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November 21, 2000
This past weekend, I loaded up my
company of soldiers from the 69th Infantry, New York Army National
Guard, and headed down to Sharpsburg, Maryland to visit the Antietam
Battlefield. During the Civil War, the 69th New York earned the
nickname, The Fighting Irish. It was composed entirely of Irish immigrants
living in New York City. Today, the 69th is still made up of
immigrant kids from New York, however now they are mostly from Trinidad and
Haiti and San Juan. That is why my guys call themselves, with a smile, The
Fighting Blacks and Puerto Ricans.
Here’s a quick refresher about the Battle of
Antietam. It was the first time that Southern forces invaded the North. Fought
on September 17, 1862, it was the single bloodiest day in American history.
Some 22,000 men were killed or wounded. The fighting took place in three
phases along a straight line running north to south. The first phase was in
the north in a cornfield, the second was in the center along an old sunken
road that divided two plots of farmland. The final phase took place in the
south at Burnside Bridge. It was during the second phase—the sunken road—that
the Fighting Irish saw action.
The Confederates were on the defense, using this long
natural trench for cover. The Federals attacked across open ground into the
murderous fire of the Rebels. Wave after wave of Union Soldiers were pushed
back by the men in gray, but eventually, the sheer number of Yankee troops
overwhelmed the Southerners and they were forced to retreat. When it was over,
the mangled dead from both sides lay five or six deep along the 200 meter
sunken road—known forever after as The Bloody Lane.
If one visits The Bloody Lane today, they will find a
large stone statue honoring the men of the Irish Brigade who fought there for
their adopted country. While we didn’t share their same ethnic background,
we of the Fighting Blacks and Puerto Ricans all live and work in the same area
that they did. We still serve under the banner of the 69th
Infantry. So, in that spirit, we placed a dozen roses—the state flower of
New York—at the base of the statue. After a few words, a moment of silence,
and a final salute, we broke for lunch.
As we sat ten feet from The Bloody Lane drinking
Pepsi and eating ham sandwiches, potato chips, and cookies, I kept thinking of
all the guys fighting there nearly 140 years earlier. Scared, hungry, sweaty,
bleeding, and screaming. For many of them, that patch of earth was the last
they’d ever see. How could they have ever imagined that it would someday be
a serene national park and the perfect spot for an afternoon picnic.
Broadway Jim Sosnicky
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