by Bruce Graham
We milled around and chattered among ourselves and wrote and addressed letters that we left in a heap on the table. I went to bed and soon was asleep. In the morning I went with my section to a breakfast of bacon, biscuits and oatmeal, then marched a quarter mile to a building where we lined up and were given two pairs of blue pants, two blue shirts, two pairs of blue drawers, square tipped shoes, stockings and a blue, flat topped hat with a brass label “VT 7th Reg.” We were pushed into a corner and directed to change from our civilian clothes that would be handed out to the poor. After donning our uniforms, we were herded into another line and given our equipment, which were identified for us: knapsack, canteen, woolen blanket, winter coat, rubber blanket, tin cup, plate and knife and fork and haversack. As each of us took the items the sergeant behind the table called out “Don’t lose any of them, you won’t find another, unless you take if from somebody dead on the battlefield.”
After a half hour figuring out how to wear the equipment another sergeant called “Attention, in two minutes everybody form lines of fifteen outside where I tell you.” He led the way into the sunny cold field and stood facing us. As we milled around near him, he waved his arms indicating the lines we should make.
“Attention. That means everybody stands up like this.” And he pushed out his chest, put his legs and feet together and fixed his gaze forward. “Whether you’re in a group or alone, you do that when you hear ‘Attention’ and stay until you hear ‘At ease’ from the officer or non-commissioned officer.” The sergeant then relaxed, but stood in place. “Then you may simply stand until you get another order. But don’t go anywhere. If you hear ‘As you were’ and you were doing something, you may resume doing it, but otherwise, stand relaxed and ready for whatever you’re told. Remember that. Now, sergeants and corporals, we’re non-commissioned officers, you may speak to us without saying ‘sir’, a simple ‘sergeant’ or ‘corporal’ or even nothing will do fine. But don’t address us by name. Officers, however, are a different matter. At all times, in battle or in the camp or at mess or on the street or in a saloon, an officer must be addressed as ‘sir’ or with his rank attached to his title, for example ‘Captain Smith’ or ‘Captain Smith, sir’. Officers are appointed by the President and Congress and are a privileged group.”
“But, sir---” came a squeaky voice from the rear of the middle of the line.
“What did I just tell you, boy?” shouted the sergeant. “We’re not ‘sir’.”
A ripple of laughter went over the company.
“I forgot, sir.”
Louder laughter.
“I mean sergeant. My question is, how do we know they’re officers?”
The laughter quieted down.
“A good question, son. Most officers will have little boards on their shoulders, right about here.” The sergeant pointed his right fingertips to his left shoulder. “And most will have slouch hats, not caps like us enlisted. And most of them carry pistols and swords in combat. They also, usually, have a cocky manner about them. When you’ve been with us for a couple of months, you’ll get the idea. I won’t try to explain the insignia of the different ranks.”
“What’s insignia, Sergeant?” It was a deep voice from almost next to me.
“A mark of rank, son. You’ll get the idea soon enough. The point is, be sure to make it ‘sir’ when you’re addressing an officer. Another thing: when an officer says anything to you, acknowledge it with a ‘Yes, sir’.”
The sergeant waved an arm and two uniformed enlisted men appeared, hauling a two wheeled cart, loaded high with long guns.
“Hand them out.”
The two men handed a gun to the sergeant and to each of us.
While they were doing that the sergeant said: “These are not the guns you’ll be using in battle, or even be using in your training down the line. These are the most useless, worthless pieces still available and are simply to be used so that you can get acquainted with how to handle a gun. These were manufactured after the War of 1812, and were to replace the British Brown Bess that was the standard long arm up until then. If you get it dirty or it gets rusty, don’t worry, when this insanity is done they’ll be thrown away. I won’t even try to explain how they work or how to load them. They’re only for you to learn the manual of arms. Now, I’ll go through the basic manual of arms. You men will follow what I say and what I do with the gun.”
With that the sergeant went through moving the gun in a dozen positions, for each shouting a description, such as ‘port’ and ‘shoulder arms,’ while he manipulated his gun with us following. He did this a dozen or more times. Then he stood and began to call out random commands. Most of us correctly adhered to the first calls for the correct handling of the gun, but before a half dozen commands most of us were out of control and hopelessly confused.
The sergeant smiled and called out “At ease.”
We were glad to stop and relax.
“You do well enough that within the month allowed to us you’ll get it right. Let’s do it again.”
And this is how it went for the rest of the first month that we were in Rutland. Drill, practice, from dawn to late afternoon, clear or snow, mild or frigid, seven days a week. Then, when we had finished drill, one morning wagons rolled up filled with sturdy wooden boxes. At the sergeant’s direction we unloaded the boxes and set them at regular intervals on the ground. On order we broke open the tops of the boxes. When that was done the sergeant called us to order. “Men,” he barked, “you are favored indeed. You are about to be issued the finest and most advanced infantry weapon in not just the United States but the World. This is the 1861 Springfield Rifle Musket, and it’s much easier to use than those old pieces that you’re turning in. These are much easier to use to kill Johnny Reb. Toss the old pieces into the wagons.”
We milled about, roughly throwing the relics with which we’d been drilling into the wagons.
“These new rifle muskets have rifled barrels, which provide more speed and accuracy to the bullet. The old muskets fired balls, but these fire what are called ‘Minie’ balls, actually bullets, pointed for better propulsion.”
“What’s propulsion?” whispered a man behind me.
“We’ll spend a lot of time drilling in how to load these rifle muskets. And you will be very careful how you handle them. You will keep them clean, clean them every evening. Men, collect your guns from the boxes.”
We milled about again, pawing in the boxes, where the guns had been carefully stacked at the factory. We took out a gun and its companion bayonet and examined the action and the stock of our piece. The action of the new piece did not, at first, seem to differ from the old gun.
When we were all holding the weapons the sergeant called us to order. He explained the complicated procedure of loading the gun, which he claimed was much simpler than the ancient old pieces we had just turned in. The paper enclosing the Minie ball and powder charge were torn open, the powder put into the muzzle end, the bullet forced down the barrel using the gun’s ramrod. The old fashioned flintlock we were used to seeing was replaced with a simple nipple to which we were to attach a small percussion cap from a pack at our belt. The hammer was pulled back and released by the trigger, dropping the hammer’s point onto the cap, causing it to explode, sending a spark into the powder charge that ignited and sent the Minie ball on its way. It was, therefore, possible to get off three rounds a minute in combat, although the Sergeant said that two would be the usual rate of fire.
For the final two weeks of our drilling we spent much time while the sergeant went through the rigamarole of loading and clearing the gun, without ammunition, until we were mighty bored. We then moved to the target range on clear afternoons and fired off a half dozen rounds each, with each shot being preceded by increasingly rapid compliance with the sergeant’s order for loading the new pieces. Practice was shortened, however, if there was little wind, since the smoke from the firing would soon obscure the targets, or snow or rain or sleet, since we couldn’t see
the targets. Then we would conduct bayonet drills, charging at bales of straw, thrusting the blades into the bale, and drawing the bayonet straight out, trying not to break the thin skewer off. Several of the men didn’t do it right, they twisted the gun and bayonet that caused the bayonet to twist or break off. The sergeant berated them: “The enemy is dead, the blade is grooved to prevent suction from holding the blade in him, kick him loose or push him down with your foot and draw the skewer out. Draw, draw, draw, don’t twist it off to the side, that’ll ruin the bayonet and you’ll be defenseless to the next bird’s blade.”
After our final firing and bayonet drill the sergeant shrugged off our inaccuracy by a chilling prophecy: “You’ll fire off a half dozen shots, then go to work with your bayonets and after your bayonet breaks off in some Johnny Reb’s guts, finish the battle using your muskets as clubs. If you live, and if your musket is broken, you’ll scavenge one, and his ammunition from a dead comrade and get on your way. Taking from the dead is a good idea at all times.” As if that wasn’t enough, the sergeant concluded the lecture by warning us that if we heard an order to retreat after a battle we were to salvage the new rifle muskets from our dead on the field. “We don’t want the Rebs getting hold of any of these guns. They won’t do the corpses any good.”
Sunday afternoons were reserved for divine services, of several faiths, provided by clergy from Rutland churches. Most of us attended one of the services, but a few backsliders or those who claimed to be atheists or agnostics covered up their laxity of faith by asserting that their denomination had no clergy available, lolled around in the billet.
Several of the Irish boys cajoled me one Sunday to attend their Catholic mass, they called it, and I marveled at the Latin used in the ritual, and that I could comprehend the general meaning of some of it, from the work of Mr. Wicklow. The intricacy of the liturgy, so foreign from the simple and austere Congregational service of the Union Church, fascinated me. Most gospel readings were familiar to me, and the sermon was much briefer, but the complicated rubric centered on the bread and wine was completely alien.
When I made to join those in attendance going forward toward the priest to accept the tiny wafer from his hands Sean Conlon at my side put his hand on my arm. “No, Nate, it’s not for you.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s the Lord’s body and blood, and only for Catholics. You’re Protestant and it would be sacrilege for you to take it.”
I was partly insulted, partly curious, partly mystified, partly resentful, partly angry, partly respectful. “I mean no disrespect.”
“I’m sorry, Nate, it’ll be a sin for you to desecrate the host.”
I held back while everyone else went forward. After the throng had broken up I asked Patrick O’Meara about some of the ritual. “Our services are mostly hymns, prayers, Bible readings and long winded speeches by the minister. You have little of that and a lot of Latin recitations having no Bible connection.”
“Yes, and it’s a lot shorter, too.” He laughed and was joined by the other Celts.
“We can take up to two hours, and yours is a lot less than an hour.”
Red headed Bill Quinlan shook his head. “It’s a wonder you put up with it.”
“But we’re a lot shorter here at camp. Won’t you all join me?”
“Oh, no,” said O’Meara. “That’d be sin, we can’t go to your service, especially if it means we skip ours. We need to go every Sunday and to our own.”
I thought for a moment. Then: “But it’s discourteous for you not to visit mine when I visited yours.”
“That’s the way it is, Nate,” said Conlon.
And so I went my way and they went theirs.
During the ensuing days the camp hosted several pairs of men, who went through the rigamarole of taking what we had heard were called photographs. The procedure is well known now so I won’t describe it. The charge was two dollars, and the finished product was promised for our final Sunday before we were scheduled to leave camp for the front. At breakfast, on the Sunday before the weekend, when we were to embark for New York, we were told that everybody, even including the few who attended no service, were to gather before dinner for a talk of an undisclosed nature and that in the meantime our photographs could be found at our billets. Sure enough, we found the completed pictures and were all impressed at the work, although most of us laughed and a few complained about how we appeared. A heavy set German lad wore such a scowl that the joke was that sending him out on patrol would frighten the Rebs into running away. Many of us had hangdog and blank expressions. I had managed what I thought was a smile, but turned out to be more of a leer. We packed up the photographs to take home for our pre-departure weekend leave at home.
At the appointed time to meet, all of us were jammed together in front of a platform where several of the clergy were gathered, along with a middle-aged man in civilian clothes and a vivid red beard and an officer in fancy dress. The officer called out: “Be at ease, this won’t take long. This man is Doctor Bartlett, of here in Rutland. What he’s about to tell you has the approval and concurrence of the clergy of all faiths and the leadership of the Army, and for your good. What you are about to hear is vital for your good health. Doctor Bartlett, please.”
The bearded man moved forward. “Soldiers, you will be soon be passing through camps and into battle. While doing so you will be tempted to go to places where temptations for fun and enjoyment will abound. Spirits will be everywhere, it will be easy to become drunken and to lose the restraints of home. While your leaders understand your need to blow off steam, they and your families back home expects you to keep from becoming so under the influence that you may be hurt or ill. It is of a certain form of illness that I speak now.” He paused, as if for effect. “Many, I hope most, even all, of you will not be tainted by loose women.”
A ripple of quiet snickers went through the crowd.
“In case you haven’t heard about it, the cities, even the larger towns, out there---.” He pointed with a sweeping gesture of one arm, “---are teeming with such women who will make their bodies available for money, which you will have every pay day. There will be those who accost you, even show parts of their bodies to inflame your passion and entice you into iniquity.”
A voice from behind me whispered: “Can’t wait.”
“Your clergy here will tell you that for you to engage in sex acts under those circumstances would be sinful and against Holy Writ and the Lord’s commands. For me, I will confine myself to this world’s consequences. For a few minutes’ pleasure you will be risking a lifetime of pain and shame, and a much shorter lifetime, even insanity. These women may look lovely, painted and sweet smelling. You have no way of knowing which of them will infect you with loathsome diseases, diseases that will temporarily torture you, and show signs of infection, but go away. Yet while no longer visible to you, these diseases will remain with you and in most cases, after only a few years, lead to blindness, debilitation, agony and early death. Your families, when you return home, may become infected from you. Your companions in your companies and the regiment may become infected from you, especially during battle and afterwards. If and when you are ill from the immediate effects of these diseases you will be unable to serve and support your comrades in the field.”
“Sounds like conditions in the factory where I worked,” came a muttered voice off to the side.
The Doctor glared toward the area of the latest comment. “No, young man, it’s much worse than working conditions at home. It’s sickness, mental and physical deterioration and early death. Now, your superiors ask only that you not fall for the call of the sirens of sin and disease. Over the time you are in service you will be many times away from the restraining hand of your officers, your families, your clergy. And you may feel pressured by some of your mates to go into one of these houses of sin or partake of the joys of a woman of easy or no virtue. We urge you to not do it, for your good, the good of your comrades and the good of yo
ur families. In case any of you doubt my word, off to the side are sets of photographs of the marks of the infection on men, from the diseases carried by those loose women. And there is no cure. I urge you to look and be repelled from the site.” With that, he turned and walked to the edge of the platform and the side of the officer.
The officer moved to center stage. “You have heard the advice of Doctor Bartlett. Go and follow it. Dismissed.”
We milled about, some scoffing, others laughing, most silent and, I knew, thinking as I was about the frightening message and wishing that it was all not true. I joined men wandering to the dozen or so photographs on easels and was disgusted and repelled by what I saw. I don’t hesitate to say that the experience made a lasting impression, one that endured long after my military service.
CHAPTER FIVE
At midday Friday, the sergeant called us to attention. “You men will be departing here at dawn on Monday for New York and immediately headed for a front somewhere. On dismissal today, you all have weekend leave, to return on Sunday afternoon, no later than four o’clock. You will be issued your battle supplies and rations and will leave by train early on Monday. Good luck and God bless you and the United States of America. Dismissed.”
A spontaneous cheer rippled through the crowd that grew into applause and hurrahs. Within a few minutes we had shed our equipment in our billet and were streaming for the depot.
I arrived home in Bartonsville in a strong snowstorm to find that there were no noteworthy changes. My father and sister greeted me warmly. I left my photograph that my father placed on the breakfront. A few neighbors slapped me on the shoulder or joked about where my medals were, and why wasn’t I an officer yet? I contrived to visit the village store to purchase a couple of items for Dad, and stood at the stove while the wizened veterans of the home front made wry comments about my uniform.