Nothing Civil About This War

Sydney Morning Herald

Tuesday January 1, 2008

John Huxley

High noon. High drama. High summer. The temperature is climbing into the upper 30s, the humidity sticky hot, the air tinged with smoke from a thousand fires as a deafening hush creeps across the drowsy countryside like a dirty, sweaty blanket. Suddenly, all is chaos, all is cacophony. First comes the dull, deafening crump of cannons. Next the snap, snap, snap of musket fire, echoing through near-by woods. Then a blood-curdling wail, a banshee, fighting man's yell.

Someone in the crowd whoops with excitement. "Better watch out,"an unfamiliar, American dixieland voice shouts. "Them ol' boys be comin' on out to get y'all, now."

Sure enough, moments later, grey-clad soldiers, thousands of them, some on horses, come running, sweeping, stumbling, falling, left writhing, across a wheatfield, bright yellow under heavy blue skies fast turning brown.

How on earth did I become involved in this madness, embroiled with these tens of thousands of Americans who are spoiling this summer's day, Independence Day, July 4, fighting each other? Refighting the Battle of Gettysburg.

Make-believe it may be. But, for many of the combatants, it is serious must-believe that stirs deeply held emotions and pushes men, women and their children to almost unimaginable lengths to achieve 1865 authenticity.

Modern conveniences and materials, of course, are banned. But most of the soldiers go much further in their search for a "period rush". They eschew sunblock, insect repellent and modern medication. They speak in archaic form, informed by only pre-1865 experience. They make themselves gaunt, sick, even seriously ill by eating rancid sourbelly pork or drinking homemade hooch.

Brian, my fellow Australian Civil War enthusiast, has been sleeping rough and, like many Confederates did, has walked to the battle in bare feet. "You look half dead," I say. "Thank you very much," he says, beaming. Meanwhile, his mate Robert, who has starved and contorted his body, demonstrates his "battlefield bloat". His belly is distended, his hands curled into claws, his face a rictus grin.

And me? Paradoxically, I cannot afford to be an officer; a proper, period outfit costs about $8000. And such is the popularity and preparation of these set-pieces that there is a long list of re-enactors awaiting promotion.

The organisers say I am skinny and scruffy enough to make a soldier. Or, better still, a dead soldier. As a veteran who still bears the scars of the re-enacted 1445 Battle of Arbroath, in Scotland, when the two, skimpily kilted armies were seemingly drawn from rival football teams, with predictably painful results, I decide deception is the better part of valour.

So it is that I am happily typecast as an observer, a pressman; a historically valid player, given the media's role in the Civil War but only one part removed, I feel, from the 75,000 spectators who spill out of long, motorised traffic jams to enjoy the mayhem. Apart from their gas-guzzlers, ice-boxes and football-stand manners, they must resemble those Washingtonians who ill-advisedly dressed in their fine clothes, jumped in their carriages and dashed out to Manassas in 1861 to see Johnny Reb get a beating.

Now, as then, the Confederates prove no easy-beats. For three days of extreme heat, the battle rages back and forth across the rolling Pennsylvania countryside, close to where the real Battle of Gettysburg was fought.

Much of the action is choreographed, in the interests of authenticity, by field marshalls equipped with all-terrain vehicles, mobile phones, stopwatches and detailed running scripts. Equally, much is chaotic, just as it would have been for the thousands of confused young who fought - for principle, for fun, for gain or perhaps simply because they were told to - on that far-off summer's day in 1863.

"What did you do in the Civil War, Daddy?" my son later asked. Not much. I came, I saw, I sat under shadecloth, drank bottled water, took notes and subsequently wrote a typically smart-arse story. I signed a temperance pledge and threw it away. The nearest I came to injury, or inconvenience, was when a portable-toilet door opened suddenly on me.

Not so fortunate were many other re-enactors. Despite a ban on fixed bayonets and live ammunition and strict limits on physical force, there were about 500 casualties and at least one death.

Real casualties, real death. Some tripped, breaking limbs. Some received painful blows in the fighting. Some, the overweight, the unfit, had heart attacks. Some simply succumbed to the heat and the humidity of a memorable summer's day.

© 2008 Sydney Morning Herald

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