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Athens, MO August 4-5
Three years ago we had this event, back in '81, but my wife was 8 months pregnant at the time and I didn't feel comfortable being 300 miles away in case something happened with her or the child she was carrying. You see, Athens is located in the extreme northeast corner of the state of Missouri; just a stone's throw (or cannonball's throw) from the state of Iowa. The original 1861 battle was a clash between Pro-Confederate State Guardsmen and Pro-Union Home Guard, who for the most part, were dressed alike and carried similar weapons-local farmers who carried shotguns, and squirrel rifles. For the Unionists, a supply of federal accoutrements, some uniforms, and .58 Springfield rifles did arrive, but was insufficient to outfit but a few. The State Guardsmen were supported by two artillery pieces, and during the course of the battle, at least one or more cannonballs crossed over the Iowa border. After some heavy fighting for a period, the Unionist's finally routed their foe with a bayonet charge, which permanently ended the Pro-Confederate presence in that part of Missouri.
This was 1984, but before I begin talking about the event here, I must make mention of a small purchase that I made in July. It was a silver Mitsubishi pickup truck with 4 speed manual transmission and a 4 cylinder engine. I had fantasized with the idea of getting a Ford Bronco, but the price seemed a little much, plus my wife Mona had a AMC Renault purchased the year before, so two steep car payments seemed out of the question. The payments on the Mitsubishi would be at a minimum as it was an inexpensive vehicle even though I bought it new. John Maki had the same truck purchased in '83, only gold colored and he loved the hell out of it, so that pretty much cinched the deal for me. For about another hundred dollars, I had a silver colored shell mounted on the bed of the truck. It rose to the level of the cab; maybe 3 feet. Over the next ten years, the silver Mitsubishi would carry everything from tent poles, wooden boxes, clothes, children, and drunken reenactors. I put over a hundred thousand miles on that little truck, with barely a mechanical problem at all (used about a quart of oil a week during last two years I owned it). I never even had to change a flat tire. The original spare was still mounted underneath and never used when I finally traded it in, in 1994. I am 99 % certain my wife and I came to Athens driving the new truck. She had family in Fort Madison, Iowa, and I believe we visited them at some point after the event concluded on Sunday. I do know that 2-year-old Katie stayed with Grandma in Windsor that weekend.
About ten miles south of Athens, out in the middle of nowhere to be honest, was an antique place. It was a conglomeration of at least 4 or 5 buildings with all kinds of junk stacked wall to wall. In one building was furniture, in another books, in another tools, and in another were smaller items like bottle caps, photos, postcards, marbles, and 8 track tapes. We left Kansas City early Friday with the plan to stop at this emporium before hitting the event. We either followed the Higginbotham's or they us. Whatever the case, word of mouth had already gotten around because there were reenactors already stopped there and shopping. John Maki, the Fannin's, Frank Kirtley and his wife, Dick and Meg Stauffer, just to name a few. Hell, everyone going to the event stopped here! Higgy bought a civil war picture while he was here, if I'm not mistaken. Neither my wife nor I bought anything, but browsed for a bit. Soon we continued on up the road till we reached the Athens State Historical Site.
Mona and Gail Higginbotham used my A tent, which they set up in the ladies/civilian area, while I was content lying in my homemade dog tent. The temperature this weekend would be very humid, and even though we were camped near trees and afforded some shade, we'd be sweating buckets before too long. A dog tent open at both ends at least allowed some breeze to circulate. Higgy shared a dog tent with Maki. We spent Friday night sipping suds and shooting the bull-just like any other Friday night at a reenactment.
At morning roll call, just after 6 AM, the Captain announced we'd be going out for a special 'field exercise' that morning. Rather than have the typical battle that afternoon, both Union and Confederate commanders opted to combine a four-mile march with a tactical similar to one down at Brice's Crossroads. After a quick, but hearty breakfast, we reformed to go through the manual of arms, plus briefly drilled for about one half-hour. At 9 AM, we loaded up on a flat bed hay wagon. There were no sides to it, and it was hitched to a good size pickup truck. Just as we started to leave the camp, one of the trailer tires blew out and sounded like a bomb. I think we all just about shit our pants, but it seemed to be no big deal to the truck driver because it was a multi-wheeled trailer and we had at least 7 more tires to roll on. Once out of the park, we took a dirt road for at least 15 to 20 minutes. The idea was we would march back in from where ever the truck dropped us off at. The truck was going a good 50 miles an hour, and in wasn't long before each of us was caked with an inch of road dust. The truck finally stopped in the middle of a country road, so we dismounted and took turns slapping the dust off each other and shaking ourselves like wet dogs. Once the truck rolled out of sight, we formed our company into a column and marched off at the route step. Clouds of grayish dust rose up under our feet, the men in the rear ranks getting the worst of it. Soon our trousers up to our knees were dust covered. There was gravel of various sizes on this road as well, and we had to be careful how we put our feet down, or else it would turn a man's ankle if stepped on the wrong way. Some of this gravel was the size of a softball, and as we continued on, John Maki made the comment that "if the gravel gets any bigger, I'll just have to walk around it."
As the morning wore on, the sun rose higher and the temperature climbed. It was to be a 4-mile trek, but the road seemed never ending. Muskets grew heavier, tongues grew longer, and breath became shorter. I think we took one five minute break, but no longer. You see, we had to reach the objective before the johnnies did. Of course, they took a different route and we had no idea how they were progressing, but were sure they were suffering as much as we. Of course Frank Kirtley and some of the other young bucks were in their element and barely busted a sweat. Occasionally a pard would walk along side a fagged out buddy and tote his musket for a spell. The Holmes Brigade was full of compassionate souls. Somebody drove by in a station wagon and began handing out ice chips from a cooler, so we all put some in our tin cups and continued on.
At this time,only the Captain knew how far we had to go-we knew nothing of our objective. After it seemed we had marched all the way to Illinois by this time, one of the company wags bravely confronted the Captain with a questioning plea:
'How much further do we have to go?'
Captain Dick merely replied that, 'we only have just a quarter-mile more, boys.'
So we shuffled along the road a while longer; raising even more clouds of dust and stumbled across even more gravel.
'How much further is it NOW, Captain?' came the sound from a dust coated throat.
'Just a quarter-mile more', was the same reply. And so it went for what seemed an eternity; each question from the men met with the same response from the Captain.
Finally we came to the hill. It was just a little beyond the local cemetery. The road rose up only at about a 30-degree angle, but it could have been Pike's Peak, as a number of groan's escaped from the cracked lips of the Brigade. The ranks began to unravel as men began to slow, then stagger out of formation as the climb was made. Even as our knuckles began to scrap the ground, we somehow managed to crest the top of the hill, then made a left turn onto a smaller trail. It was here that about a half dozen men finally collapsed into some tufts of grass that lined this trail. Included in this group was Bill Fannin and myself. I was completely fagged out. You could have knocked me over with a feather. The balance of the company peeled off into a valley and struck up against the johnnies and whaled away at each other for about five minutes or so. Two 30 gallons plastic drums of water had appeared and the six of us stragglers managed to drink about 15 gallons by ourselves. Finally the boys boiled out of the valley, looking as white as sheets-exhausted beyond belief. I'd managed to regain some feeling in my extremities, so I tended to my pards by bringing some water as they collapsed at my feet. Most of the boys shucked their jackets and lay about in their sweat soaked shirt sleeves; looking like a bunch of beached whales, blowing and gasping in the humid air. Water drunk in haste ran past their eager open lips drenching their beards and necks. I noticed that Frank Kirtley had a drop of sweat running down his nose, but otherwise was unfazed. Oh, by the way, this concluded the 'field problem' and the federals were crowned with the laurel wreath of victory once again. We moseyed back to camp, only a hundred yards away, and flopped on our backs for the rest of the afternoon. I mean everybody was completely horizontal for many hours. The only other thing that was scheduled was a dance that evening and no one felt like getting back on their feet.
Something very funny happened on Sunday morning. Erik Hansen wanted to go after some beer, but the nearest liquor store was 6 miles into Iowa. So we took off in my Mitsubishi and left. I don't remember what brand of beer we bought, but it was a case of something, plus a bag or two of ice. When we returned to the camp, our boys were in the middle of an inspection.
'Oh shit,' I said to Erik, ' we're gonna get nailed for sure.'
We boldly walked right past the company and deposited ourselves in front of a Sibley tent and commenced playing cards.
I told Erik, 'We're already in trouble, might as well make it look good.'
We had a jug of home made spirits, plus some French post cards lying next to us on the gum blanket. Sure enough, no sooner had the company been dismissed from inspection, when Erik and I were surrounded by three or four armed men. Captain Dick decreed that we should each carry a log on our shoulder and perform the manual of arms. We endured good-natured heckling from our Holmes Brigade pards as well as laughter coming from spectators who had come for the inspection, but now had another reason to stop and take pictures. Our drill master was 1st Sergeant Fannin who himself had a hard time keeping a straight face. After about 15 minutes or so, Erik and I were released from our punishment detail and allowed to return to our vices.
In the afternoon, we recreated the 1861 battle. None of us really had a civilian impression, although I think we just took our blue coats off to make it look like we were Home Guard. After the usual amount of cartridges were blown back and forth between the two lines, we were ordered forward at a trot. With the tips of our bayonets at eye level with 'johnny reb', they had no recourse but to skedaddle. There might have been some hand-to-hand, but the end result was the foe was vanquished and the event was over.
The highlight of the whole experience was the death march on Saturday. This was where the famous phase was born. Today, it is still spoken when men are on the march and one asks have much further till rest can be realized. 'Just a quarter-mile more, boys!
Chapter 20: The Wettest Event