In July 1861 and  again in August 1862, the Union Army got their asses kicked at what some call the Manassas turkey shoot. It wasn’t their fault. They had poor leadership and no military training. They probably sat around playing with their i-pocketknives and did virtual shooting. They actually teach you how to shoot in Virginia. It’s a rite of passage. In fact, if you check, you’ll probably find the majority of America’s best snipers came from south of the Mason Dixon line.

For the first Manassas, the Union boys were so full of themselves, they invited their wives and girlfriends out for the day. Baaaaaad idea. They’re still so embarrassed about it they call it the Battle of Bull Run. I don’t know what they called the second one. It was far worse than BR I even without the women.

Fast forward to 1959. It’s fifty eight years later and Den # 7, Cub Scout Pack 220 of the Greater Falls Church area and the Northern Virginia Klavern  was out on its maiden field trip to Manassas. We studied all about how the Northern boys cut and run and what a bad thing that was. We were taught to have compassion on them even though they were our conquerors. We were also assured by the Park Ranger that the South had a plan and would rise again. Back then it was okay to be politically correct.

We went out onto the actual battlefield and lo- thousands, hell, millions of bullets still lay there on the red Virginia clay. Being industrious packrats, we picked up enough to fill our pockets. There were rusted out swivel slings for muskets and the occasional lockset of rusted out muskets. All this was free to the public. No strictures were place on souvenir hunting. The occasional cannonball showed its bald head here and there. My pockets weren’t big enough. I thought about it, too.

Fast forward to 2011. Mom passed in October of 2009 and the inheritance trickled back in bits and pieces. My old rock box from a  1962 Science Fair arrived and there were two of the bullets I’d picked up fifty two years ago.

Footlocker

I rescued this from her closet in 1982 when I was back there picking up my hold baggage footlocker full of goodies she’d kept since 72. It’s Great Grampa’s .58 calibre caplock from the War. They were supposed to turn them all in when they surrendered but some were allowed to keep theirs for hunting as here. It’s like a Civil War DEWAT now.

Being the eternal optimist, I fired it one last time with a .54 and lots of patch to see if it worked in 1998. It did. It’s been retired and the Park ranger lied. The South never rose again.

P.S. Click on them to zoom in for a better view.