4/21/2005

My Morning As A Redcoat

by Glenn Rifkin

As the early gray dawn ascends on the fabled Common in the center of Lexington, I find myself standing at stiff attention in a line of mostly middle-aged men dressed smartly in woolen crimson. We are the Red Coats, the enemy, the regulars in the British army who have marched out from our Boston garrison on this chilly April morning at the order of General Thomas Gage to arrest John Hancock and Sam Adams and destroy the alleged store of munitions being hoarded by the militia in Concord.

The air is thick with tension. The Lexington militia has gathered with muskets at their shoulders directly in our path. Our officers tell us to stay steady but a shot rings out from an unknown sniper, and suddenly all hell breaks loose. My unit is part of His Majesty's 4^th Regiment of Foot with the nickname Lions of England. Like the rest of the British regulars on the scene, we begin firing at the "rebel scum" and start chasing them across the Green into the nearby countryside. Our officers are apoplectic at this horrifying display of anarchy in the ranks, and they scream for us to return to formation. It is too late......eight Americans lay dead on the Green, and many others are seriously wounded. In just a few short seconds, the American Revolution has burst into reality.

As we march out of Lexington toward Concord, I am winded but exhilarated. My musket feels good in my hands, and my adrenaline flows as the locals hiss and sneer at us and threaten retribution. As I glance to my left, I spot my wife with the video camera and against all decorum, I give a little wave. War is hell, but one doesn't want to miss a photo opportunity.

What, you may rightly ask, am I doing out here amid the otherwise sane and respectable grownups playing war? And even more to the point, what am I doing in the britches, gaiters, and red wool vest and coat of the British Army circa 1775? If I was going to be an embedded journalist, wouldn't it have made more sense to join the Patriots and fight for freedom and democracy?

I could make up all sorts of answers but the truth is I was recruited by a very charming Brit named Chris Woolf, by day a highly respected producer of the WGBH-based radio show The World. In his other identity, Woolf is a sergeant in the King's Own 4^th Regiment of Foot and an enthusiastic proponent for the dark side.

Though his political sympathies always tended toward the rebels, he is a contrarian by nature and a lover of military history. He was motivated to join a reenactment unit several years ago partly out of national pride to show that the Red Coats were not the bumbling, inept losers they are often portrayed to be in American folklore. "Even I was surprised howgood the British army was back then," Woolf says. "And besides, the Brits look fabulous! Women are suckers for 'scarlet fever.'"

That was good enough for me. At an early spring meeting, I met the regiment. Woolf was the only real Brit, but the others offered a good sampling of reenactment fervor. Corporal Roger Fuller, a former teacher and devoted history buff, shared Woolf's belief that the Red Coats as a real military force were far more interesting than the American militia. There was Zach Woods, a computer consultant and Benny Belvin, an administrator at Babson College. The unit's seamstresses, Carrie Cote and Kim Nuttall, made the uniforms by hand with authentic materials and an eye to detail.

These folks are serious about their hobby. Woolf informed me that I could be embedded but I'd have to shave my beard and moustache. No facial hair on the British Regulars. I hadn't been without a moustache since 1971, and the thought of parading around in public with a naked face almost killed the deal. I went to rehearsals and drilled in the basic manual of arms with an authentic musket. I read David Hackett Fischer's wonderful book on the battles of Lexington and Concord called "Paul Revere's Ride" and decided the shave was worth the experience.

I realized just before the big day that though we had rehearsed the events in Lexington, we hadn't spent any time rehearsing the skirmish at the Old North Bridge. I e-mailed Chris Woolf: "What do we do in Concord?" His reply: "First, panic, second, run away."

In that lies the best part of reenacting. As serious as they can be, these folks keep a Monty Pythonesque sense of humor about the whole thing. There are the endless bawdy jokes that can't be reprinted in a family newspaper, the agitated banter with the crowds along the battle route, and the insubordination and insults among the soldiers and their superiors. In 1775, such behavior would have resulted in 500 lashes on a bare back.

As we marched out of Lexington, the air still filled with acrid smoke from musket fire, I was shocked to find out that most of the Red Coats were taking a bus to Concord. Not the 4^th. We hoofed our way toward Meriam's Corner and made it about four miles when Kim and Carrie drove alongside and offered to ferry us the rest of the way. I was certain that in 1775, no British soldiers had arrived at the Old North Bridge in the back of a Honda Civic. We took the ride anyway.

As we marched smartly from the parking lot to the bridge, the huge crowd alternately booed and cheered. I decided I liked being the bad guy, and I did quite well with the panicking and running away. And as the 4^th marched away from the bridge, Woolf gave his best order of the day. "King's Own," he barked as we headed toward the Colonial Inn, "secure this tavern and confiscate any illegal liquor!" The ale never tasted so sweet.

Glenn Rifkin is the author of Thoreau's Backyard: Musings From a Small Town, a collection of his columns from The Concord Journal. He currently resides in Acton. Rifkin can be reached at grifkin@comcast.net.