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The Recusant Reporter
Thursday, June 16 1994
There has been - and rightly so - tremendous media coverage of the 50th anniversary of the D-Day landings on the Normandy beaches.
But there have been other such celebrations in our country's history. In early July 1913, veterans gathered on the hills and fields just south of the village of Gettysburg, Pennsylvania to remember another battle.
With an average life expectancy of about 60 years, these Civil War veterans, from both North and South, were considered to be very old men. When Billy Yank and Johnny Reb returned to the site of the great conflict, many of the veterans were using canes, crutches, and even wheelchairs, since, during the war era, the almost total lack of knowledge about germs and the importance of sterile conditions made even the minor wounds of today's standards extremely dangerous.
Photography, which was in its early stages, helped document this 50th anniversary remembrance of Gettysburg. While roll-film had been invented, glass plates and magnesium flare still served, making the taking of photographs a slow process. Photographers from various newspapers carefully posed the veterans, usually standing them before some memorial or other marked place of interest on the battle-field. Since motion was difficult to catch on film, the usual pose was of two veterans - one from the South and one from the North - shaking hands or pointing to some spot on the landscape with a caption that read "I was here and you were there." Many such photographs were taken and so captioned.
The photographers finally got around to the famed clump of trees on Cemetery Ridge on the Union line, the target for Pickett's Charge - the huge thrust on the third day of battle. This attack, if it had succeeded, would have won the battle, even possibly the war, for the men commanded by general Robert E. Lee. What finally stopped the charge were some determined Pennsylvania troops behind a low stone wall.
The newspaper photographer lined up some of Pickett's remaining veterans in front of the wall, along with the former boys in blue, and set off their flashes. Another picture was to be taken, so the photographer asked the assembled veterans to step over the wall and pose.
Then all hell broke loose. As the first old-time Johnny Reb stepped over the wall, a gray-haired Yank came forward and swatted the erstwhile Confederate on his head with his cane.
"You didn't get over this here wall 50 years ago," he shouted, "And you an't a-goin' to git over to it today!"
Well, that did it. Blue and gray uniforms clashed again on the field of Gettysburg, only this time the weapons were not rifles and bayonets, but swinging canes and crutches, with other veterans ramming wheelchairs against each other. The photographers stood open-mouthed, still loading their cameras, as the Second Battle of Gettysburg raged.
Finally someone had the presence of mind to run to a nearby telephone and call out the state police stationed in the village. The troopers came on the double and broke up the melee. No one was seriously injured.
A reporter from The New York Herald approached a Pennsylvania veteran and asked, "What happened?" The reply was wonderful. "Well," he grinned, "they didn't get over that wall 50 years ago, and, by golly, they sure as hell didn't get over it today!
Next week, barring unforeseen complications, I would like to tell the story of another veterans' reunion, right here in Sullivan County in 1892, that likewise got a little out of hand.
NOTE: "Clio", as used in the above headline, is the name of the Greek goddess of history and one of the nine sisters known as the Muses. Her mother was Mnemosnye, goddess of memory.
Last week, inspired by stories in the media regarding the 50th anniversary of D-Day, we spoke of other unusual veterans' gatherings. In this week's column I would like to write of the wild goings on of the reunion of the Army of the Tennessee, of which Sullivan County's 143rd regiment was a part. Since most of the facts on which this column is based came from private correspondence, the exact date of this affair might be off by just a few years, plus or minus. However, the best guess would be 1892.
The 143rd New York Volunteer Infantry, raised right here with local boys in the ranks (two companies of volunteers from Tompkins County were needed to fill out the ranks), served under the command of general William Tecumseh Sherman. Among their battles were Missionary Ridge and Atlanta, including the famed March to the Sea.
The 1892 reunion took place down in Chattanooga, Tennessee, the site of their baptism by fire. Evidently, when they returned home to Sullivan County, they were feeling no pain. For this reason I have omitted names of some of the participants. Let them rest in honored glory.
Returning from the reunion, with 28 years of memories under their belts, the Sullivan County veterans stepped off the train at what was then Mitchell's Station; today we call it South Fallsburg. While waiting for the buggies, buckboards, and Democrat wagons to come and carry them home, they repaired to a hotel and saloon across the way.
The saloon-cum-hotel, according to descriptions, was much like the Western Hotel's Harmonic Hall in Callicoon. The second floor was mainly a large ballroom, with French doors opening onto a narrow porch along the entire length of the side facing the station.
While awaiting their rides home, the returning veterans lubricated their throats, dry from the long trip.
As the spirit of camaraderie rose, and as the men grew mellow, someone climbed atop the table and began to play his fiddle. Another music lover jumped onto the piano and started squeezing his accordion. As the duo began playing the men's favorite number - "Marching Through Georgia" the former Boys in Blue formed ranks and began marching around the ballroom, stomping and bellowing the lyrics.
As they reached the line "Sound the good old bugle, boys," another musical genius hopped up on a table and did just that.
Not only did he sound his bugle, of all the calls he chose to play, he blew the "Charge!"
That tied it. A group of revelers, carried away with patriotism and good, old booze, did just that. Screaming defiance they burst through the French doors, out onto the porch, and over the railing.
Evidently, the first one over (a "Mr. O") was somewhat on the heavy side, and those following fell on him, cushioning their fall. As such imbibers oftentimes do, only the first man was hurt; he broke a leg. The others survived injury, and the rest went back to Bethel farms, Cochecton shops, and Liberty offices.
All of them, no doubt, said it was one helluva reunion.
The Recusant Reporter
Thursday, June 23 1994
