Civil War Coffee

Quick!  Who became President of the United States because of coffee?  You can check your answer a little later.

Andy Jackson did not owe his presidency to coffee, but he was certainly a man who enjoyed an occasional drink—and I don’t mean coffee.  He understood alcohol and what it could do to the men who drank it.  So, it is not all that surprising that in 1832, as President and Commander in Chief of the Army, he ended the daily liquor ration for the troops.  Instead of whiskey, the men were to get coffee—a tradition that lasts to this day.

This simple step probably saved more lives than you think, not just because it lessened risk for—but by no means protected all—intoxicated men with weapons from the occasional accident.  It was the boiling of the liquid that saved the most lives.  The simple process of making hot water helped eliminate some of the dangers of dysentery and cholera, either of which killed more soldiers in the 19^th century than bullets.

Without knowing about germ theory, people noticed the healthful quality of a morning cup of coffee.  A US Army field manual from 1861 even included the helpful advice:   “Coffee tastes better if the latrines are dug downstream from an encampment.”

During the Civil War, the standard Northern coffee daily ration was ten pounds of green coffee per 100 men.  A supply sufficient for two to three days was apportioned into small piles, each issued to a single soldier, who would wrap it in paper, oiled cloth, or rubber bag to protect the valuable commodity.    When possible, each man would bring water to a boil in his tin dipper or a special tiny pot called a ‘mucket’ and add enough of the ground coffee to the hot water to make a single cup of coffee.  How much to add was a constant battle between the availability of a coffee ration and the demands of hunger.

According to long established military tradition, there are five grades of coffee; Coffee, Java, Joe, Jamoke, and Carbon Remover.  The bottom two can only be made by true coffee illiterates; tea drinkers, the US Army, and Mormons.  If you are making your coffee in a tin cup, held with baling wire over a camp fire, using pathogen-laden water, darkened with stale coffee and moldy sugar….you should probably make the coffee strong enough to float a horseshoe.  When the coffee was strong enough, a splash of cold water would be added to the pot to settle the grounds to the bottom of the pot and a cup of coffee could be gently poured into a tin cup.

The standard practice when the coffee was ready, was for the soldier to pour a little onto his tin plate to help clean it, dump it out, and then add hardtack to what remained in the cup.  These brick-hard crackers could not be eaten until moistened in something, and submerging them in hot coffee was probably as beneficial to the soldier’s health as it was to his teeth.  There was a reason the soldiers called hardtack ‘worm castles’.

Try to visualize the scene.  During the war, wherever the Army of the Potomac stopped for the night, it was suddenly the second largest town in the Confederacy.  Hundreds of tiny fires would be lit from scavenged sticks and repurposed fence posts.  Then a strange buzzing noise would fill the air as shared coffee grinders were put to work for the evening meal.

During the Civil War, the army tried to simplify the distribution of coffee by dispensing a form of ‘instant coffee that was a dehydrated essence of coffee and sugar that looked and tasted like petroleum.  Distributed in quart cans, a teaspoon mixed with hot water produced a cup of ‘instant coffee’ that no soldier would touch.   The army rather quickly withdrew this product from distribution.

Coffee was absolutely necessary to the men.  A recent study of Civil War diaries revealed that solders mentioned coffee more often than ‘rifle’, ‘cannon’, or ‘bullet’. 

By the end of the war, the average Union soldier consumed 36 pounds of it a year!  Most of it was issued green, with the soldiers roasting and grinding the beans themselves, using makeshift tools and improvised methods.  One rifle was even manufactured with a coffee grinder built into the stock!

One Union general even timed his army’s attacks based on when his men had consumed their morning coffee.  As General Benjamin Butler assured another general, “If your men get their coffee early in the morning you can hold.”

In the South, things were not quite so cheery.  After President Lincoln ordered a naval blockade of Southern ports, coffee and tea became increasingly difficult to obtain and the price per pound skyrocketed.  Starting at about $3.00 a pound, by the close of the war, coffee was almost impossible to obtain even at the escalated price of $60 per pound.

This shortage led to the South's inventing a variety of what came to be called ‘Lincoln Coffee’.  The list of coffee substitutes is almost endless.  If it was green and could be grown, then somebody, somewhere used it to make "coffee" by drying, roasting, grinding, and percolating it.  Peanuts, barley, okra seeds, acorns, barley, beans, beets, bran, chestnuts, chicory, corn meal, cotton seeds, dandelion, sweet potatoes, peas, persimmons, rice, rye sorghum molasses, sugar cane seeds, watermelon seeds and wheat berries were just a few of the things tried.  Local newspapers would even publish recipes on how to brew something that just might—kind of—look like coffee.  The most desperate for coffee have to have been the Union prisoners of war in Andersonville, who tried to brew coffee with scorched slivers of wood.

It is safe to say that none of this tasted like coffee unless you had the type of imagination that was brought on by severe deprivation.  A few of these recipes would surface again in the Great Depression of the 1930’s, but today the reminder of this ersatz coffee can be found in Louisiana where chicory is still routinely added to coffee.

And the president who owes his start to coffee?  During the Battle of Antietam, a nineteen year-old Sergeant McKinley was mentioned in dispatches when he braved enemy fire by taking coffee and food to the men at the front line.  His bravery under fire earned him the personal friendship of Rutherford B. Hayes and a promotion to the rank of Lieutenant. 

For decades after the war, every politician running for office used his war record, a practice known as 'waving the bloody flag'. The last veteran of the Civil War to live in the White House, McKinley ended the war with the rank of Brevet Major, and for the next thirty years campaigned on the basis of a 'bloody coffee cup'.  If you visit Antietam, there is a monument—thirty-three feet tall—to McKinley and his coffee run.  

Papel Picado

Papel Picado, or ‘perforated paper’ is a Mexican handcraft or folk art dating back centuries.  Intricate designs are cut into multi-colored tissue paper using chisels and scissors.  These sheets are hung from strings to form long banners that can hang from houses, across streets, and decorate the walls of rooms.

Frankly, these are one of those things that everyone in the southwest frequently sees, rarely actually notices, and never has any idea that it actually has a name—much less that its form is the result of influences from around the world.

Present at almost every form of celebration such as baptisms, weddings, and funerals, they can also be found during holidays—especially during the “Days of the Dead”, Christmas, and Independence Day.

An interesting element of this art is the very ephemeral nature of the materials used.  Usually, the art is left to the mercy of the elements and disintegrates in only a few weeks, so there are very few historic examples of this art form.  This aggravates the problem of understanding the origins of this Mexican tradition.

Long before the Spanish arrived, the Aztecs had a tradition of making a form of paper called amatl from mulberry and fig bark.  The Aztecs used huge amounts of this paper and the surrounding villages and conquered tribes paid almost half a million sheets a year to the Aztecs as a form of bribe.  (Those who fell behind in paying their taxes got a one-way trip up the side of a ceremonial pyramid.)

Besides using the amatl for writing and painting, the Aztecs used obsidian knives to cut the paper to produce silhouettes, primarily of a ceremonial nature, and included images of the numerous Aztec gods and goddesses (a practice that was discouraged by their Christian conquerors).  While few examples of the Aztec work survive today, amatl (now usually called amate) made in the traditional method is making something of a comeback today and is prized by artists.   I recently admired, but could not afford, a reproduction volume of Aztec codices painted on amate.

The traditional form of the art changed with the arrival of the Spanish.  China had invented the process of paper making in 105 AD, and by the sixth century, they had developed their own artistic style of cutting paper.  Called jianzhi (cut paper), both the new art form and the method of making paper spread westward across Asia along trade routes.  By 1150 AD, the Moors began making paper in newly conquered Spain.  The Moors, however would not allow graven images, so the art work was limited to geometric designs, and calligraphy expressing scriptures.

Both the knowledge of paper production, and the form of artwork associated with it spread rapidly across Europe.  In Germany it was called asscherenschnitte, in Poland, it was known as wycinanki, and in France it became silhouettes.   And when the Spanish came to New Spain (Mexico), they brought the tradition with them.  The Spanish introduced a new culture, with a different language, religion, tools, and art traditions with them.

In Mexico, artisans abandoned the obsidian blades, and adopted metal chisels that could cut through multiple layers of paper accurately.  Today’s artists may use dozens of chisels, called fierritos, each with a different shape.  They work the paper, much like a leather worker uses his tools, to create intricate designs in the paper.

Shortly after the Spanish conquered Mexico, they took possession of the Philippines.  The Black Galleon of Manila, an annual convoy of goods from the Philippines, brought the merchandise from the Far East to Mexico, and among the silks and porcelain from China, was a new form of fine paper that was often used to wrap and protect the fine porcelain.  Called papel de China (Chinese paper), it proved a perfect medium for carving, for as many as 40 pages could be duplicated at one time.

Note.  This was also the likely origin of the luminarias (the term used in the south half of New Mexico), or farolitos (the term used in the north half of New Mexico) that are used to decorate walkways in front of southwestern homes at Christmas time.  It was probably Chinese paper lanterns that inspired the sand-filled paper bags that hold candles.  The tradition continues to evolve: lately the Spanglish term for these lights has morphed into bag-a-litos (the term used by pendejos gringos) and occasionally the new artificial plastic bags equipped with electric lights are called ‘fake-a-litos’ (the term used by idiotas). 

Today, papel picado is still very popular.  . Much of the papel picado available in today's folk art market comes from the village of San Salvador Huixcolotla, Puebla, which lies southeast of Mexico City.  It is no longer necessary to go to the market to purchase it, since custom banners of any length, proclaiming any message, can be purchased on the internet.

Distressingly, just as the purchase method has changed, the art form has morphed a little, too.  You no longer have to purchase your banners on flimsy tissue paper that will vanish with the next rain or spring wind.  Today, you can buy papel picado cut from plastic sheets that hang from nylon strings.  I have no doubt that somewhere, someone has replaced the sharpened chisels with laser printers that can cut out computer-generated art work.  And the modern form of this “art” will probably last in our landfills far longer than the people who produced it.  The Aztecs could never have begun to imagine that!

That Sinking Feeling

Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt stood at the railing of the stricken ship, fully aware that it had only minutes left to stay afloat.  The heir to the massive Vanderbilt fortune was certain that when it finally did sink, he would die like most of the other passengers gathered alongside him on the crowded, sloping deck.

Just a few minutes earlier, he had believed that he might have a slim chance of survival, because he had put on his life preserver as soon as the ship's steward had advised him to do so.   Both he and Ronald Denyer, his valet, had gathered on the boat deck to wait while the women and children boarded the lifeboats first.

As one of the wealthiest men aboard—indeed, one of the wealthiest men in the world—he was well-known and his face was familiar to most of the first-class passengers gathered around him.  Perhaps that is why a young woman, Alice Middleton, had asked him to help her, and the young child she was holding, to safety.  The poor woman had no life preserver, so Vanderbilt tried to find a crewman who might locate a spare, but every available member of the ship's crew seemed to be struggling in the attempt to lower one of the remaining lifeboats.

With no other recourse (and as dozens of passengers watched), the gallant multi-millionaire removed his own life vest and carefully tied it around the young woman's shoulders as she tearfully clutched the infant to her breast.

Vanderbilt knew that this act almost certainly guaranteed his own death, since--despite enjoying an international reputation as a sportsman--he did not know how to swim.  As the ship's deck continued to tilt, it was increasingly obvious that not all of the ship's lifeboats could be launched before the ship foundered.

As Vanderbilt stood beside his valet, with his eyes fixed on the impossibly cold water he would soon be forced to enter, he had only a few minutes left for personal reflection.  He had followed the news about the building of the RMS Titanic with great interest.  After all, his family had been in the shipping business for generations and--with both business and personal interests on both sides of the Atlantic--he made the crossing several times a year.

Everything he had heard about the Titanic had impressed him:  the ship's size, speed, and opulent grandeur were deliberately planned to compete with the rival Cunard Line's RMS Lusitania.  His friend, J. P. Morgan held controlling interest in the International Maritime Marine which controlled the White Star Line, which owned the Titanic.  Morgan had convinced him to book passage on the great ship's maiden voyage.  The men had each reserved passage in the largest suites, each of which came with such amenities as custom cigar holders and a private promenade deck.

But shortly before the ship left port, J. P. Morgan decided to stay in France to enjoy the sulfur baths and did not sail on the Titanic.  This decision quite literally saved his life.

Alfred Gwynne Vanderbilt had looked forward to the crossing, but before the ship could set sail, his mother had begun having premonitions and nightmares about his drowning at sea.  Though the ship was billed as “unsinkable”, he finally decided to please his mother and—at the last possible moment—canceled his reservation, too.  His uncle—who was to have accompanied him—canceled as well, but could not claim his luggage before the great ship sailed.

This decision not to sail on the Titanic came so late that Alfred's name remained on the passenger manifest, so that when the first newspaper reports of the ship's sinking were printed, his name was listed among the missing.  This caused considerable grief to his family and friends for several days until telegrams arrived, reassuring them of his safety.

Now, three years later, Vanderbilt knew that his family would not be spared the anguish a second time, for he was sure to be listed (correctly, this time) among the victims of the RMS Lusitania's sinking.  On the afternoon of May 7, 1915, a German submarine fired a torpedo into the ship—which sank in less than 20 minutes—killing 1,198 of the 1,959 passengers aboard.  Sinking by the bow and listing to starboard, the ship had been able to launch only six of her 48 lifeboats before foundering.

When word of the ship's sinking reached Alfred's wife, Margaret Vanderbilt, she refused to accept the news of Alfred's death.  Locking herself in her suite at the Vanderbilt Hotel in New York City, she stated, "I will not believe Alfred is dead until I get conclusive proof."  However, as the days went on and no good news reached her, she eventually had to accept that Alfred was among the lost.  

Even though the Vanderbilt family offered a $5,000 reward for its recovery (a princely sum at the time), his body was never found.  

And I bet you thought this was another Titanic story.

Looks Like a Word

Everyone is familiar with the concept of onomatopoeia—word that is spelled like it sounds.  “Splat” is a perfect example.  This word does not owe its etymology to the Greeks or Romans:  it probably came from some poor writer's dropping his lunch. 

The word “onomatopoeia” on the other hand, is derived from the Greek words for “to make” and “name”—which probably isn’t fair, as the word for onomatopoeia should, by all rights, be an onomatopoeia. 

Most of these words are culturally based, which is why ducks go “wang wang” in China and clocks go “di dah” in Japan.  Cows the world over make some kind of mooing noise, except in Hungary where they go “bu”.  I wonder what sounds Hungarian ghosts make?

These words are often described as a form of poetry.  Certainly, Carl Sandburg thought so—His poem Jazz Fantasia is often cited as the best examples of onomatopoeia in literature:

Drum on your drums, batter on your banjoes,
sob on the long cool winding saxophones.
Go to it, O jazzmen.

Sling your knuckles on the bottoms of the happy
tin pans, let your trombones ooze, and go husha-
husha-hush with the slippery sand-paper.

George Eastman was so fond of the sound a camera shutter made—“Kodak!”—that he used the term for his new photography company.  Advertisers have followed his example ever since.  Everyone knows what goes “Plop! Plop! Fizz! Fizz!” and there is probably not a person on the planet who does not know the sound Rice Krispies make in milk.

Even government has gotten into the act.  Several countries have used sounds to promote the use of automobile seat belts.  In England, the campaign was “Clunk, Click, Every Trip”, in Australia, it was “Click, Clack, Front And Back”, and in the U.S., it was “Click It Or Ticket”. 

Only one business loved these words more than advertisers—the comic book industry.  Bif!  Pow!  Ka-blooey!  Batman practically lived in a monosyllabic world (if for no other reason than the rather short words would fit into a single cartoon panel while expressing both motion and emotion).  The writers quickly learned that the use of onomatopoeia intensified the action of a scene.

In 2002, a writer for DC Comics capitalized on the use of such words by creating a new supervillain by the name of "Onomatopoeia".  In his duels with the Green Arrow and Batman, his dialogue—I bet you are way ahead of me—consisted of single descriptive words.  In one memorable scene, as he shoots the Green Arrow, he softly says:  “Bang!”  While it was meant to be something of an inside joke in the world of graphic novels, the villain was popular with the more literate readers.

Roy Lichtenstein took the onomatopoeia into the world of art in 1963 with his ground breaking painting “Whaam!”  Inspired by a 1962 issue of DC Comics' All-American Men of War, it is probably his most famous work and shows an American fighter plane firing a rocket into an exploding enemy plane.  (Actually, of course, this piece was fairly derivative of his 1962 painting “Blam” but since the name of that painting used conventional spelling and lacked the all-important exclamation mark, the art world ignored it.)

All of the above are referring to words that are spelled to copy a sound, but as far as I can determine (that means I googled it for about two minutes) there is no noun for a word that looks like what it is describing.  Since the task falls to me, I will do it properly, resorting once again to Greek word roots.  This gives us onomatomalosa, or ‘resemble name’.

I will be the first to admit that onomatomalosa will be a concept that will be used a little less frequently than onomatopoeia.  Actually, after extensive research (I drank two beers) I was only able to come up with three such words.

The first is ‘Bed’.  Okay, I admit that it would be better if we spelled the word as ‘Beeeeed’, but you have to work with you’ve got.  Obviously, the word looks like a bed.

The second word is ‘eYe’.  Yes, I played around with the capitalization a little, but it still works.  And somehow, when I look at the word, it makes me think of owls—smart owls wearing glasses.

I’ve saved the best for last.  ‘Boob’ is a triple onomatomalosa.  Let’s break the word down.  ‘B’ is a top view, ‘oo’ is obviously a front view, and ‘b’ is a side view.

There have to be other such words.  Feel free to add to the list in the comment section below.

Waiting for Battle

I noticed a long time ago that students tended to enjoy lectures in which lots of people died.  It is impossible to lecture poorly about the battles of Cannae or Gettysburg—there is more than enough blood to stir the imagination of even the most bored students.  We remember such battles, but we tend to forget the soldiers who fought in them and that most of their life in the army was not spent in actual combat, but in the seemingly endless periods of tedium and exhaustion that were only briefly interrupted by terror. 

Such a two-dimensional view of these men cheats them and robs them of their true identity.  So let us look at some of the individual men who fought, and what it was like to be a soldier waiting for battle.

Probably almost any soldier today could write a modern version of this story, but since I’m only a historian, I’ll tell you a little about a soldier in Napoleon’s army.

On the night before the battle at Austerlitz, Napoleon visited the outposts of his army with some of his staff.  It was the classic dark and foggy night with no moon.  The party got a little lost and accidentally made contact with a detachment of Cossacks before it could break away.  To keep this from happening again, the Chasseurs (elite light infantry) of the escort improvised torches from straw and pine boughs so as to light the way.

The troops recognized the party and twisted the straw of their beds into thousands of torches to light the way for Napoleon as he moved through the army.  It was the anniversary of his coronation and the emperor, moved by the demonstration of loyalty and affection, said, “This is the finest evening of my life.”

Neither Napoleon nor his troops slept much that night.  His men stayed up and talked over past successes (or those they counted on achieving shortly).    I’m sure the younger soldiers were excited—no doubt in part by the romance of the Napoleonic legend.  A more realistic outlook was recorded by an officer, a veteran of many battles:

I could not escape the feeling that something huge and destructive was hanging over all of us.  This mood led me to look at my men.  There they were, sleeping around me on the cold, hard ground.  I knew them all very well… and I was aware that many of these brave troops would not survive until tomorrow evening, but would be lying torn and bloody on the field of battle.  For a moment it was all too easy to wish that the Russians would simply steal away again during the night, but then I remembered how we had suffered over the last few weeks.  Better an horrific end than a horror without end!  Our only salvation lay in battle and victory!

Such feelings were common and the evidence suggests that soldiers usually welcomed the prospect of action despite the risk it brought of death and mutilation.  An English soldier wrote:

On the 24^th of December 1808 our headquarters were at Sahagun.  Every heart beat with joy.  We were all under arms and formed to attack the enemy.  Every mouth breathed hope:  “We shall beat them to pieces and have our ease and enjoy ourselves”, said my comrades.  I even preferred any short struggle, however severe, to the dreadful way of life we were, at this time, pursuing.

The hardships of campaigning cannot be overstated.  These kinds of details get lost over time, we remember the battles, the treaties, the generals, and the wars, but the suffering of a private simply fades into the background.  Let’s follow one of those soldiers, nineteen year old Jean-Baptiste Barres, a private in the Imperial Guard, through the advance to Austerlitz.  At first, Barres was very enthusiastic:

We left Paris quite content to go campaigning rather than march to Boulogne.  I was especially so, for war was the one thing I wanted.  I was young, full of health and courage, and I thought one could wish for nothing better than to fight against all possible odds; moreover, I was broken to marching; everything conspired to make me regard a campaign as a pleasant excursion, on which, even if one lost one’s head, arms, or legs, one would at least find some diversion.  I wanted, too, to see the country, the siege of a fortress, a battlefield.  I reasoned, in those days, like a child. 

Okay, he was young—but I don’t want you to think our typical soldier an idiot, so let me move forward quite a bit, breaking the flow of our story and give you a line from the end of his memoirs:

At the moment of writing this, the boredom which is consuming me and four months of marching about, months of fatigue and wretchedness, have proved to me that nothing is more hideous, more miserable, than war.

Our young man obviously wised up over time, but let’s go back to our story.  Barres was marching off to war.  He wrote that the march was beautiful, but long and the weather constantly fine.  Yet Barres fell ill, lost his appetite and suffered from a fever.  However, he refused to go into hospital or ride in the carts provided for the ill.    He wrote:

I reached Strasbourg still intoxicated with glory.  Several of my colleagues not more unwell than I was, stayed behind in the hospitals and there found their deaths… Woe to those who go into hospital on campaign!  They are isolated and forgotten, and tedium slays them rather than their sickness.

At Strasbourg the soldiers were issued fifty cartridges, four days rations, and their campaigning equipment.  Crossing the Rhine River, Barres wrote:

I had a secret feeling of contentment when I recalled to memory all the noble feats of arms which its banks had seen.  These warlike reminiscences made me long for a few glorious encounters in which I might satisfy my eager impatience.  But by ten o’clock that night after a long march, I was so weary that I could neither eat nor sleep.

Our young man was learning.  A few days later, he briefly fell out on the march—probably because of dysentery—and could not find his unit for several days—a dismal time without friends or food.  It took him a whole day to rejoin his regiment.  “Ah, it is a nasty thing to be lost in the midst of an army on the march.” 

The army was approaching the Austrians.  Barres spent two hours on sentry watching an Austrian sentry across the ravine, but neither fired on each other.  Later, Barres was shocked at his first sight of the destructiveness of war when he saw a farm plundered and half demolished for firewood to the keep the troops warm.

I shed tears over the fate of these poor villagers, who had in a moment lost all their possessions.  But what I saw later caused me to regard them as happy in their misfortune.  As I was a novice in the military art, all that was contrary to the principles in which I had been trained surprised me; but I had time, afterwards, to become accustomed to such things.

Barres was learning rapidly.  For the first time he camped in the open during bad weather.

I did not find it very fascinating; it is a dismal way of going to bed, no straw on which to lie, little wood for burning, and a north wind that was like a wind of Lapland.  I passed a wretched night; roasted on one side, frozen on the other.  That was all the rest I got.

Our poor soldier, suffering in the cold—well, not really that cold.  It was only October, so he hadn't yet truly experienced real winter.

A few weeks later the army reached Vienna and Barres was disappointed that the army was restricted to the Palace grounds.  No leave and no peace, for the army was ordered across the Danube and told to continue the war.  Barres continues:

The Russian army retreated and drew us perforce into the most frightful country, and this, above all, at a time of the year unsuitable for marching.  I confess frankly that this departure displeased me sorely.  The only consolation being the many cellars filled with Moravian wine which were met with along our route. 

By the time the army reached Austerlitz, Barres had been on the move for three months, had marched a thousand miles, and had yet to fire a shot in battle.

From these excerpts, we have a pretty good idea what Barres—a young, inexperienced soldier—was thinking.  What about the veterans?  Some welcomed the freedom and excitement of life on the road, especially compared to the boredom and strict discipline of life on garrison duty.

Battle added an element of excitement, glamour and purpose to a soldier’s life—it was the culmination of the campaign, and the chance to prove the man, the unit, and the army.  Confidence was vital to the soldier: confidence in himself, in his comrades, in his officers, and in his commander.  The soldier who entered battle expecting defeat was already half beaten.  One British officer recalls the mood in the army before the Battle of Salamanca in 1812:

There assuredly never was an army so anxious as ours was to be brought into action on this occasion.  They were a magnificent body of well-tried soldiers, highly equipped, and in the highest health and spirits, with the most devoted confidence in their leader, and an invincible confidence in themselves.  The retreat of the four preceding days had annoyed us beyond measure, for we believed that we were nearly equal to the enemy in point of numbers; and the idea of our retiring before an equal number of any troops in the world was not to be endured with common patience.

This self-confidence was built on past successes, esprit de corps, and faith in a commanding general.  This was far more effective than background factors such as patriotism, hatred of the enemy, or ideological commitment. 

Individual soldiers might have varying reasons.  A young soldier might want to prove himself.  A veteran on the brink of his third engagement might want to gain a promotion by proving himself on the battlefield.  An old veteran of forty, with a long record of insubordination and drunkenness, who knew promotion was out of reach, might look to his own survival and hope for plunder.

Everyone, however, had a nagging fear of being killed or horribly wounded.  The soldier who pretended to have no fear was a liar.  And this was worst just before the battle.  One British officer wrote:

Time appears to move upon leaden wings; every minute seems an hour, and every hour a day.  Then there is a strange commingling of levity and seriousness within himself — a levity which prompts him to laugh he scarce knows why, and a seriousness which urges him from time to time to lift up a mental prayer to the Throne of Grace.  On such occasions little or no conversation passes.  The privates generally lean upon their firelocks, the officers upon their swords; and few words, except monosyllables, at least in answer to questions put, are wasted.  On these occasions, too, the faces of the bravest often change color, and the limbs of the most resolute tremble, not with fear, but with anxiety; while watches are consulted, till the individuals who consult them grow weary of the employment.  On the whole, it is a situation of higher excitement, and darker and deeper feeling, than any other in human life; nor can he be said to have felt all which man is capable of feeling who has not gone through it.

Historians frequently say that the age of Napoleonic conflict was one in which military commanders were willing to risk defeat in the hope of gaining a decisive victory.  This was in contrast to the usual 18^th century warfare where cautious maneuvering to gain an advantage was more commonplace.  Between 1790 and 1820, there were 713 battles in Europe.  Most of these were only partial combats between detached forces. 

Quoting the number of recorded battles in a span of thirty years seems to lend credence to the idea that war meant an endless series of large battles, but it is actually just another case of lying with statistics.  In actuality, fighting was comparatively rare in the life of a Napoleonic soldier.  Barres experience was not unusual for his spending months of tedium punctuated occasionally by hours of terror.

And when the battle finally came, it could be very bloody—But, not necessarily for everyone.  At Austerlitz, the French had 8,500 casualties out of an army of 65,000 and out of these, 1,305 died.  This means that 49 out of 50 soldiers present at Austerlitz survived.

 

Let’s make those numbers a little personal.  Picture in your mind, your local Starbucks—all the customers and the baristas are sent back in time to fight in this battle.   Chances are greater than 50% that all of them would come back alive.  Four of them would be wounded, but "gloriously" so.

Now, that is only taking into account the men who were actually present at Austerlitz.  Napoleon’s total army in 1805 was approximately 400,000.  Between guard duty, sick call, or simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time, over half of the army in 1805 never saw combat at all that year.

Given all this, it is not surprising that the greatest killer of armies at this time was not the enemy—it was disease and starvation.  Let us take an extreme example, Napoleon’s invasion of Russia:  the best estimate is that for every twelve soldiers who went, only two returned alive.  One fell in action or from wounds, two were taken prisoner, the remaining seven froze, starved, or died of disease.

Nor was anything much better in the British army.  Consider the Peninsular Campaign in Spain: depending on the time of year, between twenty and thirty-five percent of Wellington’s army was sick at any given time.  Probably about 240,000 soldiers in the British army died between 1793 and 1814, but of these only about twelve percent died in battle or from combat wounds.

The soldiers may have expressed their fear of dying or being maimed in battle in their writings, but they were at much greater risk of dying away from battle than dying in it, or of injuries resulting from it.

It has been two centuries since these battles.  Weapons, tactics, the treatment of disease...all of these have changed dramatically.  What has not changed are the men who fight the battles, and what people will remember—and forget—of their lives.

Terror Comes to Iraq

It is hard these days to pick up a newspaper without reading about the latest act of terrorism from ISIS or some other lame-brained group from the Middle East.  Actually, on some level, I can almost understand their anger: they live in a desert, they are dirt poor despite all the oil, they are not allowed to drink beer, and all the women dress like Batman.

This slight over-simplification deserves a little historical background.  As a historian, of course I want to start 2600 years ago, when the area was ruled by the Assyrians, who commanded one of the fiercest military machines ever built in the ancient world.

There were actually two Assyrian Empires—or perhaps two phases of Assyrian history:  the first phase was roughly 1350 to 1100 BC.  The second—the one that I will talk about—is the "Neo-Assyrian Empire" of the early Iron Age of about 900-600 BC.

Ashurnasirpal II—a name so hard for a Texan to pronounce that from here on I will simply call him Ashley—ruled from 883 to 859 BC—either conquered or killed everybody near him.  Supposedly the Assyrians were just retaking their lost lands, but if this were true, he must have had a defective map since Ashley and his kin eventually ruled territory more than twice the size of the original empire.

The Royal Records tell us a lot about the king and his campaigns, and in very vivid and brutal language.  Here is an example narrative of one of Ashley's campaigns:

While I stayed in Aribua, I conquered the towns of Luhuti, defeating their inhabitants in many bloody battles.  I destroyed them, tore down the walls, and burned the towns with fire; I caught the survivors and impaled them on stakes in front of their towns.

Almost all the records are full of such friendly details.  King Shalmaneser fought the great battle of Karkar in 853 BC against the King of Damascus.  His records say the enemy army was huge—thousands of men, horses, and chariots.  Here is the account of the battle:

They rose against me for a decisive battle.  I fought with them with the support of the mighty forces of Ashur.  I did inflict a great defeat upon them between the towns of Karkar and Gilzau.  I slew 14,000 of their soldiers with the sword, descending upon them like Adad when he makes a rainstorm pour down.  I spread their corpses everywhere, filling the entire plain with their widely scattered fleeing soldiers…”

In the pre-Muslim world of Mesopotamia, Adad was the God of Storms.  Almost all of the accounts of battle are like this, with lots of routs and massacres.  Enemies are cowards who are crushed, cities are sacked, and the air is filled with the anguished cries of women.  

Or as a former governor of California once said, "…to crush your enemies, have them driven before you and hear the lamentation of their women"

Actually, this is an abbreviation of the Genghis Khan quote: "The greatest pleasure is to vanquish your enemies and chase them before you, to rob them of their wealth and see those dear to them bathed in tears, to ride their horses and clasp to your bosom their wives and daughters."

Okay, that is better than what Arnold said, but Genghis Khan never said, “I’ll be back…”

One of the best examples of Assyrian warfare is in the records of Sargon II, who ruled between 721 and 705 BC.  In 714 he attacked Armenia against two kings who had allied to face the Assyrian threat.  Here is Sargon’s account:

I was not afraid of his masses of troops, I despised his horses, I did not cast a glance at the multitude of his mail-clad warriors.  With my single chariot and the horsemen who go at my side, who never leave me either in hostile or friendly region, I plunged into his midst like a swift javelin.  I defeated him.  I turned back his advances; I killed large numbers of his troops, the bodies of his warriors I cut down like millet, filling the mountain valleys with them.  I make their blood run down the ravines and precipices like a river, I cut down their army and broke up their organization.

You get the picture.  There is not a lot of detail about strategy, but from the sentiment, you kind of get the impression that Sargon didn’t like them.  The written records are full of massacre, blood, and treachery as the Assyrians slaughtered their enemies like dogs. 

Depictions in art of open-field battles are rare, but there is a good example in the reliefs of the Battle of Til-Tuba.  When this was fought in either 663 or 653 BC., King Ashurbanipal—whom we will call Alex—defeated the Elamites of southwestern Iran under King Teumma (hereafter called King Ted).

King Ted had made the rather incredibly stupid mistake of sending hate mail to King Alex.  (Seriously!—Hate mail!)  The Assyrian king came after him and not only did he win a great victory, but he celebrated the victory by having reliefs of the battle made to decorate his royal palace in Nineveh.  (And now they are safely in London after thieves—excuse me, archaeologists—took them home for study.  Had they been left in Nineveh, they would no longer exist—but that is a story for another day.)

The scenes show us a glimpse of how the brutal battles were fought.  Assyrians advance from the right with spearmen, archers, chariots, and cavalrymen working closely together.  The Infantry carry spears and very large shields, while the cavalrymen have lances.  Four-man chariots chase down the primitive Iranian war-carts.  The Elamites are driven into the Ulai River which filled with bodies and the debris of battle.

In a separate set of reliefs, King Ted is dealt with...severely!  These reliefs have captions, like today’s cartoons, so that we know exactly what is happening.  Ted is chased in his war cart, then his cart crashes and he is hit in the back by an arrow.  He flees on foot with his son, but they are surrounded by Assyrian archers and infantry, and are bludgeoned to death with maces.

Defeat in battle and death were not enough, however:  King Ted’s head is cut off and is then transported to a tent full of captive Elamite nobles for identification.   The Assyrians do it right:  they show the Elamites a wide assortment of heads and ask them to identify Ted's among them.  And the caption, loosely translated has them saying, “Yep.  That’s him.”  Then the head is taken to King Alex. 

Meanwhile, King Ted’s family—even his in-laws—are being slaughtered.  King Alex is not only crushing the Elamites, he is destroying the House of Ted. 

This is a great story, with dynamite illustrations so, perhaps, we could call it the world’s first graphic novel? 

Think what the psychological impact of these reliefs would have been if you had been  an ambassador from a rival kingdom coming to see the great King Ashurbanipal (King Alex) of the terrifying Assyrians.  As you are being led into his chambers, you see the depictions of what happened to someone who sent him insulting mail—the towns that had been looted, smashed, and destroyed.  It would make quite an impression.

The most famous of the Assyrian reliefs in the British Museum are those showing the Royal Lion Hunt.  These, too, are from the palace of King Alex in Nineveh and are simply amazing.  My children used to complain that I could spend a day in a museum looking at the world’s largest ball of string, but even they stood silent in this room.  (Well, for about five minutes and only because I threatened their lives.)

One last tool of the Assyrians needs comment:  they were highly effective users of terror and they were unbelievably cruel to those they had conquered.  Since this was a deliberate policy, this was "terrorism".  Here is an excerpt from the account of King Alex:

Many captives from among them I burned with fire, and many I took as living captives.  From some I cut off their hands and their fingers, from others I cut off their noses, their ears, and their fingers, of many I put out their eyes.  I made one pillar of the living, and another of heads, and I bound their heads to posts around about the city.  Their young men and maidens I burned in the fire and elsewhere I formed a pillar of the living and of heads over and against the city gate and 700 men I impaled on stakes over and against the city gate.

The artwork in the reliefs confirms this violence:  we are shown people staked down, whose tongues pulled out, after which they are flayed alive; people have their hands and feet cut off and are impaled on stakes; and severed heads are heaped in piles or are nailed to the city walls like grisly hunting trophies.  In one particularly cruel scene, captives are shown being beaten and forced to grind the exhumed bones of their ancestors, so that not only were the living being destroyed, but so was their past.

From the point of view of the Assyrians, they were not being unnecessarily cruel:  this was effective psychological warfare that would force potential enemies to think twice before opposing them.  This harsh treatment was not dealt to territories that surrendered before the fighting began, nor was it very often meted out to the newly-conquered—it was nearly always reserved for provinces that had rebelled.

One last scene in the reliefs is very instructive: ambassadors from other lands are being shown the insulting clay tablets that the Elamite King Ted had sent King Alex.  In the next relief, they are looking at captives staked to the ground while being skinned alive—an object lesson meant to be impossible to misinterpret.

In several places, the royal records have chilling lines.  Written in the first person, the king is recorded as saying, “I poured terror out over the land.”

 

Yes. He. Did.

Two hundred years ago, Carl Von Clausewitz said that war was an extension of politics by other means.  The Kings of Assyria would add that terror has long been an effective instrument of war.  We should not be surprised when a culture embraces terrorism as a political tool when it has been used since its earliest recorded history.