I'm taking a new approach to event reports in the 2001 season. This is partially due to the fact that One can only write so much about the same event several seasons in a row. However, there is more to it than that. I had something of an epiphany last season, as I relate below. We plan on splitting our season between mainstream and campaign events, and as I increasingly focus on fine tuning my authenticity and emphasizing education, I suspect my ability to tolerate blatantly inaccurate behavior will diminish further. This is not to say that my impression is perfect, or that I will count the stitches on others uniforms. I have made my own concessions to modernity. However, I have far less tolerance for anachronistic behavior, and that is possibly where I will raise my voice.

I have left my previous event reports on the website, but the 2001 reports will most likely reflect my new desire for authenticity.

2001: A New Approach . . .

I vividly recall the moment my slow and gradual move toward a more campaign oriented impression began. It was a the 2000 Gettysburg reenactment, a rather ironic location for the beginnings of an epiphany, given that event's reputation for less than stellar authenticity.

It was the third day of the reenactment, and our dwindled forces were awaiting a much weakened "Pickett's Charge." As most of my unit had left for home, I fell in with one of those ubiquitous, amalgamated units. Many of my "pards of convenience" were from Massachusetts, and the gentleman next to me had never attended a national level event.

He was horrified by the anachronisms: Officers wandered about, making off color, decidedly contemporary jokes, troops lounged during the preliminary bombardment and discussed matters of the Twentieth Century, and numerous modern items appeared throughout the ranks. I was cynical about the whole affair; a friend from my unit and I had a wonderful time talking to the crowd (both of us are teachers, so perhaps it was merely a natural instinct), and I had become only too accustomed to the modern intrusions. Indeed, those intrusions were the root cause of my cynicism.

Nevertheless, his disgust at the inappropriate comments and behavior brought into focus the aspects of such events that I have begun to tune out. My cynicism began to turn into a longing for a more accurate Civil War experience (sans minié balls and disease).

As the season progressed, that longing increased. I was appalled by mock trials involving inaccurate firing squads (shooting the men designated to hold the "victim"), and sham juries condemning male spies dressing in women's clothing. Such fodder made for cheap laughs on the part of the crowd, but it hardly brought anyone a sense of the reality of the soldier's daily life on campaign.

Perhaps the final straw came at one of the last events of the 2000 season. We advanced into the field of "battle," when we were confronted with a Confederate bagpiper. This anachronistic horror was fortuitously silenced by a volley, but I shudder at the memory of the actions of a large Confederate soldier, bearing a striking resemblance to John Brown. Struggling across the grounds with a grievous injury, he angrily shouted "you killed the piper" at we, the brazen plaid slayers.

When someone in our ranks began to spout sentences of obscenities as a means of expressing his disdain for the battle scenario (at one point he whined about driving umpteen miles to participate in a bad battle), I gave up, took a hit, and fled the scene when the battle was over. The piper and the swearing man managed to wreak havoc on any chance I had to get into the moment.

Needless to say, I plan on focusing on the educational aspects and authenticity at events this season. This emphasis will no doubt manifest itself in my reports. I plan on limiting my reports to new events.

As I have stated before, Traci and I will attend a number of mainstream events this season, and it is perhaps pointless to berate an event for being a farbfest when you know this fact in advance. One could also easily point to problems in my own impression, although I am going to some length to remove, modify or disguise inappropriate elements and behaviors. Maybe I'll be able to enjoy the mainstream events as opportunities for education. I may also find that the campaign events are the place where I can truly gain the understanding I seek.

Stone House, Pennsylvania. April, 2001

Last year's event was something of a comedy of errors, without the comedy. I galvanized with 5th Virginia, and witnessed a gross example of unsafe behavior on the second day. as a pair of fellow galvanized Federals made a pointless pistol charge on the Union line. The assault resulted in a very real, if not serious, injury.

The 40th effectively decided not to attend Stone House at the annual meeting when they listed it as a "B" event. However, I was anxious to get into the season, so I made the quick, 60 mile drive to Slippery Rock on Saturday morning. Traci had a prior commitment, so I made the brief drive to the Stone House without her.

Brian Roman, a pard from the 40th and I fell in with the 63rd Pennsylvania. The activities began immediately with a morning "sick call." I was declared fit, but the doctor, a grim man in his ominous black outfit, declared me a slacker when Brian told him that I refused to eat my salt pork. We retired to the campsite, where we had some fine opportunities to interact with the small but inquisitive audience.

The day's combat scenario was an interesting departure from the standard "skirmish in the woods" I've encountered at small events. The Confederates (mostly galvanized members of the 63rd) and the Federals deployed in extended skirmish lines along fences and hills. Brian and I set about constructing a small fortification for our post. The other members of the skirmish line did likewise. We kept watch for the better part of an hour, reporting any Confederate activity to the NCOs as they strolled by.

The Confederates were in turn posted along the stone wall, and their close proximity to the crowd allowed spectators to approach the reenactors with questions. It was an excellent scenario.

Eventually, we flanked the Confederate line, and the firing began. Brian and I were hesitant to leave our meager protection, but we eventually moved forward, and both of us went down in the ensuing fire fight.

Shortly after our "resurrection," we boiled coffee and spent the remainder of the afternoon talking with members of the 63rd. The people I talked to, particularly Captain Scot Buffington, were knowledgeable and friendly. I have met a few rather arrogant progressives, but by and large, most are remarkably willing to share their information with those expressing a sincere interest in improving their impression.

We were fortunate enough to spend the night in the Stone House itself, trading the night's chill for the Inn's hard floor. Both Brian and I called it a day early on Sunday, but not before we participated in a rather grueling skirmish drill through the woods. One of the most evident maladies of the previous day's skirmish was our lamentable tendency to lose touch with the bulk of the skirmish line, a situation which probably contributed to our untimely demises and the capture of one of our comrades.

All in all, a fine event, hosted by a fine unit. The 63rd seems to allow mainstream and progressive impressions, they have an active civilian contingent, and they plan on attending a number of the events we were planning to attend throughout the season. This will undoubtedly not be the last time I fall in with them.

This was a first time event, held at the Tour Ed Mine in Tarentum, a town north of Pittsburgh. The week prior to the event, I developed a case of conjunctivitis in my left eye, which obviously prevented me from wearing a contact lens. I have no period glasses, so I seriously thought the weekend was shot. On Friday morning, I made the decision to attend the event regardless.

I arrived in the mid afternoon, put in my right lens, threw on my traps and met Shelby Brkovitch, one of the event's organizers. Shelby directed me to the "campaigner" area, a grassy, shaded spot several hundred feet from the mainstream camp. My comrades for the weekend, Rob Willis, Brian Roman and some of the other members of the Columbia Rifles hadn't arrived yet, so I dropped my pack and talked with Shelby about the rigors of organizing an event, particularly one which drew reenactors with both mainstream and campaign impressions. At this stage, Rob Willis arrived, and I headed back to the campaigner camp to help him set up.

Rob had already cleared some of the long grass away and dug a fire pit. We set up a shebang with one of my shelter halves to protect our gear, and began to discuss the nature of the event and the hobby in general. My experience has been fairly typical, in that I started off as a mainstreamer who gradually began to improve his impression. As surprising as it seems to me now, our crude camp would be considered outright "hard-core" by many reenactors. By comparison, Rob started off "right": he fell in with a quality unit and bought decent gear from the onset. For him, Tarentum was comparatively relaxed.

Eventually, Brian Roman made his way to camp bearing boxes of hardtack and 10 pounds of cured slab bacon. We stacked rifles, and Rob settled in, while Brian and I scouted a trail for a potential march the following day, once the rest of our contingent trickled in on Saturday.

The night was chilly, and I spent most of it awake. Around 4, Rob and I both stirred, rekindled the fire, and talked for a while, before trying to grab a precious few more hours of sleep. I gave up the struggle as the horizon lightened, and began to wander the field, waiting for others to stir. Rob awoke before 6, the sergeant of the 116th Pennsylvania (National Regiment), the other unit sharing the campaigner area, came over to add our names to the roll. We had a brief roll call, and then broke for breakfast. Rob and I cooked chunks of the salty slab bacon over the fire and boiled coffee. Brian joined us, and we drilled with the 116th for an hour and a half.

I spent part of the day in the "Federal" portion of the mainstream camp with Brian and Mary Roman and their daughter, Elly. Traci made it up for the day, and kept Mary and Elly company while we were off performing various military functions. I also had a chance to take stock of our "opponents," the galvanized 63rd Pennsylvania. I would be fighting against our new group for the weekend.

Several other members of the Columbia Rifles and a member of the 40th joined our small band, and we fell in for the battle around noon. As with many fights, we spent a considerable amount of time waiting for the scenario to begin. Our small contingent gathered in a corner of the battlefield, where we watched the Confederates deploy along several of the rises on the opposite side of the grassy field. The battle began with the usual artillery barrage, and skirmishers were soon popping at one another. The long grass often obscured our heavily outnumbered opponents, and we advanced almost blind. I went down after a ragged volley, ending my day in the battle.

Brian Roman and I headed back to camp following the skirmish, where we had an opportunity to demonstrate the manual of arms, loading and firing and accouterments to several youngsters in the campaign camp. Unfortunately, ominous clouds began rolling in, and I began to weigh my options. Several of the members of our small band decided to go home for various reasons, and this finally tipped the scale. I considered the possibility of fully assembling a shelter tent, and there was also the option of sleeping in a sutler's tent, but with Mumford coming up and my eye still annoying me, I called it quits.

In retrospect, I regret leaving: the rain would have been annoying, but escapable or tolerable (there was a brief storm around 5 the following morning), and despite the odd sensation of wearing only one lens, I was able to see pretty well. Granted, the conjunctivitis probably wouldn't have been cured by the wind, dirt and pollen, but I probably would have healed either way.

The chief cause for this sentiment was the fact that I came in as a campaigner, and I bailed out of the event early--something that many mainstreamers are critical of. Had my comrades remained en masse, I probably would have toughed it out, but this is no excuse. I later learned that there were some in the mainstream camp who resented our presence (the "elitist" campaigner myth), because we were camped away from the mainstream area, and our leaving probably didn't help. However, on a positive note, a number of spectators commented on our area, and our small band's authentic appearance, which was heartening.

Mumford, New York, July 2001

John Tobey posted an after action report on the Columbia Rifles website. I had forgotten that, in addition to pointing out my longer locks of hair, I was also called for forgetting my canteen for the inspection. Thanks for reminding me ;-). Incidentally, I could have sworn that I saw the Columbia Rifles running, yes RUNNING off the battlefield after Sunday's Wheatfield scenario. That proves that you fellows were the smartest bunch on the field--those pies waiting for us were outstanding! How do I know about this? I was, er, shirking behind the hedgerow with a couple of CRs. Those Rebs were just too scarey. It's a great report, far different than this one. The letters at the end lend quite an interesting pair of perspectives on the event!

I first attended the reenactment at Mumford in 1984, and from 1990 to 1995, I helped a friend with crowd control and the event. When I found out the Columbia Rifles were attending the event, I rather brazenly invited myself along, despite the fact that I'm not a member of that fine organization. Traci and I left Pittsburgh early that Friday morning, arriving at the museum around 2 in the afternoon. Traci and Mary Roman planned on camping next to each other at the event, and we traveled relatively heavy, so Traci and Mary could cook together. Despite the sense that we were burdened by our cookware, we were quickly reminded of how little we had actually brought with us: Traci's 6' wedge tent was quickly dwarfed by the surrounding wall tents in the civilian area.

Traci and I shared an excellent dinner with our parents at the Village Inn at Caledonia (her father and stepmother chose that weekend for a visit), and returned to camp, where I found Rob Willis and several other members of the Columbia Rifles.

Our camp was a stark contrast to the civilian area. Unfortunately, the campaigner area, occupied by the Columbia Rifles, 28th Mass. and the Calico Boys, was almost overrun by encroaching canvas. I did however notice that most of the tents were of the small, shelter half variety, quite a departure from the majority of reenactments. I took a couple of minutes to set up my bed for the evening, and met many of the Rifles. I was glad to see Rob again, and Soupbone Weymer, one of my instructors from the South Mountain camp of instruction made his appearance as well. A pair of Chicken's feet, all that remained of General Lee, the Rifle's latest--and late--member, graced the ground near the fire pit. The feet would become the source of some amusement throughout the course of the weekend.

With a 6 a.m. Reveille, and my long standing tendency to not sleep on the first night of an event, I decided to settle down to sleep. Before I dozed off, I wound up chatting for an hour with Kevin O'Beirne, my neighbor for the evening.

A brief, light rain fell around 5 in the morning, and I rolled off off my gum blanket to find most of the CRs up and moving. We had roll call at 6, complete with leathers and rifles (a new experience for me), a ration issue (provided by the host), and some time to cook breakfast. Brian Roman and I took this time pack up our knapsacks and then headed over to the adjacent civilian area to dig the fire pit dug for the women. This accomplished, we made it back to the camp in time to fall in for some drill, which took up perhaps 45 minutes. Before breaking ranks, we were told to fall in in 20 minutes for the dress parade and company drill. We returned to the civilian camp to light the cooking fire, which we accomplished fairly quickly. At this point, Sgt. O'Beirne appeared through the hedgerow, and informed us that the company was already in line. It seems like a fast 20 minutes, but indeed, the company was formed, we were late, and Brian and I were told that our names were now at the top of the list for guard duty. This was not a good way to make a first impression on one of the best companies in reenacting, and I resolved at that point to show Traci how to light a fire on her own, if need be.

We drilled on the Great Meadow for some time after dress parade, and returned to camp for a quick lunch. The Union troops were to occupy the town today, and we were to form up and march into town shortly after noon. As we walked the short distance into the town square, the differences between units such as the 63rd and CRs and many other groups became increasingly apparent. People snapped photographs as we went by, and I could swear that other reenactors were taking photos as well. The company had a certain "look" to it, with their dusty blue uniforms and black knapsacks . . .

The guard duty we were threatened with never materialized. Instead, we dropped our packs in town, drew a "lemonade and pie" ration from the "locals," and hid in the shade. Some read, others slept. The parent squad made a brief appearance in the square, and a few curious spectators came in to ask questions. For the most part however, we simply remained still in the dust.

After a respite of an hour and a half, the Rifles were called upon to reconnoiter the museum's perimeter. We were divided into three squads, and sent out in intervals along the fence lines and hedgerows. Ours was the last squad out. While we waited our turn, several of my comrades noticed Soupbone's fine pair of boots. Three men finally agreed to share poor Mr. Bone's worldly possessions when he shed his mortal coil; a boot to the first two, and his fine sleeping cap to the third. Our squad deployed, and we spotted several Confederates standing behind some piles of gravel on the opposite side of a hedgerow. We worked our way down the tree line, toward the entrance we assumed the Confederates would take advantage of. A number of Federals "guarded" the entrance, but they were static, exposed, and for all intents and purposes, out of the fight, as their weapons were resting on the ground, making a quick reaction impossible. We later learned that the sergeant in the first squad had already hollered at them for their lackadaisical posts. We returned to the company without incident, but the shooting began moments after we fell in with the main body.

Our initial though was correct; the Confederates poured through the opening in the trees, despite a barricade put up due to some construction. We quickly moved into a firing line, and several mountain howitzers were rolled forward to support us. We took heavy fire, returned it, and I noticed that several of my comrades took hits in these opening minutes, something that you will almost never see in a mainstream company. Despite the spectacular bursts from the mountain howitzers, which sent dozens of apples rolling from the trees with each shot, the Confederates advanced, pressing us in the front and on both flanks. I didn't hear any particular command, but the company suddenly broke and ran. I put on my best panic stricken face, and joined the stampede. Our flight drew sardonic cries of "Hail Columbia!" from a couple of fellows in other companies.

We reformed by the Town Hall, and the fighting took on a fluid nature. Half of us moved to the left, and fired between the courthouse and a home. A few Confederates confidently ran into this area just as we leveled a volley into them, sending one flying into the bushes, while others fled. Unfortunately, we soon found a heavy line of troops in our front, and many of us went down. I fell a few yards from the Town Hall, and the fighting swept over me. Rather than lying still, or keeping an eye on the battle, I made a point of writhing on the ground and tearing at my clothing, feigning a wound to the stomach. I noticed the "wounded" CRs nearby squirmed, moaned or stayed perfectly still, quite a contrast to many reenactor "dead," who quickly prop themselves up to watch the battle.

This was but the first of two actions that day. The firing died down, and we reformed to participate in the main action, a recreation of the Wheatfield at Gettysburg in the Great Meadow. We marched through the Toll Booth, and were confronted with a hillside filled with thousands of spectators. Soupbone fell immediately. Our little company held back briefly, charged, took light casualties, as per Lieutenant Toby's orders (obviously he knew that his men would die en masse unless told not to do so), and retreated in fairly good order. We resumed a supporting position until called in to attack. This time, we were all but annihilated, and I took my second hit of the day.

The remainder of the day was pretty much open. Traci had the opportunity to meet and Talk with Glenna Joe Christen at the Watchdog area, and I met Bill. It was surprising to see Dirty Billy, John Zaharias and photographer John Coffer lined up next to the Watchdog tent. One seldom sees this many high quality vendors at a large, national event.

I joined Traci for dinner that evening, and Rob Willis and Josey Albert came over for a visit. Josey appears to have quite a reputation as a ladies man, and he quickly put his charm to work on Traci, although with limited affect. Eventually, he nicknamed her "cousin," when he discovered that they shared last names. I mentioned to Josey that Traci wanted to meet Linda Trent to work on first person speech for Burkittsville, and Josey obliged us by brining Linda down to our camp area. Traci soon found herself in a gathering of some of the best civilians in the hobby, and I had a chance to talk with them at some length as well. I have generally come to the conclusion that civilian progressives are perhaps somewhat more welcoming than some in the military, although I felt quite comfortable with the Columbia Rifles for most of the weekend.

We peeked in at the ball, but didn't dance. At one point, I wandered off, under the assumption that Traci went back to camp. Rob and Josey graciously stood by her, until I returned. Some of there protection might have also been due to the ambulance parked at the building next to the dance, and Traci and I both appreciate their concern.

Seeing as I had little sleep the previous night, I went to bed before 11. I was restless all night, and got up at 5:30. We fell in for roll call at 6:30, followed by breakfast. We were informed that knapsack inspection would be at 9, but the remainder of the morning was open. I broke out my canteen half and cooked breakfast with Traci and Mary Roman, and went back to camp for the inspection.

The Calico Boys joined us for inspection. All went well, until Lieutenant Toby told me that my longer locks of hair would spread lice throughout the company. Within seconds, Jay White, standing next to me, and John Pell (nicknamed "gnome" that morning, because of his night cap) began scratching away. At first, I could barley contain the duel impulses of laughing at their antics and chasing after them for calling attention to the hypothetical "threat" I posed to the company. After a few minutes of this behavior, I began to get the decidedly unpleasant feeling that something was crawling on my skin. Others along the line began to itch as well.

With inspection over, we had some free time to wander about the area. Although the Confederates occupied the town, a large number of them wore light blue trousers. John Pell and David MacKenna decided to test security, and stripped off their blue sack coats. They wandered into town, intent on making mischief.

I remained in camp, but Traci was already in town, with Linda Trent and the women of the Columbia's Daughters. They saw John and David's handiwork first hand. Our intrepid friends ventured into the town square, and began singing patriotic songs of the Union. No one noticed them. They walked past the stacked arms in the town square, planting flowers on the stacks. No one noticed them. Finally, John lit his pipe, bent down, and untied the cord holding the Confederate flag aloft. As they walked away, the authentic civilians cheered as the flag slid into the dust. A tentative "Wait, Hey! Come back here" prompted John and David to skedaddle back to camp, where they regaled us with their tale of lax Confederate Security.

Traci later told me that her first person experience on Sunday made for one of her best weekends in the hobby. She might be hard pressed to enjoy herself at events where civilians have little to do (or are willing to do little).

John Barney, a friend from high school and my best man at last year's wedding came over to the Columbia Rifle's camp, which he described as something resembling a refugee pen. John and I chatted for a while with Heinrich Schmidt and some of the other Rifles until the time came to fall in.

We formed up around noon, and, after group pictures, marched behind the tree line utilized by the Confederates the previous day. Some plunged into the think brush to seek shade, while many of us merely reclined on our backpacks next to the cornfield. Sgt. Chris Piering and Pvt. Mike Peterson began to sing. For much of the following hour, their fine voices echoed through the corn, creating a pensive, melancholic mood throughout the ranks. Most if us were clearly unwilling to join in the fight when the time came, and I would gladly have spent another hour in the dust and sun, listening to the CRs singing.

The initial battle was a reversal of Saturday's fight. We came into contact with a Confederate company as we made our way through the buildings surrounding the town square. Several or my comrades pitched into the dust, but our butternut opponents remarkably resisted our fire. A second line of Federal troops appeared on their flanks, pouring several volleys into their line, and still, no one fell. Three mountain howitzers roared at them, but their retreat left remarkably few of their comrades on the ground.

Several of us had ringing ears from Saturday's howitzer barrage, and I made it a point of warning the others by hollering "fire in the hole," once. I regretted it before the words left my lips, as this is a notorious "reenactorism." A few of the men glared in my direction, but were soon distracted by the fight. I took little comfort in the fact that a few of my comrades also slipped from time to time . . . I knew it was wrong, but habits are sometimes hard to break.

My goal was to take a hit somewhere in the vicinity of the Town Hall, where a first person hospital was allegedly set up. I went down approximately 50 feet from the steps, and began to drag myself across the dry grass. Eventually, someone emerged from another building, helped me up, and brought me down to a cellar where some of the the Museum staff was handing out cool water. They knew nothing of the hospital.

I began to wander through the town, looking for the civilians without avail. By now, the Federal troops had reformed for the final battle in the Great Meadow, but I remained behind, as did 4 or 5 of the boys from the Rifles. We watched the battle on the Meadow unfold, and then noticed a group of civilians watching the battle through the Toll Gate on our right. Traci, Linda Trent and the Columbia Daughter's greeted us with pies and water when we made our way over to the group. Almost immediately after we arrived, we turned to watch the Columbia Rifles break and flee the field in terror yet again. Their ignominious retreat led them to the tasty victuals beyond the Toll Gate, and any shame they might have garnered from their hasty disappearance from the Meadow was quickly forgotten as the home made pies quickly vanished. A fitting end to a pleasant weekend!

Mumford is on the high end of mainstream reenactments, and it was a pleasure to join one of the finest units in the hobby for two days of learning and camaraderie. I still find that battles hold rather little appeal for me, and it would seem that this is not an unusual attitude among progressive reenactors, based on the number of early hits the Rifles and the Calico Boys took throughout the weekend. This is one of the more authentic qualities of these units, as their reticence often manifests itself in heavy casualties and a penchant for running away from danger. More units should share this philosophy, rather than clinging to the idea that it would be a waste of time to drive 4 + hours to an event, only to take an early hit. Many spectators can and do sense the inaccurate nature of close range fighting with few casualties, and this aspect does little to serve the cause of education.

And what of "General Lee's" feet? They remain buried in the fire pit in Mumford, New York. Initially, some of the company's wags dreamt up the idea of leaving them protruding from the sod, but it was not to be . . . no doubt due to the staff's horror at seeing the Columbia Rifles with a freshly killed chicken in the first place! Word was that a few of them thought that some of the CRs had "foraged" the bird in the first place!

Hale Farm and Village, August 2001

When I made the trip to Ohio, I knew that I would probably have to shop for a unit. The 40th had relegated this small event to a "B" level reenactment, which is usually a good indication that few would show up. My suspiscions were well founded, as I was told that I would be the 40th's sole participant at the registration table.

I threw my traps down under a pine tree and promptly dug a small fire pit. Within half an hour, I had coffee boiling and some bacon and potatoes frying in my canteen half. It was early yet, and I initially figured on finding a unit some time on Saturday, or possibly treating the event as an opportunity to work the educational aspect of the hobby. As it turned out, John Brown of the 23rd Ohio ran in to me as I wandered the grounds, and I soon had a home with the Ohio Mess.

John and his son Nate (also known as "Mongo") joined me in my humble bivouac. A couple of others joined our small group, and two shelter tents sprang up. John, Nate and I chose to sleep under the tree, but not before a long and often intense discussion that ranged from medical ethics to Hood's competence as a general. Eventually, the others dozed off to sleep, while I gazed out at tried to take in the beauty of my surroundings. A fog descended around 2 in the morning, obscuring the distant woods but hardly dimming the light from the moon and the city of Cleveland, some miles distant.

Any thought of sleep was dashed when a grinding, gasping snore rent the air. I initially eyed Mongo as the source of these unearthly bellows, but I soon determined that John was the guilty party. He later told me that I had "hear the elephant." His late night droning appears to have become legendary among some circles of the hobby.

I dragged myself out of my blanket as the horizon gradually lightened. The night had been chilly, but the shelter half around my feet prevented me from getting a chill. My nocturnal torments were primarilly of an acoustic nature, although my inability to sleep on the first night of an event is nothing new. I poked and fanned the fire, and my comrades began to stir.

Our ersatz company consisted of members of the 23rd and 4th Ohio, a couple of us from the 63rd Pennsylvania, and several other sundry units. The day was rather straightforward: Drill, followed by lunch and the afternoon battle. As has become my habit, I took a hit in the initial stage of the afternoon's engagement. I passed a pleasant evening in the company of the Ohio mess.

The Sunday battle of the 2000 reenactment featured Confederates who died by the score before we could truly get engaged. Whil.e I'm not overly fond of battles, this year's mock fight was better scripted, with out company deployed as skirmishers and breaking in mock panic for the woods.

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