels replies quietly.
"Well... We had a small but effective force," the officer says with a grin. "I think it went very well. The men were happy."
Lunch is served shortly afterward, and a lazy afternoon passes as black ants crawl across the table and horseflies abuse everything with a pulse. The staff drinks cold lagers while discussing everything from (of course) reenactor politics to New York Giants football (Daniels had season tickets for years). Nearby, a band plays poor renditions of rarely heard songs like "Battle Cry of Freedom" and "Bonnie Blue Flag" on the violin.
By the time 5:30 p.m. rolls around, though, the staff is ready to get moving - the sun has tumbled lower in the sky, and a slight wind has made the heat more bearable.
As the men - along with the occasional woman - form up, Daniels mounts Gabriel, the massive 2,000-pound black horse that he rides into battle, and takes his place at the head of the line. He is an imposing sight.
Belgie used to ride, he says, but his back no longer can take the abuse, and a couple of close calls with an unbroken steed a few years back means that he now walks into his fights.
This time, the reenactment appears to go off without a hitch. Few of the officers know which particular piece of the battle they're reenacting, but they know the script and stick to it as Union troops take their positions in a dark woodline at the crest of a steep hill. The Southerners meet with success initially as they fight their way up the slope, but the closer they get to the top, the more blue lines step forward out of the thick leaves and ambush them.
By the time they reach the crest, many have fallen, and the Southerners realize that, having marched into the open end of a horseshoe, they're being enveloped by Union troops who send volley after volley into their flanks.
The federal fire intensifies, and cannons boom in the background. Understanding what the man next to you is saying is, at times, impossible, even though reenactors use only partial charges; if they were using real cartridges, every rifle would be several times louder, and the artillery would literally be deafening. The real battle, it's said, was heard 140 miles away in Pittsburgh.
By the time the bugles blow the "cease fire," it's clear that this is a resounding victory for the Union. When the voice of a woman singing "God Bless of America" clamors out of the loudspeakers, all hats come off, and the thousands on the field fall silent.
After the battle, the feeling in camp is markedly lighter, and the officers smile like a boxer who's just finished his bout.
"The boys had fun today," Daniels says to no one in particular. All nod in agreement.
But, while it was a good reenactment, it is clear that it could have been far larger and far more impressive if more men had shown up.
A 'general collapse'
Hours later, Belgie sips from an aged tin beer stein as he speaks about the day's battle and the divide that's driven down participation. What we're seeing, he says, is not an implosion of the reenactor community - it's more of a "general collapse."
The campaigner group, named the "Blue-Gray Alliance," had maybe 8,000 in its reenactment the week before, but regardless, only about 2,000 would have actually participated in this event, Belgie says. The rest have little regard for mainstream events, which tend to stay close to the history books on the battlefield, but are more laid back in camp. The site of women in the "company streets" (the lanes between the tents), enlisted men with tents larger than they should have, and cars and trucks visible in the distance as there are here would be unacceptable.
Cell phones are banned, coolers aren't allowed, and beer is a no-no. Spectators, Belgie says, are more of a bother than a blessing to them.
"They would rather do it for the reenactors, by the reenactors - that's their motto," he says. "They don't want modern intrusions... You actually cross a time line, and when you cross that line, it is 1863. This is Gettysburg."
He's participated in events like this - most reenactors have at one point or another - but the rules get tiresome, and truly living in the field like it's the mid-19th century is less than pleasant if you're strict about it. And one can't help but get the feeling that mainstreamers roll their eyes at the thought of being "authentic."
"Authentic? The last authentic Civil War soldier was (Alfred) Woolson, and he died in 1956," Belgie says. "Everybody since then is just a reenactor. We're just recreating history so the public gets some education that they didn't get in school."
Pennsylvanian Carl Popadick, another long-time member of Daniels' staff who also portrays pirates, Revolutionary War soldiers, and everyone in between, is a bit more blunt about his feelings.
"They just don't give a [expletive]. They don't care if they teach anybody anything. They didn't want spectators, but to pull something off that size, they needed spectators to pay the way," he says. "They're just using the public - they don't care if they have a good sightline. They don't care if they're comfortable in the field or they have water. It's, 'We got your 20 bucks to get in, so we can have an event for ourselves.'"
Daniels agrees, and it's likely the history teacher in him speaking when he calls the campaigners "exceptionally selfish." And for those that sit around his camp table, drinking beer and whiskey and smoking cigars by candlelight late into the midnight hours, this blatant disregard for the public is a cardinal sin.
"We have a different slant in that we try to portray it as historically accurate as possible for the public to see. Those guys are just in it for themselves," he says. "The event last weekend, they had a handful of spectators, and they didn't care. They didn't even want [them]."
And the idea that the campaigners, who seem to have an increasing amount of influence, are trying to wrestle the entire hobby in that direction, is intolerable, even more so because they're meeting with some success - two years ago, no mention of this war between the reenactors was heard around anyone's table.
Now, it's a constant topic of conversation.
'The kids today are air-conditioned'
The other thing that worries the old guard is that the youth don't seem particularly inclined to take up the mantle that is slowly being abdicated by the graybeards. With many of the current crop of Baby Boomer reenactors reaching the age of 60 or 65, coming out into the field for a weekend isn't an option anymore, Belgie says.
"It's just physically impossible, and in fact, it's dangerous to your health," he says.
New members are needed if the hobby hopes to survive, because guys like him are "gettin' kind of tired."
Where that new blood comes from, however, is still unknown, and with kids spending their free time in front of iPhone screens and Xbox games, convincing them to come out for a weekend to learn to shoot a black powder rifle is harder than one might think.
"The kids today are air conditioned... They're not outdoor people," he says. "I could go to any high school in the country and say, 'We're not gonna' fight a battle, but we're going to go out and camp... You're going to have a rubber blanket, two wool blankets, it'll be a 90-degree day, you're going to put on three layers of wool and carry a musket that weighs 18 pounds,' and they're going to look at me like I got three heads."
Southerners tend to have better luck keeping their numbers up, and Belgie attributes this what he considers a mix of a "good propaganda system" that makes them believe that the South will "rise again" and the anti-government tendencies of its people.
Add to that the relative oddity of actually becoming a Civil War reenactor - which Belgie says has always earned him queer looks, no matter the year - and it's a tough sell to the Millennials.
Nearly everyone on Daniels' staff echoes the same sentiment; they wish they could get their kids to join them, but it rarely happens.
Belgie also notes that they've tried to help African-American regiments, such as the United States Colored Troops (USCT) and the 54th Massachusetts, recruit, but there's been a dismal response - even though 180,000 black soldiers served in the real Union ranks.
"We've tried to help [those units], but they just can't get any interest out of their communities," he says. "They're like, 'You're kidding right? I'm not doing that.'"
Daniels admits that the low turnout for Gettysburg is "a bad sign, no two ways about it," and worries that the hobby might someday shrink in popularity to that of, say, Revolutionary War reenacting, which was immensely popular during the 1970s but is now a shell of what it once was. But he seems more optimistic than Belgie, and believes that a TV miniseries like Ken Burns' 1990 PBS special "The Civil War," or a new movie in the fashion of "Glory" or "Gettysburg" could kick start things again.
"We are a culture that is attuned to what we see on television," he says.
The next couple years will be tough, though, as many old-time reenactors who stuck around just to see the Gettysburg sesquicentennial will now likely retire, he says.
"Right after this event, it's going to be like you pulled the plug in the bathtub. You're going to lose probably a quarter of the guys who are here, because they were staying in it for this," he says. "This is going to have a marked effect on reenacting."
There are some connections that will continue regardless, though, and Popadick points out that people are still closer to the Civil War than they ever were to the Revolution because of heirlooms like letters, Bibles, and other artifacts that are still being passed down within families.
"[They say] 'Oh, I still have my great-grandad's Bible, his glasses, the hat he wore.... So that's still getting passed down, and that's going to help keep this alive," he says.
Daniels also notes that over the last two years, he's seen more young kids around the camp than he used to, and there's always the hope that as the economy improves, reenactors who are either out of work or can't take off the necessary days may begin showing up again. Also, better paychecks mean that more beginners might be inclined to spend the initial $1,500 that it costs to outfit oneself with the appropriate gear.
"The economy has a lot to do with it, the price of gas has a lot to do with it, the weather obviously has a lot to do with it, but I'm feeling a little better about the hobby now than [last year]," Daniels says. "Not like super-optimistic, but I'm thinking, 'Hey you know what...'"
Nothing has been formally proposed among the reenacting hierarchy to prop up the faltering numbers.
A thing worth saving
Ask a reenactor why, what with its back to the ropes, "the hobby" is worth saving, and you'll get a variety of answers.
Daniels is of the opinion that it's important to educate the public on its history, and points out that the crushing multitudes of participants and spectators do, in fact, boost the local economy of whatever town an event is held in.
Popadick says it's important because in a nation that's famously ignorant of its own past, knowing what happened before helps us understand what's going on today. People in the British Isles, he says, not only know what happened 300 years ago, but understand that it transcends the centuries and still affects current events.
In America, that's not the case.
"Our average kids don't know anything about our history, or what happened in any time period," he says. "And what happened in the Civil War definitely affected the way we live today - it literally made America."
Plus, he points out, where else could a conversation like this even take place outside of this atmosphere?
Belgie's answer is perhaps the most revealing. It was the family stories about his great-great grandfather, William C. Louderback, a coal miner who served with the 79th Pennsylvania Volunteers, that piqued his initial interest in the war. Louderback, after all, had been a part of General Sherman's infamous "March to the Sea," which burned its way through Georgia in 1864, and saw action at several brutal battles.
But it was something that happened after Belgie's first night in the field nearly 20 years ago that cemented his place in the ranks.
He'd been dropped off that weekend by his "better half" and told, more or less, "See ya Sunday." When he arrived at the site, the reenactors pointed to a low "dog tent," told him that's where he was sleeping, and gave him a wool uniform to wear.
The next morning, he says, he awoke to a scene that was out of place in time.
"I looked out, and there's five guys sitting around a fire, they've got their pipper on [it], they're boiling coffee, they got the little pans out and they're making bacon, and I'm like, "[Expletive], this is what my great-great-grandfather saw,'" he says. "That's it. You know what I mean?"
Suddenly, he chokes up.
"God, that was a long time ago," he says quietly, sending a thousand-yard stare into the distance.
"You can read a book," Belgie says, pausing momentarily. "It ain't the same....We can't lose this. And I don't know how we're gonna save it, but there's got to be a way to do it."
Whatever their plan is, they'd better start soon. Or else, like the souls of the men they portray, they may end up haunting these fields, wondering what went wrong, and wishing they had one last chance to do it differently.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/community/history/more_history_news/215471381_New_Jersey_reenactors_take_the_field_for_Gettysburg_s_150th_anniversary.html?page=all
"Man of Steel" brings us back to the old normal
It was, all at once, a portrait of what America never truly was, but always aspired to be.
A still from the newest Superman movie 'Man of Steel,' which brings its audience back to a simpler time, intentionally or not.
A rusted Radio Flyer lay on its side in front of a Kansas farmhouse set deep amongst the sprawling cornfields. An ancient Chevy pickup sat in the driveway, and the camera awkwardly panned through the dandelions to a young boy, dressed in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, wearing a red cape around his neck, his fists planted defiantly at his waist as he stared at his panting dog.
The scene, from the new Superman movie "Man of Steel," is a lovely mixture of old Americana and the superhero that its people created. It’s clichéd, no doubt, but it’s an important cliché, because it tells us that no matter what is going on outside that movie theater, inside it, things are still normal.
We need that now. Back when the ideas for these comics — the Batmans and Captain Americas, Avengers and Supermans — were first put to paper, we knew who the bad guys were, and we knew that we were on the other side. And we were right, because the bad guys were just so damned bad and we didn’t do anything that resembled what they did.
In Germany there was genocide and concentration camps. In the Soviet Union there were gulags and government controls. But our leaders didn’t murder their associates when they felt threatened by them, and our outspoken citizens didn’t disappear during the night. Those comics, of course, served to reinforce the idea that things like "truth" and "justice" were indeed the American way (even when they weren’t) and the people who wrote them were a product of that national spirit.
Things are rarely so clear anymore. We’ve traded the use of flags and armies for microphones and earpieces, and we no longer know who our enemies are until they’ve struck, often when our guard is lowest. What’s worse, the villains are anonymous. It could be that guy you sparred with up in Boston, or your next-door neighbor in Colorado, or the man who used the library computer in your very own town to purchase a very important set of plane tickets.
No matter what the politicians and pundits say about the "strength" of America — they’re fond of telling us how tough we all are — these things have made us at least as scared of each other as we ever were of any foreign threat.
Maybe that’s the reason we’ve responded so strongly to the movie remakes of these stories, even though today’s world is so vastly different than the one they were created in: They’ve allowed those of us who the Bible just doesn’t do it for to have some sort of mythology, some sort of hero that can fit into our world and bring us back to what we’re supposed to stand for, as a nation and as individuals.
Just for an hour or two, we drift off to that time where there was a black-and-white definition of what "good" and "evil" meant and get to ignore the varying shades of gray that so often color the backdrop of our lives.
But even in the movies, that relief is fleeting. Watching the final battle in "Superman" destroy a city that looks very much like New York brought back awful memories of the day that our real-life monuments to human ingenuity fell from the sky in a glass-and-metal shower. And, as always, I could not relax for a second in the theater.
As I walked out, though, mulling these many thoughts, I could not help but think that maybe "Man of Steel" had served its purpose, because for a second, I did believe that somewhere, a place like Smallville, Kansas must exist — it has to, because they filmed the movie somewhere.
Who knows who lives there, though. Superman definitely doesn’t. But then, maybe believing that he might is more important than knowing that he can’t.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
A still from the newest Superman movie 'Man of Steel,' which brings its audience back to a simpler time, intentionally or not.
A rusted Radio Flyer lay on its side in front of a Kansas farmhouse set deep amongst the sprawling cornfields. An ancient Chevy pickup sat in the driveway, and the camera awkwardly panned through the dandelions to a young boy, dressed in blue jeans and a white t-shirt, wearing a red cape around his neck, his fists planted defiantly at his waist as he stared at his panting dog.
The scene, from the new Superman movie "Man of Steel," is a lovely mixture of old Americana and the superhero that its people created. It’s clichéd, no doubt, but it’s an important cliché, because it tells us that no matter what is going on outside that movie theater, inside it, things are still normal.
We need that now. Back when the ideas for these comics — the Batmans and Captain Americas, Avengers and Supermans — were first put to paper, we knew who the bad guys were, and we knew that we were on the other side. And we were right, because the bad guys were just so damned bad and we didn’t do anything that resembled what they did.
In Germany there was genocide and concentration camps. In the Soviet Union there were gulags and government controls. But our leaders didn’t murder their associates when they felt threatened by them, and our outspoken citizens didn’t disappear during the night. Those comics, of course, served to reinforce the idea that things like "truth" and "justice" were indeed the American way (even when they weren’t) and the people who wrote them were a product of that national spirit.
Things are rarely so clear anymore. We’ve traded the use of flags and armies for microphones and earpieces, and we no longer know who our enemies are until they’ve struck, often when our guard is lowest. What’s worse, the villains are anonymous. It could be that guy you sparred with up in Boston, or your next-door neighbor in Colorado, or the man who used the library computer in your very own town to purchase a very important set of plane tickets.
No matter what the politicians and pundits say about the "strength" of America — they’re fond of telling us how tough we all are — these things have made us at least as scared of each other as we ever were of any foreign threat.
Maybe that’s the reason we’ve responded so strongly to the movie remakes of these stories, even though today’s world is so vastly different than the one they were created in: They’ve allowed those of us who the Bible just doesn’t do it for to have some sort of mythology, some sort of hero that can fit into our world and bring us back to what we’re supposed to stand for, as a nation and as individuals.
Just for an hour or two, we drift off to that time where there was a black-and-white definition of what "good" and "evil" meant and get to ignore the varying shades of gray that so often color the backdrop of our lives.
But even in the movies, that relief is fleeting. Watching the final battle in "Superman" destroy a city that looks very much like New York brought back awful memories of the day that our real-life monuments to human ingenuity fell from the sky in a glass-and-metal shower. And, as always, I could not relax for a second in the theater.
As I walked out, though, mulling these many thoughts, I could not help but think that maybe "Man of Steel" had served its purpose, because for a second, I did believe that somewhere, a place like Smallville, Kansas must exist — it has to, because they filmed the movie somewhere.
Who knows who lives there, though. Superman definitely doesn’t. But then, maybe believing that he might is more important than knowing that he can’t.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
Remembering D-Day
"The eyes of the world are upon you. The hopes and prayers of liberty loving people everywhere march with you." – Dwight D. Eisenhower’s message to the troops before D-Day
Most of my generation will never be able to comprehend how awful it must have been. Maybe those combat veterans of Iraq or Afghanistan could come close, but even then, the death and destruction in the desert sands never reached the scale it did on those beaches of Normandy on that gruesome morning in 1944.
However odd it may sound, World War II was simply the perfect war — it could not have been written better. It had the perfect villains, the perfect heroes, the perfect motive for fighting. And, considering the murderous war machine that the Allies were up against, maybe no amount of rhetoric is too much when describing what those noble thousands did on June 6 — they were, in every way, freedom’s last gasp.
But on a more visceral level, D-Day was just another terrible battle in another terrible war. It was kids born on one patch of land slaughtering those born on another, shooting and stabbing and lighting each other on fire and doing it on French beaches that rank among God’s most gorgeous creations.
Last Thursday was the 69th anniversary of that battle. There is nothing "important" about that number in itself, and it will no doubt be overshadowed by the 70th anniversary, and even more so by the 100th. But in the next 12 months, more of those men of the Greatest Generation will die. Even those who were 17 in 1944 are now 86 years old. The boatman waits for them. He will only wait a little longer. How many thousands more will be gone by next June?
It is always hard for those of us who are young to remember that the old were once just like us, and that the men, hobbled by the years and reliant upon crutch and walker, were once steady and strong. They drove too fast and boxed and wrestled and chased girls on Friday nights. They didn’t want to be on those transports churning their way across the English Channel any more than I would now — as Stephen Ambrose once wrote, "They wanted to be throwing baseballs, not hand grenades, shooting .22s at rabbits, not M-1s at other men."
But, he says, "When the test came, when freedom had to be fought for or abandoned, they fought." And fight they did, like wildcats, with all the weight of the future of humanity strapped to their backs. And they won, beautifully.
We like to think that as a race we’re past warfare on that scale and that the memories of our near self-destruction will always serve as a dire warning about what happens when we let fear and ignorance guide us. But they won’t always remain as fresh as they are now, and with every veteran’s funeral, they drift a little further out into the seas of history.
So we are left to simply remember and hold solemn pride in the fact that we were able to share the earth with these men. And we must hope that should the dark hand of evil ever wrap its fingers around the globe once more, others will rise, as they did, to wrench them off.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/community/history/more_history_news/211326231_Remembering_D-Day.html
Most of my generation will never be able to comprehend how awful it must have been. Maybe those combat veterans of Iraq or Afghanistan could come close, but even then, the death and destruction in the desert sands never reached the scale it did on those beaches of Normandy on that gruesome morning in 1944.
However odd it may sound, World War II was simply the perfect war — it could not have been written better. It had the perfect villains, the perfect heroes, the perfect motive for fighting. And, considering the murderous war machine that the Allies were up against, maybe no amount of rhetoric is too much when describing what those noble thousands did on June 6 — they were, in every way, freedom’s last gasp.
But on a more visceral level, D-Day was just another terrible battle in another terrible war. It was kids born on one patch of land slaughtering those born on another, shooting and stabbing and lighting each other on fire and doing it on French beaches that rank among God’s most gorgeous creations.
Last Thursday was the 69th anniversary of that battle. There is nothing "important" about that number in itself, and it will no doubt be overshadowed by the 70th anniversary, and even more so by the 100th. But in the next 12 months, more of those men of the Greatest Generation will die. Even those who were 17 in 1944 are now 86 years old. The boatman waits for them. He will only wait a little longer. How many thousands more will be gone by next June?
It is always hard for those of us who are young to remember that the old were once just like us, and that the men, hobbled by the years and reliant upon crutch and walker, were once steady and strong. They drove too fast and boxed and wrestled and chased girls on Friday nights. They didn’t want to be on those transports churning their way across the English Channel any more than I would now — as Stephen Ambrose once wrote, "They wanted to be throwing baseballs, not hand grenades, shooting .22s at rabbits, not M-1s at other men."
But, he says, "When the test came, when freedom had to be fought for or abandoned, they fought." And fight they did, like wildcats, with all the weight of the future of humanity strapped to their backs. And they won, beautifully.
We like to think that as a race we’re past warfare on that scale and that the memories of our near self-destruction will always serve as a dire warning about what happens when we let fear and ignorance guide us. But they won’t always remain as fresh as they are now, and with every veteran’s funeral, they drift a little further out into the seas of history.
So we are left to simply remember and hold solemn pride in the fact that we were able to share the earth with these men. And we must hope that should the dark hand of evil ever wrap its fingers around the globe once more, others will rise, as they did, to wrench them off.
Email: janoski@northjersey.com
http://www.northjersey.com/community/history/more_history_news/211326231_Remembering_D-Day.html
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