by L. E. Waters
“All in for your rations!” the cook calls out to us, and he doesn’t need to shout it twice.
The food is not what I hoped it to be, and even though we were promised ‘three square meals a day’, I never thought it would literally be that the majority of the meal would indeed be square. Hardtack, essentially a flavorless cracker made from flour, water and salt, is the staple of each meal. It’s cheap to make and easy to carry, which is why we seldom enjoy soft bread from the bakers or corn bread. Each soldier should’ve had pork or bacon or fresh beef, but we’re handed out far too much stale beef and flabby, stringy sow-belly.
Beans or peas, rice or hominy, and potatoes are unfortunately substituted far too often with desiccated potatoes and desiccated compressed vegetables—which we aptly call desecrated vegetables due to the state they’re in when handed out to us. Most of it’s pulverized cabbage leaves, turnip tops, sliced carrots, parsnips, with barely a hint of onions, and also some mystery ingredients that none of us could ever decipher. Of course there are items we all cherish when they’re doled out: coffee or tea, sugar, salt, vinegar, pepper, molasses. Dried fruits, pickles, and pickled cabbage are given out to prevent scurvy, but not as often as they should be.
Soldiers quickly learn ways of improving the palatability of the food and usually prefer the days when we’re allowed to make our own meals and coffee instead of being at the mercy of the company ‘cook’. Men learn to save bacon fat and fry all sorts of things to improve their digestion. Hardtack can be crumbled into a meal to act as a thickening agent.
I try to stay wary of all the things my mother taught me to do. I notice most of these boys never boiled water or darned a pair of socks before, so I have to follow their progression in learning those skills too. I’m careful about how I do everything; how I put on my boots, push my hair out of my eyes, even spit. I have to do everything like Elijah. Victor quickly corrupts Elijah with card playing. Elijah sits with the older soldiers around the campfire, gambling and cursing along with the worst of them.
I luckily have the excuse that I have to practice ceremonial sheet music during the slow periods between drills. Most men scramble to use their breaks to write home when they get a free moment. After stuffing in a quick lunch, they scrounge around for a lid from the hardtack crates and pull out whatever stationary their Ma stuffed in their satchels before leaving or paper they bought or stole along the way. Elijah and I always fidget at these moments, with little to do but watch them all with heads bent in concentration. I try to chew my hardtack extra-long to make it last.
Sitting beside him on a log, Timmie nudges Elijah. “Do you need some paper? You’re free to have a sheet. The Christian Commission gave us stacks for free.”
He waves the paper in Elijah’s face. Elijah shakes his head. “I don’t have any stamps.”
Timmie points to the words “Soldier’s Letter” printed in the corner where a stamp should be. “That’s just the thing. Don’t need any stamps no more.”
“No, thanks,” is all Elijah can say, and I get uncomfortable for him.
Timmie persists. “If it’s that you can’t write, there’s plenty of soldiers that will write one for you. No need to be ashamed of that.”
Elijah’s whole body becomes rigid and he says, under his breath, “We don’t have anyone to write to.”
Even though it’s said so quietly, the words draw long looks across the circle, making Elijah and I feel even more alone than we already were.
Victor grabs the paper from Timmie’s hand and brings it over to Elijah, scooting me over to let him in between us. “Then write one for me. My father took me out of school as soon as I lost my front teeth. Never learned nothing but my name.”
“What do you want me to say?” Elijah holds his pencil, actually looking eager to write to someone.
“Dear Mother,
Things are as fine here as they can be. Can’t tell you particulars, but I’m eating enough and keeping out of trouble like you told me. Make sure Kiril pulls his weight now that I’m not able to. I’ll send what’s left of my wages when I can. Please send some socks and anything from the pantry.
Fondly,
Victor
But don’t write my name for me. I can sign my own letters.”
Victor waits for Elijah to finish then grabs the pencil and, with his tongue half out, manages to scrawl out a half-legible signature. He acts like he just signed the Declaration of Independence when he’s finished and wraps it up in the envelope he snatches from Timmie’s pack.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Finally, after days of false starts, we get orders to march to join a regiment who are stationed by the Potomac on the border of Maryland. We have to dress with bayonets raised for the march and, of course, I’m called to play the fife with three other young boys drumming. Thankfully I get to stow my pack in the army wagon and I quickly find out why, since it’s hard enough to march all that way with very few breaks, all the while playing the fife. Our company marches out in fine form, bright flags marking each regiment along the light and dark blue column, with bayoneted steel shining in the sun over each man’s soldier as the band plays Yankee Doodle.
In no time my mouth dries out so terribly I can’t make a sound anymore. I have to step out of march to go and find water to refill my canteen. Timmie keeps up the songs in exchange for my refilling his canteen as well. I notice Elijah breaks march to make sure I make it back, which makes me feel better even though he can’t be near me. Just when I think marching through the hottest part of the day is difficult, grey clouds roll over us and release their heavy burden. I keep expecting a halt to be called so we can seek some shelter, but we’re expected to trudge through the mud and deluge.
This is the moment I wish I carried my pack, since men reach behind in their packs to don their ponchos or drape their rubber blankets over their shoulders. I have only the short rim of my cap to keep the rain out my eyes. The notes that come from my slippery fife are garbled from the drenching. The wagons that go before us leave giant, muddy ruts in our pathway where they became stuck and labored out. We cannot break march to step around them and are forced to plow through them, sometimes stepping up to our knees in stubborn mud, which sucks the shoes off unlucky men’s feet.
We come to an unexpected halt and wait in the unrelenting rain as a mule balks under its heavy cargo. The colored man who drives him tries to whip the beast back into line, but the silly animal digs its hooves into the mud and doesn’t budge. The poor man is heckled by the men for stopping up the whole column and he makes the mistake of going behind the animal to give it a great shove. Some of the kinder men try to yell out a warning about attempting such a thing with a mule, and the playful soldiers whistle him on, enjoying the entertainment. The colored man pushes away at the mule’s rear, which sends the drenched beast into braying hysterics and, without even a backward glance, it delivers a precise kick to the colored man’s chest.
As the man lands in the deep mud, a sympathetic soldier steps out of line to grab the ornery mule’s lead rope with one hand and his enormous ears with the other. He yanks on the sensitive ears and immediately the beast complies and follows his lead. Once the colored man regains his composure, he jumps up to take back control of the mule, having learned a lesson he’ll never forget. The line begins to move again, a blue, sopping wet hoard of misery.
We arrive in Washington and the capital is surrounded by tent camps of various regiments. The rain’s finally let up and it’s an amazing sight. We’re assigned to the 149th New York Infantry, as replacements, and when we’re taken to the regiment we’re told to set up our tents as soon as we’ve rested. The men from our company work together to construct large, teepee-like tents called Sibley tents that can fit up to twelve soldiers, packed in like sardines, in a circle around the main tent pole in the center. It’s only after I blow Taps and everything falls to a sudden, eerie silence, except for the sounds of tired guards beginning to pace
the grounds, that I realize what a bad idea it was to lay my bedroll at the very farthest point from the tent door.
I squint into the darkness of the tent, trying to make out where the bodies lie. Opening the tent flap as far as I can to let in the measly light of the quarter moon, I still can’t discern any outlines of bodies. I can’t believe they have fallen asleep so fast but, given the terrible march we made that day, I should’ve expected it. I try to tune my ear to any sounds—snores or heavy breaths of deep sleep—and start to carefully step around the circumference of the tent. I stumble over haversacks, knapsacks, even tin plates and cups but, thankfully, seem to miraculously avoid stockinged feet or bare hands. Only a few paces away from where my bedroll should be, I step on something hard and round that causes me to lose my balance and fall onto the lump on my hands and knees.
“Get the hell off me!” someone screams, and I get a strong punch under my chin that knocks my cap off. I slump back against the taut canvas of the tent.
All the lumps in the tent begin to squirm and curse all sorts of profanities to the one responsible for the disturbance.
Arms quickly take hold of me. Elijah’s voice emerges next to me in the darkness. “Sh—he didn’t mean it, Victor. Settle down.”
Victor now stands over me. “He stomped square on my head!”
“Put him in the guard house!” someone calls across the tent.
Another yells, “Shut up!”
“Go lie down!” Elijah yells back at him, then says to Victor, “He obviously didn’t see your head.”
I can see Victor’s glare even in the darkness. “I’m not so sure about that. He didn’t step on anyone else, then stomps me clear on the ear.”
I get back to my feet finally to meet his eyes. “I assure you I was trying my best not to step on anyone.”
The tent flap yanks open and everyone but Victor, Elijah, and I lay back down. The sergeant of the guard demands, “All those disrupting the peace step on out.”
A few grumbles are heard as we step on legs and feet on our way out. All three of us hang our heads before him as he gets our names.
“You’re all under arrest for disturbance after Taps. We’ll see to your punishment in the morning after roll call.”
We salute him and slink back to our bedrolls, not daring to make another peep.
As soldiers make their way toward the cook-house in anticipation of breakfast call, we head to our punishment. My stomach rumbles in defiance about missing breakfast. The sergeant of the guard looks much less frightening in the daylight, but my stomach still rises with worry at what our punishment might be.
“Go fetch your knapsacks,” he says flatly.
As we run to our tent and grab up our packs, I say to Elijah, “Do you think he’s going to drum us out of camp?” I’d heard rumors of how they would shame cowards who ran from battle by parading them out beyond camp lines and threatening to shoot them if they returned.
“I don’t think so.” Elijah doesn’t look too sure though.
Victor mutters, “This is all your fault.”
“Why was your head even facing the wrong way?” This would have never happened if he slept in the normal direction.
Victor grabs me by my sack coat and brings his fish-face close. “What do you mean by that?”
Elijah gets in between us. “The sergeant guard’s waiting. You’re going to get us in even more trouble.”
Victor steps away from me but fumes, “He’s saying it’s my fault.”
“Well if you hadn’t had a conniption fit we wouldn’t be here.”
Elijah steps up into my face. “Cut it out, Joe. You can’t blame a guy for yelling after his head’s stomped on.”
They walk away from me with their packs in tow. I yell back, “Victor did get a good punch in. I didn’t yell about that.”
Victor giggles. “I did knock him into a cocked hat.”
Elijah smiles and gives me a head tilt to catch up.
The Sergeant hollers, “What’s takin’ so long, ladies?”
His insult is partially correct. We drop our packs and stand to attention. He points to a pile of stones dug up from creating a latrine.
“See those stones over there? Empty out your packs and fill them to the top, then we’re going on a little march.”
I try to pick the biggest stones in hopes they would leave more spaces in the pack. When I hoist the enormous pack on my shoulders, I’m sure the straps will tear. Unfortunately, they don’t, and I step in line behind Elijah as the Sergeant gets on a horse and trots behind us. We’re marched around camp in tortuously wide circles while soldiers jeer and whistle at our predicament, some calling out, “Serves ya right, Jonahs!” and “Fresh Fish!”
The sweat drips down my face and I’m glad that at least it’s not the hottest part of the day because then it would be unbearable. After four rotations, the Sergeant mercifully lets us drop our packs. He dismounts and leaves us without a word and it’s some time before any of us can get the strength to unpack the stones and stuff back in our belongings. My muscles scream out in pain the rest of the day and I’m thankful that I don’t have to do any of the fatigue duty that Victor and Elijah are forced to complete.
At least we didn’t miss the coffee and sugar rationing. Coffee has become the most critical thing to all of us. Even when the beef is stale or the hardtack moldy, you can always make a nice fresh cup of coffee that cheers anyone up. Any time a soldier takes a break, whether in camp or on a march, the coffee tins are brought out and the water gets to boiling. Coffee and tobacco are the scents of this war.
How coffee and sugar are portioned out is watched very closely by us soldiers. The sergeant lays rubber blankets toe to toe, making one large square and, squatting low, proceeds to create piles of ground coffee for each soldier in his company. Every pile has to be as equal as possible and the sergeant breaks quite a sweat moving small particles of coffee grounds and sparkling sugar with his knife from pile to pile to keep a riot from ensuing. We all hold whatever container we deemed fit for coffee, whether it be special oil-silk bags sent from home, hand sewn rubber blanket sacks, or even army socks.
Once we’re all satisfied, he turns his back and a private points to a random pile and calls out, “Who shall have this?”
The sergeant answers with the top of the roll call until every name has been called. All pleased with this fair apportioning, most soldiers combine their sugar with their coffee so that they’ll never be without a tablespoon of sugar for that last cup of coffee, while others keep them separate and take the chance in order to use some of the sugar in other ways. With all that anticipation, we all head straight away to brew a nice steaming cup. It always tastes best without the moisture that always gets in over time until the next rationing.
Now most of us take our coffee black, given that there is no milk to be had, but brave and desperate men venture out into farmer’s fields to milk roaming cows just for one cup of coffee but, given my experience with the bull, I’m fine with my pitch-dark coffee. Others with a little jingle in their pockets spend four times the normal price for a little condensed milk from the army sutler—the tent of temptation that tortures deprived soldiers daily with all the goods that are not handed out to us. In one weak moment, the sutler can clear away any savings you have until your next check comes. Even then some of the soldiers promise months away to the devils.
None of us are welcome in the Sibley tent that night and I overhear Victor asking Elijah to bunk up with him and my heart stops but starts again when I hear Elijah say he’s sticking with his little brother. We both take out our half-tents, piece them together with our muskets stuck in the ground on either side to serve as posts, and roll out our bedrolls. I sleep soundly until I’m awakened by Timmie’s drummers’ call to play reveille at five a.m. As always, after waking the camp up for roll call, my last note is answered by groans from the camp and even a “Put the fifer in the guard-house!” yell.
T
hen, like corpses rising from the grave, soldiers straggle out half-dressed, scratching every inappropriate part of their bodies, to form a line at assembly, half the men needing their names said twice in order to come to life enough to validate their presence.
After all my calls are done for the morning, I signal our company in our first drills with the veterans in our regiment. I’m intimidated by how much more seasoned these men seem. Two different species of soldiers: before and after.
They give us recruits a hard time, giving Elijah and others the harder parts of fatigue duty or the heavier ends when they have to carry fallen timber. They laugh at how the recruits awkwardly drill: shouldering their muskets at all angles, then dropping them as they attempt to change to a “carry”, ending in an “order” without two musket butts hitting the ground at the same time—most landing on their own toes or the unfortunate toes of their neighbor. Even the uniform of the recruit stands out against the well-tailored version of the veterans. Only now do we hear of soldiers who tailor between breaks for generous donations. All of us swim in our saggy sack coats, ill-fitting blouses and droopy breeches until we can afford otherwise.
We watch the veterans expertly stake their tents up higher to allow the summer breezes in and make cots by hanging their blankets from saplings. As soon as we have the time, we copy them and I sleep so much better off the ground.
General Greene comes out to oversee our next drill with his sharp black eyes and I’m surprised by how aged he is. At sixty-two he’s one of the oldest generals in the Union but also one of the most aggressive. At first he’s tough and demanding, but all of the veterans respect him greatly, even lovingly calling him, “Old Man”.
