A Memorial Day Expedition

I am nearly 80 and don't travel much. My four brothers range downwards in age from 78 to 68. Mostly grizzled, overweight and arthritic, we resemble rejects from a Duck Dynasty casting call. I live on the West Coast. The other four live in Northwest Connecticut where we grew up.

A few weeks ago they visited Gettysburg. Here are a some (lightly edited) excerpts from my next oldest brother's "after-action report":

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"We left early Wednesday A.M. with enough bottled water, snacks, trail mix and granola for a ten man expedition for a month.  It is my belief that our respective spouses hoped we would take the hint and keep going until the food ran out. We made several coffee stops--also anti-coffee stops--and did walk-arounds to keep muscles and joints loose, but still made it to Gettysburg by early afternoon. We did a drive-around to get oriented, putting the first day's action behind us. Second and third days were misty, foggy and rainy, so we drove around checking all Connecticut monuments, stopping long enough at Gen'l Sedgwick's* monument for a late afternoon toast of Bourbon to our local hero (also a few after dinner Bourbons back in our rooms.) Early to bed--early up. Lingered over breakfast. Rain stopped long enough for an extended stop at Little Round Top and the Devil's Den--a place of hollow feelings and heavy, ghastly whisperings, a place where I kept looking over my shoulder to make sure my brothers were still there and alright."

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"Having done the battlefield from both sides we spent the end of the day at the Cyclarama, still a good show. The visitor's center is new since I was there last and the mural has been cleaned. The book and gift shop was a disappointment--music wasn't much. I have more in my collection. ... The great part was having a picture taken with Abe. Nice guy. Did the cemetery--stood in an area not quite on the spot where he made his address. National Cemetery next to busy road--mowers going--people all around--but five steps through the gate a mighty hush and quiet surrounds you--a peaceful feeling, not the haunting feeling of Devil's Den, or the staging area for Pickett's Charge."

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They continued on to Antietam, where they were pleased to discover the postcards were not only cheaper than those at Gettysburg, but on sale for half price. They walked along the infamous Sunken Road whose "... empty, haunted feeling is equal to Devil's Den." ...

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The writer and I were in the artillery together nearly 60 years ago. Our battalion was the spiritual descendant of the storied "19th Connecticut Heavy Artillery"--recruited from the same Litchfield hills. Many of our fellow troopers bore the same surnames as their ancestors of the '19th'. 

My brother sent me an artillery badge, and remarked: "We spent a bit of time at the staging area of Pickett's Charge, looking at topography and feeling like targets, knowing every Union cannon was trained on that sector. I know I couldn't have moved my feet for a few steps, let alone a mile of open ground." 

I was there, too, several years ago, except at the top of the ridge where the defenders were entrenched. Many of them were said to have wept for the futile sacrifice of Pickett's Division. I pitied them too. It was an ill considered attack, which no amount of tragic gallantry could make otherwise. 

I am not one of those who despise the Confederate battle flag or would topple their commemorative statues. They were Americans, too. They, too, gave "the last full measure of devotion". Looking down that hill, and imagining my brothers looking up, I cannot believe a single one of Pickett's troops charged that hill to preserve slavery. It must have been the furthest thought from their minds. Like all soldiers, they fought for their homes, and their families, for the fellow next to them, and the honor of their units. It is not for us, one-hundred fifty years later, to attribute ignoble motives to their sacrifices.

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"A long shower, a good meal, a night's sleep and then home...  I am still eating snacks and trail mix."

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* General Sedgwick was born about five miles from our home town, a contemporary of our great, great grandfather. A graduate of West Point, he was commander of Sixth Corps (including several divisions of the Union Army.) Considered an excellent officer, he was loved by his troops who called him "Uncle John."

Regrettably for his reputation, his all too famous last words were, "Don't worry boys--they can't hit a barn door at this distance."