CHIN MUSIC FROM A GREYHOUND

To the "battlefield", was approximately a distance of maybe one-half mile. We remained in our formation, crossing over the railroad tracks. After a short distance, the pavement ended, to be replaced by a dirt lane. Continuing on, we entered a less populated area where there were several trailer homes on our right, and thick woods on our left. In my group of four, I was closest to the woods, and I kept glancing nervously fearing the Johnny Rebs would burst from cover at any moment, screaming like Indians, and bushwhack us. Ahead of us was a high hill, about fifty feet in height, and extending for some distance east and west. Lieutenant Dick ordered us into a company front, and had us wait at the base of the hill, while he and Ray Ham trudged to the crest. We waited for an eternity, it seemed. I didn't know what horrors awaited us over the hill. I glanced nervously to my right. A man was sitting on the makeshift front porch of the trailer, eyeing us with a blank expression. He drank beer from an iced washtub, his dirty bare feet on the porch rail.

Within a few moments, all hell broke loose. Explosion's ripped the air apart as the artillery opened up. This was Steve Lillard and his crew. They had been conscripted into the Confederacy for this battle along with a gun brought by another fellow. We couldn't see them, because they were on the other side of the hill, but the noise was deafening. Two large smoke rings rose over the crest and over our heads. Lt. Dick and Sgt. Ray were scurrying down the hill at this time, and orders were barked to load with cartridge. The unholy screeching of the Rebel yell made my fingers fly to their task. We knew that the foe would be advancing; we just couldn't see them yet. Dick ordered us to about face, and marched us away from the hill about 25 paces. Again an about face and from a safer distance, we awaited the first glimpse of the gray line.

The rumbling of many shod feet stamping on the dry earth drew closer and closer until I thought we were having an earthquake. In a few moments, the familiar dirty dishrag of the Confederacy appeared - as if rising from the bowels of earth. And then, like so many boils rising to the surface of the skin, the multi-colored multitude materialized. There were about 50 men. (This was not the long gray line of popular romances' and dime novels. These sons of the south had on a variety of different civilian clothing. No two men were dressed the same. Remember, this was Missouri. Because she was not officially part of the Confederacy, she received little or no aid from Richmond. What arms and materials they carried, they brought from home. Rather than called Confederates, these scarecrows were sneeringly referred by the Federals as secessionist’s or just plain ‘sesch’).

Ragtag though they were, they held my attention for a brief moment. Dick snapped me back to the land of the living by barking out a command to prepare to fire. My sweaty fingers located a cap from its pouch, and then we were given the order to take aim. I tried to find the fattest 'sesch' puke I could, to rest my Enfield sights on. They looked like they were waiting for us to open the ball, so Dick obliged them. A cloud of our gun smoke obscured the hill briefly as we fired, then as it lifted; it appeared that our shots had been high. Not one 'sesch' had been hit. All of them were still on their feet, with not even a flesh wound on them. I could have sworn I'd had 'fatty' dead in my sights. (In reenactment's, especially when the temperature is over 100 degrees, there are very few casualties. No on wants to lie out in the hot sun). We about-faced and began to reload as we retreated, for we had stirred up a hornet’s nest. Behind us, the 'sesch' commander cracked out an order. A ragged volley - sounding like popping corn as it goes off, felt like a force against our backsides. The 'sesch' were cackling with delight at their accomplishment, then they wormed their way down the hill after us. For the next half-mile, the two lines of infantrymen traded volleys; usually from about 50 paces apart. We would halt, fire, and fall back. They would halt, fire, and advance. Overhead the sound of thunder; the two cannon were belching, as if adding its own exclamation point to the volume of noise. And nobody died during this exchange.

We soon reached the railroad tracks. We turned about just on the other side and delivered another devastating volley, with the same non-lethal results. Just then, one of our group made the insane suggestion that we "charge them scarecrows!" It was immediately rejected and the author of the idea was verbally abused. (I hate to remind the reader constantly, but it was damn hot! Remember at 10 AM that morning, it had been 102 degrees. Now, at about 1 PM, the temperature had probably climbed to 110. Even though the battle and the distance covered do not seem extreme, due to the heat, it was a bitch! )

Now we were at the edge of the main residential area at Third Street. When we began, we marched down Third Street (remember, I told you this was on a slight hill). Now we had to march up Third Street. We continued to trade volleys with the 'sesch', but now our movement was slow, our legs beginning to feel like blocks of lead; tongue's hanging out. People in the neighborhood were gathering on either side of the street - coming out of their homes. Kids running about and being awed by the noise of the guns - babies crying at the same noise. Dick had told us we would surrender in the next two blocks ahead, but I decided I would die a glorious death. I could honestly go no further. With a scream, I clutched my chest like I had been shot and - with a bit of overacting - I staggered out of line and fell convulsing like I was having a seizure. It just so happened that Bill Fannin had decided to 'bite the big one' also and so we both fell in the same yard, practically in each other's arms. I lay my head against a tree, and with a final gasp, and one final spasm - which drew an awe from some kids who had gathered around to watch my antics - I 'died'.