Valley Forge: George Washington and the Crucible of Victory

by Newt Gingrich

  The day was cold and blustery, with occasional bursts of snow falling to the frozen ground. Briefly, weak sunlight would shine through the drifting clouds for a few minutes before another snow squall descended around them.

  “We will train together every day for a month,” von Steuben continued. “We shall do so from eight in the morning until I tell you we are finished, and, by God, if that means marching in the dark, you will do so.”

  His gaze now became determined.

  “And I break my walking stick on your head if you do not listen right,” he announced, holding the stick aloft.

  A few men muttered under their breath, but others laughed, seeing that he smiled as he made his threat.

  “Now show me a proper line, two ranks deep.”

  The men looked about, not sure who to form on. Several young officers with von Steuben began shouting orders, pointing to where two poles had been set in the ground, about forty yards apart, topped with dirty rags. The men shuffled over, forming up into lines as ordered, von Steuben watching, pacing up and down in front of them.

  “That is a line?” he finally cried almost in anguish.

  Many of the men leaned forward slightly, looking up and down the line.

  “Stand at attention!”

  They braced themselves. Von Steuben gazed sternly at them, shaking his head.

  “First I want shorter men in the front rank, taller in the second. Then with each line I want shortest at the end, tallest at the center. Now do it!”

  Peter looked around, not sure where to go.

  The baron’s assistants stepped forward, walking down the line, pulling men out of the rank, moving them around like playing cards being reshuffled. It took a good ten minutes of sorting, some of the men complaining that they wanted to stand next to an old comrade or brother, but their protests were ignored. One of them announced he was quitting and began to stalk off, but was kicked back into the line by a sergeant. Finally they were properly arrayed.

  Peter found himself near the center, in the front, with Harris by his right side.

  “That looks better now,” von Steuben announced. “Now, I want you to say hello to the man to either side of you and shake his hand.”

  He made an exaggerated gesture of shaking an imaginary hand, which drew some laughter. Peter nodded to Harris and turned to his left. A young man, features deeply pitted from smallpox, looked at him and offered a smile.

  “Rob Boers of the Third New York,” the boy offered and they shook hands.

  “Count off from the right by fours,” von Steuben ordered, and the count came down the line, Peter a number three, Boers a four.

  “Good, we are all friends now,” von Steuben replied. “You may fall out and gather round me.”

  This seemed easy enough, Peter thought, and he stepped out of the line with the others and walked toward von Steuben.

  “You did not say thank you!” von Steuben roared. “Now fall back in line exactly where you were!”

  There was a scramble, men bumping into each other, and the line reformed.

  “No one move!” von Steuben shouted. “Now count off with exactly the same number you gave last time.”

  It was a shambles. Peter was embarrassed to realize that he and Boers had shifted places.

  The count-off finished, von Steuben walked slowly down the line and with his own hands shifted each man back into place, then ordered them to stand at attention.

  “Now, my children, can we remember who our neighbors are?”

  “Hell, Johnson here made the mistake, not me,” someone in the back rank complained.

  Von Steuben eyed the protestor.

  “And I break my stick over both your heads if you make the mistake again,” he announced.

  “Now, again, fall out and gather round me.”

  Several of the men sarcastically muttered thank-yous, but all knew the game, anticipating a shouted command to form ranks, though this time he did not play it as they thought. They gathered round and he smiled.

  “Much will seem strange as we start,” he announced, “But there is reason for everything I do to you. It is like building a house. First we make foundation.” He gestured as if digging. “Without foundation the house will tilt and fall. Except for the mason and those who dig the holes, no one sees the foundation, but it is there and it will make the building strong. Do we understand?”

  There were nods of agreement.

  “Now, my children,” he said softly, “fall in and come to attention.”

  The men scrambled back as ordered, and this time only two were out of place, the others around them cursing under their breath.

  He had them fall out and do it again, and this time it was done right and he nodded with satisfaction.

  “First lesson learned. From now on, you will always fall in exactly the same place in line. Always! That way, even if it is the middle of the night and there is an alarm, you will know where to stand.”

  He ordered them back to attention, and for the men to shoulder arms. This done, he gazed along the line, then turned away, motioning for his staff to gather around. There was a whispered conference for a moment, the others nodding their heads in agreement, and he turned back to face the line.

  “Fall out to the rear and stack muskets by sections of four.”

  There was some confusion as the men were shown where to stack arms at the end of the drill field, and then a shouted command for them to fall back in at the double time.

  The line reformed, Peter feeling slightly strange without a musket in his hand. Nor did he like stacking his weapon with those of a group of men he didn’t know. As a member of the headquarters company, he took special care of his weapon, always insuring it was well oiled and polished, with not a speck of rust or dirt. More than one man, stacking arms, might return later to find a rusting flintlock in its place.

  “First you will learn drill as you should learn drill,” von Steuben announced. “Everything in its proper time and place.”

  “Company, attention!”

  He kept them like that for nearly an hour, insisting on what Peter thought was absurd—that each man’s feet must be placed just so—shouting that they looked like mules and sheep otherwise. Hands were to rest on the crease of their trousers, if they had trousers, with fingers extended no matter how damn cold. Men to the left of the regimental flag-bearer, in this case one of von Steuben’s assistants holding a Continental flag aloft, were to have their heads slightly turned in his direction, so that the left eye was aligned with the row of buttons down the center of his uniform, if he had had a uniform, let alone buttons. Those to the right of the flag-bearer were to do the opposite, looking to their left with right eye aligned to the center row of buttons.

  Throughout, von Steuben would offer comments, alternating between praise and then at times turning to one of his young French officers, shouting, “Curse at them good in English, damn it!” The comments that followed always drew subdued laughter.

  As each man was checked in turn, commands were alternated between standing at ease, coming to attention, eyes front then toward the flag-bearer, the baron explaining that every man must learn to keep his eyes to the center, where the flag could always be seen, marking the position of the regiment in line, and with it the officer leading the way.

  Just mastering these few things took up most of the morning. Finally, von Steuben was satisfied with the men breaking ranks, falling out, then returning to their position and coming to attention with heads turned properly.

  Next he ordered them to remain at attention and take one step forward.

  The resulting confused result caused another explosion, with him yelling at Du Ponceau to curse them again in English.

  “I guess I shall have to be your father and teach you how to walk,” he shouted, and this time he did seem a bit exasperated.

  “The proper step for a soldier in this army will be twenty-eight inches, not one inch more or less.”

  As he paced up and down
the line, his assistants to either flank stepped off a pace, hammered stakes into the ground, then took another pace, hammered stakes into the ground, and so on for five paces.

  “With each step, I want this line to be perfectly straight. Now do as you are told. Forward one step!”

  The line moved forward, men bumping into each other, stopping, leaning forward to see how they stood relative to the marking stake, von Steuben slapping the ground with his walking stick, pacing back and forth, glaring at them.

  “Step!”

  The line lurched forward.

  “Step!”

  At the end of five paces the line was still curved and bowed.

  “About-face!”

  Now, more confusion, with some turning to their left, others to their right, von Steuben launching into more invective, shouting that all the men were to turn the same way.

  There was grumbling in the ranks, some whispering that a man should at least be able to turn the way he felt like it as long as he got himself faced about correctly.

  The weather was turning colder, wind picking up, and von Steuben gazed at them, shaking his head.

  “Go over to the fires, warm up, there’s soup waiting.” He pointed to where several large fires were burning at the edge of the parade field. The men gratefully broke ranks, Peter sticking with Harris and making his way over to the warming blaze.

  “Damn crazy Dutchman,” someone muttered, “if I had known it was going to be like this, I’d of gone on sick call instead.”

  “He’s got a point,” Harris offered.

  “How’s that?” the complainer retorted, while they stood in line, pulling wooden bowls or tin cups out of their haversacks, each man receiving a ladle of soup thick with potatoes and even some thin slivers of meat, though which kind of meat was purely a matter of speculation.

  “Hell, we can barely march, let alone keep a line in a fight.”

  “I joined this here war not to march around like a toy soldier. I joined it to fight.”

  “That’s what he’s teaching us,” Harris replied.

  “Still beats digging latrines or burial detail,” someone else muttered.

  “I got seven weeks left,” another retorted, “and then be damned to all of it, I did my part and I’m going home.”

  There were mutters of agreement from more than a few.

  Peter said nothing, draining down every last drop of the soup and then using his finger to scoop out the last droplets and lick them clean before stuffing the bowl back into his haversack.

  “Hey, we better look sharp,” Harris suddenly announced, and nodded to where von Steuben was standing.

  General Washington was now with him.

  “Well, damn it, maybe he can talk some sense into this German. We’re Americans, damn it, not Hessians.”

  “How are you faring, Baron?” Washington asked, returning the drillmaster’s salute.

  Von Steuben grinned.

  “As is only to be expected, sir.”

  “And that is?”

  “Meaning no insult, sir, but they will need work, much work.” Washington nodded thoughtfully.

  “You may proceed, Baron, and if it will not discomfort you, I would like to observe.”

  “By all means sir, it is an honor.”

  Washington rode off a discreet distance to the edge of the field and remained mounted, as von Steuben gave the command for the men to fall back into line.

  Thankfully they did so without much trouble, each man finding his proper place, then automatically dressing on the center.

  This time he detailed them to form squads, in columns of four.

  “Perhaps if we dance in small groups we can learn the step quicker,” he announced, as it took several minutes for the men to shift from line into seven columns. He detailed off his assistants, who took over, moving the columns off in various directions so commands to one would not confuse another standing nearby.

  Von Steuben shouted the beat, “Step…step…step!” until his voice was nearly hoarse. There was some stumbling and confusion to start. One of the men caused a column to break down in confusion because one of his foot wrappings unraveled and the man behind him stepped on it, tripping both of them up. The unit broke down in gales of laughter, and von Steuben humored them by issuing a volley of good-natured curses, keeping the language toned down because the general was watching.

  He slowly increased the beat to sixty steps a minute, holding out his watch, a new, expensive one that had a second-hand sweep. After a while he stopped counting and let his assistants maintain the pace, with poor Du Ponceau, whose voice was hoarse from repeating the baron’s commands, following by his side.

  He knew Washington was still observing and slowly walked over to his side.

  “The pace seems slow, is that your intent?” the general asked.

  “Yes, sir, for now it is just to master the length of step. The standard for the army in line of battle will be seventy-five paces a minute. Standard march. One hundred and twenty at the quick time.”

  Washington nodded, saying nothing.

  It was now past noon and von Steuben could feel his own hunger pangs growing.

  But before he allowed them to break, he shouted for the columns to halt, the men to fall out and at the double time form back into line.

  “You do this right now and we eat, by God,” he announced as the last of the men pushed their way into the line and found their proper places.

  He stepped to one side of the line.

  “Do it right and you eat. If not, you don’t eat. Company at my command.

  ” Several of the men started to take a step forward. He said nothing. He’d overlook it this time.

  “Forward, march…step!…step!…step!”

  The line held formation. It was only ten steps, less than thirty feet, but the alignment held.

  “Now my lads, without moving, stand at ease, then look to your left and right.”

  They did as ordered and there was a ripple of comments.

  The hundred and fifty men were perfectly aligned, with barely a bulge in the center, where the tallest men, by nature, would continue to take slightly larger steps. For a Prussian parade formation, the response would have been hours more of merciless drill. But this was different, very different indeed.

  “Excellent, my boys. We have had a good start. Now get some food, fall in again in a half hour. Dismissed.”

  The men broke ranks and headed for the cooking fires, where half a dozen women had been at work, with kettles of boiled mutton.

  He ventured over to where Washington had remained motionless, with Lafayette by his side, watching for more than an hour.

  “It is a start,” von Steuben offered, with Lafayette translating.

  The general nodded.

  “I had often heard it spoken that the Germans were the hardest taskmasters of all upon the drill field. I have seen evidence of that when facing the Hessians. I expected a stricter manner from you, sir.”

  He was not sure if Washington’s words were meant as a reproof or not.

  “I have only had a few months in this country but can see much difference between the training of free landholders such as serve in your ranks and that of the peasants and street sweepings pressed into the service of European kings. The men need discipline, yes, much discipline. But they also must be shown and have the reasons why explained, and, yes, at times they must be cajoled. Much I plan to teach will seem strange to them, to any American, but I think, Your Excellency, it is the key to victory in the next engagement, for the enemy will not expect it.”

  Washington simply nodded thoughtfully.

  “Carry on,” he finally replied and turned to ride off.

  The half hour passed too quickly for some, several of the men, obviously ill with the flux, asking to be relieved of duty before staggering off. When von Steuben reformed the line, he had the men count off again and acquaint themselves with the new comrade who might be by their side.

  He then put
them through the drill, several times, of falling out, and then, at command, springing back to form line of battle. Next it was simply taking ten steps, going about-face, then ten steps back. Ever so slowly he picked up the pace of march to the seventy-five beats a minute he sought, a drummer, a young black soldier from North Carolina, whom he had personally picked and trained the day before, keeping the tempo.

  Next he had them march twenty paces, thirty paces, and then finally the length of the field, so that by mid afternoon they were marching with precision and obvious pride as they covered the entire length of the drill field and back again, keeping alignment. Von Steuben responded with fulsome praise. The temperature continued to drop, the wind picking up, and it was obvious that the men, especially those barefoot or with wrappings, were suffering, and he did not chide them when, even while standing at attention, they stamped their feet to try to keep circulation going.

  Just when they seemed well puffed up with what they had already accomplished, he felt it was time to pull his next move and knock a peg or two out from under them.

  He called his assistants over, and then detailed them off, the young officers spreading out in front of the line.

  “Forward, march!” he shouted, the drummer picking up the beat.

  After just several steps the young officers moved in, blocking a man. “You’re shot! Lie down!”

  After less than a dozen paces, gaps were opening in the line. A few of the noncommissioned officers in the marching line knew what they were to do and shouted for the men to “dress on the colors!”

  Von Steuben ran in front of them, shouting for them now to quicken their pace to the quick time, the drummer picking up the beat. All the time, his assistants kept pulling more men out of the line, a near fistfight breaking out when Du Ponceau picked on a particularly large sergeant from Rhode Island who roared out that he would be damned if he would fall out even if he were shot.

  He was glad Washington did not witness the shambles the line had disintegrated into after barely fifty yards.

  “Halt in place! Don’t move!” von Steuben roared.