Dressed in woolen light blue pants from a bin of extra uniform pieces, a red-checked shirt of indeterminate origin and a navy blue wool coat, I tucked my hair into a kepi.  I practiced a "manly" walk, much to the chagrin of the males and to the entertainment of the women, and made sure that my soldier impression was up to the standards of the reenactment.  I had to reasonably pass for a male, lest I be asked to remove myself from the battlefield.  Impression standards are strict and posted on the websites of reenactments; such as this excerpt from the website of the reenactment I participated in:

 

"Women portraying soldiers in the ranks should make every reasonable effort to hide their gender. Hundreds, if not thousands, of women passed themselves off as men in order to serve as soldiers during the war—on both sides, and we will never know exactly how many did so because their disguises were so good. Honor them. If any Army or event volunteer (as above) determines the female gender at not less than 15 feet, that individual will be asked to leave the field/ranks."

 

Hoping I made a good (male) impression, I made my way over to the infantry camp and approached a unit with members who often reenacted alongside Weidrich’s Battery to ask how I could get onto the battlefield for the “'A Bloody Harvest' – The Wheatfield Battle" reenactment.  Without having a musket (or knowing how to load and fire one), my options were limited, but the officer of the unit instructed me to procure a canvas bucket and report to the medical tent.  At the tent I found several boys too young to fire a musket, a woman whose husband was in the infantry unit and two other men without firearms.  One of the men was a youth pastor-in-training whose reenacting impression was that of a chaplain and the other was the head of the Medical Corps for the unit we were attached to.   This group would be the “Ice Angles” during the battle, medical corpsmen who carry buckets full of ice procured off horse-drawn carriages (or golf carts if there was enough cover for them so the spectators cannot see) and make sure the troops have easy access to the ice to avoid heat stroke during the hours-long battle.  While not quite period-correct, this role was a concession and a necessity due to the heat and the amount of people – reenactors and spectators – who had to be taken to the hospital during the weekend.

 

After a brief talk about safety and etiquette – do not walk through the line, do not try to give the men ice when they are about to fire or are firing – we filled our buckets and followed the men into the wheat field.  As we walked behind the 2nd Battalion, marching in formation to the beat of their military band, we wound our way through the camp and out into the crafted Wheatfield.  With tall grass that was taller than me to trudge through in order to get into position for the battle, I was envious of the Rebel troops I spied who were in the shade of the tree line.  We waited in the field for about 30 minutes as the other troops were marched into position and the spectators were treated to some Civil War history and trivia from the announcer.  All at once, bugles began sounding and a general galloped behind us giving the orders to commence the battle. 

 

This was my first taste of “battle” and all I could think of was that the cacophony of sound was overwhelming.  And a bit frightening. I could see why people liked it. 

 

We were battling quite far away from the main grandstands of spectators and it was easy to forget that there was an audience there at all.  I was well aware of the fact, however, that there was an audience of other reenactors and it was for them I was performing my duties and my impression.  I was beckoned over the line frequently to deliver ice and as I walked the line dropping ice into the awaiting kepis of the soldiers, and making sure to stay out of the general’s way, I was trying to shed the mind of a researcher and get into the moment.  I took in the sounds of the muskets, the bugle and the rebel yells, the smells of the black powder and the tall grass.  I tried to really experience the battle, the fear and excitement that a soldier would have felt.  I performed the impression of a male soldier – yet, I didn’t feel like one.  Maybe I needed to fire off the musket at the Rebs or to give the call to fire. Instead, I was tending to the sick and the “dying” – a female in men’s clothing caring for and soothing real men who were knocked down by the Rebel army (or, in most cases, the extreme heat). 

 

As if I was already feeling oddly emasculated, the bugle call sounded for the retreat.  Wishing desperately for a swather, I high-kneed my way through the grass, following my fellow Ice Angels as we turned our backs on the enemy and ran away (listen to our retreat).  I was not having a “time-travel” experience, or a “moment” as some reenactors call the fragments of a reenactment when you feel as if you were “really there”; I was feeling ashamed.  Here I was, dressed like a man, trying my best to perform the role of a male medical corpsman and instead of feeling masculine, I was running away, and spilling ice all over myself as I did so.  This was not the experience I expected.  Coming to Gettysburg, my thesis was that the reenactors, specifically the male reenactors, reenacted, in part, to recoup some of the lost masculine prowess they experienced in their real lives.  Further, I posited that those reenactors who were veterans came to the staged battles in order to find some sort of catharsis, whether it was finishing what they started or to relive their glory years of martial masculine performances.   I found none of this overtly on display.  Instead I found men who were excited to be there to spend quality time with their family and friends.  I met “veterans” – those reenacting for decades – who returned each year to remember the sacrifice of their ancestors and to honor their country. I spent time with two units comprised entirely of families relishing in the opportunity to spend quality time with each other.  And, of course, I found many people excited for the shooting.