In 1947, ghost ships appeared on the oceans. They carried the dead.

The story began in the dark days of World War II. Casualties mounted on battlefields worldwide, but the United States did not send its dead home. Instead, bodies were buried in makeshift cemeteries overseas. After the war, the thinking went, the U.S. government would worry about what to do about its dead. 

Once peace returned, Congress began to wrestle with that very question. In 1946, Congress passed a bill allowing relatives to decide where their loved one should be permanently laid to rest. They could choose an American military cemetery overseas, a national cemetery in the states, or a private cemetery. Quartermaster Form 345, “Request for Disposition of Remains,” was the instrument families used to inform the U.S. government of their choice. 

As relatives submitted these forms in droves, disinterments began. The first took place in July 1947 at Henri Chapelle, a cemetery in Belgium. After a special program complete with bands, salutes, and dignitaries, the hard work began.

​The process went like this: workers thrust shovels into the damp sod and dug up the bodies that required moving. They copied the inscription of each grave marker onto a form, removed the dead man’s dog tag, and then discarded the marker. Turning to the remains, workers then verified the identify and then escorted them to the cemetery’s morgue. 

At the morgue, each body underwent further preparation; any clothing was removed and burned. Deodorants and embalming chemicals were sprayed on the decomposing corpse. Next, the body was wrapped in a new blanket, covered with a sheet, and then placed carefully in a brand new, two-hundred-pound metal casket lined with rayon satin. A worker then pinned one dog tag to the blanket, attached the other to the end of the casket, verified the shipping address, and sealed the casket. Another worker then placed each casket in a shipping container and stenciled on the dead man’s information along with container’s destination address.

Next, caskets from Henri Chapelle and other cemeteries were trucked to a nearby port and loaded onto ships that would take them home. They called these vessels ghost ships because they mostly carried so many dead. 

Upon arrival at a stateside port, the ghost ships were unloaded and then the containers shipped across the country to their final destination. For weeks, funeral cars filled America’s railways. Full fare was paid for each casualty, and their names appeared on each train’s passenger manifest. Many civilians removed their hats when they saw the cars, while others wondered why the government went to all the trouble and expense.

Today, not many people know the story of how 170,000 American bodies flooded the railways of America as they came home from foreign battlefields. It took six years and cost more than $200 million, but the massive, well-coordinated, and terribly sad process brought our boys home. It was done lovingly and respectfully, and it serves as a stark reminder of the terrible cost of World War II. 

Thanks to the MIA Project of the 99th Infantry Division and Henri-Chappelle Cemetery, you can watch a video of the process here. Caution – parts are not for sensitive viewers.

For the full story of one man’s journey home, please see The Lost Soldier.

This has been a tough year for the historical community. A number of leading historians, many of them personal friends, have passed away, including Horace Mewborn, Ted Alexander, and James I. Robertson. Now, Ed Bearss has died and joins the immortal ranks. 

Born in 1923, Ed joined the U.S. Marine Corps and served in the Pacific Theater during World War II. In January 1944, he suffered terrible wounds from Japanese machine gun fire during the Battle of Suicide Creek on the Island of New Britain.

After World War II, Ed joined the National Park Service. He went on to write several books, serve at many historical sites across the country, and eventually rose to become Chief Historian of the park service. After his retirement he was named Chief Historian Emeritus of the park service. Along the way, he helped discover the gunboat U.S.S. Cairo, led efforts to create new national battlefield parks at Pea Ridge and Wilson’s Creek, and served on the federal Civil War Sites Advisory Commission, among many other accomplishments in a long career.

Besides being a stellar historian and preservationist, Ed was a consummate tour guide. He possessed vast knowledge of seemingly every American historical event, and hearing him on a battlefield was a treat. With a swagger stick in hand but no notes to refer to, Ed would close his eyes and talk about what happened around him in a voice with a unique sing-song cadence. His unique sense of humor was icing on the cake.

In my conversations with Ed, I was always blown away by his ability to remember something about virtually any historical event or person, no matter how obscure. Shucks, he even knew my hometown. I grew up in a small town in northwest North Carolina, and sure enough, Ed had family connections that had taken him there at some point, so we chatted about people and places like old neighbors. Ed also had read my work and was complimentary of it, which humbled me to no end.

Rest In Peace and Semper Fi, Ed. Thank you.

Photo source: Hal Jesperson from Wikipedia.

​The Battle of Salisbury is often dismissed as little more than skirmish. Less than a year after the battle a local citizen wrote, “As to the fight two miles and a half from Salisbury – ‘tis all a myth. … But little resistance was made – for it was so clearly of no avail …. Every one here falls into a giggle over the battle with the three thousand and the hosts of prisoners.”

The soldiers who fought that morning would have disagreed with the citizen’s disparaging statement. At dawn on Wednesday, April 12, 1865, the men of the District of East Tennessee’s Cavalry Division approached the valley of Grant’s Creek. They advanced in two columns – one on the new Mocksville Road, the other on the old road – toward their long-sought objective.

On the new road, Alvan Gillem sized up the situation while enemy shells crashed about him. From his vantage point, the new road sloped gently down to a bridge across Grant’s Creek. “A close reconnaissance discovered the fact that the flooring had been removed from two spans of the bridge and piled on the enemy’s side,” Gillem reported. Southern artillery and infantry covered the bridge, and the creek defied crossing. Grant’s Creek had “had very high and precipitous banks and could not be forded,” wrote a witness. “The only way to cross it was by a bridge, which was effectually commanded by the enemy’s artillery.” Another wrote, “The creek had steep banks, and was passable in only two or three places.” From the bridge the road continued through the Confederate barbican and up a slope toward the town, just two miles away. Above the racket, Gillem could hear trains leaving Salisbury. An evacuation was obviously underway.

George Stoneman knew the importance of speed and made his plans accordingly. “He may be considered as a safe rather than a brilliant man[,] practical rather than theoretical,” an admirer once wrote. Stoneman’s next moves displayed his pragmatism. Rightly judging Gardner’s defenses to be undermanned with its flanks in the air, Stoneman decided on a flanking maneuver. Couriers sped off with his orders. Miller’s and Brown’s brigades were brought up and closed up. Another messenger sent one hundred men to ford Grant’s Creek two miles and a half above and west of the main bridge. Their objective was to cut the railroad – perhaps capture a train – and “get in rear of Salisbury and annoy the enemy as much as possible,” Gillem explained. They were to advance until they reached the Statesville Road, which joined the new Mocksville Road behind the main bridge. Gillem chose Slater’s 11th Kentucky for the job ....

So ends this series of blog posts marking those momentous days of 155 years ago in Stoneman's Raid, 1865. I wish you a Happy Easter, and invite you to read what happened next in Chris J. Hartley, Stoneman's Raid, 1865.

Excerpt from Stoneman's Raid, 1865, (c) Chris J. Hartley

Shallow Ford was an important crossroads. Its popularity as a river crossing stretched for centuries, from early Native American usage to the 1700s, when European immigrants came from the north. A sand and gravel bar sat just beneath the surface near a bend in the river, making a firm low-water highway for travelers. Warriors had fought here too; in 1780, a skirmish near the ford claimed the lives of more than a dozen men. But April 11, 1865, was like no other day in the ford’s history. When dawn broke, its light revealed thousands of dust-covered, well-armed cavalrymen, led by Alvan Gillem and George Stoneman. They splashed into the Yadkin around 7:00 a.m.
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From George Stoneman’s perspective, Shallow Ford had a strategic purpose. By crossing the river there, Stoneman gained access to the least-defended route into Salisbury. The route also offered security for his flank and rear. Between Shallow Ford and Salisbury, the Yadkin River followed a winding but generally north-south line, parallel to the Salisbury Road. Thus, the river would protect his left from Confederates around Greensboro and Lexington. Controlling Shallow Ford would also ensure rear protection. Palmer’s troopers would handle that once they finished with Salem and Greensboro.

Confederate forces recognized the ford’s importance. Days earlier, news of raiders at Patterson’s Factory and of “disguised men … lurking along the Yadkin” caused “great consternation” in Salem. At a public meeting, Lt. Col. Alfred H. Belo, a Confederate officer home on furlough, proposed “that if the citizens would provide me with good horses, I would gather together the soldiers home on furlough and keep the town informed of their movements.” The idea was well-received, and in short order Colonel Belo and home guard commander R.F. Armfield had assembled about 230 men on the west bank of Shallow Ford in “a little breastwork.” From his headquarters at the R.C. Puryear home, Belo also established a line of couriers between the river and Salem. These troopers eventually warded off a few of Stoneman’s outriders at one point, but that was it. When Stoneman detoured into Virginia, most of the ford’s defenders were released. Only a few home guardsmen still manned the trenches the morning Stoneman arrived, and the Federals dispatched them with ease. “The detachment of the enemy guarding the ford were taken by surprise, made but a feeble resistance, and fled, leaving upwards of 100 new muskets in our hands,” Gillem reported. The Federals also captured a mail rider near the ford, but he was freed. Johnston and Beauregard soon heard of Stoneman’s whereabouts.

Some warning had preceded the raiders. About 2:00 a.m., someone knocked on the door of R.C. Puryear’s home in Huntsville, a village about a mile from the ford. The visitor brought a message from a man who lived a few miles away: General Stoneman and a Federal army were on the way. The former congressman roused his children. “Dressing as rapidly as possible we packed trunks with the most valuable things – negroes made wagons ready and things were sent out to be concealed in the woods.” The Puryears also hid the family’s silver in a corner of the icehouse, under blocks of ice and straw. Brig. Gen. Thomas Clingman, an Army of Northern Virginia veteran who was at home after being wounded near Petersburg, and a few other soldiers on leave, also took the chance to escape. Those who stayed behind crossed their fingers and made ready. “Just at that time without any degree of procrastination every body ‘got busy’ and for awhile there was ‘something doing,’” recalled a local citizen. “Those who had horses hustled out to hide them, and the men proceeded to make themselves scarce about town….”

For the raiders, crossing the river was not as easy as expected due to the recent rains. A traveler noted a few days later, “the name given to this Ford is evidently a misnomer or ironical, for I found it very deep.” Once across, the vanguard traced the old stage road a short distance to Huntsville. About a mile beyond, they stopped to feed and rest. It took some time, however, for the full column to pass the ford. Frank Frankenberry with the trains and Mallaby’s signal corps detachment did not arrive at Huntsville until about 10:00 a.m. According to Frankenberry, the column was fired on at some point that morning, but they were mere potshots. Meanwhile, the scenery noticeably improved. “We are now in a better country,” he wrote. Huntsville, which Frankenberry described as “a small village,” was the perfect place to fall out, eat breakfast, and prepare for the next stage of the journey. Frankenberry did so by having a shoe put on his horse.

Meanwhile, troopers roamed the countryside. On the north side of Huntsville, the cavalrymen found a large warehouse containing government corn, flour, meat, and more. They gladly consumed those goods. They also discovered the “White Store,” a building about one hundred yards east of the warehouse. The raiders burned it, along with the stock of goods, guns, and ammunition inside.[v]

To read what happened next, see Chris J. Hartley, Stoneman's Raid, 1865.

Excerpt from Stoneman's Raid, 1865, (c) Chris J. Hartley

Simeon Brown’s second brigade led off early the next morning, April 10. The next goal was Germanton, a small settlement in southern Stokes County. By noon, Brown’s troopers had captured Germanton with ease. “Charged the Town of Germanton. Rebs all gone,” declared Henry Birdsall of the 11th Michigan. Afterward the men camped and ate, and then prepared to continue the journey. By 5:00 p.m., the brigade had resumed the march along the Salisbury Road.

John Miller’s Tennessee brigade followed. A 13th Tennessee man lost a horse near Germanton for unknown reasons, but otherwise the visit was routine. At least the town was interesting; an observant Tennessean thought it must have been “a nice prosperous place before the war.” Like their comrades in Brown’s brigade, the Tennesseans paused to eat before moving on.

Gray skies hung low over the raiders the entire day. Near first light a Pennsylvanian, Smith Cozens, took about twelve men on picket duty. Presently it began to drizzle, so the troopers pulled on their rubber coats. Around 7:00 a.m., bugles sounded “Forward” and the 15th Pennsylvania Cavalry and First Brigade took their place in the column. Rain fell all morning as Palmer’s men wound their way to Germanton. They arrived around midday and stopped to rest, but the weather did not change. “It was still quite cloudy and occasionally drizzled a little,” Cozens complained. To Cozens, Germanton itself was unremarkable. “It was without paint or whitewash and laziness was apparent all over it,” a cavalryman wrote.

To read what happened next, see Chris J. Hartley, Stoneman's Raid, 1865.

Excerpt from Stoneman's Raid, 1865, (c) Chris J. Hartley

On Palm Sunday, the Cavalry Division of the District of East Tennessee vanished into North Carolina like a ghost. Echoes of their passing lingered for days in Virginia. The Confederate treasury, just arrived from Richmond, was evacuated from Danville because of rumors of an enemy cavalry threat. Reserves dashed to Danville’s weak works. “Raiding parties were careering around us in various directions, robbing and maltreating the inhabitants, but none of the thieves ventured within reach of our guns,” complained one of Danville’s defenders.
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The uproar spread. In Lynchburg, a witness wrote, “gloom and sadness confirmed the entire community.” In Christiansburg, the grim news from Appomattox Court House shook John Echols’ command. “If the light of heaven had gone out, a more utter despair and consternation would not have ensued,” wrote one man. The command began to fall apart. Grasping for any hope, Maj. Gen. Lunsford Lomax suggested that Echols and Lomax combine forces and march to Johnston’s aid. Around blazing campfires, Echols called for the opinions of his officers. Could and should the command join Johnston? After much debate, they decided to furlough the infantry and take only Vaughn’s and Duke’s horse brigades to North Carolina. Speed was required and muddy mountain roads lay ahead, so they also decided to leave their artillery and trains behind. The Confederates spiked their guns and gave goods from the trains to needy citizens. Duke’s men, their horses still foraging in North Carolina, mounted the animals that had once pulled their guns and wagons. There were still not enough mounts, and many lacked proper equipment, but it was the best they could do. On the afternoon of April 12, Duke’s and Vaughn’s ragtag remnants started for Fancy Gap.

“The rain was falling in torrents when we prepared to start upon a march which seemed fraught with danger,” Basil Duke recalled. “The men were drenched, and mounted upon mules without saddles, and with blind bridles or rope halters. Everything conspired to remind them of the gloomy situation. The dreadful news was fresh in their ears. Thousands of men had disbanded around them; two Kentucky brigades had left in their sight to go home; they were told that Stoneman held the mountain gaps in the
mountains through which they had to pass.” The troopers rode in silence, picking up a few men from other brigades along the way.

Other North Carolina-bound refugees included Jefferson Davis and the Confederate cabinet. An unbowed Davis had hoped to remain in Virginia, but Lee’s capitulation ended the government’s authority in the state. Resolving to find Johnston and his army, the Confederate leaders evacuated Danville near midnight on April 10. Their train lumbered through the darkness along the Piedmont Railroad toward Greensboro.

To read what happened next, see Chris J. Hartley, Stoneman's Raid, 1865.

Excerpt from Stoneman's Raid, 1865, (c) Chris J. Hartley

On April 8, Stoneman and the Second and Third Brigades rested in Taylorsville, which was also called Patrick Court House. It was, a horseman wrote, “a fine section of the country. The houses are beautiful. Tobaco [sic] is so plentiful that all are smoking very fair cigars.” The Federals burned the jail, gathered horses and provisions, and captured some potential recruits of the Confederacy. They forced at least one prisoner to walk alongside the mounted column. Somehow he kept up with the column deep into North Carolina until he was finally sent to Camp Chase, Ohio. The man apparently replaced another captive, N.J. Agnew, who escaped into the darkness. A veteran of the 1st Virginia Cavalry, Agnew had just been exchanged after a long hiatus in a Yankee prison.
​
Many Patrick County residents lost possessions to the raiders. Among the victims was Hardin Reynolds, the county’s wealthiest planter. The Reynolds lived on an eight thousand acre estate called Rock Spring. One of Reynolds’s sons was the future tobacco tycoon, Richard Joshua Reynolds. Fifteen-year-old Dick saved the plantation’s horses by hiding them in the woods, but he could not prevent the raiders from looting Rock Spring. The cavalrymen also made off with some livestock, and Hardin’s slaves followed the raiders to freedom, rejoicing as they left. Among the odds and ends the troopers left behind was a rifle, which remains at the Reynolds Homestead today.

Frank Frankenberry was one of the beneficiaries of Taylorsville’s bounty. The signalman noted that “the place was almost deserted but we found plenty of forage and brandy.” He also amused himself by rummaging through some courthouse records, and even found a deed with Patrick Henry’s handwriting on it. “All is lovely and gay,” Frankenberry wrote. Other cavalrymen reflected on their journey through Virginia. Henry Birdsall of the 11th Michigan wrote, “We have had no fighting yet. I think it rather strange having been in a Rebel Country….”

To read what happened next, see Chris J. Hartley, Stoneman's Raid, 1865.

Excerpt from Stoneman's Raid, 1865, (c) Chris J. Hartley

On April 7, 1865, they remained encamped around the bridges. It was a welcome change. While most of the men rested, Wagner sent out scouting parties to search the countryside for horses, signs of the enemy or even for Stoneman himself. Two men went looking for horses but did not return. Another squad of twelve men under Sgt. John Anderson reconnoitered the approaches to Lynchburg. They exchanged shots with a few rebels along the way but did not encounter a large enemy force. After riding to a point within eleven miles of Lynchburg, Anderson turned back, carrying news that the road to Lynchburg was open. That welcome information was tempered, however, by a subsequent report that about 1,500 Confederates held Lynchburg itself.
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Back at the bridge, Wagner pondered the reports of his patrols. Lacking new orders from Stoneman, Wagner had some decisions to make. First, should he burn the bridges? Second, should he turn south and try to rejoin the Cavalry Division? Or should he threaten Lynchburg and Danville, as his orders suggested? Rather than make these important decisions alone, Wagner called a council of war. Wagner and his subordinates settled on a compromise – to burn the bridges and proceed toward Lynchburg but avoid attacking the town itself. The work of firing the bridges began about 8:00 p.m., and within three hours the framework of both spans was in flames.

At midnight, Wagner’s column resumed the march toward Lynchburg. Wagner’s plan was to approach the town early on April 8 and, if possible, surprise the defenders before turning south. Taking the Forest Road, the Federals spent the rest of the night riding east. Around daybreak they passed Forest Station. One man went missing as they rode.[iii] Lynchburg was only seven miles away.

To read what happened next, see Chris J. Hartley, Stoneman's Raid, 1865.

Excerpt from Stoneman's Raid, 1865, (c) Chris J. Hartley

Although a Michigan officer thought Stoneman had changed his strategy after learning about Richmond’s fall, April 6 looked much like April 5. The division continued to damage the railroad, and they did it with fresh purpose. “Never were troops in better spirits, and never did men work with a heartier will at the labor of destruction,” noted one of Stoneman’s staff officers. “Every stick added to the blazing fires, which were fast contorting the iron rails into all sorts of fantastic shapes, each falling bridge, each flaming storehouse hurried on the destruction of Lee’s army, hastened the day of peace, and the return to the home fireside; so the work went on with shout and cheer, and gladsome song.” It was, the staff officer concluded, “Glory enough for one day.”

As April 6 progressed, the railroad work ended and the units prepared to resume the march. One concern was the division’s ambulances. All ten had broken down by the time they reached Christiansburg, so Stoneman’s medical staff was left scrambling. Other troopers saw to their personal needs. Frank Frankenberry washed his clothes and baked biscuits. The 10th Michigan received orders to stay in its Salem bivouac pending further orders. To ensure readiness, Trowbridge sent men to look for horses, but they returned with far more. “One afternoon I was sitting under a tent fly enjoying the rest, the delicious air and the charming scenery, when I heard a commotion on the road,” Trowbridge recalled. “Looking up, I saw one of my parties returning from their hunt after horses. The party was preceded by an elegant coach, drawn by a pair of cavalry horses, clad in resplendent silver-plated harness and on the driver’s seat sat Corporal Delaney, as happy as a lord.” Behind the coach came an equally amusing sight: a knot of campaign-hardened, dirty cavalrymen carrying ladies’ clothing. The proud troopers claimed the carriage and clothing as legitimate captures, but Trowbridge ordered his men to surrender the loot after explaining that they were not warring against women and children. As the colonel returned the property to its rightful owners, a black man approached and asked if he could have a remnant of bright calico for his wife. “Why should I give that to you? It does not belong to you. It belongs to Mrs. White,” Trowbridge said.

“Now see here, boss,” the man answered. “I think that belongs to me more than it does to them. Fact is, I’se been workin’ for dat family all my life and never got a cent for it and not one of them ever struck a lick of honest work in all their lives. I think I’se earn’t it mor’n they has.” Trowbridge let him have the calico.

The Federals also had more troublesome matters to deal with. At their camp near Salem, a 10th Michigan clerk reported the hard-drinking, rebellious Capt. Archibald Stevenson as absent without leave. Stevenson had apparently escaped from his jailers, gotten drunk, fallen into the hands of some guerillas, and escaped again, but he had not yet reported for duty. During the short pause, the case of the 15th Pennsylvania’s Capt. C.J. Mather also surfaced. Only three days had passed since the Pennsylvanian had failed to capture the Confederate wagon train near Hillsville, but Mather had tired of incarceration and wanted to repair his reputation. Taking out a sheet of paper, the captain offered to personally explain his actions to General Stoneman. Betts endorsed and forwarded the proposal to brigade headquarters, where Palmer pondered it. Because Stoneman was planning to put the command in motion again, Palmer decided not to bother him with it. Instead, Palmer ordered Mather released and restored him to command of his company.

Mather’s opportunity was not long in coming. Division headquarters issued a circular describing their railroad destruction work as a complete success. The rails, trestles, bridges, culverts, and telegraph lines between New River Bridge and Salem would be of no service to the enemy for some time to come. Now fresh objectives beckoned, so division headquarters ordered the men into the saddle. Bugles blew in the darkness, and slowly the column snaked southward along the Jacksonville Road. A long night of mountain marching lay ahead.

To read what happened next, see Chris J. Hartley, Stoneman's Raid, 1865.

Excerpt from Stoneman's Raid, 1865, (c) Chris J. Hartley