Sort of reminds me when I first joined the US Army at eighteen years of age. When I arrived at Ft. Dix, NJ, I and about fifty other new recruits were placed in some old, wooden WWII barracks in what was then called 'Reception.' Here we filled out our paperwork, got measured for uniforms and were given classes in the making of a bunk bed and got all of our shots for medical reasons.
Wasn't too bad, as we all talked and learned where each of us were from, our names and such.
And then we got our first haircuts.
When we assembled in formation in our brand-new uniforms and with our freshly shaved skulls, NONE of us could recognize each other! Sure, we had our names stitched on over our pockets, but we had to keep looking at them to know who we were talking to! That's when nicknames came into play. I was called "Preacher" for the next eight weeks of Basic Training because when the Instructors dumped our duffle bags to check for drugs and dirty magazines, the Bible my church had presented to me before I left home fell out in plain view. Immediately the Instructor who saw my Bible started calling out, "We got a preacher here!"
Other boys we nicknamed by their accents like 'Bama, New York, Armando, etc., and one little guy from PR, who spoke no English whatsoever (except for English swear words) was actually named Garbidian. He got through all eight weeks and graduated with those of us who had not failed or was medically discharged.
The thing is, in looking at the picture of those Union soldiers in their look-alike uniforms and head gear, I wonder how they, or anyone else, could tell them apart! Maybe because they all usually came from the same town or county, they all knew each other to begin with.
But for any of us, especially me, I'd be lost for a few days picking them out as individuals.
Imagine trying to find your ouwn regiment, your own dog tent, in a sea of dog tents in an army of hundred thousand!
Just day dreaming folks. Sorry if it broke the flow.
Sincerely,
Unionblue
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