Bivouac Of the Dead

By Theodore O'Hara 

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The muffled drum's sad roll has beat
The soldier's last tattoo;
No more on Life's parade shall meet
That brave and fallen few.

On fame's eternal camping ground
Their silent tents to spread,
And glory guards, with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
 
No rumor of the foe's advance
Now swells upon the wind;
Nor troubled thought at midnight haunts
Of loved ones left behind;

No vision of the morrow's strife
The warrior's dreams alarms;
No braying horn or screaming fife
At dawn shall call to arms.
 
Their shriveled swords are red with rust,
Their plumed heads are bowed,
Their haughty banner, trailed in dust,
Is now their martial shroud.

And plenteous funeral tears have washed
The red stains from each brow,
And the proud forms, by battle gashed
Are free from anguish now.
 
The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,
The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout, are past;

Nor war's wild note, nor glory's peal
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.
 
Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps the great plateau,
Flushed with triumph, yet to gain,
Come down the serried foe,

Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew the watchword of the day
Was "Victory or death!"
 

Gettyburg

It wasn’t a planned stop, but after a week in Tennessee working on my apartments and three days on the road, I diverted to Gettysburg, only thirty miles from my annual route north and south.  For years I have whizzed by the city and historic battlefields of the Civil War where the south came to make a decisive statement in the north. I didn’t know what to expect.  I have been to great battlefields in Europe – Verdun and Normandy where nation’s victories were bought by the greatest of human sacrifices.  Here in the gentle fields and slopes of Pennsylvania the threshold to the greatest military engagement in the Western Hemisphere opened to reaffirm a Nation’s promise.  For three bloody days two armies collided. The battle turned the Civil War around for the Union, but the war was hardly over.

What words have not been said or written about these places where men died.  Despite the glory and the victories every man dies his own death on the battlefield. And if he walks away in whole or part, a bit of his soul died nevertheless.  For every man who remembers long after the smell of gun power has dissipated and walks the grounds where hell came to earth each takes away a stirring that separates him from the past, and yet connects him to his ancestors by blood or by cause.

They say, “Close your eyes and listen.”  This place among the rows of iron cannons and witness trees will speak. The wind will carry cries of men across the fields now full of song birds, and tiger lilies. Worm fences contain the spirits and souls of those who fought in sweat stained uniforms and blood soaked boots. The hollow grounds will whisper stories of torn and worn men, of flesh ripped from bones when to die was a blessing, to suffer a curse.

As I toured the front lines of the past engagements, I wondered about these men. Those who came from Texas and Maine, from New York and Louisiana, from Minnesota and South Carolina. Men who came from foreign lands and western frontiers. Of brothers and fathers, together and on opposing sides by fate or geography as much as philosophy. Here were the boys one day in June who woke in July to die as men.  Men of courage, of ignoble fear. Men of heroics, of cowardliness.  Men of God, of lost faith. Men who had everything to lose, others with nothing to gain.  Each sworn to the cause.

The cause?  States’ rights, slavery, expansion, Lincoln himself... However, the answer weighs more heavily... “that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.”

Semi-Déjà vu

I’m on my annual drive south to Tennessee to play landlord for the week.  The past chores have included power washing the building, painting the front porch railing, cleaning gutters, sweeping out the basement, chopping down trees, cleaning empty apartments. This year’s project is to repair the shower tile that is leaking, although I have hired help. Since the apartment is occupied I can’t afford my steep decision curve while I assess the next step or figure out how to resolve an unexpected situation – which is always likely to occur.

I’ve pressed hard since returning from Hawaii. Before leaving the Big Island I mapped out a schedule from the first of June to the third week of July when the track starts. Sure one week includes a day trip to New York City to see a friend from Germany, and there is time in New Hampshire where my sister and I expect to bag the summit of Mount Washington one fine day during the Fourth of July week. But the schedule also included Belmont and a paint project for a neighbor. Now this week. Time to truck to Knoxville, purchase tile, demolish a couple bathroom walls and reinstall new backer board then re-tile, grout...all without traumatizing the tenant’s 20 year old cat that I believe died three years ago. The cat never moves!

I started out this morning shortly after dawn. It’s 850 miles and in my 1989 Jeep, 70 mph feels like the wheels are about to take off without the chassis. I tool down the Interstate without any cruise control. I own the driving lane. Everyone else has the passing lane. 

I envisioned Winchester, Virginia as tonight’s destination but pushed on to Walnut Hill, near Staunton and called it quits when I saw a sign for a KOA Kampground. What the hell. I’m going to save forty bucks on a motel room, but I’ll miss out on ordering pizza and pigging out on the whole damn thing. Oh, yes, I’ve done this a few times.  I could chill in front of the TV, watch some two thumbs down HBO movie, propped up on four thick foam pillows, listening to the annoying rattle-hum of a dorm-size refrigerator and wondering what is under the bed.

Instead, I traded the motel for a campsite, a grease stained picnic table, and a flock of noisy mallards. My site is next to a tiny stream. Water/electric hook up.  I’ve pitched my tent six years away from a site where Diablo, Phoenix and I camped in my Dad’s RV.  It was mid-fall then and I had wrapped up my book tour. The day had been traumatic. A disintegrated tire in Wytheville, Virginia left us on the side of I-81 precariously close to the traffic where the vehicular wind whipped the tiny RV back and forth as we waited for a tow.  See November 10, 2006 blog.

Tonight, I’m snuggling down in my LL Bean sleeping bag before the mosquitoes descend on my carcass. I’m not roughing it too much. I got Wi-Fi, but nothing to eat or drink so I’ll venture out to find some snacks.

Wait just a minute. I saw an advertisement for Domino’s Pizza in the Kampground brochure. They deliver!

Belmont Again

Every year I swear I am not going. It is a long day that starts in the wee hours of the morning. With little to no sleep,  the Peace Officers and Security Guards from Saratoga Race Track board the chartered buses for the downstate track  We arrive to stand in ragged formation—some times in the rain—to be allocated out to our downstate supervisors with about as much emotion as the distribution of bowling shoes. Once assigned, the supervisors never introduce themselves, say welcome or thank you for coming. They escort us to our posts and give us parting remarks like “someone will relieve you” and “don’t leave your post” and then disappear for the rest of the day.  We are lucky if someone does relieve us. Most of the time we are on our own. After being on our feet since 7am and the last race done thirteen hours later, we are reassembled in the “Yard” to sweep the drunks and the diehards who won’t go home off the property. Then we board the buses to arrive back in Saratoga twenty four hours later. 

For this we are compensated with deli sandwiches made with bread the Jews lived on while wandering in the desert. There are no condiments for this deli treat made with a wilted lettuce, rubbery cheese slices and cold cut meats. It arrives from Patterson, New Jersey without any chips, or plates or napkins and warm soda.  They even pack up the leftovers to feed us when we stop the bus for a pee break on the return trip. The sandwiches are dragged out from under the bus like a dead body for the vultures to feed upon. For the privilege to go to Belmont to see history in horse racing we get $225.

I wasn’t going this year, but with the prospect of a Triple Crown there was no way I would miss it. Then I’ll Have Another scratched, but I was committed.  I was assigned to relief so I worked my ass off making sure I covered my four assigned Peace Officers. No freaking way was I going to give these guys just a one hour assigned break as instructed by the sergeant.   I finally took a break at 5 pm wandering off to find a semi-quiet spot behind the racing office. By then, I had been up 24 hours and knew I had a good eight hours to go before I hit my bed.

So why go? I always said there is nothing like experiencing the excitement of the crowd as the thoroughbreds take the turn at the top of the stretch and bring lean muscle and speed thundering across the finish line. Even the casual observer can't ignore the crowd's new personality built on high hopes and wild dreams of being witness to horse racing history.  In Saratoga, I experience this apart from the crowd. At Belmont, I stood in the crowd packed in on the ground floor of the grandstand.  The average Joes mingle here with beer, cigar and a two dollar bet dressed in everything from a Hollister t-shirt and flip-flops to a cheesy seersucker sport jacket and green tie. All day I slowly wove through the crowd looking for idiots.

In accordance with New York State law there is no smoking in the building. I watched a guy light his cigar steps away from the betting window. It went up like a blow torch. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” I barked.

“Oh, is there no smoking?” Twenty feet away suspended from the ceiling a huge sign hung. I looked up at it.

“Com’on” drawing the phrase out in typical New York fashion. "It’s NY State. You know better. Besides, I thought you had some out of control barbeque thing going on there. For crying out loud.”

He sheepishly crushed the lit end of the cigar on the sole of his shoe. I walked away.

At Saratoga they play the Star Spangled Banner about and hour and fifteen minutes before post time. My job requires that I stand at attention and salute; I would do nothing less. In the four years I have been going to Belmont, I don’t recall hearing the National Anthem, but some time about the fifth race I picked it out of the din in the grandstand. I had been sitting outside the Canadian Press Box. I stood. I didn’t salute because I couldn’t see the infield or flag from my post. I removed my headgear. I watched the crowd. Not a single person paused, hesitated or even flinched. No one stopped a conversation. No one stopped walking. The reaction could not have been more oblivious if it had been elevator music. And yet before the Belmont Stakes post parade the speakers blared New York, New York.  People erupted in cheer. They danced and sang with Frank Sinatra. I stood in the sea of humanity dumbfounded.

It was 3 am when I got home.  I ate breakfast: cereal, yogurt and strawberries and then crawled under the covers. I swear, I don’t want to do that again, but we will see what happens after next year’s Kentucky Derby and Preakness.