Civil War not for faint-hearted

Finally the drilling was over.

With musket in hand, Private Doug tramped onto a weedy field with his comrades in blue to be tested by the smoke and fire of faux combat.

Private Doug got an “F.”

My apologies to anyone who witnessed my chickenhearted behavior at the Civil War re-enactment battle Saturday at Riverside State Park.

What can I say?

I snapped.

When the gunpowder got going, Private Doug grabbed his gun and took a powder.

I ran from the battleground, shrieking like a schoolgirl with a wombat down her bloomers.

I took the coward’s way out. But it’s not my fault. The re-enactors broke me. They ground me into grits and broke me.

First they told me to show up at their encampment at 6:30 in the morning. Then they put me in this ill-fitting, itchy wool Union uniform and marched me around the woods for what seemed like 12 freaking hours.

Shoulder arms. About face. Order arms. Parade rest. Attention. Oblique march. Double quick march…

I’m a 53-year-old man.

My joints complain like Kerry supporters about Bush when I crawl out of bed in the morning. I pay a kid to mow my lawn. The only time I move double quick is when I’m headed to the fridge for more pie.

The other day some punk kid tried to sell me a senior-discount movie ticket. I would have smacked him if I hadn’t been so tired.

The last time I charged anything was at Nordstrom. For relaxed-fit pants.

And here it is, Memorial Day weekend.

This is supposed be the time to stop and smell the Four Roses.

I’m usually home, parked on my deck, swilling margaritas and watching my gas grill incinerate a hunk of wildebeest.

But not this year. This year I gave up the Life of Reilly to go play Civil War because, hey, I thought it would be fun.

We’d all dress up a little. We’d carry some cool guns. We’d go bang-bang at each other like back when I was a kid playing Army with my best friend, Dennis Green, in the neighborhood vacant lots.

But these re-enactors aren’t playing. These people spend hundreds of dollars on uniforms and muzzle-loading rifles and swords and special canteens and horses and cannons and butt-ugly archaic footwear.

And why?

Because these people think they really are fighting the freaking CIVIL WAR!

You civilians really should go check this out. The encampment continues today until 5 p.m. at Riverside State Park, two miles northwest of Spokane Falls Community College. If you get lost, open a car window. Listen for gunfire.

Of course, it’s not really the Civil War. Because where in the name of Gen. Ulysses Sloshed Grant is the booze?

Back then every grunt soldier got plenty of alcohol. How else do you think they got all those poor dumb fools to stand out in the open and take turns turning each other into Minie ball mincemeat?

“Aaaaaahhhhhhhaaaaayyyy!!!”

You’ve heard of the Rebel Yell?

Private Doug will be forever known by re-enactors as the inventor of the Yeller-Belly Yell.

It gets worse. On my way back to camp, I crossed the paths of a couple of women who were all gussied up in Civil War era hoop skirts.

I told them the whole sad story. Then I made a comment that would deepen the foxhole of my debasement. I told them I’d been so cowardly that, “If I had a dress, I’d put it on and wear it back to the battlefield.”

Lorraine Costanza smiled. “I think I can fix you up,” she said.

A few minutes later I was headed back to the skirmish in a red ruffled skirt and a red feathered hat.

“Give ‘em hell, boys,” I shouted to my former buddies in arms. “God save the Queen.”

I can only imagine parents trying to explain to their children the Civil War significance of that.

Oh well, in the end it was all theater. Everybody out there was playing some kind of role.

A number of women, in fact, were actually fighting in the re-enactment army as men. Some of them even wore fake moustaches.

I was merely adding a new twist to the festivities.

Call me Scarlett Doug’Hara.

With cheeks burning I scampered back to camp and hurriedly changed into my civvies. One of the little voices in my head told me I’d better vamoose. Pronto.

It was only a matter of time before the troops tired of fighting each other and united in a greater cause: to treat me to a re-enactment of a firing squad.