With loud huzzahs and bayonetsrnfixed, the corporal’s guard of Yanks (onernof them in a dashing Zouave outfit)rncharged the trench, broke the greenrnSouth Carolina militiamen who werernmanning it and drove them back, thenrnwent on to rout the second line and drivernthem back. Meanwhile, off to the side,rnthe equally outnumbered Union horsesoldiers,rnsabres drawn, were mixing it uprninconclusively with the rebel cavalry. Byrnthis time dead and wounded Confederatesrnlittered the field, but the Yankeernboys hadn’t yet taken any casualities tornspeak of. We understood that this wasrnbecause there weren’t any Union soldiersrnto spare, but still, it was getting embarrassing.rnAs the thin blue line advancedrnpast the dead and dying Confederatesrntoward the third and last of the Confederaterntrenches, I was reminded of whatrnReuben Greenberg, the black policernchief of Charieston, South Carolina, saidrnwhen someone asked why he gave one ofrnhis officers time off from work to marchrnwith the Palmetto Cuards. “Well,”rnChief Greenberg said, “you all have alwaysrntold me that one boy in grey isrnworth ten in blue.” But it sure wasn’trnworking out that way this particular afternoon,rnand the crowd was getting uneasy.rnWhen the sound of a jet plane wasrnheard through the overcast, someonernjoked, “At last—air support!”rnhi the trench waited the rebs who hadrnsuccessfully withdrawn from the forwardrnworks and those who had been held inrnreserve all along. So far the Yankees hadrnbeen invincible, but now at last theyrnwould be allowed to die for their country.rnFrom 20 feet away they took a volleyrnhead on. Then another. As the crowdrncheered, they crumpled like tissue paper.rnThrough all of this, the band hadrnbeen playing jaunty airs. Now theyrnstruck up “Dixie,” then “The BonnyrnBlue Flag.” As the Confederates camernout of the trench to recover their wounded,rnone paused to examine a fallen Yankee.rn”Take his shoes!” a woman next tornme shouted.rnAfterwards we wandered around therncamp, where we watched the amiablernfraternization between Blue and Grey.rnWe bought some sarsaparilla, on tap atrnone of the sutlers’ wagons, and lookedrnaround the hospital tent, where a medicalrnstudent from East Carolina Universityrnhad set up his array of antique bonesawsrnand other fearsome implements.rnSomeone introduced me to WolfgangrnDresser, a young man who has achievedrnsome fame in reenacting circles for hisrndevotion to the Cause. Every year HerrrnDresser comes over from Germany for arnmonth’s vacation, going from one reenactmentrnto another, serving as a Confederaternprivate. What I want to knowrnis, where were these guys when we neededrnthem?rnMy wife overheard one Confederaternprivate telling another that there was arnPizza Hut a couple of miles down thernroad. (When she said “Pizza Hut?” herngrinned and, turning to his buddy, said,rn”Say, I saw me a dead mule back yonder.rnLooks like mighty good eatin’ tonight!”)rnBut others took their cuisine more seriously.rnA naval unit up from the coastrn(with their boat on a trailer) was cookingrncabbage and field peas in a big iron pot.rnThe jolly jack tars had fought as infantryrnthat day, but back in camp they werernsailors again and proudly showed us theirrnguns and “torpedoes” (mines). Theyrnexplained that everything on the boatrnwas authentic except the modern lifejacketsrnand radio equipment required byrnthe U.S. Coast Guard. I reflected that arnConfederate Coast Guard probablyrnwouldn’t have meddled.rnIt was getting late, we were gettingrnhungry (and for something better thanrncabbage and held peas), so our Englishrnfriends bought one last souvenir and wernhit the road. A good day’s work. ThernYankee advance had been thwarted,rnhowever temporarily. There was stillrnhope.rn* * #rnAt lunch a few days later with an academicrncrowd, I was telling my companionsrnabout the afternoon, and how—rnwell, “interesting” was the word myrnEnglish friends had used, and that’s exactlyrnright—how interesting it was.rn”I don’t know,” one of the others said.rn”Didn’t you find it just a little—well,rnvou know.”rnUnfortunately I did, but I wanted tornmake him say it. I asked him what hernmeant.rn”Well,” he said, “wasn’t it sort of arnredneck crowd?”rnI told him, first, not really and, second,rnI don’t have anything against rednecks,rnand we let the subject drop, by tacit mutualrnconsent. But I wish I hadn’t.rnLook, what I saw was a bunch of guysrnout having a good time—shooting guns,rnriding horses, camping out, praying—rnand a few hundred citizens like me, whornenjoyed watching them do it.rnSure, most of the Confederate reenactorsrnseemed to be Southern patriots,rnand many of them were doing homagernto their ancestors. My questioner mayrnhave a problem with that, but I don’t.rnAs for racism, which I take to be thernreal subtext of that question—well, onernof my English friends was sniffing aboutrnfor that, too. He was somewhat takenrnaback by one woman’s battle-flag T-shirtrnthat said “Heritage, Not Hate,” but relievedrnwhen the P.A. announcer concludedrna list of American wars with “Korea,rnVietnam, the Persian Gulf, LosrnAngeles.” He has been in American academicrnlife long enough to know that oppositionrnto burning and looting is just arnmask for racism.rnFor mv part, though, I was struck withrnthe fact that mv English friend had to dornsome decoding to conclude that we hadrnfallen among bigots. I mean, whenrnsmall-town and rural white Southernersrnha’e racist thoughts we’re notorious forrnnot keeping them to ourselves, and Irndidn’t hear any overtly racist talk all day.rnI did hear some strictures directed at thernjunior senator from Illinois, but, afterrnall, she started it.rnNo, the senator would not have beenrnwell-received, in the unlikely event shernhad chosen to make an appearance thatrnafternoon. On the other hand, while it’srntrue (and to my mind perfectly unremarkable)rnthat this was almost entirely arnwhite crowd, I stood for a while near arnmiddle-aged black man, who seemed tornbe having fun, like everybody else. If hernwas pulling for the Yankees he kept it tornhimself, but I don’t believe he’d haverntaken more than good-natured teasing ifrnhe’d ‘fessed up.rnAnd I wouldn’t have hesitated at all tornintroduce my friend Don to these guvs.rnDon is a Mississippian, now a collegernprofessor in Pennsylvania, and he belongsrnto something called the SablernArm, an organization with membershiprnlimited to direct descendants of blackrnUnion soldiers. He’s not a reenactor,rnbut some of his friends are. (Where dornyou think the 54th Massachusetts in thernmo’ie Glory came from?) If I had takenrnDon along that afternoon, I’m sure hernwould have been welcomed — kidded,rnperhaps, like the Union reenactors, butrnwelcomed. And he’d have understoodrnwhat was going on a good deal betterrnthan your average college professor.rn]ohn Shelton Reed writes from ChapelrnHill, North Carolina.rnMAY 1994/41rnrnrn