WELLSBURG, N.Y. – On June 10-12, 2005, eight Columbia Rifles members participated in the 2005 edition of the “Elmira Death March”, sponsored by our pards of the Living History Guild (LHG). CRs at the event included: Lt. Doug Oakes (commanding the Federals), Lt. Dave “Nolan” Berndt (commanding the Rebs), and—participating as Confederates—Sergeant Kevin O’Beirne, Corporal Dave Towsen, Charles Heath, Jeff Henion, Tom Scoufalos, and Dane Utter.
This was the seventh annual “Death March” event, but the first that featured opposing forces. The attraction of the event was that a contingent of Confederate infantry was to chase and skirmish with a Federal infantry group for six miles through some rough and largely anachronism-free country that resembles the Alleghenies or Blue Ridge in Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley region. Due to a dearth of Rebs, most CRs attending the event elected to wear gray—including me. The “2nd Florida Co. C” marched again, so to speak.
The rest of the Confederate force was from the newly formed 11th Virginia Co. G, based in western New York. They were good fellows, particularly to troop through an event like this with comrades like us.
Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, no one at this event had a camera, so there are no photographs of it. That’s good at the time, but afterward no one who wasn’t there knows what it looked like.
The number of participants was fairly small: less than thirty altogether, with about twelve Rebs chasing fourteen or fifteen Yanks over hill and… well, over more hills.
The historical setting for the event was the retreat of Federal forces from Berryville to Winchester in mid-June 1863, during the early part of the Gettysburg campaign. A large packet of historical information was provided to participants via e-mail a week or two prior to the event. It appeared that, early in the event, “our side” portrayed some of the 10th Louisiana, and then switched to portraying men from an Alabama brigade for the balance of the day, at least based on the historical information provided.
That Doug Oakes and the LHG put a lot of work into the event was readily apparent. The logistics were good, the planning was well-done (name me another linear event in the East that’s happened successfully in the past two years!), the quality of the participants was pretty darned good, and Doug and his pards had even set up several signposts at crossroads along our march route saying things like, “Berryville 2 mi. ?” and “Winchester 12 mi. ?” that were a nice surprise and a neat added touch. The event was even to include a period ration issue for all registrants, which was also pretty nice.
I left for Elmira, N.Y. directly from work around 5:00 p.m., grabbed some “road food”, and drove northward from Harrisburg. I was feeling pretty good about the weekend’s weather because the Elmira weather report said only that there was a “chance” of showers during the weekend, although it was supposed to be pretty hot and humid.
The closer I got to Trout Run, the halfway point in my trip, the darker the skies became. The weather was really hot and humid and soon the rain came down in buckets. I hoped the stormy weather would pass before I got to Doug Oakes’s house—the registration check-in point and the event’s “command post”—because I knew what was causing the burning in my ears and the throbbing in my head: it must also be raining in Elmira.
And it was. It was coming down viciously and in torrents—a real gully-washer, except that it lasted for three or four hours. Doug’s place was easy to find because the directions were quite good and nearly exact. I parked and, as I entered the garage—full of Yanks and Rebs—I was bombarded with the usual greetings of friends as I arrive at an event when it’s raining; I’d really like to think that the rain wasn’t my fault, but it’s rained at every event I’ve attended for almost three years, so… [Note: Dave Towsen finally broke his “rain curse” in September 2005 when he attended his first rain-free event in over three years. — Ed.]
The guys I really felt sorry for were Brian Swartz of the LHG and one other fellow. They were up at the bivouac site, miles away from Doug’s house, without transportation or cover, and rode out that storm with one gum blanket for two guys, and a bunch of rations.
I got my duds and went into the house to change, and received another bombardment of catcalls regarding the condition of the local weather and my association to the present flood. I went back to the garage and spent some time talking to Jeff “Sparky” Henion and Kevin O’Beirne about the progress of the 2nd Edition of The Columbia Rifles Research Compendium when in walked two Yanks who were soaking wet—Swartz and his comrade, finally rescued from the deluge. After some discussion on the status of the weather we all decided to wait for the rain to end, as it seemed to be doing, before both sides were shuttled to their respective camps. I don’t much mind the rain, because it and I have become as one over these last few years, but the decision was made despite me, not for me.
The downpour quit around 10:00 p.m. and the men loaded up in the beds of a few pickup trucks to be shuttled three or so miles to the bivouacs. The heat and humidity, however, were just starting to get cranked back up to their exceptionally high levels. I waited for the last trip to give the boys some short time to relax before I arrived in the Confederate camp, when no doubt the rains would once more visit. The trip out was quite nice in the balmy night air as our ride continued slowly winding through the hills. Bambi and his mom seemed to be just about everywhere. Houses were few and far between.
“Sparky and I arrived in the daylight and, with Doug and some of the LHG boys, had a look at the camps,” said O’Bee. “Believe me, the direct route from Doug’s house to the Confederate bivouac was about three miles and took about five minutes in the daytime. At night, it took over twenty minutes, but I think the drivers were trying to make us think it was a lot further away—and hence the march would be longer—than it really was.”
We literally jumped off the tailgate just forty yards from where the boys who had preceded us were lying in tall grass among some saplings. A fly had been set up to deflect additional rain and several were huddled underneath—huddled as close as one cares to get to the fellow next toy you when it’s hot and humid.
I went a short distance away from the fly and tripped over Chawls, who pointed me to a “good spot” just to his left. “There’s a pile of rocks right there and some barbed wire but the wire’s old, so you can break it by just bending it.” I found a good spot next to the pile of rocks, which, covered, by my knapsack and blanket, was a pillow for the night. The weather was warm and I passed a restful night without the blanket.
And, best of all, there was no rain. As it turned out, the Friday evening deluge was the only precipitation all weekend, kinda, so maybe I’m “getting better”.
We awoke on Saturday morning between 5:00 and 5:30 a.m. as the sun was just starting to come up, to the sound of a flock of wild turkeys in a nearby woodlot complaining about our intrusion. Soon everyone in the Confederate company/platoon was up and around, and farting, burping, and swearing began in earnest.
We fell in for roll call and Sergeant O’Bee informed us “The General” had been blown and everyone was to pack for an immediate movement (get your mind out of the gutter). The boys packed quickly and we fell in, organized the company/platoon, and were issued what I would call some meager and crappy rations that were to last us for the whole weekend. The pork I received was more bone then pork. There was some scant amount of rice and a couple of crackers per man, and the only thing there was plenty of was empty space in my haversack. “We shall suffer through for the good of the rebellion,” I thought and, continued my corporal’s duties.
About this time I was ordered to take two men, 11th Virginia guys who eagerly volunteered—members of the 2nd Florida Co. C know better than to volunteer when there can be shooting—and find the Yankee camp, believed to be about 250 or 300 yards away. I was to ascertain what they were up to if we could find them, or at least learn the location of their camp. To me this sounded like a one-way trip to the Yank prison at Pont Lookout.
Did I mention how stifling hot it was at that early hour? Well, I will. By now it was about 6:00 a.m. and the temperature and humidity were both hovering in the mid-80s—it would be a “perfect” day to be marching in hilly terrain! So, now we were getting wet from the inside out. A field of rain-soaked Timothy hay would soon equalize that “wet” condition.
Our detail took intervals after crossing a mudhole in a fence line and began crossing a field of thigh-high hay. Now imagine what two inches of rain and high humidity do to the hay and field. Yep, it was wet, wet, wet. I would compare crossing that field to crossing a thigh deep stream, complete with shoe-mouth-deep mud from time to time. All of this fun while trying to find the Yankees! As I poked my head around a group of trees that jutted into the field about thirty yards, there sat a bluecoat on a log. I scared the stuffin’ out of him, having seen him first. He wheeled, fired at me, and about fell off his log. I skedaddled like the wind in a Florida hurricane with the other two guys back across the “liquid hay” field to the company. “Sir, I do believe the Yanks are still there,” I reported to Lieutenant Berndt.
Deciding to flank the Yanks, the company, in full marching order (wet, wet, wet), moved into the woods—approaching ‘em from a slightly different side, we were (crafty we are)—with a small advanced guard in front of the bulk (no, not bulky) of our platoon/company. We approached cautiously in skirmish order. Then, of course, a gunshot rang out and all pretense of secrecy vanished, as Sergeant O’Bee started yelling his theme of the day, “Keep moving forward! Keep after ‘em!”
It was, to be sure, anti-climatic. We found only two guys in the Federal camp, the rest having R-U-N-N-O-F-T after thinking better of tangling with our Rebel horde. One of the Yanks died gloriously for his cause with one of our minies in his belly, and the other—like a true Potomac Legion member—surrendered.
Boy oh boy, were those two bluebellies guarding a treasure! It was like capturing General “Hindquarters” Pope’s supply depot all over again: what bounty! The Yanks had left in such a hurry they “forgot” to take their grub, and there was food and forage everywhere. We placed a guard about fifty yards out in the direction we supposed the Yanks had runnoft to, in case they decided to return. Like Gordon’s Rebs at Cedar Creek, we then sat our asses down to graciously and voraciously help ourselves to their larders. We filled our haversacks and cartridge boxes to overflowing and rested. 250 yards down, and just over 5¾ miles to go.
While the Sergeant and Lieutenant went over some documents that had been discovered in the camp, The Chawls and I set about cooking breakfast and boiling coffee for the boys. This was no easy feat considering the condition of the Yankee wood. One of the boys found a carte-de-visite of the one of the ugliest Yankee women in history. It was sad to think this was someone’s mother or even worse, someone’s wife. Imagine the Widow Higgerson [a hellaciously ugly woman who owned a farm on the Wilderness battlefield in 1864 — Ed.], if you dare, and then move up the Ugly Scale by 10 or even 20. Ick! Dane Utter spent his time stealing every bit of cash he could from the two Yanks—he even rifled the wounded one (we had misdiagnosed him as dead a little while earlier). I asked Dane what he was going to do with all of those Yankee greenbacks, besides gambling, and he replied, “What does it matter? Those Yanks will have no use for ‘em in Libby!” Yes, it was that kind of war.
All things considered, this was a pretty cool way to issue rations to the Rebs, and it’s not often in reenacting you can rifle prisoners and really loot an abandoned camp to your heart’s desire. And yes, needless to say, this was all part of the event program planned by Mr. Oakes—it’s just that we rank-and-file types hadn’t been told about it in advance.
Breakfast was cooked and consumed—Chawls just can’t help himself from cooking for the guys—and a large boiler of Yank coffee had brightened my day. I was just getting comfortable, conversing with Chawls, discussing our bounty and who we could talk into carrying the large frying pan that the Yanks had left behind… and then O’Bee bellowing, ”FALL IN!” sure broke the moment.
The occasion? Our guide had arrived. Clad in Nineteenth Century woodsman’s attire, this old fellow—a local resident thoughtfully provided by Doug as part of the event planning so that we didn’t lose our way in those hills ahead—sure looked his part, and he certainly knew the route, thank God, or they’d still be searching for us up there.
O’Bee blurted out, “What’s that on his head!!??” I think we all turned to Kevin at the same time with a did-he-just-say-that-out-loud? look on our faces. I think the article covering our guide’s head was the tail of some dead animal covering a felt hat that’d had most of the brim cut away, so it looked like a baseball cap with the visor on steroids. At any rate, his clothing was made of cotton, and was sorta white-ish. The guide, by his dress, was not stupid—did I mention that it was hot?
It was time to pursue the Yanks, but there was a minor detail, as O’Bee noted: the prisoners. “Sir, do you have any parole forms?” “Uh, no,” said Lieutenant Berndt. “Well, sir, I guess we’ll have to shoot ‘em,” said the bloodthirsty Sergeant. The Lieutenant then ordered me to stay behind to offer the prisoners to either 1) Swear allegiance to our cause, or 2) Be paroled to Jesus. Both having strong Union ties and no brains decided not to join us and were unceremoniously shot dead. Having two dead Yankees, Private Utter rifled their clothing one more time before we joined the rest of the platoon, which was already 50 or 100 yards distant and marching away.
“It was almost a bit of a shock as we were picking our way across another field of tall, wet hay in the broiling sun, and we heard those gunshots to our rear in the still morning air. Kind of a reminder of how brutal war could be,” said O’Bee later. Yep, this was the man who’s idea it was to shoot ‘em in the first place…
We joined the platoon and began our pursuit of the Yankee army corps up-and-through and up-and-over trails in the hills to our front. The field sloped downward, and then we entered some shady woods. More humid, yes, but less direct sun, but of course now there was the idea that a Yank ambuscade was around every turn in the trail.
These trails wound up and up and up through the woods and fields south of Elmira. The period signposts along the way added much to the experience. As we continued our upward march through the shade of the woods, the Sergeant and I took turns directing the advanced guard and keeping pressure on the Yankees.
Eventually, there was the inevitable gunshots from up ahead, and the first inclination of our men was to stop, take cover, and worry about how to crawl to the next cover. And of course, there was O’Bee bellowing into the woods, “Keep moving forward! Keep after ‘em!” and, “Good Lord, it takes ‘em thirty seconds to reload. MOVE when they shoot!”
O’Bee later said, “The reason for my ‘keep moving forward’ stuff was actually for the men’s benefit. When the Yanks positioned flankers that opened on us from some hillside on our flank, I figured it was better to chase their main body ahead and isolate the flankers, rather than have our boys running after two or three Yanks, up and down hills in the woods in full marching order, in 88-degree heat.”
The event organizers, with the men in mind, made sure there were ample rest stops and at no time did anyone want for water. This was obviously been well thought out and its execution was well done.
Throughout the marches in the woods, at regular intervals each member of our small but hearty Confederate band took turns tripping and falling over this or that. For me it was a tree root and I landed on my left knee… cushioned by a rock. Yep, it hurt like hell, and turned a nice green-purple color too. Virtually everyone else suffered similarly.
The Yankees retreated pretty well and fast that morning, not as fast as our bunch of old-fart Confederates chased them (only three in our group were under the age of 39—a 21-year-old kid from the 11th Virginia, Dane, and Tom Scoufalous). During the day, we took several 15-minute breaks to let the Yanks get another head start and, for some reason it never took us fifteen minutes to catch them again.
The Yanks, being the vile scum they are, took every chance to bushwhack us at every turn in the road or rise in the ground. We could not be stopped despite the few casualties, which occurred from time to time. For instance, when I was kilt, I counted to “twenty-Mississippi” and fell back in. We pursued the bluebellies with vigor and, at one point, even got ‘round behind them causing them to run even faster. You’d have thought each one of the Federals was carrying a fresh pie by the way we chased them.
At one place along the route—a few hundred yards from our first water-stop—the Vile Yanks departed from the pre-arranged march route and led us into a trap. We chased them into a steep hollow through which ran a spring that eventually joined a larger stream. Going down that hill was work for goats. Just as we got to the bottom and were blundering around in the stream, getting our feet wet, the Vile Yanks opened fire on us from elevated positions around us. Lieutenant Berndt was the first to fall. You see, the stream ended directly below a steep hill and, guess where the Yanks were? We were “fish in a barrel.” Sergeant O’Bee ended this pretty quick by hollering, “Yanks, we surrender!” and that got us up to the water supply without further fuss.
We arrived at the first rest/water stop and, Lo!, the water truck was there. We ate a cold lunch (it was, after all, about 9:00 a.m.), drank water, conversed with our Federal counterparts, and allowed my knee to begin to stiffen. I knew that was going to happen but figured as soon as we got moving again it would be no problem. Charles broke in to his bottomless haversack and pulled out some delicious blind robins for us to enjoy. Yum! Smoked fish with a lot of salt. Good stuff, and just the ticket on such a hot day.
The second leg of the event started out going up a long, steep hill mostly in an open field…whew! That was a warm one. Then we spent another hour or two shooting at and chasing Yanks around in the woods, and after another while we got to the next water/rest stop, and again the water truck was there. After twenty or thirty minutes here, it was time to shove off onto the last, 2½–mile leg of the march.
The Federals got a 15-minute head start and, we kitted up and prepared to catch them again. This part of the stroll was to be on “tar and chip” or macadamized roadways, so the order was “no shootin’.”
We formed and turned right onto the roadway and wow! We were walking downhill! Down a really big, steep-ass downgrade, too. However, my excitement was short-lived because, after a half-mile, the pike returned to its uphill norm, so up it we marched. We rested some, and marched uphill some more. Soon, I was burping blind robins—yech. The burping became louder and more consistent. Sergeant O’Bee commented on my hearty digestive gasses. We were moving and my knee felt fine [By this point, my leg sure wasn’t, but that’s just another casualty of chasin’ Yanks in the woods. – Ed.]. Now it was my stomach acting strangely. We sat to rest, having again caught up to the Yanks, who had, it turned out, fallen asleep at an interim rest stop.
The Yanks quickly got their boiler steam up and chugged away up the road. We sat down next to a drainage ditch fifty yards from where they’d been, and then we all fell asleep too. O’Bee got on his feet twenty minutes later, and the boys looked pretty disappointed that it was time to get going again.
It was really hot on that pavement.
Burp, burp, burp, and my stomach began to turn. No really, I was getting sick! I had no signs of “heat anything” and I wasn’t dizzy; I was perspiring profusely and I didn’t feel overly hot. But, wow, was my stomach sick. I had been drinking plenty of water since we left our morning camp—I figured at least seven full canteens. Now I was mad, getting grumpy, and sick. Well, not wanting to do anything stupid, I opted for a ride on the water truck and was dropped off at our Friday starting point (Doug’s house).
I took off my pack, traps, camp equipage, jacket, shoes, and socks and dug my keys out of the haversack. I needed to cool off—or so it seemed. I went for the Gatorade in the cooler in my car and, before half of the bottle was down the gullet I felt better. No, way better, in a normal sort of way. I guess my potassium level had crashed and it just needed refreshing.
Only five minutes later the balance of the Confederate contingent rolled in, piled in the back of the water truck. Apparently, the entire Federal force had crapped out 300 yards short of the end of the march—but with one last, steep hill to climb through oppressively hot and humid pine thickets—so the Confederates were picked up off the road with about a mile left in their march. Both sides rested in the shade near Doug’s house for an hour or so, after which most of the Yanks, largely being local LHG boys, opted for a shower in their own homes and departed. The rest of us placed our weapons and leathers in our vehicles and were transported by Doug’s wife Terri—redoubtable driver of the water truck—to our Saturday night bivouac. The camp was about a third of a mile behind Doug’s house, and up a big hill, so the ride up it via a dirt-and-grass logging road was nicer than hiking it, even sans ordnance stores. Charles “I’m not cooking” Heath went with the first group and, when the truck came back down the hill, I was informed he required my presence up on Mount Olympus.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when I arrived at the camp. A fully operational saloon was set up in the framed, unfinished cabin that Doug and Terri are building “up yonder”. The folks who ran the saloon did one hell of a fine job in their portrayal: I’m talking bar with real libations made from Civil War recipes, games of chance like faro, Spanish Monty, and other ways to be relieved of your money, and period conversation too. The operation, dubbed the White Star Saloon by its impressionists, reflects a lot of work and some darned fine civilian portrayals, and added greatly to our Saturday evening comfort. No one got hosed—it was just one or two drinks per man—enough to loosen the muscles and tongues after a hard day.
Suddenly, loads of fresh beef were popping up all around like rain (not quite like the half-cow I cut up at McDowell 2005, but you get the idea). After some boiling, frying, slicing, and dicing, a wonderful, huge kettle of beef stew was on the fire. Can you believe it?—not one spoonful was left when the fifteen or so folks were finished eating. You would have guessed it was pie.
After dinner, when the bulk of the clean up was done and most folks were relaxing and looking for a place to sack out, I took a turn at the White Star Saloon. There’s nothing quite like a cold English Ale to top off a big belly full of food after a hard march. Listening to the barkeep and his lady friend was quite an educational experience. Sparky put it best, “You see specialty impressions all the time, but most of those folks don’t have a clue about what they’re doing or its history. When you run into something like these folks with the saloon—a well researched, educated impression—it’s fun just to sit, listen, and learn from them.”
The White Star Saloon was one of those deals, and it’ll will be nice see them again at some event down the road—like Liberty in July. By the way, bring your period Yankee greenbacks: they’ll be happy to relieve you of them.
I think everyone was asleep by 9:15 p.m. A doe snorted as she circled our camp at dusk. Some of the boys thought they were going to become food for bears, but the bear rumored to live on that hill didn’t eat anyone, nor did she show herself.
I awoke just before dawn. It was raining lightly. Not enough even to bother some of the snoring lads; just enough for me to pull up the gum blanket and go back to sleep. Dawn came, and I got up to scrape the raccoon’s nest out of my mouth and stagger to my feet. I was stiff as hell, especially the left knee. There was ham and pea soup for breakfast, with large amounts of great (non-gray) coffee. I told Charles that if I ate the soup I’d have to stop at least three times on the way home, but I ate it anyway, and it was really good. We packed up, got a ride down the mountain (except Chawls—he insisted on walking and made almost as good time down the hill as the truck did), said goodbyes, and started for home by 8:30 a.m.
To tell the truth, before the event, the “Death March” had me scared to death… almost. I’d heard stories of insurmountable hills and terribly blistered feet and sheer exhaustion, but I found the entire event to be very well planed down to the smallest details. The route was not bad in either length or, to be honest, steepness-of-grade and, for the most part, free from modern intrusions other than a few overhead power lines and some guardrails. The event organizers couldn’t do anything about the weather, but the certainly worked within the weather to ensure the participants’ safety and provided what turned out to be a very good time.
Then there are the folks we marched with—not enough can be said for a group of guys getting together, who know their stuff, and can produce a good time and a decent reenacting experience. That formula works anywhere—even in a place without Civil War battlefields, like New York State.
What would I have changed with a magic wand? Well, I’d turn off the rain and moderate the temperature a bit, but I really can’t do that. What I’d really like for the next “Death March” event is to see thirty to fifty guys on a side, and maybe some guys with “big dogs” to ride—in other words, cavalry; the hillside trails in the area are perfect for mounted troops. That’s it—that’s all I’d change.
With thirty or more men per side, “nice” skirmish lines could be deployed with a decent reserve. Practicing from Dan Butterfield’s book, just for fun, like advanced guards, flankers, and stuff like that, would be really neat in the event’s intrusion-free, hilly environment. With one bugler on each side you could hear the echoes of their calls up the hillsides and down through the hollows. That, plus a whole lot more guys would get to learn how nice this event is.
I’ll go again, and I’m not going to fall out next time. The same should go for you.
Charles: McDonalds in Troy, Sunoco station at Trout Run, McDonalds in Williamsport, and Sheetz in Perdix. My colon sensed porcelain often.

“Grumpy” Dave Towsen is a member of the Columbia Rifles from the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania area