Schroeder - Man of war : my adventures in the world of historical reenactment

T his book wouldnt exist without the reenactors who shared their time, knowledge, uniforms, tents, weapons, boats, provisions and bug spray with me. In roughly the order we met, I doff my kepi to them now: Lou Lopez, Matt Charapata, Randy Beard, Brian Abela, Vinnie Francischetti and Dan Armstrong; Robert Niepert, Buddy Jimmerson, Rich Howe and the rest of the 7th Michigan and 5th Florida units; Arik Greenberg, David Michaels, Mike Scott, Brandon Barnes, John Olinger, Lorie Ann Hambly, Jim Pieper, Dan Peterson, Julius Feigelson and the Fort Lafe staff; Rik and Tarrah Fox, Josh Wojda and Bruce Willis; Jane and Robert Whiteside, Marilyn Hess, Angie Potter, the Studzinksi family and Craig McGirr; Donlyn Meyers and the Smoke and Fire staff, Tony Baker, George Neal, the members of Schuylers Company (especially John Osinski, Kevin Richard-Morrow, Harvey and Mary Alexander, Tom Quinn and Jonathan Pirillo) and the Old Fort Niagara staff, in particular Jere Brubaker, Eric Bloomquist and Bob Emerson; David, Reb and Bill Manthey; Rick Russell and Greg Ketchem; Patrick Hubble and family; Jack Garrett, Ed Berland, Brian Agron, Tory Parker, Kay Tracy, Henrik Olsgaard, Rick Mantegani, Annie Petersen and all my fellow Vikings of Bjornstad.

Chuck Lyons at the San Gabriel Mission drummed up local media interest in my walk and many friends either accompanied me, volunteered to be a Sherpa soldier or cheered my hike on from afar via Twitter and Facebook. They are: Loren Tarquinio, Hiro Saito, Ray Perez, Arthur Yuen, Cliff Eberly, the Rein Family (Ayr, Perry, Maisie and Angus), Simeen Maghame, Eric Beckett, Tom OLeary, J. Ana Flores, Ian Helfer, Laura Flanagan, Michael Goldfried, Jay Reiss, Rebecca Feldman, Sylvie Reiss, Justin Lukach, Carrie Yutzy, Allison Klein, the Hovanesian family (Jarmen, Edi, Sean and Alan), Ryan Noll, Mollie Burns, Eliza Burns, Scott Haverstick, P.J. McSparran, Ped Demling, Curt Lam, Keith Patterson, Amanda Miller, Chris Donovan, Sabrina Martin, Joseph Klein, Nandita Shenoy and John Aboud.

Mike Gerber, the great Josh Karp, Drew Fellman, Krissy Clark, Pamm Higgins, Adam Fifield and Michael May either read early drafts or advised me on the writing/reporting process. David Johnston volunteered his photography skills and Skye Moorhead lent us her studio. Also, a big thanks to the Naked Angels Theater Company and Potluck Playhouse members who let me read excerpts at their respective reading series.

Josh Johns, Nate Althouse, Justen Byler, Cathy Brown, Todd Miller, Noel Poirier, Marianne Heckles, Mara Creswell McGrann and Cassie Creswell all helped clarify some of my very hazy memories of high school history class. Rodney Channing Welch III cleaned off his sofa so I could crash on it during my Bay Area visits. The kind Bona Lee Kim made my mission walk informational flyer and Patti Thompson offered technical expertise. Thanks to Liz Engel and Dan Regan, who patiently lent an ear during my many moments of title angst. Dank geht an Ruth Sarah Erkens fr ihrere groartige bersetzungsarbeit.

At Hudson Street Press and Penguin, a hardworking and enthusiastic team has supported me every step of the way. You couldnt ask for a better battalion than Caroline Sutton, John Fagan, Ashley Pattison, Courtney Nobile, Liz Keenan and Katie Hurley. The talented Meghan Stevenson deserves the biggest huzzah of all, however. She took a risk on a first-time author (me) and provided finely detailed editing at every step of the writing process. I raise a goblet of mead to you and then I chug it.

Jonathan Lyons believed in this project before anyone else and delivered excellent counsel throughout the entire process. He helped shape the proposal and manuscript, and, as an agent, went way, way beyond the call of duty. Bomb, you the.

My parents, Robert and Gail Schroeder, and my brother, Rob, read drafts, suggested funny lines (my dads Friar Chuck), title ideas (my moms Pooping in the Woods), support (my brothers I think youve become a little too obsessed) and tremendous patience during the year and a half of my often hermetic writing life. Sorry for being so AWOL.

And finally, my wife Wendy put up with my mischief making more than any spouse should, enduring my physical and mental absences (not to mention my unsightly hairstyles). She is truly my better half and as clich as it sounds, I literally couldnt have written this book without her. Ngoh ngoi nei.

B ang.

The Russian sniper had been perched up in a tree, about ten feet off the ground and shrouded by branches. I hadnt seen him from where I was, 150 feet away, half crouched over in bone-dry reeds. The only indication that he was there, straddling a thick bough, was the burst of fire I saw shoot out of his rifle. It flashed quickly, like a small angry dragon. Because the spark was so vivid, so direct, more yellow than orange, I knew that his weapon had been aimed at me. A few hours earlier Id been told by the reenactment organizers that if I saw such a pointed conflagration, it meant Id been killed. Now it was time for me to take what one of my fellow combatants called a dirt nap. Which I was more than happy to do, because my back was killing me.

After an hour-long break in which I unwisely lounged under a tree within spraying distance of an incontinent stallion, I was back on my feet marching with my fellow soldiers up a long dusty road. But Id rather have been dead. Dead meant sitting down by the side of the road and chugging water. Dead meant resting my feet and massaging my calf muscles. Dead meant taking a time-out from being a grunt.

It wasnt the three-mile hike that crippled me and made my back seize up. It was lugging the twenty pounds of military gear: a rifle, C rations, canteen, shovel, parts of a tent, sixty blanks, gas mask canister, mess kit and my rolled-up greatcoat. Had I been to the gym in the last three years it might not have affected me all that badly, but I hadnt. If I had to be honest, I probably hadnt walked more than a couple miles in the last three years. I was an out-of-shape, soft twenty-first-century American whod just traveled back in time, and the thin leather Y-straps that held all my gear in place were digging into my shoulders like a three-year-old whod never trimmed his nails. I wanted to go back to the future. Now.

Vroom.

A large hybrid military vehicle with wheels in front and caterpillar tracks in back, called a half-track, roared by, kicking up a cloud of dirt that coated my dried lips and stung my eyes. It was late afternoon in early October, the sun directly in front of me and autumn low. I looked down to avert my eyes from it. Thats when I saw the small swastika sewed onto my jackets right breast pocket. What am I doing? I wondered. How did I end up here, in the barren plains of Colorado, reenacting the 24th Panzers drive on Stalingrad? But deep down I knew the answer. Id come because I wanted to learn about history.

The plan was for our division of Nazis to spend the night in an abandoned one-room schoolhouse, perched atop a rise in the otherwise flat high-desert terrain. The ninety of us would all take turns sleepingnapping, reallythen once we were rejuvenated wed relieve other squad members who were hunkered down in foxholes and keeping an eye out for the Russians. Once the clock struck 3:00 a.m., the entire 24th Panzer would launch a surprise attack on Stalins Red Army. All seventy of them.

But with every labored step it was becoming more apparent that reaching the schoolhouse might be the most grueling part of our mission. Stretching far ahead, the one-lane dirt road rose out of the valley at a steep and steady incline. After our last skirmish with the Russians in a thick cluster of cottonwoods, I was covered in burrs. My legs buckled with every step. My squad leader, Matt, who marched behind me, could tell I was worn out and suggested I hitch a ride the next time a motorcycle passed by. As bad as I felt, it could have been worse. One soldier was throwing up from dehydration and a few other weary men threatened to quit if they didnt start seeing more combat.