In preperation of a research day at the Wisconsin Historical Society, I was playing around on their website and found some amazing electronic primary materials on Wisconsin in the Civil War. From how the 8th got its Eagle to humor, the link below has some wonderful pieces for your pleasure. Enjoy.
NOTE: Summer school ends Friday as does my time in front of a computer until school starts again. With that said, my posts will slow even more until school starts again and I want to play academic again.
http://www.wisconsinhistory.org/civilwar/stories/
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Another story
Since it's summer and I am outside more than in, very little research fills my time. With that said, I offer a short story I wrote a bit ago. The premise, cheesy as it may be, focuses on a small Virginia clearing in April of 1865. Two sides meet and share one last truce. I enjoyed writing it. I hope you find some value in it. Enjoy.
A CLEARING IN THE WOODS
By
Steve Acker
A clearing in the woods is a world unto itself. Grassy and green it is self-sufficient and removed from all that surrounds it. The forest protects the clearing from intrusions. Sure there is the deer trail through the thicket and the hoof prints at the stream’s edge, but not the steady stream of passing life that a valley or plain endures. The big difference between a clearing and a plain is, besides the size, the intrusion of man. Man, that creature who takes more than he leaves and always leaves what isn’t wanted.
April 5th, 1865 Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia is in full retreat. After a bloody 10-month siege outside Petersburg, they are running from an enemy five times their size and determined to make up for past losses. Like an animal smelling blood the Army of the Potomac is out to kill the Army of Northern Virginia.
Along a deer trail barely perceptible to anyone not accustomed to the nuances of the forest, 18 gray clad soldiers drag themselves along. Where once there stood 100 men in the company now one officer, one sergeant, one corporal and 15 men are all that remain. Those not present lay buried under the battlefields of Sharpsburg, Gettysburg, Wilderness and Petersburg, or work their farms as best they can, less an arm, leg or eye. The Lieutenant, the last officer alive and man not up to the challenge of his position, has been charged with the protection of the army’s flank, or at least a clearing’s worth of the flank. Somewhere in the forest is a clearing he must secure in the “name of the Confederacy, for the survival of the army.”
Small darts of light poke through the canopy of ash, oak and maple while ahead the darkness of the trail opens up to the sun. Bold and bright it shines. At the edge of the clearing a corporal takes a knee. Raising his right hand, he motions for the column to halt. This clearing, nothing special as far as uniqueness, is bordered on one side by a stream. High banked and slippery the sides give way to a small mudflat where the busy brown water leaks out a bit. Here is a natural ford where legged animals can drink and cross over to the other side.
The corporal’s pendulum eyes search for signs of blue in the forest of green and wood. A look across the clearing the trail continues as a slightly worn line in the tall grass. 30 yards beyond the forest begins again with the trail paralleling the stream.
“Corporal, see anything?” the lieutenant kneels next to the corporal.
“Nothin so fer. Don’t mean they aint ther though.”
Sergeant Clay Hendricks arrives with the rest of the boys. Dirty and threadbare, their jean cloth uniforms are a grayish mess of stains, patches and tears. Only the sergeant stands out thanks to his jacket, issued just a month before the retreat. Of a once deep bluish gray wool, English made and much finer than the drab jean the men call a uniform he’s often teased for sportin such find duds. The vibrance has already faded.
“Hendricks, take six men round this clearing and spread em out along that side of the stream. Go about 10 feet per man. Make sure you…”
“Have them work as skirmish partners. One works with the other. Got it sir.” The sergeant knows the drill and enjoys reminding the lieutenant of the fact.
“That’s right sergeant. Place yourself in the center and back so I can see you from this side of the clearing. Got it.”
Taking his detail the sergeant skirts the edge of the clearing making sure to keep a bit of forest between his men and the other side of the stream. Quietly Hendricks places the men according to the rules of skirmish drill. Once placed, they prepare the defense. While one man scans the opposite bank his partner clears branches, dirt and rock, anything that will keep him from the lowest possible elevation once the shooting starts. Using bayonet, plate or cup, he notches out a spot for himself along the bank. Once he’s done, his partner clears himself a bit of safety.
Once the men are dug in, except for the sergeant as ordered, the men informally relax. Danger is an intuitive feeling that, after years of facing, is recognizable when present or absent. Sleep, the lover of every soldier, comes fast to the men. Only the sergeant stays awake. Most of these boys had been his students, a role Mr. Hendricks hasn’t quite relinquished. Let em sleep; I’ll keep the watch.
Leaning against a rotted stump on the edge of the clearing. He wiggles his bare feet that rest just in the sun. He admires the toughness of his feet. They haven’t seen shoes of any sort for weeks and except for some blood crusted scratches his feet haven’t failed him. Clay smiles as he remembers the fine boots he bought in the spring of 61. Rich and subtle, certainly proof that Mr. Hendricks, teacher, was overpaid and extravagant in his stylings. They’d probably hurt my feet now.
A deer when moving in the forest is nearly silent. A man who is careful, much noisier. A lieutenant in a rage, well, that’s a noise heard round the world.
“What the hell are you doing? Wake these men up damn it.”
“Your yelling did that for me.”
The men stir heavy eyed.
“What would have happened if the Yanks would have attacked?”
“Mind if we set a fire. Cook up some rations?”
“Shit no you idiot. You wanna let the Yanks know we’re here?”
The private closest to them chuckles. Clay sits up. Peering across the stream, he yells,” Hey Yank do you know we’re here?”
“Yea Reb, we know you’re there,” comes a voice from somewhere on the other side of the stream.
“Gonna shoot us?” asks a now awake private.
“Na, not worth the lead. Besides we could have done that when you first arrived.”
“Lieutenant, can we set a fire and cook some rations?”
“Bastard. Set your fire. I’m going back to regiment to tell them we have federals in our front. You know what to do here.”
Both men smile. One because he’s been schooled the other because he taught the lesson.
A picket line is a non-lethal weapon of war when run by common soldiers. Some say killing a man on picket just isn’t right. Killing is for the big battles most folks say. In the clearing there stands a truce between men. Hendricks’ men busy themselves starting a fire, crushing parched corn in preparation for making Southern coffee or returning to their dreams. Across the creek blue forms come out from behind trees and brush to start their own fire. Digging through his haversack, Clay finds a piece of salt pork about the size of a man’s thumb. Foul smelling and black with disgust, the meat bears no resemblance to fresh pork. A man can eat just about anything if he’s hungry enough. At Cold Harbor some of the men ate hardtack taken from the blood-soaked haversacks of the Yankees killed that day. Those rations issued by the Confederate army more often than not consisted of moldy corn meal and blue beef or salted pork near rotted and most certainly wormy. This piece of meat went beyond that. Hungry.
Looking over to the stream, Clay pulls his pocketknife out. Using his thigh for a cutting board, he carefully slices off about a third of the meat. The remainder he places back in his haversack just in case the conditions make it more appetizing. From his knapsack he pulls out a length of string and a fishhook. Placing the meat on the hook and a piece of lead (once part of a bullet) about three inches from the hook, he takes another look at the stream. A picket line in truce certainly is safer than the fields of Gettysburg, but a man should never tempt fate by moving around too much. Many a man has fallen because he made himself a target, ‘too easy to pass up.’ With a deep breath Clay rises up to a half crouch. With an exhale he stands himself up as tall and comfortable as he can. By pretending there isn’t any danger he figures he’ll avoid it. He takes a step toward the stream bank. Click. He stops. Another step. Another click.
“ What ya doing Reb?”
“Gonna do some fishin,” he says as he steps into the clearing and to the ford deer so often frequented before man arrived at the clearing.
A third click. The musket is back on safety.
Stopping just short of the bank, Clay feels the mud ooze up around his toes. It feels cool. He likes it. Taking a twig about the size of his index finger, he begins to tie it to the string.
“ Better set your line ‘bout four feet Reb.”
“Four feet, why’s that?”
“Four feet will do you fine.”
Clay places the twig accordingly. Aiming for a small eddy made by a fallen tree, he tosses out the line. Arm extended he manipulates his line until it sits about half way across the stream right in the swirl.
“Not likely to catch much in this water. Too muddy.” His eyes follow the water, “Must have rained somewhere upstream.”
“My haversack told me to give er a try. Besides if you saw my bait you’d realize how little the muddy water’ll impact my chances of catchin dinner.”
From behind a tree not 10 feet from the stream a federal soldier emerges. His dark blue sack coat shows signs of hard campaigning and his sky blue pants are torn at the knee and around both ankles. He certainly looks as beat down as the fellas on the Confederate side of the stream. Sitting down the federal pulls his pipe and starts a smoke.
“Got yourself some tobacco. Tradition says, we’re supposed to trade our Virginia tobacco for the real coffee you boys always have in abundance.”
“No need to trade. We got our fill when we took Richmond.”
“Took more than that.”
A long silent moment follows. There isn’t the tension of enemies bitter or of a fight near lost. Both men are silent because there isn’t much else to say. It was a good fight and now it was nearly over.
“You know we’re coming in the morning.” He points to the clearing. “Right through here.”
“Figured as much when you told me how deep to set my line. But that’s no military secret. That’s why we’re here, to let the brigade know when you come over.”
The federal soldier takes a long contemplative draw from his pipe. He looks at the sergeant then to the others sleeping, cooking, living in the clearing. Looking over his shoulder he sees men in blue, men in blue living like the men in gray. Taking his haversack off, he feels the weight of three days rations and fresh coffee.
“ Here Reb.” With a toss he sends his haversack to the fisherman. “Good night Reb.”
“See ya in the morning Yank,” the sergeant offws all he has, a thank you. That night a sergeant sleeps without hunger pains.
The sun begins its pinkish orange rise. The campfire offers its last hints of life as it smolders in its ash white heap. Charred remnants of sticks and twigs surround the ash, a reminder of what fed the fire. A charred reminder of man’s visit to the clearing. Across the stream, movement earlier in the morning alerted the 18 Confederate soldiers in the clearing. The lieutenant, returned from regiment, pulls his revolver from the holster and checks the loads. The click turn of the cylinder is in silent chorus with the men checking their loaded muskets. The sergeant is the first to fix his bayonet. This one would be close and personal.
From the other side of the clearing the Lieutenant’s voice breaks the silence, “Sergeant move down to the center of your line. I’ll take this side. We’ll retreat slowly making sure to keep a fire on them. Make sure the men work together, keeping one man loaded and the other…”
“Firing just like in skirmish drill.”
Both men smile.
Putting the federal haversack over his shoulder, he rises ever so slightly from the stump so he can move to the center of his line. Across the creek a federal spies a gray cap on the edge of the green clearing. A musket fires from the federal side of the creek. Then another then another, soon an entire regiment of muskets roars fire into the Confederate side of the stream. The ragged response tells of a company that in 1861 had 100 men. Now 17 men fire, surrender and run as hordes of federals cross a creek, barely four feet deep, and pursue beyond the clearing and into the woods. Soon the clearing is silent. The Union Army of the Potomac is again chasing and the Army of Northern Virginia is running again. Six days later the Army of Northern Virginia surrenders.
A clearing in the woods is a world unto itself. In the tall grass of the clearing a sergeant of the Confederate army lies, his left arm unnaturally placed over his head, the result of a federal getting his haversack back.
A CLEARING IN THE WOODS
By
Steve Acker
A clearing in the woods is a world unto itself. Grassy and green it is self-sufficient and removed from all that surrounds it. The forest protects the clearing from intrusions. Sure there is the deer trail through the thicket and the hoof prints at the stream’s edge, but not the steady stream of passing life that a valley or plain endures. The big difference between a clearing and a plain is, besides the size, the intrusion of man. Man, that creature who takes more than he leaves and always leaves what isn’t wanted.
April 5th, 1865 Robert E. Lee’s Army of Northern Virginia is in full retreat. After a bloody 10-month siege outside Petersburg, they are running from an enemy five times their size and determined to make up for past losses. Like an animal smelling blood the Army of the Potomac is out to kill the Army of Northern Virginia.
Along a deer trail barely perceptible to anyone not accustomed to the nuances of the forest, 18 gray clad soldiers drag themselves along. Where once there stood 100 men in the company now one officer, one sergeant, one corporal and 15 men are all that remain. Those not present lay buried under the battlefields of Sharpsburg, Gettysburg, Wilderness and Petersburg, or work their farms as best they can, less an arm, leg or eye. The Lieutenant, the last officer alive and man not up to the challenge of his position, has been charged with the protection of the army’s flank, or at least a clearing’s worth of the flank. Somewhere in the forest is a clearing he must secure in the “name of the Confederacy, for the survival of the army.”
Small darts of light poke through the canopy of ash, oak and maple while ahead the darkness of the trail opens up to the sun. Bold and bright it shines. At the edge of the clearing a corporal takes a knee. Raising his right hand, he motions for the column to halt. This clearing, nothing special as far as uniqueness, is bordered on one side by a stream. High banked and slippery the sides give way to a small mudflat where the busy brown water leaks out a bit. Here is a natural ford where legged animals can drink and cross over to the other side.
The corporal’s pendulum eyes search for signs of blue in the forest of green and wood. A look across the clearing the trail continues as a slightly worn line in the tall grass. 30 yards beyond the forest begins again with the trail paralleling the stream.
“Corporal, see anything?” the lieutenant kneels next to the corporal.
“Nothin so fer. Don’t mean they aint ther though.”
Sergeant Clay Hendricks arrives with the rest of the boys. Dirty and threadbare, their jean cloth uniforms are a grayish mess of stains, patches and tears. Only the sergeant stands out thanks to his jacket, issued just a month before the retreat. Of a once deep bluish gray wool, English made and much finer than the drab jean the men call a uniform he’s often teased for sportin such find duds. The vibrance has already faded.
“Hendricks, take six men round this clearing and spread em out along that side of the stream. Go about 10 feet per man. Make sure you…”
“Have them work as skirmish partners. One works with the other. Got it sir.” The sergeant knows the drill and enjoys reminding the lieutenant of the fact.
“That’s right sergeant. Place yourself in the center and back so I can see you from this side of the clearing. Got it.”
Taking his detail the sergeant skirts the edge of the clearing making sure to keep a bit of forest between his men and the other side of the stream. Quietly Hendricks places the men according to the rules of skirmish drill. Once placed, they prepare the defense. While one man scans the opposite bank his partner clears branches, dirt and rock, anything that will keep him from the lowest possible elevation once the shooting starts. Using bayonet, plate or cup, he notches out a spot for himself along the bank. Once he’s done, his partner clears himself a bit of safety.
Once the men are dug in, except for the sergeant as ordered, the men informally relax. Danger is an intuitive feeling that, after years of facing, is recognizable when present or absent. Sleep, the lover of every soldier, comes fast to the men. Only the sergeant stays awake. Most of these boys had been his students, a role Mr. Hendricks hasn’t quite relinquished. Let em sleep; I’ll keep the watch.
Leaning against a rotted stump on the edge of the clearing. He wiggles his bare feet that rest just in the sun. He admires the toughness of his feet. They haven’t seen shoes of any sort for weeks and except for some blood crusted scratches his feet haven’t failed him. Clay smiles as he remembers the fine boots he bought in the spring of 61. Rich and subtle, certainly proof that Mr. Hendricks, teacher, was overpaid and extravagant in his stylings. They’d probably hurt my feet now.
A deer when moving in the forest is nearly silent. A man who is careful, much noisier. A lieutenant in a rage, well, that’s a noise heard round the world.
“What the hell are you doing? Wake these men up damn it.”
“Your yelling did that for me.”
The men stir heavy eyed.
“What would have happened if the Yanks would have attacked?”
“Mind if we set a fire. Cook up some rations?”
“Shit no you idiot. You wanna let the Yanks know we’re here?”
The private closest to them chuckles. Clay sits up. Peering across the stream, he yells,” Hey Yank do you know we’re here?”
“Yea Reb, we know you’re there,” comes a voice from somewhere on the other side of the stream.
“Gonna shoot us?” asks a now awake private.
“Na, not worth the lead. Besides we could have done that when you first arrived.”
“Lieutenant, can we set a fire and cook some rations?”
“Bastard. Set your fire. I’m going back to regiment to tell them we have federals in our front. You know what to do here.”
Both men smile. One because he’s been schooled the other because he taught the lesson.
A picket line is a non-lethal weapon of war when run by common soldiers. Some say killing a man on picket just isn’t right. Killing is for the big battles most folks say. In the clearing there stands a truce between men. Hendricks’ men busy themselves starting a fire, crushing parched corn in preparation for making Southern coffee or returning to their dreams. Across the creek blue forms come out from behind trees and brush to start their own fire. Digging through his haversack, Clay finds a piece of salt pork about the size of a man’s thumb. Foul smelling and black with disgust, the meat bears no resemblance to fresh pork. A man can eat just about anything if he’s hungry enough. At Cold Harbor some of the men ate hardtack taken from the blood-soaked haversacks of the Yankees killed that day. Those rations issued by the Confederate army more often than not consisted of moldy corn meal and blue beef or salted pork near rotted and most certainly wormy. This piece of meat went beyond that. Hungry.
Looking over to the stream, Clay pulls his pocketknife out. Using his thigh for a cutting board, he carefully slices off about a third of the meat. The remainder he places back in his haversack just in case the conditions make it more appetizing. From his knapsack he pulls out a length of string and a fishhook. Placing the meat on the hook and a piece of lead (once part of a bullet) about three inches from the hook, he takes another look at the stream. A picket line in truce certainly is safer than the fields of Gettysburg, but a man should never tempt fate by moving around too much. Many a man has fallen because he made himself a target, ‘too easy to pass up.’ With a deep breath Clay rises up to a half crouch. With an exhale he stands himself up as tall and comfortable as he can. By pretending there isn’t any danger he figures he’ll avoid it. He takes a step toward the stream bank. Click. He stops. Another step. Another click.
“ What ya doing Reb?”
“Gonna do some fishin,” he says as he steps into the clearing and to the ford deer so often frequented before man arrived at the clearing.
A third click. The musket is back on safety.
Stopping just short of the bank, Clay feels the mud ooze up around his toes. It feels cool. He likes it. Taking a twig about the size of his index finger, he begins to tie it to the string.
“ Better set your line ‘bout four feet Reb.”
“Four feet, why’s that?”
“Four feet will do you fine.”
Clay places the twig accordingly. Aiming for a small eddy made by a fallen tree, he tosses out the line. Arm extended he manipulates his line until it sits about half way across the stream right in the swirl.
“Not likely to catch much in this water. Too muddy.” His eyes follow the water, “Must have rained somewhere upstream.”
“My haversack told me to give er a try. Besides if you saw my bait you’d realize how little the muddy water’ll impact my chances of catchin dinner.”
From behind a tree not 10 feet from the stream a federal soldier emerges. His dark blue sack coat shows signs of hard campaigning and his sky blue pants are torn at the knee and around both ankles. He certainly looks as beat down as the fellas on the Confederate side of the stream. Sitting down the federal pulls his pipe and starts a smoke.
“Got yourself some tobacco. Tradition says, we’re supposed to trade our Virginia tobacco for the real coffee you boys always have in abundance.”
“No need to trade. We got our fill when we took Richmond.”
“Took more than that.”
A long silent moment follows. There isn’t the tension of enemies bitter or of a fight near lost. Both men are silent because there isn’t much else to say. It was a good fight and now it was nearly over.
“You know we’re coming in the morning.” He points to the clearing. “Right through here.”
“Figured as much when you told me how deep to set my line. But that’s no military secret. That’s why we’re here, to let the brigade know when you come over.”
The federal soldier takes a long contemplative draw from his pipe. He looks at the sergeant then to the others sleeping, cooking, living in the clearing. Looking over his shoulder he sees men in blue, men in blue living like the men in gray. Taking his haversack off, he feels the weight of three days rations and fresh coffee.
“ Here Reb.” With a toss he sends his haversack to the fisherman. “Good night Reb.”
“See ya in the morning Yank,” the sergeant offws all he has, a thank you. That night a sergeant sleeps without hunger pains.
The sun begins its pinkish orange rise. The campfire offers its last hints of life as it smolders in its ash white heap. Charred remnants of sticks and twigs surround the ash, a reminder of what fed the fire. A charred reminder of man’s visit to the clearing. Across the stream, movement earlier in the morning alerted the 18 Confederate soldiers in the clearing. The lieutenant, returned from regiment, pulls his revolver from the holster and checks the loads. The click turn of the cylinder is in silent chorus with the men checking their loaded muskets. The sergeant is the first to fix his bayonet. This one would be close and personal.
From the other side of the clearing the Lieutenant’s voice breaks the silence, “Sergeant move down to the center of your line. I’ll take this side. We’ll retreat slowly making sure to keep a fire on them. Make sure the men work together, keeping one man loaded and the other…”
“Firing just like in skirmish drill.”
Both men smile.
Putting the federal haversack over his shoulder, he rises ever so slightly from the stump so he can move to the center of his line. Across the creek a federal spies a gray cap on the edge of the green clearing. A musket fires from the federal side of the creek. Then another then another, soon an entire regiment of muskets roars fire into the Confederate side of the stream. The ragged response tells of a company that in 1861 had 100 men. Now 17 men fire, surrender and run as hordes of federals cross a creek, barely four feet deep, and pursue beyond the clearing and into the woods. Soon the clearing is silent. The Union Army of the Potomac is again chasing and the Army of Northern Virginia is running again. Six days later the Army of Northern Virginia surrenders.
A clearing in the woods is a world unto itself. In the tall grass of the clearing a sergeant of the Confederate army lies, his left arm unnaturally placed over his head, the result of a federal getting his haversack back.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Federal clothing
For those who don't like the story I posted, here is something a lot more historical. Ever wonder what happened to the federal clothing left by the retreating Army of the Potomac at places like Chancellorsville and the like? The 4th Alabama, on its way to Gettysburg, were issued federal knapsacks captured in the Battle of Chancellorsille. When the men opened the knapsacks, they discovered the previous owners personal effects. Here is what William Fletcher of the 5th Texas tells:
Traveling over the battlefield, I saw that our part of the line had stripped the union dead. The unaquainted would think this was done by line soldiers, but was not, only in the case of actual necessity. It was largely done by those who made it their business. The union clothing, when washed, was good stock in second hand stores and its benefit was that it supplied the wanting soldier and poor citizen at a low price. I heard of no effort to stop the practice and there was no harm in stripping the dead of the party blockading our ports and creating the need. William Fletcher, 5th Texas
Traveling over the battlefield, I saw that our part of the line had stripped the union dead. The unaquainted would think this was done by line soldiers, but was not, only in the case of actual necessity. It was largely done by those who made it their business. The union clothing, when washed, was good stock in second hand stores and its benefit was that it supplied the wanting soldier and poor citizen at a low price. I heard of no effort to stop the practice and there was no harm in stripping the dead of the party blockading our ports and creating the need. William Fletcher, 5th Texas
A short story
Here is a fictional story I wrote for fun. It's about a reenactor thinking he is an actor. Enjoy.
Reen-Actor
By
Steve Acker
Driving to Maryland had become second nature by the summer of 2004. Each summer for two weeks, since ’97, hundreds of Civil War reenactors had traveled to a farm near the Antietam battlefield to work on a Civil War docu-drama; work being the wrong word for our pay consisted of shoddy food, a t-shirt and the video when finished. That first year I was one of the many “background artists” that filled, yes the background. I marched; Rebel yelled, Yankee Huzzad and fired my musket. Scores of guys all dressed the same our faces lost in the uniformity, and our movements diffused along an X axis while the actors gave their lines. The closest I came to the camera was when we charged past our fierce eyed director, “DO NOT LOOK AT THE CAMERA,” he flamed. “DAM IT, Back to one.”
It wasn’t me, or was it? Still being on a set was a lot more fun than any reenactment. Acting was so much cooler than reenacting. I was on a film set and not some county park shooting blanks at tubby dudes in bad versions of Civil War uniforms. 20 guys fighting Pickett’s Charge is cheesy stuff really when one considers the gravity of the actual historical event they reenact. Proudly I was never into the fake battles, often taking a hit in the first minutes of battle then falling asleep while the two armies had at each others. I even created a way of taking a hit where my blanket roll became my pillow. Acting was far cooler even if my acting resume offered one line; third guy from the left.
The second filming year I was given two lines. I practiced those two lines for the entire trip to Maryland. And after a week on the same set as last year, I was the guy standing in front of the camera.
Dolly track
Boom mic
Camera
Mid Shot
“Roll sound. Camera. Action.”
Hooked.
My 15 minutes lasted an hour. I even tipped my hat up so the camera could see my eyes. The director liked that. “A natural,” he smiled. Vanity fed by a reflector board lighting my face and a skanky make up artist, taking away the sweaty shine, I then gave my first acting lines. “Then what did they do?” spoken with a mouthful of chewing tobacco and “Let’s hit em again,” sprayed in enthusiasm. My soliloquy.
“Cut. Back to One. Let’s do it again.”
“Then what did they do?” offered with less tobacco and more intonation. “Let’s hit em again,” spoken with intensity.
“That’s a wrap.”
The next year the director gave me 20 lines and the skanky make-up artist, now production assistant, put a lavalier microphone under my shirt. No longer would I run with the herd along the X axis, now I stood in front of the camera.
That third year of filming I slept in the house. The previous two I slept under a tree next to a pond. My career was launched.
So now four years after that first taste, I again travel to Maryland for a new project. A four man cast, with some background artists; a World War Two epic short and I was beginning another acting gig. Reaching the Maryland border just after dark, I have 50 miles to the hotel. Hotel damn I have made it. I plug in a cassette.
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” comes my voice quickly followed by another form of it, “But Vance we gotta do it if we’re to reach our objective.”
My mind repeats the Hell no line.
“I’ll be killed,” the first voice. “That’s a soldier’s fate,” the second. To help me memorize my lines I had taped the script. Time and miles disappear in inflection and intonation.
Turning off the highway, the hotel looms in the distance, just past the truck stop and the Waffle House where I had to wait for two urban kids to finish their strut through my headlights. Better put all the valuables into the hotel I told myself. Oh well, it’s still better than a tree. A good actor never forgets his roots
“I’m with the film company,” I say trying to impress the worldy teenager sitting at the reception desk. Her low cut shirt gives ample viewing to her developing womanhood. She never looks up.
“What room is my director in?”
“Who?”
“Will Terrel.” She checks her computer screen. Will and I met at the documentary three years ago. He too had lines and one day we rehearsed together. That’s why he asked me on board. While I went back to home, he went to California to make it. He worked as a PA, took acting classes and met other actors and now he was about to make his first film. He asked if I would be a part of his project. Anything to help a friend I said.
“211.”
“Thank you.”
“And me?”
An ugly pause as her apathic face foreshadows my next week.
I announce my name.
Travelling down well worn carpet of the second floor of a two floor hotel, I open the door to my room. Splayed out on the bed closest to the chattering air conditioner, my roommate inhales a bong hit. Will told me I would be rooming with the director of photography.
“So you’re one of the actors?” he exhales. Vanity fed.
“Guess so. Hope I do okay.”
He takes another hit holding it as long as his burnt lungs will allow then coughing the residue. He offers a hit.
“No thanks, I’m a teacher.”
Like a busted sophomore he squirms. I tell him not to worry about it. For the rest of our week he switches to one-hitters. His bong sits in the closet.
A knock on the door. It’s the director, grip and everything else his $25,000 budget requires of him. He even wrote the script. His dad, the guy with the $25,000, is the producer.
“Hey you made it,” he offers with a genuine handshake. “Let me introduce you to the other actors. They’re amazing.” Insecurity says hello.
He and I walk to Room 200, the honeymoon sweet in a hotel catering to truckers and the like.
“This is the Leads room.” Will listens through the door. “They must be going over their lines.”
Room 200 opens blue with smoke. My lungs complain.
“This is Steve. He’ll be playing Vance.”
The director leaves the room quickly like the squire before the king. A well built guy in his early twenties sits on the only chair. He reminds me of what California should look like, tan and well chiseled. He was on a reality show, did pretty well according to his stories. Next to him a slumpish guy about the same age looks me up and down. Italian looking with a New Yorkers features and voice, he lets the ash grow on his cigarette thus creating a certain drama to his words.
“Did you rehearse your lines?” he inquires.
“I taped them and on the drive here,” I offer. He turns to the others.
“So last summer Allan and I are in an acting class,” ash hits the floor.
Allen is the only face I recognize. For this project he is the Lead. That’s why he has the hot tub room. I met Allen the year before at a shoot in North Carolina, the biggest gig of my career to that point. I even got paid for that one and stayed in a hotel, a nicer one than this one. Allan takes a well rehearsed drag from his cigarette then, after holding it in for dramatic effect, lets the smoke drift out in his best James Dean. He offers a nod to me then returns to the conversation, a conversation of resumes, each espousing their film experience. Allan makes sure his credits trump all. He had worked three seasons on a sitcom, in the early 90’s. You know one of those cable shows that copies the formula of a show that made it. He let’s us know of his work in film too (a horror film part five, and some others I had never heard of) as well and the actors he hangs with in the LA party scene. California guy is next on the acting pecking order then acting class guy- New Yorker. I take a silent seat on the wood veneer dresser.
“Let’s run our lines. I’ll direct,” Allen directs. Directing will be his next venture, “after this project”, and according to him a natural progression for a man with his body of work. “I have the first line,” he states as if the order should be obvious.
Allen plays it understated, his meiotic style reminding me of a petite Clint Eastwood. I have to lean forward so I can hear him. California goes next; a chiseled delivery. Allen likes the way he intonates. Next the New Yorker gives his; gritty. Allen calls it ‘smokin.’
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” in my Wisconsin nasal. Allen puts his cigarette out in an empty wine cooler bottle.
“But Vance we gotta do it if we’re going to reach our objective,” California paints over me.
“Beautiful man. That was beautiful,” Allan spews. California guy nods in agreement.
“I’ll be killed,” I just killed the line and any creditability I thought I had.
Will returns to ask how rehearsal is going. My eyes find the carpet.
Allen takes a long draw from his cigarette, “In my body of work this may be the finest writing ever.” California and New York nod in perfumed agreement.
Will, a kid making his calling card, flushes with pride while I remember where I had heard that line before. North Carolina.
For the rest of the night wine coolers went down like water and with each empty came grander stories of A list stars begging to work with Allan and why Hollywood needs guys like them. I needed a shot and a beer.
For the next week we film. Between every take Will, a kid trying to show he has what it takes to make it, listens to the constant stream of ‘suggestions’ and condescending comparisons with other projects Allan, California and New York have worked on. Each night the actors hold mutual admiration society meetings held over the scripts we are supposed to be rehearsing. I become as necessary as the cigarette butts on the carpet. Once a background artist asked how long I have been a professional actor. I laughed.
On our last night, Allan unsuccessfully hit on the worldly teenager. I guess she didn’t want to see his impressive body of work. The cast party became a montage of soulful toasts, Allen promised to hook up California and New York with some people he knows. Will gushed over the efforts of his actors and I sat on the wood veneered dresser drinking a beer till around midnight then excused myself. “Got a long drive in the morning” I said to no one in particular.
On the road before dawn, I put the cassette in a case the tossed it under my seat, replacing it with the Gettysburg soundtrack. I heard Allen went back to Nebraska, to work for his father in-law. I saw California in a commercial not too long ago and I saw New York in a History Channel program. He was a background. I don’t go to Maryland anymore. Instead I pack my blanket roll and head out to a reenactment. This weekend twenty of us are going to reenact the battle of Antietam. Still…
Reen-Actor
By
Steve Acker
Driving to Maryland had become second nature by the summer of 2004. Each summer for two weeks, since ’97, hundreds of Civil War reenactors had traveled to a farm near the Antietam battlefield to work on a Civil War docu-drama; work being the wrong word for our pay consisted of shoddy food, a t-shirt and the video when finished. That first year I was one of the many “background artists” that filled, yes the background. I marched; Rebel yelled, Yankee Huzzad and fired my musket. Scores of guys all dressed the same our faces lost in the uniformity, and our movements diffused along an X axis while the actors gave their lines. The closest I came to the camera was when we charged past our fierce eyed director, “DO NOT LOOK AT THE CAMERA,” he flamed. “DAM IT, Back to one.”
It wasn’t me, or was it? Still being on a set was a lot more fun than any reenactment. Acting was so much cooler than reenacting. I was on a film set and not some county park shooting blanks at tubby dudes in bad versions of Civil War uniforms. 20 guys fighting Pickett’s Charge is cheesy stuff really when one considers the gravity of the actual historical event they reenact. Proudly I was never into the fake battles, often taking a hit in the first minutes of battle then falling asleep while the two armies had at each others. I even created a way of taking a hit where my blanket roll became my pillow. Acting was far cooler even if my acting resume offered one line; third guy from the left.
The second filming year I was given two lines. I practiced those two lines for the entire trip to Maryland. And after a week on the same set as last year, I was the guy standing in front of the camera.
Dolly track
Boom mic
Camera
Mid Shot
“Roll sound. Camera. Action.”
Hooked.
My 15 minutes lasted an hour. I even tipped my hat up so the camera could see my eyes. The director liked that. “A natural,” he smiled. Vanity fed by a reflector board lighting my face and a skanky make up artist, taking away the sweaty shine, I then gave my first acting lines. “Then what did they do?” spoken with a mouthful of chewing tobacco and “Let’s hit em again,” sprayed in enthusiasm. My soliloquy.
“Cut. Back to One. Let’s do it again.”
“Then what did they do?” offered with less tobacco and more intonation. “Let’s hit em again,” spoken with intensity.
“That’s a wrap.”
The next year the director gave me 20 lines and the skanky make-up artist, now production assistant, put a lavalier microphone under my shirt. No longer would I run with the herd along the X axis, now I stood in front of the camera.
That third year of filming I slept in the house. The previous two I slept under a tree next to a pond. My career was launched.
So now four years after that first taste, I again travel to Maryland for a new project. A four man cast, with some background artists; a World War Two epic short and I was beginning another acting gig. Reaching the Maryland border just after dark, I have 50 miles to the hotel. Hotel damn I have made it. I plug in a cassette.
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” comes my voice quickly followed by another form of it, “But Vance we gotta do it if we’re to reach our objective.”
My mind repeats the Hell no line.
“I’ll be killed,” the first voice. “That’s a soldier’s fate,” the second. To help me memorize my lines I had taped the script. Time and miles disappear in inflection and intonation.
Turning off the highway, the hotel looms in the distance, just past the truck stop and the Waffle House where I had to wait for two urban kids to finish their strut through my headlights. Better put all the valuables into the hotel I told myself. Oh well, it’s still better than a tree. A good actor never forgets his roots
“I’m with the film company,” I say trying to impress the worldy teenager sitting at the reception desk. Her low cut shirt gives ample viewing to her developing womanhood. She never looks up.
“What room is my director in?”
“Who?”
“Will Terrel.” She checks her computer screen. Will and I met at the documentary three years ago. He too had lines and one day we rehearsed together. That’s why he asked me on board. While I went back to home, he went to California to make it. He worked as a PA, took acting classes and met other actors and now he was about to make his first film. He asked if I would be a part of his project. Anything to help a friend I said.
“211.”
“Thank you.”
“And me?”
An ugly pause as her apathic face foreshadows my next week.
I announce my name.
Travelling down well worn carpet of the second floor of a two floor hotel, I open the door to my room. Splayed out on the bed closest to the chattering air conditioner, my roommate inhales a bong hit. Will told me I would be rooming with the director of photography.
“So you’re one of the actors?” he exhales. Vanity fed.
“Guess so. Hope I do okay.”
He takes another hit holding it as long as his burnt lungs will allow then coughing the residue. He offers a hit.
“No thanks, I’m a teacher.”
Like a busted sophomore he squirms. I tell him not to worry about it. For the rest of our week he switches to one-hitters. His bong sits in the closet.
A knock on the door. It’s the director, grip and everything else his $25,000 budget requires of him. He even wrote the script. His dad, the guy with the $25,000, is the producer.
“Hey you made it,” he offers with a genuine handshake. “Let me introduce you to the other actors. They’re amazing.” Insecurity says hello.
He and I walk to Room 200, the honeymoon sweet in a hotel catering to truckers and the like.
“This is the Leads room.” Will listens through the door. “They must be going over their lines.”
Room 200 opens blue with smoke. My lungs complain.
“This is Steve. He’ll be playing Vance.”
The director leaves the room quickly like the squire before the king. A well built guy in his early twenties sits on the only chair. He reminds me of what California should look like, tan and well chiseled. He was on a reality show, did pretty well according to his stories. Next to him a slumpish guy about the same age looks me up and down. Italian looking with a New Yorkers features and voice, he lets the ash grow on his cigarette thus creating a certain drama to his words.
“Did you rehearse your lines?” he inquires.
“I taped them and on the drive here,” I offer. He turns to the others.
“So last summer Allan and I are in an acting class,” ash hits the floor.
Allen is the only face I recognize. For this project he is the Lead. That’s why he has the hot tub room. I met Allen the year before at a shoot in North Carolina, the biggest gig of my career to that point. I even got paid for that one and stayed in a hotel, a nicer one than this one. Allan takes a well rehearsed drag from his cigarette then, after holding it in for dramatic effect, lets the smoke drift out in his best James Dean. He offers a nod to me then returns to the conversation, a conversation of resumes, each espousing their film experience. Allan makes sure his credits trump all. He had worked three seasons on a sitcom, in the early 90’s. You know one of those cable shows that copies the formula of a show that made it. He let’s us know of his work in film too (a horror film part five, and some others I had never heard of) as well and the actors he hangs with in the LA party scene. California guy is next on the acting pecking order then acting class guy- New Yorker. I take a silent seat on the wood veneer dresser.
“Let’s run our lines. I’ll direct,” Allen directs. Directing will be his next venture, “after this project”, and according to him a natural progression for a man with his body of work. “I have the first line,” he states as if the order should be obvious.
Allen plays it understated, his meiotic style reminding me of a petite Clint Eastwood. I have to lean forward so I can hear him. California goes next; a chiseled delivery. Allen likes the way he intonates. Next the New Yorker gives his; gritty. Allen calls it ‘smokin.’
“Hell no, we can’t do that,” in my Wisconsin nasal. Allen puts his cigarette out in an empty wine cooler bottle.
“But Vance we gotta do it if we’re going to reach our objective,” California paints over me.
“Beautiful man. That was beautiful,” Allan spews. California guy nods in agreement.
“I’ll be killed,” I just killed the line and any creditability I thought I had.
Will returns to ask how rehearsal is going. My eyes find the carpet.
Allen takes a long draw from his cigarette, “In my body of work this may be the finest writing ever.” California and New York nod in perfumed agreement.
Will, a kid making his calling card, flushes with pride while I remember where I had heard that line before. North Carolina.
For the rest of the night wine coolers went down like water and with each empty came grander stories of A list stars begging to work with Allan and why Hollywood needs guys like them. I needed a shot and a beer.
For the next week we film. Between every take Will, a kid trying to show he has what it takes to make it, listens to the constant stream of ‘suggestions’ and condescending comparisons with other projects Allan, California and New York have worked on. Each night the actors hold mutual admiration society meetings held over the scripts we are supposed to be rehearsing. I become as necessary as the cigarette butts on the carpet. Once a background artist asked how long I have been a professional actor. I laughed.
On our last night, Allan unsuccessfully hit on the worldly teenager. I guess she didn’t want to see his impressive body of work. The cast party became a montage of soulful toasts, Allen promised to hook up California and New York with some people he knows. Will gushed over the efforts of his actors and I sat on the wood veneered dresser drinking a beer till around midnight then excused myself. “Got a long drive in the morning” I said to no one in particular.
On the road before dawn, I put the cassette in a case the tossed it under my seat, replacing it with the Gettysburg soundtrack. I heard Allen went back to Nebraska, to work for his father in-law. I saw California in a commercial not too long ago and I saw New York in a History Channel program. He was a background. I don’t go to Maryland anymore. Instead I pack my blanket roll and head out to a reenactment. This weekend twenty of us are going to reenact the battle of Antietam. Still…
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