PLENTY OF McDOWELL
EVENT REPORTS!
CRs Serve in a Lot of Different Roles in the Allegheny Mountains
The Columbia Rifles at McDowell 2005
Edited by Kevin O’Beirne

McDOWELL, Va. — On May 6-8, 2005, the Columbia Rifles returned for the third time to the semi-annual McDowell reenactment in the Allegheny Mountains of southwestern Virginia.
CRs certainly served in a variety of roles at this one: Chris Piering commanded a battalion, Dave Grieves was the battalion adjutant, Dave Towsen was the commissary sergeant, Garr Gast was the battalion clerk, Pete Smith commanded a company for the first time, Tom Craig was a sergeant in the cavalry, John Tobey was private in the cavalry (!), Greg “Ruffles” Renault was an officer in the Confederate ranks, and Soup Bone Weymer was a civilian “war correspondent”. Within the company, several fellows got to try out new roles as non-commissioned officers, and Charles Heath was the company cook (again).
The CR served as Company A in the re-created 82nd Ohio Volunteers. The company was led by 1st Lt. Pete Smith, 2nd Lt. Dennis Schank (151st New York), Orderly Sergeant Steve Tyler, Sergeant Scott Schotz (151st New York), and Corporals Fleet, Metheny, Jolin, Pell, Hindman, Carter, and Gast. Overall, seventeen CR members attended the event, the Company A mustered about 25 men during the weekend.
Approximately 350 Federals attended the event, organized into a small demi-brigade commanded by the Potomac Legion’s Bill Watson. Chris Piering’s 82nd Ohio battalion mustered half of the Federal force.
In some ways the event was similar to past McDowells, but in other ways it was different and improved. The Federals were camped together in one spot, and the event featured a climb up and mock battle on the original battlefield on Sittlington’s Hill, also known as Bull Pasture Mountain.
Because CRs served in so many different roles at this event--many for the first time-- numerous after action reports (AARs) were provided to The Columbia Examiner. Happy reading!

That Terribly Steep Hill
Or, My First Time as a Company Commander
by Pete Smith

On Friday morning, May 6, 2005, Mike Peterson, Steve Tyler, and I hit the road for McDowell, Virginia. I’d been preparing for the event for months, since being given command of the CR company. Because it was only my second time portraying a commissioned officer and my first as a company commander, I was a touch nervous. I’d prepared long and hard, though, and felt confident that I’d do the job well. I’d said to Kevin O’Beirne before the event, “I feel like the CR is the family car and I’m a teenager taking it out for the first time without Mom and Dad. I’ll try not to dent it too much!”

Friday
We traveled from Rochester, New York into Pennsylvania along Interstate I-90, and then south down Interstate I-79 through the western part of the Keystone State into West Virginia, and finally toward the Shenandoah Valley. Steve Tyler loves gadgets and gizmos, and brought a pocket-sized global positioning system (GPS) unit to track our slow ascent, higher and higher, into the mountains. I never saw someone get so excited about his height above sea level.
Along Route 250 in West Virginia the winding road got worse and worse. We approached McDowell from the west, instead of the eastern route most of the event’s participants use. Hairpin turns were everywhere, coonhounds ran loose in the road (no kidding!), and descending some of the larger hills was treacherous. Folks in that region must go through several sets of brakes on their pickup trucks each year.
We arrived in the little town of McDowell around 6:00 p.m. and registered and parked. Nearby was John “Perfesser” Tobey’s truck and, soon enough, there was The Perfesser himself giving a friendly hello. John was trying something new at this event: not wanting to march, he was portraying a Federal cavalryman, horse and everything, of course. We perused the reenactor vendors: Chris Daley, Orchard Hill, and our friends of the Richmond Depot.
After this part of the meet-n-greet, we headed over to the Union camp to unload our truckload of camp equipage—some folks said we rolled in with a semi—and met Charles “The Chawls” Heath, who directed us to the re-created 82nd Ohio’s camp.
Despite Chawls’s directions, we still got a little confused; you see, there was no signage. A young fellow sitting near the brigade commissary was clueless about anyone’s whereabouts; ditto for the brigade commissary staff. Eventually, we located the boys and unloaded our heavy equipage. While we returned to the reenactor parking lot to change, some of the boys of Company A graciously set up my tent. I was darned glad they did and thanked them for it later; they also set up the extra tent I borrowed from Kevin O’Beirne (yes, Kevin owns an A-tent!).
Originally, we planned for five tents and a couple of tent-flies (to serve as makeshift A-tents if needed). We wound up with eight A-tents and didn’t need the flys. I figured this was this quite a feat, considering that the boys in the company were seasoned campaigners, so who’d a-thunk they’d own all that canvas?
After settling in, Orderly Sergeant Tyler set about his administrative duties. Chawls, who was Company A’s cook, acquainted me with the “sex trees”. He reminded me of a snake oil salesman, waving a cane in the air and pointing out the anatomical correctness of each tree. Orderly Sergeant Tyler assigned the corporals details like water and wood gathering for the company cook. Mike Jolin was brevetted to corporal when we lost Corporal Andy Metheny to the color guard. It was Mike’s first time as a non-commissioned officer and he did a great job, as did all of the other non-comms.
Battalion Adjutant Dave Grieves told me of an officers’ meeting in town. I commented on Dave’s nice new hat, and he responded, “I tried to find the ugliest one I could.”
Things were buzzing in camp: the cook was cooking, the boys were attending to the details, some were sitting around wondering what we would be doing the next day, and the balance where getting acquainted with each other.
Company A was made up of CRs and a conglomeration of messes from the Potomac Legion and others, including three lads who from Rhode Island called Slocum’s Avengers. The Avengers were all about eighteen years old and eager to learn. Throughout the weekend they did a fine job and are welcome to fall with us anytime.
It was time for the officers’ meeting and, leaving Orderly Sergeant Tyler in charge, I joined the 82nd Ohio’s field and staff, Colonel Chris Piering, Major Mark “Silas” Tackitt, and Adjutant Grieves, for the walk to the church in town. We seated ourselves while others Federals took theirs; a few minutes later, the Confederate field, staff, and line officers arrived, almost completely filling the place. I noticed one of the Confederate buglers was a female—so much for the “ten-foot rule”; there was no way the girl could have passed for a man.
Federal commander Bill Watson started things. There were introductions, some welcoming remarks, and gave the usual inspiring speeches. Afterward, the 82nd Ohio’s officers met on the church porch and were handed tomorrow’s orders by the Adjutant.
We returned to camp. Some of the boys were still up by the fire, chatting and telling stories; Chawl was a big hit with the young guys and was in rare comedic form.
I sacked out and tried to sleep but couldn’t; I’m unsure if it was the snoring, the cool night air, or all the things buzzing around in my head about battalion drill and other stuff. Whatever it was, I didn’t get much more than three or four hours of sleep. The temperature dropped below freezing and, when morning came, a lot of men were sacked out around the fire.

Saturday Morning
As I got up to warm up by the fire, our good friends of the 151st New York arrived in camp: Dennis Schank (drafted to serve as Company A’s lieutenant), Sergeant Scott Schotz, Jim “Coldfoot” Stauder, and Ryan Willard. They drove all night from western New York and had stayed in the parking lot until dawn so that they could find the Battalion in daylight. Dennis had slept on the ground near the car and woke up covered in frost.
Orderly Sergeant Tyler got the men in line and called the roll, and I informed the men of our morning agenda: first was dress parade, then company drill, then battalion drill.
Chawls made a fine breakfast for the men: the coffee was excellent, with a touch of sugar to remove the tinny taste; it tasted like A-1 gourmet coffee to me. Assembly was sounded, then To the Color, signaling that it was time for parade.
Originally, we’d planned to have Company A escort the colors from the colonel’s tent to parade, but lack of space on the battalion parade prevented this and, instead, a detail from one of the other companies brought the colors and presented them. I was disappointed because I’d been preparing for this for several weeks.
After parade, the battalion marched to the drill field and broke into companies for fifty minutes for company drill. Using a list provided by the adjutant, we concentrated on movements needed for battalion drill, including, by company into line while marching by the left flank; wheels; breaking files to the front and rear; on the right by file into line; and an abbreviated skirmish drill, including deploying on the center file and by the flanks—the latter proved to be useful on Sunday.
After company drill, the battalion re-formed, stacked arms, and took a 25-minute break (I think Company A had the best “stackers”). When Attention was bugled, the men jumped to the stacks, ready to go. We commenced practicing forming the battalion—with markers set by the major and adjutant—and dressing the line.
The next trick was to move the great machine forward and keep that alignment. It took a couple of starts and stops for everyone to get it, including the color guard, but we eventually stepped off together and kept the dress.
We practiced stuff like wheeling into column, wheeling back into line, and forming divisions. Forming divisions was an especial a treat for me because, being a first-time company commander, I was given the distinction of being the chief of our division because I commanded the first company. We practiced forming a line from divisions, and getting the line dressed quickly to commence firing. At the conclusion of drill, the battalion marched to camp for issuance of rations.

The Rabbit Died
The battalion was dismissed with little on the schedule till 3:00 p.m., at which time was brigade drill. In camp, battalion headquarters began issuing orders for a lot of fatigue details. After about a half hour or so I was summoned to the battalion commander’s tent ASAP. As I arrived, there was Corporal Dan Fleet with his head hung low in front of Colonel Piering. Uh-oh. This wasn’t good. I saluted the Colonel and inquired about Fleeter.
I was told that the corporal, while in charge of a detail to check six rabbit snares set the night before, reportedly catching six rabbits, had returned with only five rabbits. Fleeter claimed his men found only five critters in the snares and didn’t know about any sixth rabbit. The Colonel demanded satisfaction and gave me—oh boy, the joy of company command!—two options: 1) Either get the rabbit returned in fifteen minutes, or 2) Company A would spend the day digging sinks for the entire brigade while Fleeter watched. I assured the Colonel would have his rabbit returned promptly. All this over some damned rabbit…
I escorted Fleeter to our company street camp and, forming the company, explained the Colonel’s proposition if the damned rabbit wasn’t handed over pronto. This didn’t set well with the men, and Orderly Sergeant Tyler asked me to give him and the men a few minutes with Fleeter. I returned to Colonel Piering and advised him the situation would be taken care of.
While talking with the Colonel, another private from of our company walked up and asked permission to present a bundle to the Colonel. This turned out to be the missing coney, wrapped in a cloth. The Colonel angrily ordered the private to return to the company and have Corporal Scoundrel return it himself. I accompanied the private back to camp and found Fleeter cowering near the cook fire. The private pointed to him and said “That’s him.” In a minute, two men with weapons accompanied Corporal Fleet back to the irate colonel.
It was embarrassing to have such a rascal in the company. The friggin’ rabbit was returned and Fleeter returned with his guards. I gave Orderly Sergeant Tyler instructions to punish the corporal in a manner befitting his crime. I returned again to headquarters to apologize and, to my surprise, the Colonel handed over the rabbit and said it was for me.
He assigned a special fatigue detail to Fleeter: cleaning up the road apples thoughtfully deposited near the spring—out only water supply—by the cavalry bastards. (There was talk that the cavalry were watering their horses from the spring used by the infantry, but such was not the case.) Shit happens!
When I returned to the company, Fleeter was balancing on a small rock in the middle of camp while the boys jeered at him. Fleeter was then escorted off, shovel in hand, by armed guards who eagerly volunteered for the duty. Thank God Fleeter was a game fellow throughout all this abuse, and took it all like a man.

Grub’s Good… When Ya Have It
Eleven o’clock came without the ration issue. Chawls—I called him “Cookie” during the weekend—had foreseen that there might be problems at the brigade commissary. The wisdom of an old army vet was surely reflected in him that day. While we were drilling, he had cooked up a big pot of stew with beans, desiccated vegetables, and bacon from our small Friday evening ration, topped off with some very tasty sauerkraut. It was great, and just a little spicy—there must’ve been a lot of pepper in it. Anyhow, we ate while the rest of the battalion waited for rations. Cookie ended up feeding our company, the battalion field and staff, and at least one other company, if not more.
As the afternoon went by, the breeze picked up, making it chilly in the woods despite the fact that the sun was out. I spread a blanket in the sun and took a little rest, changed my socks (the grass in the drill field was wet that morning), and left my shoes off. However, a nap was difficult with all the noise in camp—especially with Cookie scrounging firewood about ten feet away from my blanket.
The boys were kept busy with various fatigue details, including trenching around the tents because dark clouds came from out of nowhere. Everyone started looking to Commissary Sergeant Dave Towsen as if it were his fault, because of his reputation for attracting rain. There was a quick sprinkle and it was over.
I think our company was the only one to trench its tents; this was probably because we know what happens when Dave goes to an event. Kudos to Orderly Sergeant Tyler for his prompt attention to this detail. Mike “The Mighty Roger” Peterson had the honor of trenching our tent—not an easy job, because there were roots everywhere that made for hard digging.
It was difficult to become accustomed to portraying an officer after being in the ranks so long, and I had to fight the urge to lend a hand in the details, and afterward I felt a bit guilty about it.
With my nap elusive, I got up and visited the commissary. Mmmm—what was that wonderful smell? “Grumpy Dave” had fried up some delicious choice beef on the fire with some olive oil and onions. He offered me a piece and, well, who was I to refuse such kindly offered hospitality? It tasted wonderful and gave me something of a second wind for the day. I shared a piece with poor “Roger” after he ‘trenched’ my tent.

Back to “Military Stuff”
Three o’clock came and it was time for brigade drill. The boys got dressed, we inspected weapons, fixed bayonets, and the battalion was assembled. The clouds passed and the sun shone again. “Battalion, right face!” Led by Colonel Piering and the staff, the 82nd Ohio marched to the drill/”battle” field.
Upon our arrival, the NR and USV battalions were already there, but each was only about half the size of the 82nd, which kinda made us all very proud to be in the 82nd. During the drill, the boys did well and remembered everything from battalion drill, and the brigade also went through some “practice” motions for the scripted afternoon “battle”.
As drill ended, we saw in the far distance a line of grayclad men, rifles gleaming in the sunlight—just like in descriptions in the history books. They were marching along the road to the other side of the field
After drill our battalion marched to the rear and “took a knee” to await the “battle”. While we waited some cavalry passed by and I saw some familiar faces—Tom Craig and John Tobey—and gave them a smile. I must say that Perfesser Tobey appeared to be pretty comfortable in that saddle, and I think was smiling all weekend! It was only his second time “jining the cavalry!”
One of the men asked which hill we were to climb on Sunday, I replied, “Look behind you, son, and you’ll surely not miss it.” Looking at the eminence of Sittlington’s Hill/Bull Pasture Mountain, his jaw dropped and he said, “We’d better get walking now, Sir.”
The sudden sound of heavy gunfire got our attention, and we watched a company of skirmishers deploy in front of the other battalions. The “fighting” quickly increased in intensity. From our right came more shooting and, lo and behold, a company of Confederates appeared. Apparently, they didn’t know the rest of the battle was going on elsewhere. It was unclear if they were ordered there or decided to engage in this a-historical flank attack on their own. Our cavalry was just in front of them and stood their ground, trying to ignore them. Soon afterward, the renegade Rebs rejoined their battalion. Unfortunately, this wouldn’t be the last time for this type of thing during the weekend. Out front, the NR and USV battalions continued to engage the main body of Confederates as best they could.
We were ordered to form a double column (divisions formed on the center). This would be the 82nd’s first engagement. We moved forward about 100 yards, after which we were ordered to again deploy into line, which the boys did it in great style. We commenced firing by file as soon as we each company came into line. During the engagement, the distance between the two sides was excellent—it was probably my first “battle” reenactment where they were so “correct”. After we had taken casualties and were being pressed by superior numbers, it was time to retire to the rear by alternate companies: even companies first, while the odd-numbered companies held the line, and then the odd-numbered companies went, just as skirmishers do when firing while retreating. We did this one more time and then the “battle” ended.
Sometime during the “battle” Corporal Gast was “wounded” in the left arm, and I have never seen anyone do so good a job portraying a wounded soldier, and for a minute I thought he was actually hurt. This is just another example of the caliber of men in our company. After the battle we sent four men to check for wounded and dead on the field. Orderly Sergeant Tyler called the roll and, miraculously, all of Company A was accounted for… What?? No one ran away??
Corporal Gast was offered help to get off the field but refused, and he was advised to see the surgeon. Lucky for the Colonel—Garr was serving as the battalion clerk—Corporal Gast was shot in the left arm and not the right, so he could still write.
General Watson formed the brigade in line and congratulated us on the fine “battle”, which was staged for spectators. The troops were treated to a performance by the brigade’s brass band. The winner of the event’s “most authentic company” contest was announced—it was the 25th Ohio Battalion’s Company B—who, by way of reward, get to serve as the brigade headquarters company at McDowell in 2007; I guess they have to return in two years…

Saturday Evening
With the day’s events over, the 82nd Ohio returned to camp and was dismissed. I advised Company A to do their weapons maintenance before dark because we were to be on the march early tomorrow.
“Cookie” had supper almost ready, and said that bowls were the order of the meal, which included two kettles of hearty stew, plus soft bread, honey, and maple syrup smuggled into camp by a civilian woman. Hmm, just who was this woman who was so friendly with our cook?
To liven up supper, some of the men went to the battalion commissary for condiments. Our battalion had one of the best commissaries I’ve ever seen, and all sorts of wonderful things were there: tonics, sauces, and elixirs to help a cure a soldier of anything that ailed him, plus tools, knives, kettles, rope, candles soap, pencils, and probably other, less legal stuff not in the Army Regulations. I believe that if they didn’t have it, they could have laid their hands on it somehow; the fellows who fielded this commissary had their “stuff” together, and it showed.
After supper was another officers’ call, and the colonel expressed his concerns (again) about firing safety. We were dismissed and had the evening to ourselves. In the town was some kind of bluegrass concert—always a fine accompaniment to an “authentic” event (sarcasm, sarcasm)—that the men were free to visit if they wanted. I left the company street in the hands of Corporal Fleet while Orderly Sergeant Tyler and Private “Mighty Roger” Peterson took a well-deserved nap, and walked to the town with Lt. Schank and Sergeant Schotz. While there we saw a couple comrades we know from New York who were attired in jeancloth for the weekend instead of the familiar ol’ Federal indigo. We also peeked into the vendors’ tents—little was different from the day before—and returned to camp as the sun quickly dropped behind the Alleghenies.
Visiting battalion headquarters, Lt. Schank and I found Adjutant Grieves, seated on a cracker box, roasting a rabbit with two ramrods. A couple of cigars appeared and a bottle of “medicinal whiskey” made the rounds to remedy the chill night air. There we passed a pleasant evening, talking of home, families, and property we owned (or would like to own someday), not to mention discussing various methods of skinning and roasting tasty animals.
The colonel returned and, finding his bottle of “medicine” nearly empty, immediately headed to the commissary for more—another example of our excellent commissary! Colonel Piering mumbled something about having our Holy John—Private Peterson—add water to the bottle to turn it to wine. Seeing the lateness of the hour, I said goodnight and retired to my tent. I donned my greatcoat and wrapped the cape around my head before getting under the blankets—it was to be another cool night in the mountains.

Mountain Goats
In what seemed like no time, Orderly Sergeant Tyler was awakening me. Had I even fallen asleep? He was already preparing to call the roll, so it must have been morning already. The bugle had sounded and I had slept right through it! The men were already awake and “Cookie” had food on the fire, ready to eat. We did roll call, ate a breakfast of leftover bread and a pot of soup (made from commissary leftovers and beans that Corporal Jolin obtained in town the night before).
After breakfast the men kitted up in light marching order, per orders from the battalion. We were about to climb Sittlington’s Hill and, because we were the First Company, we had volunteered—so said the colonel—to take the lead.
We marched part of the way by the left flank (with Company B in the lead), and then the call came for us to take the lead. Double-quicking down the length of the battalion, Company A assumed the point. We deployed four men under Sergeant Schotz as skirmishers, while the rest of the company marched along the road by the right flank a little ways behind, as the reserve for the advance guard. Taking breaks here and there, we toiled up the hill, taking care to always keep the battalion in sight to our rear.
We moved by the bugle. A special call was used for the skirmishers, so that we would distinguish between calls for the battalion and for ourselves. As we moved upward, Major Tackitt accompanied us. At our last stop near the top, the Major disappeared into the woods after mumbling something about checking out the bushes.
We moved up another fifty yards and were ordered to deploy the company as skirmishers and move toward the crest. Major Tackitt was nowhere to be seen. “First Company, as skirmishers, by the right flank, take intervals, march!” The company deployed as if they had done this their whole lives and covered the area prescribed by the colonel. Before the skirmish line set out, I was assured by the Higher Ups that the battalion would join us at the top.
At a glance one would have taken us for a company of billy goats, because we went up the steep grade without hesitation. There were a couple of times I had to dig in with my sword to get up the sharp slope, but the men did not seem at all bothered by it.
I think the anticipation of a possible “fight” got our adrenaline flowing. As neared the top, voices and a bugle were audible from above, on our extreme left. Then appeared Major Tackitt, appearing a little distressed. Wherever he’d been, he admitted that the Rebels had shouted at him and were about to gobble him up when he took flight back to our lines.

The “Battle” on Sittlington’s Hill
I wheeled the skirmish line to the left and sent four men to extend our left flank, and the balance of the reserve was used to extend our right flank. We moved upward and found our cavalry near the top… in plain view of the enemy; nobody ever said horse-soldiers were that smart. Seriously, they must have been there to draw the enemy’s fire. Grayclad men spied us and moved in our direction.
This was when it started to get bad. I sent the skirmishers forward, per the colonel’s orders and they met at least a company of Confederates. Firing broke out, and it quickly got downright confusing and we were eventually forced to withdraw. Seeing the battalion approaching, I reformed the company.
As he neared the summit, Colonel Piering wasn’t too happy. There was a barbed wire fence between the Rebs and us—a fence we were supposed to have advanced beyond—and there wasn’t much we could do about it, because the Rebs were right on top of it.
The event had departed from the historical scenario because, in the historical accounts I read, Edward Johnson’s and Stonewall Jackson’s Confederates never left their position on the crest to come down the hill at the Yanks; rather, in 1862 the blueclad men had done the attacking. We were supposed to go up the hill and push them from their position, and we were supposed to have gone through a small opening in the barbed wire fence and deployed the battalion on the far side of it.
The colonel walked right up to the fence with a stern look on his face and yelled to the Rebs that they were in the wrong spot and added, “I’m trying to preserve landowners’ rights and property!” This caused the Rebs to back off, up the hill apiece. Company A was then ordered through the opening to re-deploy as skirmishers.
I realized that the company was inverted, which was rectified so that our proper front was toward the enemy. “First Company, as skirmishers, on the center file, take intervals, march!” The boys responded quickly and deployed forward with alacrity into a very nice skirmish line—I was very proud of how they did this. Our line advanced and then we commenced firing.
The boys took advantage of the available cover as they moved forward while firing. We went about fifty yards and became pinned down by two companies of Confederates—who had again moved down the hill. The thick smoke made it difficult to see. Our company maintained a masking fire while, behind us, the battalion debouched through the opening in the fence and formed in line. The firing intensity increased, and I couldn’t hear a damn thing—just the musketry. Moving to our left, I found our company’s left flank hard pressed by yet another company of Rebs. I returned to the right (which was also hard pressed) and, along the way, found that our center was starting to collapse because we’d suffered so many “casualties”. The right wasn’t I much better shape.
I joined the four skirmishers remaining on the right. One of the young privates came over and said, “Sir, I’m out.” And I asked, “What do you mean, ‘you’re out’? Are you wounded?” He said, “No sir. I’m out of ammunition!” The solution was obvious, especially with so many of our guys now horizontal: “Get some from the wounded.” He ran forward into the smoke to scrounge ammo from the wounded. This proved to be a “tragic” mistake, because just then the Rebs came at us again (history be damned, I guess) and “his young life was snuffed out”.
I saw Sergeant Gast—who’d been promoted the day before because of his bravery—lying wounded and it looked mortal. Blood was “gushing” from his groin—a pathetic sight indeed. I said a prayer for him but had to leave him behind a tree. There weren’t many of us left, in fine Columbia Rifles style.
At last, the battalion, which by now was finally in line on this side of that damned fence, moved forward, its men yelling “OHIO!” as loudly as they could. That was “a moment” for some. They halted and started pouring “fire” into the Rebs, who had come dangerously close.
Adjutant Grieves trotted up and said that the Recall had been sounded for our company, and “Why aren’t you forming them in the rear?” I said, “Sir, I have only four men left. All the others are dead or wounded to your front!” The look on his face was priceless! “All right, well, leave ‘em where they are for now.” I returned to the remaining four, and saw a dumb Reb only twenty yards away, behind a large tree, trying to get a shot off. I ordered Corporal Fleet, “Shoot that sonofabitch behind that tree!” Fleeter eventually found the man and fired, but that Reb never moved.
A large hole was developing in our left while, more seriously, more Confederates advanced on our right. Unable to find the colonel, major, or adjutant, I went to Captain Kieger of Company B and asked for some men to fill the gap. He gave me four men and I strung them out like skirmishers.
Mercifully, the “fight” lasted only a few more minutes; it had long since gone to hell. (I can get this type of shoot-‘em-up foolishness much closer to home at Mumford). I gathered our pathetically anemic company—four men—and took position behind the battalion. A few minutes later the rest of Company A—the left side, which it turned out wasn’t dead on the field, but rather just separated from us—returned. It was time for a rest.
The re-created battle of Sittlington’s Hill was over. Meanwhile the battalion formed and marched past while we rested. We formed on them, formed column of companies, and marched 300 yards further to the summit. The opposing forces faced each other, stacked arms, and the leaders of each “brigade” said some uplifting words; or so I think, because I couldn’t hear them very well. A Confederate band played a tune while most of us tried to sing along, but most of the words got lost.

Back Down the Mountain
The battalions were allowed to rest and check out the sights and historic markers, after which we fell in and headed down the hill. Company A led the way at the route step. Colonel Piering and Adjutant Grieves were in the lead, stopping now and then for brief rests and water.
On our way up, we’d passed a group of civilians (reenactors) camped along the roadside, and they’d kept to themselves. Encountering them on our return, however, they were chanting something about General Jackson’s triumph. Two men of military age broke from their group and ran into the trees. The colonel immediately ordered, “Lt. Smith, send a detail after those men who just ran up the hill and search the others!” I started to order Fleeter with a detail after them but, before I could finish, almost the entire company broke ranks and ran after the two men. Where’d all that energy come from?
Soon I heard Lt. Schank’s voice from the trees, “Stop or I’ll be forced to shoot you!” The boys of Company A returned a minute later with the two prisoners. One of them was Hank Trent and the other, a younger fellow, who was a halfwit. Suddenly, Mrs. Trent went nuts and started yelling at Sergeants Tyler and Gast. Sergeant Gast reasoned with the woman and got her calmed down while Sergeant Tyler searched the others. It was corny in the extreme.
It was later reported that one of Company A might have knocked a woman off her chair. I cannot confirm or deny this, as it all happened too fast. If it was true, dang, I’m all broken up about it. Really.
This excruciating episode over, the 82nd finally reached the Federal camp. Colonel Piering thanked everyone for a fine job and dismissed us. I thanked the company for a job well done, we had a company photo taken—including that cavalryman John Tobey, who happened to be nearby at the time.
We took down the tents and policed the camp. After the usual goodbyes, we went to the parking lot, packed up, and hit the northbound road.

Coda
All in all, McDowell 2005 was a great event for me, especially because it was my first time as a company commander. A remark I made to John Tobey after the event may best sum up my inaugural command outing: “I may have scratched the car, but at least there aren’t any dents in it!”
The real credit for the success of Company A goes to its subalterns and men: Lt. Schank, Orderly Sergeant Tyler and the other non-commissioned officers, Charles “Cookie” Heath, and—most of all—the privates for all their hard work and good demeanor. A sword swinger couldn’t ask for a better company.

Respectfully submitted
Peter C. Smith
Late Commander
Company A, 82nd OVI (re-created)

Pete Smith is a member of the Columbia Rifles from western New York State

After Action Report, 82nd Ohio Vols.
by Chris Piering

McDowell 2005 is in the history books and it was a very good if not great event.
One of the interesting things about our “weird little hobby” is that, like the soldiers of 1862 in battle, we see only a portion of an event and interpret it as representative of the whole. The result is an individual experience as varied as one’s point of view or vantage point, and this report is what I saw and experienced leading the re-created 82nd Ohio battalion.
I arrived onsite early Friday afternoon and checked in at registration. A card was issued to each arriving man to, upon his arrival in the Federal camp, draw bacon and hard bread for Friday evening and early Saturday sustenance.
Because we were camping HEAVY, with a lot of commissary and battalion headquarters equipage, we drove to the Federal campsite. The camp layout was simple, but, because we were in the woods, set-up by the book was, of necessity, modified significantly from period manuals.
We leisurely unloaded the gear and set up the battalion headquarters as near the center of the 82nd Ohio battalion as possible. Our headquarters was a spacious Sibley tent graciously supplied by the 1st Minnesota (from Minnesota), together with a second Sibley tent provided for the commissary.
The battalion’s field and commissioned staff officers—Major Mark “Silas” Tackitt of Oregon, 1st Lt. Dave Grieves (Adjutant), and Lt. Rob Murray (1st Minn.) would have had to intentionally collide given the amount of space this tent provided! My thanks to Andrew Willenbring and Rob Murray of the 1st Minnesota for hauling the Sibleys all the way from Minnesota.
As the camp grew and finally took shape, it was easy to place the arriving men. Brigade commander Bill Watson, Dave Grieves, and I climbed Sittlington’s Hill on Friday to check the route of Sunday’s hill-climb and “battle”, and had a nice walk and talk. (It was then that the barbed wire fence that haunted Sunday morning’s action was discovered.)
At meeting at 9:00 p.m. Friday evening for all the commissioned officers, the event hosts laid out the event plans. I must say that the gathering was impressive, with men in blue and gray uniforms filling the pews of the local house of worship. After the meeting, Friday evening passed quietly as men continued to arrive throughout the night; somebody’s tent was heard being pitched around 2:00 a.m.
On Saturday morning, the re-created 82nd Buckeyes arose at 6:00 a.m. or at least those who had remained warm enough to stay in bed were finally roused at that hour. Many had given up trying to sleep sometime earlier and were gathered around campfires to warm their bones in temperatures that reached well below freezing. Frost covered the Adjutant’s sword at morning parade, mutely attesting to the frigid air.
The colors were retrieved by a detail from the 4th Company and presented to the color company with the solemnity appropriate to the situation—something I’ve long wanted to see done at an event. Bugler Dan Torrisi sounded “To The Color”; Dan’s contribution to the event was invaluable, and having him at my side greatly improved the weekend, and I heartily express my gratitude to him. Dan is welcome wherever and whenever I am in the ranks.
We marched out onto the drill field by the right flank, portraying the 82nd OVI for the first time under arms. Company drill was performed ably, under the eyes of Major Tackitt, Adjutant Grieves, and me. After a short break, battalion drill immediately followed company drill. Major Tackitt was largely responsible for organizing battalion drill into a sensible form and publishing his plan as a booklet that allowed us to do meaningful drill without extraneous maneuvering or wasting time. Company drill commenced at 7:45 a.m. and ended 55 minutes later; battalion drill commenced at 9:05 a.m. and lasted until 10:25 a.m. Battalion drill consisted of:
Forming the battalion
Break to the right to march to the left
Forward into line
Form column at half distance, doubled on the center
Deploy column
March by the right flank
By companies into line
On the right into line
By the right of companies to the rear
About face, by companies into line
Retreat by alternate companies
By the end of drill, all was smooth and a positive comment came from spectators regarding the way the 82nd Ohio drilled.
Rations issue at 11:00 a.m. included fresh beef, soft bread, and assorted vegetables, and were cooked and consumed with the speed expected of hungry soldiers. Kudos are due to both the brigade and battalion commissaries.
The 82nd’s commissary of Dave Towson and Andrew Willenbring was quite more than I had expected and impressively served the men with efficiency. Extras added by Sergeant Towson and Charles Heath added significantly to the fare of many men of the 82nd.
At 1:45 p.m., I ordered Company E (5th New Hampshire) formed up and examined by the Surgeon, who had noticed signs of scurvy in the men. An anti-scorbutic of apple cider vinegar was administered to Company F and taken well. It should be duly noted that the battalion staff also took their medicine to show support for the men.
We marched off to the field of battle to face advancing Rebels around 3:00 p.m. Our brigade included three battalions, with the 82nd larger by more than double the next largest Federal contingent; our battalion numbered about 150 on the field.
The engagement began with the 82nd in reserve. Here we formed a double column, the sight of which was the highlight of my weekend. The view of the men from the front, kneeling, eyes front and silent in the ranks, was chilling and inspiring and remains in my memory.
The brigade commander ordered us forward. We advanced and moved through a gap that had opened in the Federal lines and deployed the column. The men began firing by file as soon as they came into line. We remained engaged until we were hard-pressed in front and flanked on our right by a second force of Rebels, compelling us to move to the rear. We retired from the field “beaten but not defeated”...
The balance of Saturday was spent with the men cleaning rifles and, for us at the battalion headquarters, working on administrative tasks. The reports from the morning, rations, rounds expended, casualties, &c. ad nauseum were attended to by our clerk, Garr Gast, who completed these without prodding, and supplied the brigade with paperwork that was exemplary. His attention to duty was yet another that stood out amongst many.
Saturday night passed with camaraderie, fellowship, and joviality, with many men availing themselves of the hospitality of the local population. It was another chilly night under a blanket of bright stars.
The 82nd was roused from rest at 5:30 a.m. on Sunday to allow preparation and consumption of coffee and victuals. Parade was early, at 6:00 a.m., and the 82nd formed up for the march up the local heights.
The march up Sittlington’s Hill was a moderate one, with enough rests and gentle pacing to keep straggling to a minimum. At the top of the hill, our headcount revealed a loss of four men out of 147—a testimony to the men. It was pointed out by Major Tackitt that those who fell out gave 100 percent, as did those who reached the summit, and had their own period moment when fatigue caused them to fall out. At the top of the hill, we were met by Confederate skirmishers who pressed our skirmishers as we toiled up the last of the slope a bit to the rear.
A modern obstacle in the form of a barbed wire fence, unknown before Friday, made deployment of the men impossible until we were a point that I thought to be too close to the Confederates. A sharp engagement on the actual ground took place, with thick smoke obscuring view of the lines almost at once. After a few moments of fighting, we were compelled to fall back to the fence and cease fire. The march up the hill was worth the effort, because the men of both sides got to see and march on the actual battleground that was so hotly contested on May 8, 1862.
We rested a bit and then marched down the hill, taking rest at the spring along the way and allowing the men to refill canteens. A final surprise awaited us as we marched by the right flank down the hill. As we passed a group of civilian refugees, we were met by cheers for Stonewall Jackson, while two men of military age ran from the crowd into the woods. A detail was sent to arrest the men and search their encampment for weapons. None being found, we left the miscreants to themselves and returned to our camp. As we approached our camp, we saw General Watson on the road, and paid honors to him by shouldering arms, with the officers saluting with their swords.
It was my honor to be asked to lead the re-created 82nd Ohio. Despite the difficulties of functioning as an “ad hoc” battalion, the battalion succeeded in meeting most of our goals for the event. Many thanks are due: the company commanders of the 82nd all did a job of which they can be proud. Bill Watson, Dave Pridgeon and Bob Denton organized a great event. At the brigade staff, Ron Myzie and Josh Mordin did yeoman’s work.
Eighty-second Ohio company commanders—Pete Smith, Bill Cross, Joe Smotherman, Mike Mantini, Brian Emerson, and Fran Kiger—together with their subalterns, were all exemplary in their roles.
My own battalion’s field and staff of Silas Tackitt, Rob Murray, and Dave Grieves made my job so easy that I feel all the credit should go to them. Garr Gast did his usual job of staying below the radar in his role as battalion clerk, adding first-person unsurpassed and sometimes disconcerting (his portrayal of a wounded soldier caused many to ask if he was, in fact, seriously injured).
There were shortcoming on my part and in other regards, but the event was so laden with positives as to make them a topic for another discussion. To all those who attended, my thanks is extended; and to those who were unable to attend, your absence was felt and you missed a good time.
And I look forward to the next event, as a rear rank number one!

Respectfully submitted,
Chris Piering
Late Colonel, Commanding
82nd Ohio Vols. (recreated)

Chris Piering is a member of the Columbia Rifles and 122nd New York from Syracuse, New York

McDowell Event Report
by Dave Grieves

McDowell was a completely new experience for me. Not only was I on a regimental staff for the first time, but it was also my first event under the straps of an officer’s coat, serving as the Adjutant of the re-created 82nd Ohio Volunteers. The experience was, at the same time, both easier and more difficult than I had expected.
Chris Piering and I arrived onsite early Friday afternoon, along with Chris the Small (ha!) [Piering, Jr.] and Pete Metz. I found vendor Chris Daley and picked up my shiny new private purchase officer sack coat, and commenced sewing on my new 1st Lieutenant straps. Chris produced my coat in a very short time—only about ten days. Compliments on this nice coat were frequent throughout the weekend.
We had expected a bit more space for our camp, and had determined to use the suggested layout from Dan Butterfield’s 1862 manual, Camp and Outpost Duty. The condition of the ground allowed for poor company streets—which were full of trees and rocks—and that made Butterfield’s layout only partially possible. The dirt main road, flanked by forest and a river, made proper dress parade impossible; there was no room to even open ranks during parade. We held a proper parade later, during drill, after practicing the alignment of the battalion on the color line. As a brand new Adjutant, I was glad for the repetition. Prior to the event, I was a bit paranoid about failing the men relative to drill and military procedures, so I studied sufficiently to be ready, but the practice was also nice.
Bill Watson, our brigade commander, had reserved the best part of the forest for our battalion, the 82nd Ohio. Companies arrived, and with a minimum of fuss set up their streets as well as possible. Because our Sergeant Major was unable to attend at the last minute, we had no one to direct the set-up, but we made do. It was odd to see modern vehicles unloading the heavy impediments that go along with our early-war portrayal, but in the absence of wagons, it was the only way to get it done.
We traveled from Syracuse, New York to southwestern Virginia with my truck packed about two-thirds full of commissary gear and, along with the items brought by “Grumpy” Dave Towsen and some Sibley tents hauled in from Minnesota, our regimental headquarters was in fine form. Dave’s commissary, with the nice additions brought along by Charles Heath, formed the basis for the best commissary set-up I have ever seen. I had never seen a Sibley, let alone slept in one. Combining that fine tent with a bed tick, I had what was probably the best two nights sleep in my reenacting career, regardless of the temperatures, which Friday night were somewhere in the upper twenties! The men of Company C, who seem to have lost their baggage, had a less cozy night.
I had expected that, following dress parade, the Adjutant’s job would be fairly leisurely. Our lack of a Sergeant Major, along with the brigade adjutant’s aggressive delegation, kept me hopping. Drill proved more of a chore than I had originally believed it would be, because I had to run around the battalion’s evolutions correcting alignments and placing guides. Then, of course, there were the battles, with all the noise and the confusion that even a fake battle can produce. Between watching alignment, foot position and running messages, I was just plumb tuckered out. The battalion’s Sunday climb up Sittlington Hill was easier than our Friday “scout climb” up the same eminence, because we had learned to SLOW DOWN. There was a spectacular view from the summit of the hill; maybe that’s why Jackson headed there in 1862.
Portraying a gentleman had its perks. We had good cigars, fine whiskey, and “Grumpy” Dave procured us some very nice cuts of fresh beef. Roasted rabbit and good whiskey make an excellent late night snack. Alcohol is prohibited for enlisted men, but I don’t think they all got the memo. While searching Private Dan Fleet’s tent for a stolen rabbit I came upon a bottle and, at headquarters, we officers tested the contents to determine the specific substance, but it turned out that several tests were necessary before we could come to a conclusion.
Private Fleet put us through quite a trial before finally returning the stolen coney. He endured the French water torture, threats of extra duty, and perhaps even the threat of being hung by his thumbs. Finally, the rabbit made its way home, and Private Fleet, in the way of extra duty, sewed a sack coat button back on after I cut it off.
Some things made my life a lot easier; for instance, having an ambitious clerk was a great boon. Garr Gast took care of all the forms, number crunching, and accounting, and all I had to do was sign things. Having Chris Piering and [Major] “Silas” Tackitt nearby during drill made my memory problems less of a concern. And having company commanders that were not only willing, but anxious to do all that was necessary made the event tick along without any glitches. Then there was Dan Torrisi, who I consider to be the finest bugler in the hobby. His reflexes are so fast that when I jokingly asked him to sound the double-quick on the way back down the hill after Sunday’s battle, the horn was to his lips before he realized I was joking.
This year’s edition of McDowell was, for me, a great event. The shoulder straps turned out not to be too heavy and the sword not too sharp—I thoroughly enjoyed my first foray into officer country. The surroundings, the men and my fellow staffers all made this a terribly interesting and eventful weekend.

Dave Grieves is a member of the Columbia Rifles and 122nd New York from Syracuse, New York

First Time Wearin’ O’ the Commissary Sergeant Stripes
By “Grumpy” Dave Towsen

“Damn! Dave, somebody put vinegar in your bourbon bottle!” That’s what you get for trying to sneak a drink after I went to bed. I left the vinegar out for the night, and you’re lucky it wasn’t the dish soap or the lamp oil in the bottles next to the vinegar you took a swig of. Yep, I was the commissary sergeant for the re-created 82nd Ohio at McDowell 2005.
I had never run the commissary before, or served on a battalion staff, and my job for McDowell had me a little scared. As soon as Col. Piering made my position official months before the event, I began reading everything I could find on a battalion commissary, and I believe my ducks were in line before I arrived at the event. Wednesday evening I started packing my truck, and I finished the next evening. By God, it was the most crap I have ever—ever—brought to an event.
Early on Friday morning, things were looking up when I checked the weather before I departed for the event: no rain anywhere in sight but I threw an extra gum blanket in a crate just in case. Hey, it’s me, and it rains at every event I attend…or so it seems. The drive down Interstate I-81 on such a beautiful day was easy, despite the traffic slowdown just above Staunton because VaDOT was painting stripes on the road. After stopping for lunch or dinner or whatever at a very nice bistro in Staunton—they had Guinness on tap—we pushed on over the Alleghenies thirty miles further to McDowell.
Participant registration/check-in was easily found and was smooth, and a nice lady even walked me outside and actually showed me how to get to the Federal camps. I stopped at the Sutlery next and said hello to Chris Daley, Speedy, and Kara. Mack was selling some neat little mechanical pencils. Yes, I still have my money.
After a short dusty drive to the 82nd Ohio’s camp, which was located in a wooded area next to the creek, I found the younger and elder Pierings, and the boys from Minnesota and our Rhode Island friends of Sykes Avengers were already there. Sibley tents and A-tents were springing up like dandelions. The equipage for the commissary was carried sixty yards through the woods and set up next to battalion headquarters. I didn’t waste time using one of the newly available changing rooms and was back from the wagon park in a flash. I was instructed by the Colonel on how the company streets were to be laid out, and the camp was placed in my charge while the Kunnel left to take care of his Colonel business.
I immediately corralled every Private who looked to be lazing about and put them to work: one building a fire, several gathering firewood, and sent two armed with buckets to the natural spring that was our water source for the weekend. In no time we had a huge pile of deadfall for firewood, water a-plenty, and coffee and mint tea were boiling on the fire.
While the fatigue details were working by their own initiative, Andrew Willenbring, the battalion’s Quartermaster Sergeant, and I set about getting the commissary organized. Our inventory included: axes, hatchets, shovels, picks, kettles, frying pans, string, wire, nails, knives, paper, pencils, candles, vinegar, soap, matches, some appropriate and necessary paperwork, and some food purchased by the commissary to supplement the brigade-issued rations. I hung up my, “Dutch Gals Issued Tommorra” sign and the work began. I went over the quartermaster’s book with Andrew and we went to work, signing out implements to companies as needed for each group of men to set up their camp and the company kitchens for the weekend.
Charles Heath—serving as the cook for Company A (Columbia Rifles and friends)—arrived and supplemented the commissary with some wonderful period spices and some special tonic, which contained wonderful “Ebufulyptus” oil. It was funny, because each of the products Charles and I brought for issuance to the companies had the name of a CR member contained somewhere on the label, either in the name of the product, the “manufacturer”, or the manufacturer’s (made-up) address. Bar none, the product descriptions on Charles’s condiments were funny as hell! “Guaranteed to improve the flavor or rancid meat and army food. Cures flatulence, improves the outlook of the fairer sex (two doses may be necessary)”, and other stuff. You probably get the idea.
Friends stopped by the commissary with some regularity, tools came and went (no association), and time flew by. I sent a note to Adjutant Grieves requesting that the commissary non-comm of each company or his supernumerary report to the commissary area for issuance of small stores. Each company’s Orderly Sergeant was to receive two candles, two pencils, two roster forms, two guard reports, and a pack of matches. Dish soap, vinegar, salt, and a small food supplement, ginger snaps, pickles, oil, dried peas, and dried corn or sauerkraut was also issued to each company. Soon it was dark. Small amounts of medicinal whiskey were administered and I commenced preparing for bed.
It was late and the buglers began plying their trade, and it was neat to hear them call from brigade, and then up and down the battalions. Strange: I didn’t have to go to roll call at retreat and tattoo. I was warm between my blankets, and got a smile as someone tried getting into my whiskey—someone who quickly was very surprised.
Morning came, and it was damned cold at musicians’ call; I was really glad to have a greatcoat. Officers’ call sounded, then Orderly Sergeants’ call; men kindled breakfast fires, and cursed the cold and the gray mixture that Charles assured them was coffee. The smell of breakfast, human manufactured methane, and woodland earth filled the air. It would seem that the local spider population sensed that Rob Willis should have been there, because these huge—2- to 3-inch diameter—spiders were everywhere. Anytime you put something on the ground one of those arachnids found it. I suppose they were hoping for a little Goat for dinner.
Don’t let anyone kid you; “The Chawls” [Heath] is the best-damned cook in this whole army. After Dan “Brother Yoder” Hindman figured out which end of the kettle was the hot one, he and Piering The Younger (Dutchy) made fine assistant cooks (something normally reserved for contrabands, I might add). Wonderful meals built on a simple foundation of bacon and beef kept coming out of their pots.
Some words about our battalion music are in order. Our bugler was Dan Torrisi, who was our bugler at the Antietam 2003 Preservation March; Dan is nominally with the 7th New Jersey in the USV, and he has a fine set of bugling lips: a truly skilled musician. His talents were so evident that, by the closure of dress parade on Saturday morning; it was possible to pick him out from the whole brigade by only his playing, and it was neat to tell from music alone where our boys were, whether on the drill field, on the march, during the sham battles, and in the camp. If I had “a moment” at McDowell 2005 this was it, because I’m sure the boys of 1862 could recognize their bugler too.
On Saturday morning I got really busy. Dress parade started, and we started getting the commissary organized for the 11:00 a.m. ration issue. The battalion came back and got ready to drill. It began to rain, and both foul language and my name as an epithet began to flow. Battalion clerk Garr Gast and that newspaperman “Pennypacker” devised a scheme where they would take me to arid regions all over the world. These poor people would pay money to have me cause rain! Imagine, someone using my God given talent for their own personal benefit! I’m certain that Pennypacker and the clerk would become rich at my expense. I will have nothing of it.
A fresh beef ration was planned, and the steer—or part of one—was to arrive around 9:30, and when it did, I was to report to the brigade for the butchery. We made sure all the company kitchen fires were under control, had all the water containers filled, made sure there was fresh tea and coffee on the fire that we shared with Company A, and got out the paper and sacks needed to distribute the rations. Before long, 9:30 a.m. arrived and it was off to the brigade.
When I got there, I found Ron Myzie (brigade commissary) running around like a fool trying to get ready for the battalions. He had his ration returns, huge piles of potatoes, onions, and turnips and loaves of bread. But he had no help! He had a scale and he knew what bulk he had for each item so helping him figure the “per-man” issue took little time. A couple of guys showed up to help with “carving of the cow” but, as there was no cow yet, they sat on some crates. Soon, there were red and yellow legs [artillery and cavalry] standing around with gum blankets in hand and, whoa, it was getting on toward 11:00 a.m…. and no beef was yet evident.
Some infantry show up, and still there was no beef. (By this point I was thinking Clara Peller in those old Wendy’s commercials: “Where’s the BEEF?!!”) The Quartermaster told the men, “No rations until the beef gets here. We’ll send runners.” Those standing around looked like someone just shot their favorite dog. Dejected they slowly wandered back to their camps.
The beef arrived around 10:45 a.m. when the wagon carrying it pulled just in front of my makeshift table. The first thing that crossed my mind was, “Damn, that’s a lot of meat.” Three of us lifted the hindquarter onto the table and then, with a struggle, hung the front quarter on a meat hook rigged on a nearby tree.
Grabbing the boning knife, I went right to work removing the fillets and steaks—and hid them—as my helpers reduced the rest to large chunks. Knives flew, saws ripped, and the cleaver plied its fury on the lump of meat and bone. Before long, the boys were cleaning off the table because the hindquarter had been reduced to hunks of flesh and a pile of bones.
While they busied themselves, I turned my attention to the front quarter and removed the fillet from the backbone—and hid it with the other choice cuts. In less than an hour we were finished, and the issuance to the battalions began, and I set to work dividing the finer parts of that cow among “friends” and officers. I am not ashamed to say that Andrew, Dan, and I ate what would be called filet mignon all weekend—that’s the advantage of being the butcher, and that’s exactly how it happened in the Civil War too, at least per Billings, Hinman, and other accounts of the period.
While I would have liked to have issued the tongue, liver, heart, and other “parts-is-parts” issued (we had onions), alas, such niceties did not accompany that portion of the cow delivered by the wagon.
I must say, it was a first rate experience for the boys and me. Other than a minor issue at Cold Harbor 2001, this was the first time I’d ever received fresh beef at an event, and it was handled, distributed, and cooked in a manner that the possibility of any spoilage—just like real Federals in 1862 would have received it.
Sick call sounded suddenly, because, so it seemed, that there was a report of scurvy in an 82nd Ohio company; oddly enough, it wasn’t he CR. The battalion commander assembled Company E (5th New Hampshire) at the surgeon’s tent and a speech was given… along with a large dose of apple cider vinegar for each man in the company. Surgeon Rusty Dicks completed his speech with, “Welcome to the Potomac Legion.” The Fifth New Hampshire had just been hazed, and we’re better for having them.
With the grub distributed, cooked and eaten (or prepared for the evening meal), the boys took turns during a simple camp guard detail or prepared for the Saturday scenarios, the presentation for a Medal of Honor recipient’s family, the courts martial, or the shoot ‘em up [battle].
For us, it was clean-up-and-get-reorganized time. This took more than an hour and then we cooked our own non-commissioned staff rations, just as the boys were preparing to leave for the sham battle. We ate, and the boys went off to their duty. Andrew, Chawls, and I made sure the fires were in order, the water was filled, and shirkers-and laggards stayed the hell away from the 82nd Ohio’s camp.
Through the woods, across the creek (it’s called a river but it’s too small, so to me it’s a creek), and into the field one could see the lines of blue moving and maneuvering. We could pick out our battalion by the tones of Bugler Torrisi. And I did what any soldier would do at a time like this—I took a nap.
I awoke to the sound of the battalion returning to camp. Orderly Sergeant Steve Tyler asked if I had any casualty return forms; I had none, but they could be found at brigade. I inquired to the casualties of Company A.
“One killed,” replied the Orderly.
“What?!” I was confused. “Stragglers?” I inquired.
“None,” replied Sergeant Tyler.
“Damn, that’ll ruin the CR’s reputation.” I replied. That was simply not normal.
We, of the commissary, were called to the brigade—there were more rations to be issued. Andrew scrounged a detail and marched them off to the brigade. He returned with about 6 to 8 pounds of beef per company (mostly ribs), two-thirds of a loaf of bread per company, and either a potato or turnip for each company. A runner was sent to notify each company commander of the rations.
I had to return to the Surgeon, who was located next to brigade headquarters, for something I had left there. I noticed large amounts of ribs still lying next to the brigade commissary. Upon my return, I informed several enterprising privates of their location and soon, with the aid of some string and some of Chawls’s special sauces, they were smoking over the fire in our camp. Yes, the smell was wonderful.
Evening approached more quickly then I realized. Andrew and I cooked our evening steaks as the companies made supper. The ribs slowly cooked their way to Bar-B-Q-dom. Men talked around their campfires as night drew on. Some stopped by the battalion commissary for an evening dose of medicinal bourbon. In fact, Company C commander Joe “Pogue” Smotherman became quite friendly with that bottle of port while having trouble negotiating the rocky ground around camp. Mike “The Mighty Roger” Peterson sat on a crate guarding the bottle of bourbon, sampling it occasionally, until one of the boys exclaimed, “Dang, I’ve never heard a preacher swear like that!” Pogue stated around this time, “You know, this is a pretty good event. It’s not an immersion event by any means but, it’s really nice. You can tell, it’s Saturday evening and the boys are all having a good time.”
Shortly after dark, most of the boys were in their blankets snoring away—no kidding. I swear, either Lieutenant Lanky or Orderly Sgt. Steve had a chainsaw in their tent and was using it liberally. [Pete Smith rarely if ever snores, so you figure it out. – Ed.]
SLEEP.
Wow, was that musicians’ call? It must have been, because that certainly was the Reveille. On Saturday morning I was up before both calls, and on Sunday I was toasty and comfortable and was slow to arise. Coffee was on and hot but, I made sure the boys who would be making the march to Sittlington’s Hill had theirs first. I busied myself eating a piece of bread with maple syrup and a piece of cold meat. Soon I had a cup of Charles’ mixture of coffee and hot chocolate—an ugly, gray mixture that was actually, quite good.
Now picture this: Brother Yoder stuffing his prized BBQ’d ribs into his haversack. Now understand and picture if you can—the ribs were just a little too large and his haversack just a little too small. He was determined and soon his prize was safely tucked away. Here was another of my “moments” for the weekend” Yoder in the half-lit dawn smoke and haze, placing is prize in his haversack, donning his accouterments, smiling over his accomplishment, and preparing to march to his fate.
I didn’t accompany the battalion up the hill. My duties fell to packing up and moving the commissary so that it could be loaded into my wagon. In camp, we heard the bugles and firing in the distance. It took the entire time the boys were gone for me to pack; sheesh, I have never taken so much stuff to an event! In retrospect, it was worth it. Hands shaken, good-byes said, and clothes changed, my partner and I headed north.
Was this an emersion event? No, not really. It was, however, well run and the participants were all first-rate.
Something that few know is that there were a number of fellows in our battalion doing their jobs for the very first time: it was the first time some had ever put on stripes or straps, the first time some had commanded a section, a platoon, a company, battalion, or brigade. You would have never known the difference. Pat yourselves on the back boys: you all did a fine job!

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

A Few Thoughts on McDowell
by Mike Jolin

Aside from the Texas Two-Step on Saturday morning—a result from either Charles’s hot Tex-Mex Cocoa Gray Cabbage Tea, or the Waffle House in Staunton on Friday afternoon—I had a splendid time at McDowell 2005. On Sunday morning before our march up “Mt. Everest”, I even got handle some of Charles’s meat on behalf of the boys (get your mind out of the gutter). We cut it up when we got to the top and had a fine repast on the mountain; but I admit, I don’t know if it topped Fleeter’s rabbit though.
I marched alongside “Brother Yoder” for most of the weekend and enjoyed working with him to fulfill Lt. Schank’s “important” mission during the spectacle that was put on to give the peasants a thrill [Saturday’s spectator “battle” – Ed.]. By the way, it’s a “cabinet”, not a “frappe”, my Brother…
Lt. Smith and Orderly Sgt. Tyler did first-rate work all weekend, even if I did have to bury the carcass that Grumpy Dave left for us. Sorry about mixing up your A-tents. I don’t have as much experience putting them up as some.
My biggest disappointments about the event: I was shat on only three times all weekend for being a lawyer, and twice for being from Rhode Island. You boys are slipping...

Mike “Spoons” Jolin is a member of the Columbia Rifles from Rhode Island

Some Scattered Thoughts from the Ranks of McDowell 2005
by Dan Hindman

Upon arriving at McDowell, I took my small car back to the camp and, just as I drove up to say hello to Mr. Heath, I heard the “La Cucaracha” horn go off. Oh, goody—the pimps are here! Alas, they must have left all their camp whores to the Rebs, or they were put off by that box the surgeon had reading 'Brass Penis Syringes". Good job, Rusty!
“Dutch Gals Will Be Issued Tomorrow” and “Not Responsibull for Flux” are truly inspiring signs to see hanging over your battalion commissary. I think the Wizard Oil is still working, since I haven’t become incontinent yet. Ebufulyptus rocks!
Grumpy Gaiter Dave was only able to produce a light rain shower during the whole weekend. Possibly it was the kryptonite rocks that we slept on that diminished Grumpy’s rainmaking power.
The hump up Sittlington’s Hill was fun, but skirmishing up the hill was a little painful. The wisdom of a company of skirmishers sent against a battalion of goofy Rebs was displayed well.
The downsides to the event were—put the needle in the same groove on the record, Maude—water and sinks. I didn’t see no test sheet for giardia and other “bugs” at the spring that we had to drink from, so I’m waiting for the delayed scoots. On the other hand, those portolets by the sutlers were damn nice, and we could have used more than one for all Feds and civilians. Maybe that’s how the sponsors were forcing us to interact with the civilians…
It was nice to meet “The Mighty Roger” and Jack Cox, and it was good to see Lt. Schank, Sergeant Schotz and the western New York boys.
And to the other companies of the 82nd, thank you for donating your ribs. We all had some good eats at the top of that big hill. I’m sure there is some corporal still wondering around with a few beef ribs in his haversack going, “What hell do I do with this?” Corporal Rabbit left his for the coyotes, I saw.
Chawls’s gray coffee was priceless. The look of desperation and hopelessness on everyone’s face when Charles poured the leftovers of the hot chocolate-like substance into the coffee was priceless. My “moment” was not even disturbed by some trilling of the R’s for a “frappe” comment. You New Englanders can be real Nancy Boys when it comes to their coffee…
The food was good, and lessons we learned at the April Shiloh living history were not spoiled: the substitution of hot sauce for curry was the biggest change. And the cabbage was delayed for insertion into the stew. The best was Charles cutting up half a ham and then complaining to battalion that we didn’t have enough meat.
And to “Spoons” Jolin: It was great fun falling in with you. It was a good thing that Lt. Schank put us in line or we would have been waiving in the breeze like those Westerners we were trying to line up next to (hah!). We really wanted to give you more ribbing about being a lawyer, but when you and Rob started chatting about legalese stuff, we knew there was a witness if we’d attempted to try anything on you two. That and Harry wasn’t there.
Old Bald Man Reenacting The Cooking of Food: How did you get away with actually using desecrated vegetables without the rest of us knowing, or at least bitching loudly, is quite a mystery.
All in all I had a good time with good friends, and heck, this time I didn’t have to drive too far to get to a unit event!

Dan “Brother Yoder” Hindman is a member of the Columbia Rifles from southwestern Virginia

And Yet More Thoughts on McDowell
by Mike Peterson

Company A was a great group of fellows, plus it was great seeing some old CR faces that I hadn’t seen in a long time. I enjoyed demonstrating to Soup Bone Weymer that preachers enjoy whiskey and can still use the “F-word”. There were also lots of new guys (new to me, at least) who did well, and it was good to meet Spoons Jolin and Brother Yoder. Pete Smith did very well in his debut as a company commander.
My “moment” was Sunday, being with Company A on the hill as the sun was coming up, and realizing that our skirmish line was getting flanked and pushed back by a full battalion of Rebs. I turned around and here came Colonel Piering striding forward at the head of the battalion in column. I said something to him like, “Careful, Sir, you can’t see the Rebs with the sun in your eyes.” He just said, “I’ll find ‘em.” That was cool.
What wasn’t so cool was the officers throwing our tired and played out sorry asses up the hill as skirmishers, as if Company A was the only one available, to get chewed up by the Rebs. If I’d seen and heard Sgt. Tyler telling us to stay down and low, I would have taken more cover. Colonel Piering’s the sort of field officer who will get mentioned in dispatches while the privates get mentioned in the casualty lists. And it was all good fun.
Heef’s cooking was, as usual, uniformly excellent. Burp.
On the way home, I crossed the border into Ontario at 1:00 a.m. at Queenston. The Canadian Border Chick looked at my gun permit and registrations papers and asked, “Do they usually send you inside for this?” Me: “Yes, and I always get sent back outside.” Border Chick: “Okay, you can go.” I got home at 3:30 a.m, and the resulting sleep was very good.
The next one for me is Payne’s Farm. Better hide the “Dutch Gal” signs, ‘cause the clergy may confiscate them—or the Dutch Gals, whatever comes to hand first.

Mike Peterson is a member of the Columbia Rifles from London, Ontario

Remarks on Ransacking the Civilian Refugee Camp on Sunday
by Joe Smotherman

Well, for all the gloating found therein, all I can say is that when the 82nd Ohio stopped on the way down from the summit of Sittlington’s Hill on Sunday morning to harass the refugees, it was high school drama class at its best.
The whole thing just seemed odd from the get-go. We had just attacked the hill, had our thank you speeches, cheered our worthy opponents, taken group photos, and were marching back to camp to leave the event. The last thing anyone in my company was thinking was, “Hey, let’s stop to harass the civvies and do a little firper!” But, stop we did.
First Company [Lt. Smith’s company – Ed.] chased down some fellows, ransacked baskets, and tipped over one woman’s chair much to her surprise. That was when the next odd thing happened. Second Company (that would be mine) was directed to mark the right flank for the battalion to dress. They were centering the colors on the refugee camp?
The whole exchange seemed ill-timed and out of sync with the rest of the event. We marched right past on these civilians way up the hill, so why didn’t we stop to interrogate them about the Confederate troop positions and activities? Nope, we just marched right by, many of them still asleep in their shelters. The event was okay, but this episode was just weird.

Joe “Pogue Mahone” Smotherman is a member of Cleburne’s from Tennessee, and commanded the Second Company in the 82nd Ohio at McDowell

Cookin’ at McDowell
by Charles Heath

For the most part, my McDowell experience was confined to a small area, extending only from Axis 1 (from the Bullpasture River road to the 82nd OVI quartermaster-commissary tent) to Axis 2 (from the “sex trees”—one was female, and one was very male—on one side of the company street, to the woodpile on the other). Nevertheless, it was fun.
Big thanks go out to the spudpeelers, water-toters, onionslicers, beanfetchers, cabbagewhackers, and woodbringers who made the Company A fire pit kitchen possible. Chris Piering the Younger and one of his similar-aged friends busted asses to keep the kitchen supplied with water throughout the weekend. Brother Yoder-the-Spud-Peeler-of-Death kept me in stitches; never ask an Amish man to clean a kettle, I say.
Because an event report by a cook is probably boring as hell, this one is arranged into a Q & A type thing. Why? Damned if I know, but it’s different, and different is good, right?

Q: “When are the Dutch gals going to be issued?”
A: “Tomorrow, always tomorrow.”
A few months ago, Pete “Lanky” Smith asked me to, “Be prepared to cook for the company at McDowell.” (He actually asked this in August 2004, but that was before either of us knew that the CR was truly attending McDowell again.) To that I asked, “What are we getting in terms of rations?” The response a few months later, and via “Grumpy” Dave Towsen, was, “Maybe some beef, some bacon, fish, bread, and ramps.” Being from allium-bereft western New York, Lanky asked, “What is a ramp?” I responded, “They go on the back of utility trailers. I’ll bring a hacksaw, and cook them with eggs.”

Q: “We aren’t getting stinky cheese balls again like at Gettysburg 2003, are we?”
A: “Double ration, and you’ll enjoy it, dammit.”
With that in mind, the cook’s boxes were prepared accordingly. I brought those nice spice tins I found in Beverly, West Virginia a few months ago while on a trip to check out the Rich Mountain 2006 event site. Had the CR not voted to attend McDowell, I’d have been cooking for the Trans-Miss folks & Ohioans in Company C, so either way someone at McDowell was going to be suffering from all grades of intestinal disorders.

Q: “Don’t ya think those men need an anti-scorbutic?”
A: “Double dose, at least.”
Lotsa damn Sibley tents. Hey, where were you guys at the Shiloh, Tennessee living history a few weeks ago? Sibleys must be the “new thing” for campaigners.

Q: “Do you know what these little yellow magic pills do?”
A: “No.”
The trip down I-81 to US Route 250 was nice, and it was in DAYLIGHT too! Bev had to be at McDowell by about 5:00 p.m. to unload her civilian kit at Davis Run, because the civilians “went live” at 6:00 p.m. and they were off the beaten track a bit near the Davis Run farmhouse. But first she had to remember where the Hull House Soldiers’ Fair Fundraiser was located (I’m not saying we made any U-turns, but revisiting the Hog Farm where the Fed cavalry camped previously, and the nice man who collects old IH Farmall tractors, and seeing the big piles of wood out in that broad field beyond the Confederate camps, was enjoyable, as was the tour of practically the whole town). Did I mention Monterey, Virginia is pretty at this time of year? So, she dropped off her half dozen shirts (I heard they sold well), candled poke sacks, and a striped haversack for the fundraiser, and we were off.

Q: “Any of you hogs want seconds?”
A: “Yes, but what is it?”
Grumpy Dave already had fire, coffee, and tea going when I arrived—great! I delivered some condiments, honey, and period patent medicines to the commissary. Some of Glen Klaus’s old cookware got some good use at McDowell ‘05. I went to get rations—for one. That felt a little odd, but what the heck; rations were flavored, bacon-like pork product, and two hard rubber crackers. Mmmm. Dinner and Breakfast in two gulps. Two thumbs up. This allowed me time to consort with the boys, explain the facts of life a few times using flora and fauna as examples, break the ice, and give them some magic lemon drops. There was lots of jocularity. I laughed at Spoons Jolin’s eight-rivet late war moldboard spoon, and also sampled the patent medicines.

Q: “What's this?”
A: “Drink it. You’ll like it. But it may require two treatments.”
I made some hot cocoa for the boys before they went to bed. At least one fellow said that it tasted like apple cider. Dispensed some more magic lemon drops, and went to sleep for a couple of hours. Zzzzzz.

Q: “How ya doin’, Charlie?”
A: “If you find the damn jackass who was supposed to put up some signs around this hell hole, then bring that sonofabitch to me so I can chop off his head. And don’t ask again.”
I can’t remember if I put out anything for breakfast on Saturday morning. There might have been some dried peaches, coffee, and mint tea. Oh yes, the coffee was combined with the cocoa, which gave it a nice but evidently unexpected International Coffee flavor. See if you get that again, ya bunch of latte-slurpers. Silas Tackitt and I got up early to compare dinosaur stories, fart, belch, and look at the stars. The Big Dipper was nice, but I was about an hour off telling time by it the next morning.

Q: “Are you our half-assed adjutant?”
A: “No. I’m a whole-assed adjutant.”
On Sair'dy morning, we were supposed to get a fresh beef ration at 11:00 a.m. to prepare a noonish meal. Because I wasn’t too sure this was going to happen, I’d scarfed up excess pork product the night before and, that morning, put a stew on to boil. Brigade Commissary Ron Myzie later explained a serious glitch behind the scenes with the modern source of beef, but it worked out well in the end, although the beef was way late. The boys in Company A were probably wondering why they were getting a salty pork and desiccated vegetable stew (the experiment was a success) around 11:30 a.m. and the rest of the battalion vultures were staring at them...hungrily. Yes, that stew had a little heat to it, didn’t it? I gave the excess to Company C, because it seems that their baggage wagon had gone over the side of a hill at some point and they’d had lost their tentage, mess gear, minor luxuries, Erasive Soap, fishing hooks, Wizard Oil, French Envelopes, Body Armor, Urbanski’s Army Snuff, and all the other implements of a fixed base camp.

Q: “What’s that?”
A: “It’s a one step process combining dishwater and food in a self cleaning kettle.”
There were no ramps and no trout. We were supposed to be able to interact with the Davis Run civilians to acquire ramps, trout, and eggs. The girls had six dozen fresh eggs and two dozen pickled eggs for us, and we had all sorts of condiments to trade, but they never came out from Davis Run, and the sorry-as-seven-year-old-molded-snail-shit newspaper correspondent (a.k.a. Soup Bone Weymer) never took the hint (not the dozen times I made it) that he should engage in visiting the womenfolk and bring us back some eggs, trout, and ramps.

Q: “Where are the sinks?”
A: “Just go shit behind the Lieutenant’s tent.”
Someone stole a rabbit. Hmmm. The company cookhouse denies all knowledge of this larceny. A certain corporal doth now have another new nickname. We had both roast rabbit and stewed rabbit.

Q: “Why does this taste like shit?”
A: “Are you eating out of the officers’ slops jar again?”
The handful of survivors from the noon meal was treated to a beef and rabbit version of the infamous Dunfee Stew, with some bread on the side. For the bread, we had maple syrup (from the Rebs, delivered by “Ruffles” Renault’s gal Freda) and some honey from Mr. Grieves over in Mabie, Virginia. At least one person wanted to know if it was Bubble and Squeek, to which I replied, “If the pot is boiling, your hindparts will soon be squeekin’.” This came out rather well, and true to form, the cabbage began talking, thus providing hours of priceless scatological entertainment. Company C had some of this slop from the bottom of the pot, too. By this point, Company C was trying to fix their own stew with a kettle signed out from the quartermaster, and needed some condiments. Ah, there ya go.

Q: “Is this all we get to eat?”
A: “It is more than you damn well deserve.”
After a little thought, the cook staff realized there was no Sunday breakfast to be had. We sent a couple of folks to go buy some beans (culinary cruelty never ends) for breakfast. This buying on the local economy was to prove fortuitous, and less than $2.50 worth of beans was found to feed a whole company.

Q: “Those boys sound great. Who are they?”
A: “They aren’t ours. Our buglers can’t figure out which end to blow.”
Breakfast was fun: leftover bread, dried peaches, ham and bean soup, beef ribs, and rodentia. That’s right, I achieved a long dream of handing someone a cooked rodent for his section’s meat ration. While other events have featured squirrel and possum, this one was a moment in time when coupled with the witch hunt for the rabbit the day before. Those rabbits provided so much fun that we really ought to do it again. The ribs and rabbit were probably well done, but the other meat may have ended up as wastage up on the hill.

Q: “Ma’am, would this be Davis Run?”
A: “Yes, it is.”
We cleaned up the camp and put out the fires. If it was liquid and it was near the fire pits it went in. While the troops were gone from camp, we broke down the gear, scrubbed pots, packed, and loaded. Exiting the site was easier than anticipated: walk ten feet, get stopped by someone who wants to say hello, walk another ten feet, rinse, repeat. There were lots of folks I’d have loved to have yapped with on Saturday night, but the town was deserted when I got up there shortly after dark. Sunday afternoon means drive home, so we got the hell out as soon as we could.

Charles Heath is a member of the Columbia Rifles from central Maryland