Rambling Anecdotes

Took me over a decade to get this two volume set, Memoirs of Major General Riedesel. Riedesel was a Hessian general who served under Burgoyne at Saratoga. His wife's book is more readily available but this two volume set is available now in paperback.

Riedesel possessed all the qualities of a good and brave soldier. To coolness and discretion in danger, he united that quickness in action which he always knew how to exercise at the right moment. His clear understanding comprehended everything readily, and his presence of mind and good memory seldom forsook him. Some of these traits are especially illustrated in the following adventure which happene3d during the seven years' war:

In one of his campaigns, Riedesel was in the habit of calling on a noble family whose country seat was but a short distance from head quarters. On such occasion he was accompanied by only one servant, there being, as the thought, no danger of surprise. But one dismal, foggy afternoon in December, as he was cosily chatting with this family, one of the ladies noticed through the window a number of horsemen approaching the house. She immediately called her guest's attention to the party, who were at once recognised by him as French hussars. The family were greatly alarmed for his safety, as none of them could see how escape was possible, since the castle was surrounded by a moat filled with water, and had but one entrance over a bridge. Nor was there time, even had he been so disposed, to escape on horseback, since, before he could mount, the enemy would be at the other end of the bridge ready to cut off his retreat. His entertainers implored him to conceal himself in the castle, but to this he would not consent. Hastily gathering up his things which lay about the room, he girded on his sword and bid them adieu. Then snatching from his servant an old cavalry cloak, which the latter had taken a few days before from a Frenchman, he threw it over his shoulders, told his servant to hide, mounted his own horse, which stood already saddled, and rode slowly toward the bridge. The hussars having by this time arrived in front of the gate, Riedesel authoritatively requested them in their own language to make room. Thinking he was a French officer, the hussars rode closer together, at the same time saluting him, while he, wishing them a good evening, rode slowly past, and escaped. The fair group in the drawing-room breathed freer upon seeing the daring captain of cavalry in safety, though their joy was somewhat alloyed by their terror, incident upon the entree of the unwelcome guests. The latter, however, after helping themselves to some feed for their horses, departed quietly, giving Riedesel's servant, who had been hidden under a haystack, an opportunity to rejoin his master.
Click to expand...
 
A hero of the war at Cold Harbor

Here is an interesting application of camouflage and stalking from the Civil War. It was not for killing or scouting but for rescuing a fellow soldier.

A drummer boy of our regiment who was carrying a musket was wounded and left between the lines. There were many others of our comrades there, too, but somehow to us drummer boys who had beaten reveille and tattoo together and tramped at the head of the regiment so many long and wearisome marches, the thought that one of our number was lying out there in the blazing June sun suffering not only pain but the terrible agony of thirst, stirred our sympathies to the uttermost and we longed to go to his relief, but dared not for it was like throwing one's life away to show himself over the breastworks.

It was late in the afternoon that Peter Boyle, "our Pete," suggested a plan by which our comrade was rescued. Pet cut three or four scrub pine trees which abounded there and proposed that he and a couple of others should use them as a screen and go out between the lines.

"Why not wait till dark and go?" someone asked. But then it was feared he could not be found.

The bushes were set over the breastworks one at a time so as not to attract attention and as there were many more growing like them they were probably not noticed. When the evening twilight came on Pete and two others crawled over the breastworks and got behind the trees. Each had a couple of canteens of water for they knew that there would be many to whom a mouthful would be so very acceptable.

The three boys crawled and wriggled themselves toward the rebel lines shielded by the trees. Their movements necessarily had to be very slow so as not to attract the attention of the enemy. The ruse was well planned and executed, but fraught with much danger. They found their comrade and had to lie behind their shelter until darkness concealed their movements, and then the wounded comrade was broguht into the lines and his life saved.
Click to expand...
 
A timid rifleman'

'Our men are splendid, always a cheery look or word when you go round; though even Riflemen are sometimes "stumours." One poor fellow; who had not covered himself with glory, when invited to jump over the parapet on wiring duty at night, protested to his Captain (Frewen) that he seemed to intend him to go and join his wife. "Where is she?" asked the Captain. "In Heaven." "heavens, man!" said the gallant Captain, "if she saw you looking like that she'd kick you right out at the door".'
 
Fascinating reading ! I have of late been playing around on the forum Civilwartalk.com, and find that a dog and I can spend hours in a chair with a computer on my lap just perusing the old info., and I'm not necessarily what you would call a civil war buff..
 
Old Stony - I'm also at Civil War Talk. Like here, it's a good group of people from worldwide.

From page 50 of William Ash's Under the Wire: The World War II Adventures of a Legendary Escape Artist and "Cooler King". Ash was a Texan who grew up in and about Dallas. As a boy, he saw the depression and as he got older, rode the rail and wandered among hobos. When war broke out, he made his way to Canada to join the RCAF. They rejected him as underweight and he returned home, borrowed $20 and ate as much as he could for two weeks to gain weight. He passed this time and was trained to fly Spitfires. Assigned to 411 Squadron in Group XII, he shot down a couple of planes before being shot down himself.

Ash recalled one brave Lincolnshire farmer who carried out his own private war with the Luftwaffe. Overnight, he would drive his tractor to a Q-site, a dummy airfield that was designed to lure enemy bombers to drop their bombs over a harmless place and spare a real airfield from damage. The farmer rigged two long planks in the position of a wing with a red lamp on on the left wing and a green one on the right. When the Luftwaffe came over, he would drive his tractor as if it were an taxiing airplane. The next day after the raid, he would triumphantly return to his pub and order a pint. "Got the bastards to drop three sticks on me last night."

At about this time, I became tangentially involved in one of the most remarkable deceptions of the war. Several of us were sent to fly guard duty over an aircraft carrier in the English Channel, only it was not an aircraft carrier at all. In reality, it was an old tramp freighter with a huge false wooden deck, painted up to look like an aircraft carrier. It was designed to lure the enemy bombers out to attack it, and very obligingly, they did just that.

For some days the enemy planes returned, wasting ammunition and energy on a wooden dummy boat, as we and the guns on board hammered back at them. Then, on one particular dark night, a single Stuka dive-bomber risked oblivion to swoop down over the ship. Before it veered away, it dropped a single bomb that clattered on the deck but did not explode. A bomb disposal expert inched up to examine it. It was a wooden bomb, dropped on a wooden boat, the Germans' way of saying the game was up.
Click to expand...

Ash was present at Luft Stalag III during the tunneling effort that was made into the movie, The Great Escape. He was in the cooler and sat that one out.
 
Since the Civil War was mentioned.

Ash tunnels out and is wandering around Lithuania when he decides he want to steal a small boat to escape to Sweden. Unable to move the boat, he approached some workmen and asked for help. One apologizes and says that while they would help, as German soldiers they cannot and Ash is again captured. He is returned to Luft Stalag III and finds there are Americans there in an adjacent compound. Both sides want to coordinate an escape and while the guards are distracted on both sides, Ash climbs the fence, cross the barbed wire barrier to the second fence, and swaps place with an American colonel who takes his place on the British side.

He spends a night in the American camp. From page 272:

The atmosphere in the American compound was also more boisterous, from horseplay to goon-baiting, something that had annoyed some of my more stuffy English friends in the days before we were split up into different nationalities. Personally I found their energy very refreshing. I enjoyed my strange reunion with these good-natured rumbustious guys in a place none of us ever thought we would end up. When my friends went back to their nearby hut for the night, I stayed with some of the escape committee to go over more plans. Later, as I dozed off in a strange bed, I heard an incredible row and racket coming from the nearby American hut. It sounded like a full-fledged battle, but as the guards investigated, everything went quiet again.

Next morning, as I nervously prepared to do a repeat reverse performance of my high-wire act to get back to my own compound, I managed to snatch a few words with one of my pals from the hut net door. asked him about the ruckus. He smiled sadly and told me it was just an argument about the war.

I was incredulous. Here we all were, volunteers risking our lies in battle between good and evil, all prisoners of that same enemy and yet they were still arguing about the war? What the hell was there left to argue about? As I moved into position for my hundred-yard dash over the earth wire that led to the fence, my American friend called after me, "Not this war. The Civil War!"
Click to expand...
 
Negligent discharge

Remember Rule #1: Always point the gun in a safe direction.

11 August, 1775.

This Day Capt. Flynt Came
home from the hospital and taki
ng his gun in order to Clean it
and Snaping the Same the gun
went of to his suprise whilst
he was Siting in the tent his
Gun went of But throw the
Goodness of god their was no
Damige Dun to any
Click to expand...

Misspellings were common back then even among English officers.
 
Reading a modern (Vietnam) era tank book, Praying For Slack. That's the name of one marine's M48A3. During the voyage on the LCD, our hero was told to clean the breechblock. He accidentally breaks his platoon sergeant bottle of whiskey which was stowed in a bag outside on the tank deck. He apologizes to the sergeant and figures he's in deep fecal matter. The other two sergeants who were with his sergeant laughed since it's a court martial offense for smuggling alcohol aboard a Navy ship. The injured sergeant sends our hero away. Anyway, our hero writes home and begs his mother to send a bottle which she does. After mail call, he calls his sergeant over and gives him the fresh bottle. The sergeant offers him and the lt. (who was present) a couple of shots and it is one of the sergeant's most memorable time of his two tours in 'Nam. Drinking good whiskey. All is forgiven and he's good with sarge again.

So, he pleads with his mother to send a second bottle to a buddy with whom he attended tank school. Like a good mother, she does that too. Then one day a government car pulls up to the house. She can see the white license plate and that it is a federal person. Oh no! The dread all mothers fear for their sons who are serving overseas - My son is dead and he's here to break the news to me. The knock on the door follows and a very officious person in civilian attire is there. She opens the door and after the stranger identified himself as a Postal Inspector, asked if she was Mrs. XZY. "Yes," she responds, bracing for the worse. "Did you send a bottle of whiskey to a soldier in Vietnam?" "Yes." "That bottle broke. Did you know it's against federal laws to send alcohol through the mail?" The absurdity of the moment struck her and she breaks out into hysterical laughter. "What's so funny? This is a serious federal offense." She explained that she thought he was there to deliver her son's death notice and that she was all worked up to receive the bad news. That he wasn't harmed made the matter of the bottle so trivial. The federale realized the awkwardness of the moment, gave her a mild warning and excused himself. Case closed.
 
How to make axle grease

This is from the Diary of Sgt. Henry W. Tisdale, 35th Massachussetts, who was captured during the Overland Campaign. As a PoW, he was at Libby Prison and then the notorious Andersonville. Move to another camp, he describes making axle grease:

Our squad was set to work one day to make some axle grease. The process first, was to cut some pitch pine wood into small sticks of a foot in length, and one-half to one inch in diameter. Hollow out a circular place in the ground about four feet in diameter. Place the sticks uprightly in this hollow and cover them with turf leaving a small opening at the bottom on one side. Then setting the pile on fire with the result that the smothered heat caused the pitch to stew out of the opening and run into the hollow prepared for it, and which when cooled made a fine wagon grease. It is needless to say that the novelty and easy work of the task made us for a little while, forget our rags and hunger.
Click to expand...

Link
 
From I Do Wish This Cruel War Was Over, ed. by Christ and Williams.

After making good our retreat and clear of the peril which a few moments ago surrounded us, an amusing little dialogue took place, in which our Captain got the worst of it. At a halt every man came up "pell mell"; Witt came up minus his hat, when the Captain remarked, good humoredly, "Luther, where's your hat?" Luther instantly replied, "in the brush," and continued he hesitatingly, "and Captain I've lost my pistol too," says the Captain rather sharply, "Uh, you MUST have been in a hurry," says Luther. "Yes, I was trying to KEEP UP with my Captain."
 
Excerpt from Campaigns of the 20th Iowa Infantry by J. D. Barnes

Bought the book directly from Camp Pope Publishing in Iowa City, Iowa. Author J. D. Barnes wrote a post-war series of articles published in the Post Byron Globe, a family oriented newspaper that is now out of print and was printed in Port Byron, Ill. Over a century later Barnes' articles were compiled by M. Lawrence Shannon, great-grandson of John Shannon, who served alongside with Barnes in the 20th Iowa. Barnes tells of his Civil War meeting Wild Bill Hickock in Springfield, Missouri.

"One afternoon while taking a stroll around Springfield, my attention was attracted to an almost constant string of rough looking men and soldiers entering and coming from a low frame building situated in the most business part of town. On entering, my gaze was instantly rooted on a brawny-looking man with long hair and shapely hands playing at cards and at the same time relating some hair-breadth escapes from the 'Reb' army, as he called it,
while he was a scout for Gen. Curtis during the Pea Ridge Campaign. He seemed to be the centre of attention and proved to be William Hickok, the afterwards famous Wild Bill. After he had finished his story a bystander questioned him in regard to the McCandlas fight. " I don't like to talk about the McCandlas affair," said Bill in answer to his question. "It always sends a queer feeling over me when I think of it, and sometimes I dream about it and wake up in a cold sweat.

"You see this McCandlas was the captain of a gang of desperadoes who were the terror of everybody on the border and kept us in hot water whenever they were around. I knew them all in the mountains, where they pretended to be trapping; but they were only hiding from the hangman. McCandlas was the worst scoundrel and bully of them all and was always blowing of what he could do. One day I beat him shooting at a mark and then threw him at the back hold; and I did not let him down as easy as you would a baby, you bet. Well, he got fight'n mad over it and swore he would have revenge on me some day. This was just before the war broke out and we were already taking sides either for the South or for the Union. McCandlas and his gang were border ruffians during the Kansas troubles, and of course they went with the Rebs. He soon left the mountains and I had almost forgotten him; but it appears he did not forget me.

"It was a year ago last spring, when I guided a detachment of cavalry who were coming in from Camp Floyd, when one afternoon, while we were in Nebraska, I went to the cabin of Mrs. Waltman, an old friend of mine. The moment she saw me she turned as white as a sheet and screamed, 'Oh, my God! They will kill you! Run, run!' 'Who will kill me,' said I; 'there is two who can play at that game. 'It is McCandlas and his gang; there is ten of them; they have just gone down to the corn-rack. McCandlas knows you are bringing in that party of Yankee cavalry and he swears he will kill you.
Run, Bill, run.' But it is too late, for I see them coming up the lane.

"While she was talking I remembered I had but one revolver and one load was gone out of that. On the table was a horn of powder and some little bars of lead. I poured some powder into the empty chamber and rammed the lead after it, and I had just capped the pistol when I heard McCandlas shout. 'There is that Yankee Bill's horse. He is in there and we will skin him alive.' If I had thought of running before it was too late now. The house was my best hold - a sort of fortress, you see; though I never expected to leave that room alive, for the McCandlas gang, all of them, were reckless, bloodthirsty villains who would fight as long as they had strength to pull a trigger.
Click to expand...
 
Continued from the previous post

"Surround the house and give him no quarter!' yelled McCadlas. When I heard that I felt as quiet and cool as if going to church. I looked around the room and saw a rifle hanging over the bed. 'Is that loaded?' said I to Mrs. Waltman. 'Yes' she answered in a whisper, for the poor thing was so frightened she could scarcely speak above a whisper. I leaped upon the bed and caught it from the hooks, although my eyes did not leave the door. Just then McCandlas looked in at the door, but fell back when he saw me with the rifle in my hands. 'Come in here, you cowardly dog,' I shouted; come in here and fight me! McCandlas was no coward if he was bully ; for he rushed into the room with his gun leveled to shoot, but he was not quick enough. My rifle ball went through his heart and he fell back outside the house, where he was found the next day holding tight to his rifle.

"His demise was followed by a yell from his gang and there was a dead silence. I put down the rifle and took the revolver and I said to myself, 'Only six shots, and nine men to kill. Save your powder Bill, for the grim monster is looking hard at you.' There was a few seconds of that awful stillness, and then the ruffians closed in on me from both doors. How wild they looked with their red, bloated faces and inflamed, drunken eyes, shouting and cursing. but I never aimed more deliberately in my life. One-two-three-four; and four men sank to the floor dead. Bt that did not stop the rest. two of them fired their bird guns at me. And then I felt a sort of sting' sensation run over me. The room was full of smoke. Two of them closed in on me. One I knocked down with my fist. 'You are out of the way for a while,' I thought. The second I shot dead. The other three clutched me and crowed me onto the bed. I fought hard. I broke with my hand one man's arm. He had his fingers around my throat. Before I could regain my feet I was struck across the breast with the stock of a rifle, and I felt the blood running from my nose and mouth.

Then I got ugly, and I remember that I got hold of a knife, and then it was all cloudly like, and I was wild, (it was at this fight that he gained the world 'wild' to his name) and I struck savage blows, following the devils up from one side to the other of the room and into the corners, until I knew that every one of them was dead. All of a sudden it seemed as if my heart were on fire. I was bleeding everywhere. I rushed out to the well and drank from the bucket, and then tumbled down in a faint."

"You must have been very badly hurt," remarked a bystander.

"Yes; There were eleven buckshot in my body. I carry some of them now. I was cut in thirteen places, all of them bad enough to have let out the life of a man, but that good old Dr. Mills pulled me safely through it, after a bad siege of many a long week."
Click to expand...

Disclaimer: I've never read a book about Wild Bill and cannot attest to the veracity of this incident. It is from the black powder era and I thought it would be interest to members and nonmembers alike.
 
From Pvt. John Robert Shaw of the 33rd Regiment, then serving in America during the American Revolution.

There was a certain Bill Airton, a butcher, who was a mess mate of mine, and had often endeavored to provoke me to a fight; but as I always considered him a stouter man than myself, and being besides unacquainted with the art of boxing (as it is called) I had constantly declined his invitations, and endeavored to keep clear of all private quarrels.

It happened, however, one day, when myself and several of my companions made a fire before our wigwam, that Mr. Airton, who had been absent while the fuel was gathering, came up to the fire, and in a very abrupt manner says to me, "Shaw, d--n you stand back, you have no right here, d--n you, stand back." Giving me at the same time such a blow to the eye as made my head sing psalms for some time.

The sergeant then coming up, and, understanding the circumstances, says, "Shaw, you must fight and whip him or else I will whip you." So we buckled to it in our buff; and having a good second helped the cause very much on my side; for a good officer makes a good soldier. Inspired with confidence through the encouragement of the sergeant, I soon gave Mr. Airton an Irishman's coat of arms, i.e., two black eyes and a bloody nose, which made him a good friend ever after.

Poor John and the butcher then stript to their buffs,
Fell to work and engaged in what's called fisticuffs;
And so the big butcher that would be a brawling
And picking a quarrel, at last got a mauling.

See pages 35-36 of Don Haigst British Soldiers American Revolution.
 
From Page 8 of Missouri in 1861: The Civil War Letters of Franc B. Wilkie, Newspaper Correspondent. Wilike accompanied the First Iowa Volunteer Infantry from its inception to Battle of Wilson Creek and its deactivation after its one year term of service expired. This is one of those don't try this at home kids.

A huge owl sat upon the dead limb o a tree on the shore and hooted mournfully at the crowd. A gentleman of the Greys, sometimes called Barney G____, drew a revolver, shut both eyes, took good aim at a solitary bird, and fired, and the next instant his owlship splashed heavily into the water below. The distance was over a hundred yards, and thus in five minutes a trivial circumstance had turned the whole crowd from melancholy to animation.

And thus, alas! Wives, Babies, and Sweethearts, were you turned 'bag and baggage' out of our thoughts be it a gentleman shooting an owl at a hundred eyes with both eyes shut.
Click to expand...
 
Butt stroke!

From page 2 of the July 17 edition of the Charleston Courier:

Singular Account

A German named Andrew Daum, and an Irishman, both residing in Summonville, Ind., got into a dispute the other night, when the Irishman fired at Daum with a revolver, but failed to hit him. The other took a gun and struck his adversary with the butt end of it, and the force of the blow discharged the piece, which was loaded, the whole charge entering Daum's left breast, killing him instantly. - Columbia Statesman.
Click to expand...

This is why you don't butt stroke people if you have a round in the chamber and as always, Rule #1 rules: Never point a firearm at anything you are unwilling to destroy. Muzzle control always.
http://digital.shsmo.org/cdm/compoundobject/collection/cc/id/766/rec/3
 
Hurricaine: The Last Witnesses

Hurricaine: The Last Witnesses, Hurricane Pilots Tells the Story of the Fighter than Won the Battle of Britain by Brian Milton. Great book covering Sydney Camm's fighter that was responsible for shooting down more aircraft than the Spitfire during that epic battle. John Ellacombe tells of his stay at a hospital (page 112):


"I went into the hospital after bailing out of my burning Hurricane and when I was recovering in a ward, there was another chap there. I was delighted to find that it was Frank Czajkowski, the Polish pilot who had gone down in the first sortie.

He said, "John they've taken all the mirrors out of the room but I've got a little mirror here. Look at your face, it looks very funny."

They had sprayed tannic acid that forms a great big scab. The doctor and the nurse were furious with me, that Frank had done that. But he was a great character, and had been wounded in the leg and in the shoulder. He used to go off in his wheelchair and he came back one day and said, "John , there's a German ward about three wards away and they've got a lot of German airmen in there. One of them was from the Heinkel you shot down on 24 August. I've been talking to them.

Then the young doctor came in and he said, "Look, I speak fluent German. Keep Czajkowski out of my ward. He' telling them we're going to get them better and then interrogate them and shoot them - and they're not getting better."

So Frank was not allowed to go in there any more."
 
Hey! Will you take a line?

FDR was secreted away on the cruiser Augusta to Argentia where he would meet for a few days with Prime Minister Winston Churchill. At Argentia was the British Battleship Prince of Wales.

"President Roosevelt was transported from the Augusta to the Prince of Wales in U. S. destroyer McDougal, whose bow was level with the Augusta's main deck and the British battleship's stern. It was a ticklish performance. When the destroyer made a Chinese landing (bow to stern) on the Prince, the British crew was drawn up at attention along the rail, Mr. Churchill alone being on the fantail to receive the President. A chief boatswain's mate of McDougal hailed the Premier with "Hey! Will you take a line?" Mr. Churchill replied, "Certainly" and not only caught the line but hauled it most of the way in before British tars came to his assistant."

The boatswain's mate was truly American and Churchill humble enough to oblige him./images/smilies/smiley_abused.gif Incident is from the footnote on page 70 of Samuel Eliot Morrison's The History United States Naval Operations in World War II: The Battle of the Atlantic, 1939-1943. Vol 1.
 
You must log in or register to reply here.
Back
Top