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Wednesday, November 17, 1999

Life in the Continential Army can be quite pleasant apart from the 4 a.m. wakeup call.

The camp was already buzzing with activity when I pulled in this morning. Some of the re-enactors were already in uniform, although the sun wasn't expect to appear until two hours later. Now an experienced hand, after signing in, I opt for a hearty breakfast of eggs on a croissant the size of a tea saucer, sausage patties and coffee, followed by a second breakfast of cereal and lots of milk. Remembering my reading from James Jones' "WWII" book, I had recalled the soldier's lesson that you eat when you can because you don't know when you'll eat again. I also discovered that the haversack they gave me to wear was a perfect place to stow my camera, notebook, pens, apples and water bottles. I had heard tales that, early in production, breaks for water and bathrooms were rare, and it took some fainting extras to cause people to be more careful.

In the wardrobe tent, I check the call sheet. Mel's name today: Long Duck Dong.

Now I'm back in the tent, dressed, made up and propped, eating a cold bagel with more coffee and milk. This time I'm luckier. I have a rifle. Not that I can do much with it, being made of rubber. But it's light and the only way the rubber bayonet in my scabbard will do any damage will be if I poke my eye out while running with it.

The tent is crowded with soldiers. I notice that segregation is in effect, both by race, but also by army. Few Continentials dally with the Redcoats, and even the officers seem to share conversation only with other officers. A DA named Jefferson announces over the megaphone. After they wrap filming for the day, they'll roll the rushes from earlier films for anyone interested in watching.

We're loaded onto the truck early this morning. The sun's not even up. It's cold in the truck with its metal benches, and it being dark, the jokes are flying, about German directors and Mexican immigrants. I smoke a cigarette provided by a vet of the Army National Guard, who noted that life as an extra was remarkably like life in the military.

It turned out that after a long spell of balmy weather, that winter decided to show up the week I was filming. The week after, overnight temperatures returned to its Southern nature.

We're bought to the end of the road leading to the field, where we get out and march. It's foot-numbingly cold. Frost is on the ground. A dim light can be seen, but the sun is just on the verge of rising. We line up on the field. This is a special shot, set up to take advantage of the winter weather. Instead of 1781, it's several years earlier, when the Continentials were getting kicked around the battlefield. We're filming a skirmish in which a thin line of Cas face a heavier British line. They fire two volleys, then charge in formation, drums playing. The assistant director in charge of the scene comes down the line and tells us our fates: you fire twice then run; in the first volley you die; you stay and receive the charge. I'm given one of the more meatier jobs. From my post in the second row, I'm to fire once, then backpedal, torn between fighting and running. I fire again, then die when the British fire another volley.

Along the way, I begin to learn the commands. "Shoulder your fire lock" is easy. "Order your fire lock," means set the hilt of your musket on the ground. "Dress left" and "Dress right" or "Dress to the colors" keeps the soldiers in line.

Then there's the termonology of filmmaking. "Picture's up" means the cameraman is looking at the scene through the camera. "Sound" presumably means that the tape is rolling. "Rolling." means what you think.

Harry, the man responsible for weapons, comes by and delivers a lecture about firearm safety. Although a genial Oriential whose name I've forgotten, he's a feared man, capable of confiscating the musket of any soldier dumb enough to point them without permission, or cover the barrel with his hand.

Standing there, numb with cold, our breath hanging in the misty air, there's a sense of tension about this scene. The camera is aimed so that it will catch the rising sun at the far end of the field. If done right, it will be a stunning scene. But it can only be done once. As we wait, the field gets lighter and lighter. Will they be able to start on time? They can't crank down the sun and try again, you know.

Then the snow fell. Big flakes of the stuff, down from the sky. I catch one and look at it. The consistency of soap. Some machine near the camera is churning a small shower of the stuff and spreading it evenly down a hundred yards of field. Amazing.

We hear the sequence of orders: "Picture's up!" "Sound" "X mark" "Y mark" "XY mark" "Rolling," then "Action!"

The British level their weapons and fire. Men fall quietly around me. I raise my rifle and mimc shooting, then backstep into the field. The footing is rough, and remembering my Civil War reading mimc the motions of reaching for a powder charge, pouring it down the barrel, dropping the ball down then firing again. I turn and run, then fall face-first.

Big mistake. In my quest for realism, I didn't take into account that the ground was cold, damp and full of grass. But I'm committed and I could hear the drums pacing the British bayonet charge. I lay still, chewing on a few stray blades, and hear the steady trmp of boots around me. When the scene's over, I learn that my rubber bayonet fell off somewhere during my flight. Worry: will I get in trouble with the prop people over it?

We shoot four takes in all, and each one seemed to get better. Those who die learn the right way to go about it. I learn to wait for the volley before falling. I also learn to fall on my back, which gives me the chance to see the British soldiers march over my body. One scene, I managed a neat death by falling down to a seated position, then flopping back.

We're using .75 caliber Brown Bess replicas. Talking with some of the re-enactors, I learn that there are several models being used. One had been created by a Japanese company shortly after the war (World War II, not the Revolutionary War). They had been given a rifle and told to mimic it. They did, right down to the flattened dent in the trigger guard, an error which remains uncorrected to this day.

More scenes shot today:

*Long complicated scene: militia runs down hill, falls under our guns, we fire, they fire, Brits fall.

* Scene shot on track behind us. We fire (one in three or one in four given charges, to minimize the smoke), Mel leads charge up hill. We stay put.

* The British charge down the hill while I'm part of a group of 12 firing down on them.

* The ambush on the other side of the field, in which I'm running across the top of the hill with 30 other soldiers and firing down on the British. We're racing the sunset, so there's lots of hurry, lots of crossed orders. My gun misfiring on each take. I'm amazed nobody got hurt.

By now, I've forgotten so much that trying to reconstruct the days is like fitting together a half-filled jigsaw puzzle. Incidents come to mind bit by bit.

Fell in with a quartet of stunt men. Not that we're doing anything dangerous, but we need more soldiers to fill out the ranks. They're the most ribald and tasteless group of men I've ever encountered. In between the fucks and motherfuckers some sentences pass their lips, but rarely. Some of it is just talking to yourself building yourself up.

There are accidents on the set. During the charge downhill, one man on the ground was hit in the head by a horse. He was taken off to the hospital. Powder burns are more frequent, and Gary, a reenactor, told how his hair was set on fire during on take when a back-row soldier put his rifle too close to his long hair.

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All material is ©2000 Bill Peschel unless otherwise noted.