Forgotten Yankees of East Tennessee

“Damn its cold!” muttered Sergeant Ford as he rubbed his hands together to get the blood flowing.  His breath hung heavy in the air as the snow began to fall heavily.   It was an unusually cold and snowy January day as most of the men of 1^st Tennessee Infantry Regiment, Army of the Cumberland, United States Army were rising to face whatever this damn war threw at them today.  Most of the men were lost in their thoughts of home, loved ones and of the carnage they had seen yesterday.  The majority of these men were Tennessee ridge runners from Anderson and Roane counties of East Tennessee.  Being in Murfreesboro only made matters worse knowing that they were a one or two day horseback ride from home.  They did take small comfort in knowing that the Johnny Rebs were just as cold and wet as they were and, most likely, were a helluva lot hungrier.

            There was the usual moaning and groaning that goes with life in the trenches.  Soldiers’ cussing each other, soldiers cussing NCO’s but mostly soldiers cussing the officers and the “big picture.”  The big picture – General Braxton Bragg and his rebels had been forced out of Kentucky back into Mississippi after the Battle of Perryville in October of 1862. Now they were back in Tennessee wanting to take Nashville and Major General William Rosecrans and his Army of the Cumberland could not, would not let that happen! 

“Hey John, Sergeant Ford, take a look at that group of officers,” I yelled, “ something must be up.”  “Hell if I know,” replied John , “but you had best make sure your men have plenty of ammo and something to eat.  It could be a long day.”  I only nodded and thought about “my men.”  They were veterans now, bloodied at many places in Kentucky and Tennessee.  Many had been wounded before and all knew what was expected of them.  The weak ones were long gone – weeded out by the hard life of a soldier.  A lot of the best ones were either dead or maimed both physically and emotionally, but they were gone just the same. 

I was deep in thought, thinking about some of the best who were gone, Cook, Rucker, Franklin. Hell, disease had gotten as many of them as the damn rebels had.  Suddenly the bugle call “to arms” was sounded.  Immediately the men sprang into action, grabbing rifles and haversacks and filling their firing pits.  “The Johnny Rebs must be starting their assault,” I said out loud to no one in particular, “this cold ass day is going to heat up in a hurry!”

            Out of the January mist, the men got their first glimpse of the boys in gray and butternut.  Their line stretched for hundred of yards wide and was at least five ranks deep.  The boys in blue were struck by the discipline of their counterparts in gray.  “Damn,” muttered Captain Chiles as he peered through his binoculars, “that’s the 26^th Tennessee Infantry coming this way. All them boys are from our neck of the woods, damn, damn, damn!”  Many of the Tennessee ridge runners were thinking of brothers, cousins and friends who had chosen confederate gray over union blue – would they meet eye to eye, face to face on this cold January morning?  As I looked over at Sergeant John Ford, our eyes met and seemed to say, “how the hell did we end up here?”