The Battle of the Crater

"Okay, thanks. I guess it will mix all right with ginger ale."

"Did you ever try this gimmick on dates yourself?"

"This is a new one on me."

I had used the word "dates," and I was suddenly very curious about who he had been out with before and what had happened with them during those meetings. Did he perhaps have some other girl out there, like up at Georgetown?

I wonder if this guy has had the same problems with women that I've had with men? There was only one way to find out. That required me to do some serious geeking without being too obvious about it. Except, as was to be expected, I was indeed quite obvious about it.

Anybody listening to us would have assumed that we were students discussing a term paper, not two people sizing each up as potential romantic/sexual partners.

I had no choice but to get right into it, and I choose to discuss why the Black troops had not been sent in first as originally planned. They had been trained to go around the expected huge hole in the ground, not walk right into it.

I said, "It's amazing that Meade overruled Burnside at the last moment, the day before the attack."

General George Meade was the overall commander as head of the Army of the Potomac, while Ambrose Burnside commanded the four divisions of the Ninth Corps that would be in the attack. Burnside himself once commanded the Army of The Potomac, but he had screwed that up so badly that he was replaced.

But Steve knew what I was talking about. He said, "Meade was an extremely difficult person to get along with, a sort of know-it-all as well as being just plain arrogant. The 'snapping turtle,' as he was called. He was sort of a schmuck to Burnside's schlemiel"

He apparently wondered if I got that, Southerners not generally being up on New York-based terms. I said, "It's okay, I understand it. I picked up a bit of Yiddish from living hear Washington."

I kept going and said, "I wonder if it was all a pretext, the claim that the Black troops were well-trained but less experienced. The white troops were exhausted from months of campaigning. Maybe Meade didn't think that Blacks could do the job."

Steve replied, "I wouldn't be surprised, although he wouldn't admit it. Also, he was bugged by Burnside, for various reasons. Like Burnside got his promotion a bit earlier." That was being promoted to Brigadier General. "And probably he despised Burnside's weaknesses."

That conversation was going very well. The main point of it was to see if we were at the same level of knowledge, and it seemed like we were.

It was time to escalate a bit. I said, "So he sabotaged his own battle for petty reasons."

"People can be very petty, as you must know."

"Then Grant had to stick his nose into it."

At that time Ulysses Grant was the supreme commander of the Northern armies, and he was at Petersburg keeping track of things. I continued by saying, "Like Meade, he was worried that high Black casualties would jeopardize Lincoln's chances for reelection. Like that makes any sense."

My reasoning was that there weren't enough Black voters in the North to make a difference, and possibly the whites there wouldn't be that concerned about it.

I was really pouring it on then, but I was reveling in my new-found power. I finally had someone who knew what I was referring to. Even Lucy had trouble keeping up with me.

Steve was keeping up with me, and he said, "There were plenty of Black casualties anyway. But that's the thing about war. The need to function under pressure is enormous, and Grant had plenty to worry about."

Then he pondered something. " 'You never know what you'll do under pressure; Across the Rappahannock is a hell of a tester.' "

We both winced at his attempt at a joke. I tried to soften it a bit. "Okay, I get it, so you've doing Bobby Womack." The original song had mentioned 110th Street in New York, not the river in Virginia.

Steve got out of his faux-pas rather well. He grinned and shrugged, "They can't all be gems."

I'm not judgmental, as I said, and I'll forgive a guy for making a few mistakes during a first date. In contrast, all the others I had been with had messed up everything.

There was another thing that I had to say about Burnside, that master of disaster. "The weirdest thing is that he chose the first white division to go in by having his generals pick straws."

"Right, you would think he would know his own subordinates well enough to figure out which one was best."

The one who got the short straw was General James Ledlie, the worst choice. He was incompetent as well as being an alcoholic. When his division went forward, he retreated behind the lines and helped himself to some generous rations of rum. (The same drink we were having, ironically.)

Without his leadership, everything fell apart. Early in the morning, his division, confused by the wreckage and the carnage of dead Confederates, ambled right into the Crater instead of going around it. Then the other two white divisions on either side got held up too.

Finally, the Black division was sent in but it was too late. They wound up inside the Crater too, trying to defend the sides of it. Thus there were thousands of men in that hole, all being subjected to withering rifle and mortar fire. As I've mentioned, when the Southerners finally charged in, they killed many Blacks instead of taking prisoners.

I said, "It's notable how it all ended. Some Confederate yelled, 'Why in hell don't you fellows surrender?' "

Steve knew what happened next, "Then a Northerner yelled back, 'Why in hell won't you let us?' Then they put down their arms and did just that."

Now that we had the battle down pat, I gossiped about what I had heard Della say to Meeker a few days earlier. "She said that the production was running behind schedule. I hope this doesn't turn into another Heaven's Gate."

"No way, it's never going to get that bad. He didn't have to build much in the way of sets; he basically just dug a hole in the ground. And he doesn't have to transport people all over Montana like Cimino did."

I said, "She's got another project down in Newport News, about Black shipyard workers in Los Angeles."

"Is it, 'If He Hollers, Let Him Go?' "

"So you've heard of this film?"

"No, but I've read the book."

At that point I had put my hat on the table and my glasses were pushed back on my head. My left arm was slung across the back of the chair. I was trying to pull off a femme fatale look like Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity, but I doubt I was doing a very good job of it.

I poured more rum into my cup, but not any additional cola. Amanda, go easy with this stuff. Yet I was feeling frisky, and I thought of an experiment I wanted to try with Steve. Out of nowhere, I asked him, "You've heard the name used by University of Maryland sports teams?"

"Oh yeah, The Terrapins."

"Or Terps. Go Turtles! But what I'm really curious about: have you seen what those cheerleaders wear at the football and basketball games?"

"Actually, I don't know what they look like."

I called him out of that, "Come on, you must be kidding me."

"No, really, I don't know. Why don't you tell me?"

He was playing that game quite well. I thought I might get him rattled by bringing up a slightly provocative topic, but he turned it around to see if I would get rattled.

Now, I have no particular gripe against cheerleaders. However, those girls know exactly what they are doing. They will sit with their knees crossed or locked together in normal situations. However, in cheer mode they will fling themselves all over the place, flashing their panties at thousands of spectators. It must be a lot of fun to get away with that.

So I had to respond to Steve's question, and I would give him exactly the knowledge he had asked for. I said, "Well, there are several colors in use, different combinations of, say, red, blue, yellow, or white. And the actual designs vary a lot according to whatever conditions prevail. But . ." ."

That was going to be an important but.

"A common version for warm weather or on the court will have a tight, sleeveless top that bares the midriff." It often bared a lot of the midriff, in fact, including the navel. "That garment will have 'Maryland' or a big 'M' across the, well, chest area."

He said, "Just so you can be sure which school it is."

He must have been toying with me then, and I chuckled at that. "And the bottoms; those can be tights, or shorts, or mini-skirts." Very mini-skirts, in fact. "To finish it off, there will often be this red bow on top of their heads."

"And pom-poms, I would think."

Oh, he's trying to be clever. "Sure, pom-poms. Those can be sparkly gold or red or plain white. Anyway, they have a Facebook page among other things if you wish to check it out."

"Okay, maybe I will."

There was some impressive panty-flashing going on within that site. One blonde girl had hurled herself up -- or somebody else did the hurling for her -- and she had her sneakered feet about as far apart as they would go.

So, of course, her black underpants were unabashedly on display. When I saw that photo, I would think: she's got to land on somebody's big dick or another cheer girl's face.

I was being tongue-in-cheek when I said, "I'm going to be a junior next semester. Maybe I should audition for the cheer squad."

Yet my statement didn't get the reaction I had expected. It backfired, although not because of what I had feared. Instead of saying, you? A cheerleader?, Steve said, "So, what do imagine that would be like? "

In an instant, the most vivid fantasy hit me. I imagined myself not as one of those fake, superannuated porn cheerleaders, but as a real, agile college cheer girl.

I'd have to get some makeup and contacts, and I'd tie up my hair with one of those little red bows. I'd also boldly display my UMD underpants at every game. Yeah, guys, you know what's under these panties, but only the very best gets a shot at me! The school had even introduced a new multi-color version of the garment.

Maybe I'd get to be Sports Illustrated's "Cheerleader of the Week," but I wouldn't be like that other UMD person who got the nod. Amanda hates Instagram! Amanda is obsessed with early 20th Century passenger ships. Guilty pleasure: reading Arthur Schopenhauer.

Then I would shake my sparkly pom-poms. Go Terps!

I heard Steve say, "Amanda, come back to reality." I had been staring into space, probably with my mouth drooping open a little. I got my composure back, but at that early stage I wasn't going to tell Steve what I had been thinking, and he didn't ask.

My Life Has Stood, a Loaded Gun

When it was time to leave, I decided to show Steve some gesture of affection. I had never done that with any guy before, but I wanted to convey my feeling that, this went very well and I want to see you again soon.

As we stood there, I put my hands on his shoulders and I kissed him. It wasn't a passionate kiss, but it was more than a mere peck. He reacted by putting his hands on my upper arms.

When I stepped back, I smiled at him but I didn't know what to do next. I realized that I didn't want him to leave just yet, so I thought of a pretext to keep him around a bit longer. I said, "Are you actually allowed to carry a rifle into this tent?"

"I suppose not, technically, if we're not filming at the moment. But I own it, not the studio, so I can get away with a few things."

I guessed that he had taken it in there to impress me, and in fact that had worked. I said, "Could I hold the gun for a moment?" There was no sexual symbolism involved; I was just curious because I had never handled a weapon before.

Steve unslung his rifle and handed it to me. I said, "This thing is heavier than I had expected."

"It's pretty close to a real one, about nine pounds."

"I can't picture wielding this in the middle of a battle. It's kind of clumsy to handle."

"Thus the rubber bayonets. I'm sure they must have stuck each other at times by accident."

I had another bright idea. "How about you teach me how to load and fire it -- with blanks, I know. You already said that you own it."

"Sure, but you'd have to wear eye and ear protection." So he had agreed to my proposal a bit indirectly.

"But you don't have such protection during filming."

"I know, that's one of the downsides of this job."

So loading and shooting a black-powder weapon may seem like a strange idea for a date, but it seemed more entertaining than some of the previous activities I had done.

As I continued with the rifle, I tried to imagine loading it through the muzzle. I asked, "So this would be like that training scene in Glory, the one where Broderick is firing his revolver into the air?"

"Yep, exactly like that. Thirty seconds; that's what they tried for."

I said, "I don't think I'll ever be that good."

"Well, neither will I!"

That training paid off in the movie for Private Sharts, played by Jihmi Kennedy. In his first battle, he coolly reloads his gun and blows away a charging Confederate at the last moment.

Then I tried to fit in the question that was on my mind about Steve. "Do you perhaps have some other lady out there that you have these shooting events with?"

"Actually, things are a bit unsettled right now."

I had heard that from others before. No guy with any sense (although there were indeed some with none) would admit that he didn't have some other dating partner or at least a prospect in this life. Yet although I suspected that he was probably fibbing, I appreciated the thought he had put into playing the game correctly.

Just before our final parting, I noticed our half-filled cups of rum and soda still on the table. I said, "Let's get our drinks and have a toast to General Ledlie."

"Yes, his rum ration may have lost the battle and delayed the entire war." In their more optimistic hopes, the North hoped to not only capture Petersburg but then march on to Richmond. "But Ferraro was also back their sharing the booze with him." General Edward Ferraro was head of the Black 4th Division which got mauled during the battle.

I said, "So cozy; morning drinkers are the worst." Yet after the war, they both went back to their old careers and did okay.

After our toast, Steve left to get back to the set, and I hung back to use the ladies' room. Thus I was a few minutes behind him on the way back. I realized that we hadn't made any plans for our next date, but I figured that wouldn't be hard to arrange. I was considering the next day, maybe. Take it slow, there is no rush.

When I got back to the crater, Greg was ordering around a backhoe to yet again adjust the wall closest to the Confederate lines. That was exactly the kind of production delay Della had warned him about. Cinematographer Rorey at that moment was discussing it with him, but he refused to listen to reason.

While I was standing there, I got an attack of what 19th Century ladies referred to as "the vapors." I felt dizzy, and I had to sit down on a steel crate.

It had nothing to do with the heat of the day. Two distinct issues went through my mind. The first was a sexual fantasy that I had had before, but I didn't put Steve into it. It was too soon to think of him that explicitly.

Anyway, the scenario was that I would lift up my skirt, open up the back of my bloomers, and gyrate my bare behind against some guy's bare crotch until he ejaculated all over my swiveling ass.

What would I get out of it? Well, as my reward, the guy would then eat out my pussy. (Sorry for being so blunt.) It seemed to be a strange yet amusing way for two people to get off. "Fluffing" was the term I used to describe my initial part of the process.

Secondly, I was aware of the emotional strain I had been under while talking to Steve. It wasn't that the conversation hadn't gone well; it was just the opposite. But I had never spoken in such length to any guy before, and certainly not about anything that interested me.

Thus now that it was over, I could relax, but I took that too far. It felt like I had deflated, and I needed to take it easy for a while. In addition, I probably had consumed too much rum.

Lucy was supposed to come down from Delaware that day to hang out with me on the set. Being a punctual sort, she arrived on time. I had wangled an unlimited pass for her to be on the set too.

As I've said, Lucy, being from out of state, had a dorm room at UMD during semesters. Her roommate was very understanding of how we needed to use the room at times. If that wasn't possible, we'd rent a room at a mid-scale motel somewhere. We also had various other naughty schemes to enact our trysts.

That day she was dressed plainly like I was, except her clothes were modern -- a short-sleeved blouse, a denim skirt, and sneakers and ankle socks to deal with the difficult ground that had been churned up during filming

She hugged me and then we sat together on the crate. I don't think Lucy, at five-foot-two, understands how sexy she really is. I certainly do, especially when her warm, round body is pressed against mine. In public, our displays of affection were a bit restrained, just two women who happened to be friends. We both felt more comfortable that way.

I didn't want to tell Lucy yet about my meeting and date with Steve so I obliquely referred to it via an unrelated sexual scenario I had invented a while back.

I said, "Remember that idea I had about how women in the 19th Century could probably fool around with each other and get away with it?"

"Yes, I do remember that one." She knew me quite well, "I suppose you want to tell me about it again?"

I sure did. My completely unverified theory was that in that era lesbianism or bisexuality was so taboo that many people had never heard of it, or if they had, they couldn't believe that anyone they actually knew would indulge in it.

I told Lucy that an unmarried woman would be closely chaperoned if she was with a man, but if she was with another woman, so one would suspect anything. Thus, the female-female couple could happily rub and lick each other into a frenzy upstairs or in the garden or wherever.

I said, "I have a plan about how the two of us could, call it reenact, such an idea."

Lucy was accustomed to my more off-beat concepts. "So what have you got for me?"

"What I envision is that I would play Emily Dickinson, up there in Amherst, and you would be her sister-in-law -- you know, Susan Gilbert Dickinson -- coming over for a visit. You can imagine the rest of what happens."

"That's kind of disrespectful of Dickinson, don't you think? What makes you think you know anything about her sexuality?" That was very Lucy-like in her stickler kind of way.

"Of course, I have no idea, although her poems were pretty intense. We're just making this up."

She said, "I have a better idea. With your accent, you should just be a Southern belle while the master is away from the house. So am I a neighbor, or maybe one of the servants?"

"We'll figure it out. I think I have the right clothes to do this."

"Yes, but I don't have any."

"I promise, we'll get some for you." I winked at her. "Including the bloomers."

"Of course, the bloomers. So where would we pull this off this stunt?"

"We'd have to be in some house, I guess. We'll have to pretend that it's an antebellum mansion. So, does that sound intriguing?"

Lucy was often amused by my various schemes, as she was now. "Okay, if we can work out the details, I'm game."

Down in the crater, Meeker seemed satisfied with his earth-moving efforts. Lucy said, "If Greg doesn't pull this together soon, he's going to be the next Michael Cimino."