The First and Only Weekly Online Fanzine Devoted to the Life and Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs
Volume 0555

Chapter 6:
A Time For War
Frank X. Blisard
Major George Burroughs: ERB's Father
Son Jack Burroughs Re-enacts ERB's Cavalry Days
1st Lieutenant
George Tyler Burroughs, 
43rd N.Y. Volunteer Infantry
December 16, 1861
Pvt.  Edgar Rice Burroughs,
ca. 1896 
as re-enacted by 
John Coleman Burroughs
I looked around, still groggy, but my visual acuity now restored.  We were in the waist cabin  of the B-24, sunlight was streaming in through the open hatchway, and the mingled sounds of busy woodland birds and muffled human chatter filled the air.  No engines.  Warm and humid as a summer's day.  We clearly were not in Kenya any more.

"Hunny-Loo-Loo?" I asked, tentatively.

Shaking his head from side to side, and with a grim smile on his lips, the young Negro pilot simply said, "Virginia."

"What year?" I asked, hoarsely.


"Vir...ghinya?  Ae-teen zigsdy-wun?"  I echoed, still thick-tongued from Mugambi's damnable draught.  "Yue zhoor, Looey?  Howk'n yue bee zoe zhoor?"

"Way-ell," drawled Gridley, "Mainly . . . 'cuz Ah dun growed up heah, Massah Jack, Suh!"  That strange grim smile was still on his face, only now it was accompanied by an even stranger, almost manic light in his eyes.  What kind of bug had DuBois put in his ear?

"Wuddin hellza madder wit-chu, Looey?"  I blurted out, more than a little peeved.  "An' howdja asser-tane th' damn date?"

Fuming silently, the lad reached into his flight jacket, pulled out a rolled-up newspaper, flung it at me, and turned away.  Curious as I was to examine the artifact, I was more concerned with Gridley's frame of mind.  I struggled to my feet and staggered out the hatchway after him, clutching the newspaper in one hand.  When I laid my other hand upon his shoulder, calling his name, he whirled about to face me, a look of rage on his face.

"Just look around you, Major!" he whispered.  "How much more proof do you need?"  As he stormed off, I decided to take his advice and tried to get my bearings.  In front of me, several yards away, was a group of men -- white men, about a score in all -- milling around a campfire on the banks of a well-shaded creek.  A quick look behind me, however, sent a genuine shock through my system.  The B-24 from which I had just emerged was gone -- and in its place was an old, weatherbeaten, but spacious canvas tent!  And flanking its entry flap were posted two of the "Walking Wounded," their M-1 Carbines held across their chests.

"Good mornin', Maj -- Colonel," said Sgt. O'Dowd with a grin and a wink.  "Colonel Butcher has been anxious to meet with you -- " and he craned his neck as if to peer over my shoulder.  I whirled to face the object of his gaze.  Marching towards me, followed by his own contingent of guards, was a moustachioed bear of a man, outfitted in a blue, Civil War-era uniform.  Clenched in his teeth was the stump of a cigar.  He was the very incarnation of impatience and irritability.  He stopped scant inches away from my chest.

"Colonel Burroughs?"  It was more of a demand than a question.

"I am," said I, trying desperately to match his tone, and grateful that O'Dowd (or somebody) had had the presence of mind to "promote" me in my sleep.  "You musht be Butcher."  (So much for my presence of mind!)

"Musht be?" he sneered.  "You shober yet, Colonel?"

"Sober enough," I said, now equally rankled and ready for bear.  "What's on your mind, Colonel?"

"Its about yer damned Russians!" he bellowed.

(My Russians?  I said to myself.  What the hell have Abbott and Costello been up to now?)

"I don't care what kind of 'diplomatic immunity' they've got," he continued, "just keep 'em away from my men!  Its bad enough we've got all them British journalists pokin' their noses into the nation's business at a time like this--we don't need no more damned foreign newspapers tellin' the world our military secrets."  He paused for breath before launching his final barrage.  "I'm sure I don't have to remind you, Colonel . . . this is war . . . and some people are just bound and determined to become casualties of war, if you take my meaning."

"Perfectly, Colonel," I yawned.  "Is that all?"

"Good day, sir!" was his only reply as he motioned to his aides and stormed off with a look of utter contempt.

"Good riddance," I muttered as he and his cohort mounted up.  As they rode off, I turned towards Sgt. O'Dowd, still at his "post," and inquired, "What the hell's been going on here, Sarge?  How long have I been out of it?"

O'Dowd cracked a wry half-grin and said, "We was all pretty well drugged up, Sir--it was in our breakfast back at General Mugambi's place.  All of us except Lt. Gridley, that is--I guess 'cause he had to fly the damned plane.  But how we ended up here instead of at Pearl beats the hell outa me.  Maybe Gridley knows.  He's kinda been in charge around here while you were 'under'--at least, when it's just us.  These locals don't much go for that, even if they are Yankees."

"And how long have I been 'under'?"

"Just a few hours longer than the rest of us.  Gridley says we got here around midnight and that, come sun-up, he went out to reconnoitre . . . came back with lots of rations . . . and that newspaper you've got in your hand there."

New York Tribune 1861: Battle of Bull RunNew York Herald Map Supplement 1861

I looked down at the rolled-up relic and slowly unfolded it.  The masthead told me all I needed to know:
JULY 20, 1861

Below the masthead was a full-page montage of sketches, collectively titled:


The scenes included such bucolic activities as recruits engaging in target practice, washing their clothes in a stream, rigging up a hammock under the trees, writing letters home, holding mock skirmishes between outposts . . . a virtual parallel to the scenes currently being played out all around me by fresh-faced young men in the clean, crisp uniforms of a bygone era--my father's era!  And, to all appearances, here we stood on the brink of the first major military engagement between the Union and the Confederacy.  Swallowing hard, I turned to Sgt, O'Dowd again, asking: "That creek down wouldn't happen to be Bull Run, would it?"

Battle of Bull Run
O'Dowd grinned.  "Damn, you're good, Major!  How'd you figure that one out?  I thought you were a fiction writier, not a historian."

"Lucky guess," I murmured.  "Who's in charge of that regiment down there by the creek?"

"Some colonel.  Don't know his name -- he keeps comin' and goin' between here and some 'headquarters' somewhere.  Say, Major, we gonna stick around for the battle?  Lt. Gridley says its gonna start tomorrow morning -- early."

"Not if I can help it," I replied, rubbing my stubbled chin.  "Any idea where the good lieutenant ran off to?"

"Nah, he kinda keeps to himself," puzzled O'Dowd, "but every time he returns, he's got plenty o' loot in his grip.  He did say something, though, about looking up some long-lost relatives hereabouts."

"Thanks, Sarge," I said, sniffing the air, which was heavy with the smell of bacon and coffee.  "Think I'll mosey on down to the creek there and snoop around some myself.  Carry on."

As I approached the campfire, I could see that the men of my own little "regiment" had already made themselves at home in this strange -- yet not-so-strange -- environment.  Compared to Mugambi's compound, this thoroughly American military encampment of another century was familiar territory indeed.  My fellow veterans of the War in the Pacific -- my "Walking Wounded"--actually seemed energized by the one-on-one contact with these naive farmboys and know-it-all city slickers who had yet to taste of battle's bitter brew; and those raw recruits, for their part, were absolutely awestruck by the chance to interview such battle-hardened veterans of some as-yet unnamed battle in the hinterland.  Had we seen action last month at Big Bethel, down Norfolk way, or at Vienna, just across the Potomac from the Capitol?  Or were we refugees from some more distant and devastating conflict, news of which had not yet gotten past the Federal censors?  And what of our strange uniforms -- were we connected with some secret outfit on a daring mission behind enemy lines?  Such were the questions I heard as I made my way through the camp where my compatriots lay or sat, gratefully wolfing down the rations freely offered by the admiring, unitiated volunteers of "Mr. Lincoln's Army."  Such questions, of course, amused the savvy soldiers of my little regiment no end, and their inventive answers were little masterpieces of fiction in their own right.  But the object of my search was not these proven patriots of the South Pacific; my eyes were peeled for the corpulent countenances of those two official stowaways, Rokovitch and Paulinov.  Nor did I have far to look.

Close to the campfire -- and the skillet -- sat the two Russian officers who, "back" in 1945, had so abruptly appeared on the tarmack in Guam, waving their Sate Department papers and demanding that Gridley delay his takeoff until the arrival of some mysterious telegram from Moscow.  The fact that he had unhesitatingly refused, putting the medical needs of his passengers ahead of the Russians' threats of political retribution upon his "bourgeoise black hide," impressed me deeply.  All the deeper, then, my shock and confusion upon discovering the lad sitting there between these two accomplished con-men like Pinnocchio between the Fox and the Cat.  He was absorbed in some intense dissertation pouring from the lips of Rokovitch, the senior officer of the pair.  It was then that I realized that Gridley was wearing my cap--the one with the "time-space continuator" sewn into the sweatband!

Swallowing my chagrin, I approached the campfire, determined to get to the bottom of this disturbing turn of events.  Happily, another of the "Walking Wounded," seated opposite them across the fire, spoke up.

"Here, Major -- you look like you could use a cup o' java;" and he held out a steaming tin for my inspection.  Grateful for this gesture of camaraderie in the face of impending confrontation, I took the proffered cup and sat down on a vacant camp-stool.  Through the billowing steam as I raised the cup to my lips, I glanced at Gridley and the Russians to find all three of them eyeing me expectantly.  Good, I thought, I won't have to work to get their attention.  Not wanting to lose whatever small advantage that gave me, I raised my head and spoke directly to Colonel Rokovitch.

"So, Colonel . . . which newspaper are you pretending to represent? Die Weltische Zeitung?  La Gazette Parisienne?  Or something closer to home, like Pravda?"

Caught in his deception -- of which, I had rightly guessed, young Gridley was unaware--the Russian glared at me, then turned to say something to his new protegee, who had already risen to his feet with a look of disillusionment and disgust.  Rokovitch's remarks were cut short by Gridley's own: "Guess you white folks is all th' same, after all!"  And, dashing the contents of his cup towards the fire, he once again stormed off for parts unknown.  Rokovitch turned towards me again, his usual disdain for me now grown into a seasoned hate.

"Perhaps the Major does not realize, the Geneva Convention does not apply to the present conflict," the Russian said with obvious relish.  "Nor that, even though we are technically on American soil, we are no longer bound by agreements between our respective governments that do not yet exist."

Smiling at such bureaucratic hogwash, I replied, "Colonel, you are a source of endless amusement.  Do you really think that any of us can act with impunity simply because we are out of our proper time and place?  Reason alone dictates that, if anything, we should all proceed with even greater caution in these circumstances."

That seemed to stump him momentarily, which gave his partner leave to join the discussion.

"Ah, Major, iss you who do not understand!  Vee haff dee -- how you say? -- dee Moeglichkeit -- dee opportunity to shape, to fashion dee Zeitgeist here in diss vilderness!  Herr Marx hass not yet written a single verd of his great thesis, und --"

A sharp slap on the cheek from his superior's hand silenced him in mid-speech.

"Dumbkopf!" the colonel roared, following-up with a string of invective in Russian that I could not follow, but whose import I understood perfectly.  Paulinov had already spilled too much of their game plan, and Rokovitch would have his hands full in the immediate future, trying to regroup and rethink.  Meanwhile, he would still need a safe haven to hole-up in during the coming conflict which we all knew to be but hours away.  Turning to the GI beside me, I started issuing some orders of my own.

"Corporal, do you know the whereabouts of the rest of your unit?"

"Yessir! Lt. Gridley appointed me quartermaster."

"Gather them together and meet me inside my . . . tent . . . as soon as possible.  We're moving out at 1300 hours."

"Yes sir!" he said, with evident enthusiasm, and hobbled off on his mission.

Turning to Rokovitch, I said, "You are, of course, welcome to join us, Colonel," and, not waiting for a reply, I headed back up the hill.  I wasn't even halfway up, however, when approaching hoofbeats announced yet another visitor -- a scout -- who wasted no time in delivering his message:

"Seventy-first New York Regiment," he shouted to all within earshot, "break camp at once and reassemble up by th' stone bridge."

"Where's th' colonel?" someone shouted back.

"Locked in some big hub-bub back at headquarters, with all t'other commanders.  After that fiasco at Blackburn's Ford t'other day, th' 8th New York and th' 4th Pennsylvania have headed back to Washington, but the 1st Rhode Island volunteered to stay on, God bless 'em!  You're to hook up with them along the turnpike above th' bridge."

"Somethin' big's a'brewin'!" another soldier shouted.

"Amen, brother!" cried the scout, as he wheeled his mount and sped away.

I grabbed the sleeve of a soldier rushing past me, shouting, "You're with the 71st?"

"Aye, that I am, sir.  What would ye?"

"Is there a Private Burroughs among ye?"

"George?  He's back in Washington, at the infirmary -- laid up with dysentery like half the outfit!  Who wants t'know?"

"Friend o' th' family," I said wistfully.  "I heard about his enlistment from . . . his fiancee.  Y'could say she asked me to check up on him, as long as I was in th' neighborhood."

"Well, this looks like one battle ol' Georgie's goin' t'miss out on -- less'n he makes a miraculous recovery," the fellow said, excitement welling up in his eyes.  "Fact is, if'n he don't hurry up an' mend, he'll miss th' whole damned war!  Why, we oughta be in Richmond by this time tomorry --"

"On to Richmond!" shouted another soldier passing by, and the cry was taken up by others in rapid succession until it grew into a veritable chant.  Tearing myself away from the mounting madness, I scrambled further up the hill to the relative safety of my "tent."  Upon reaching it, I could not resist commenting to Sgt. O'Dowd on the insanity below: "Poor bastards . . . they actually think this thing will be over in a matter of days.  At least we knew from the get-go that we were walking into hell."

"Too bad we can't warn 'em, Major," mused O'Dowd.

"The less we interfere, the better, Sarge," I said.  "If Lt. Gridley shows up, get him inside here pronto.  And Cpl. Blodgett should be here soon with the rest of the unit -- send 'em all in, too."

"And the Russians, Sir?"

"Yeah, them too."

The scene inside the tent was even more insane than that without, for the latter at least was within my ken, and subject to the logic of experience.  What precedent was there for a structure whose interior was several times larger than its exterior?  And how had the "reconstituted" B-24 transformed its own exterior to match its new environs?  General Groves' hasty briefing on the eve of our departure from mid-21st century Kenya was the only explanation that made any sense, yet it made no sense at all -- a machine that was not a machine, but was in effect a living organism?  I would need a lot more convincing.  Hopefully, Gridley could shed more light on things when he finally showed up!

I determined to examine the interior of the ship from stem to stern.  Noting an abundance of daylight flooding through the nose cone, I made my way up towards the cockpit.  I had just reached the radio/navigation compartment when I began to detect a rhythmic sound coming from the left side of the cockpit.  Snoring?  Yes, by God, and I knew whose snore it was!  Removing my cap, I tiptoed into the cockpit to find First Lieutenant Ulysses S. Gridley fast  asleep in the pilot's seat, his feet propped up on the back of the bombardier's seat.  Pitching "my" cap into Gridley's lap, I was already pinching the cowl of "his" cap -- the one he had pilfered from me in my drug-induced stupor on our "return" trip -- when he startled awake.  Settling into the co-pilot's seat and fitting the cap to my head, I attempted once more to engage the agitated youth in some semblance of a conversation.

"Okay, Lieutenant, its just you and me here.  If you feel the urge to leave the room again, I sure won't try and stop you.  But I did think you might want to hear my 'take' on what's bugging you."

"Your 'take'?" he echoed.  "Your 'take' . . . Your 'take' on what's bugging me?  Oh, Ah jes' cain't wait to heah Massah Bwana-Mukubwu  Munango-Keewati Tar-mangani Majuh Cuh'nul Edguh Rise Borrows gimmee his personal expert analysis and considered o-pinyun of what the hell is buggin' this 22-year-old kellered boy who wuz jes' mindin' his own bidniz flying dis hyeah broken down ol' B-24 back an' forf twixt Guam and Oahu on accounta becuz Ol' Loo-tennant Tyrone Kiss-My-Ass Powers is too bizzy signin' autographs an' gittin' his goddam beauty sleep, so Ah gits t'get Mah black ass sucked inta yo'  personal time-travellin' nightmare!  Yes, Captain Jack, I would simply love to hear your . . . umm, how did you put it, Old Bean, your . . . 'take'.  Do proceed."

"Now just a minute, Bub," I hastened to reply.  "It wasn't me that landed us here in Virginia on the eve of the god-damned Civil War!  What did you think you were doing using this time/space thingamabob to override Mugambi's systems?"

"That's just it, Major," he said slowly, deliberately, as if I were a child just learning his lessons. "Sure, I took the 'continuator' while you were 'out of it', but I wasn't trying to override anything.  I was focussing on Pearl Harbor, Hickam Field, 15 July 1945 -- everything I could think of associated with my regular run.  I've made that run a thousand times, I can do it in my sleep.  I know every wind pattern, every constellation in the southern sky -- hell, I can even smell those damned islands from 20,000 feet!  I provided more raw data for that gizmo to work with than you'll ever know.  Don't you get it, Major?  You weren't within 50 feet of the damned thing, and yet you were controlling it -- in your sleep you were controlling the TSC unit that I was wearing!  I know you were because all these images of people and places I never even heard of kept flooding into my head from the minute I put it on.  F'rinstance -- who the hell are George and Mary Evaline?"

"My parents," I whispered, suddenly dry-mouthed and faint-headed.  Glad that I was already seated, I began remembering -- in snatches, fitfully at first, and then in greater detail -- the battle of wills that Gridley was describing: my own unconscious mental images locked in a titanic struggle with the lad's conscious ones . . . my deepest, earliest, and dearest recollections of Mama and Papa and the world they had spoken of so often (that same "bygone era" in which we were now enmeshed) striving for dominance with Gridley's acquired knowledge of longitude, latitude, and altitude.  Poor kid never had a chance!  The sheer number of memories accumulated by a man my age -- plus the unrestrained force of an unconscious reservoir of experiences -- must have become all the more overwhelming the more he tried to narrow and focus his conscious mind on selective and arbitrary details of geography and chronology.

"I'm sorry, lad" was all I could manage to say.  "Dreadfully sorry . . . I had no idea . . . ."

"You had no idea?" he snorted.  "Hmph!  I had no idea that you -- in person -- are even weirder than those stories of yours.  Otherwise, I would've taken off without you that day in Guam.  But I guess, from the looks of you right now, you never even realized you had any extraordinary abilities -- aside from your charming way with words, that is."

"Tell me this is all one big mass hallucination, Looey," I moaned, doubling over and burying my face in my hands.  "At this point, I'd welcome spending the rest of my days in a padded cell -- compared to the alternative!"

The voice that spoke to me in that moment of despair was Gridley's -- and yet, strangely, not Gridley's.  To this day, he swears it was the voice of one of his ancestors speaking through him:

"Is this the mind that hatched a thousand plots?  That birthed the topless towers of Helium?  Or maybe I'd just better check your pulse to see if . . . you still live?"

Whatever the source -- and I have my own opinion--I was jolted out of my self-pity by a sudden realization: Papa still lived!  The soldier I had accosted halfway up the hill had confirmed a fact I knew well from  my mother's many tellings of the tale -- how Papa had nearly missed the opening battle of the Civil War due to a bout with dysentery, but stole away from the infirmary just in time to rejoin his regiment and play his minor (but none the less historic) role at Bull Run.  And every minute we spent in this time and place was contributing to the potential altering of that history!  The paradoxes of time travel had been amply explored in numerous stories over the 1920's, 30's, and 40's -- in some of the very same magazines in which I had been publishing my own "damphool" fiction.

"Gridley," I shouted, leaping to my feet, "we've got to get out of here -- all of us -- as soon as possible!  I gave Cpl. Blodgett orders to round up the rest of the unit -- what can you tell me about Rokovitch's plans?"

"Oh, you don't want to know, Major," chortled Gridley.  "That crazy bastard actually thinks he can foment a revolution right here in these United States.  And guess whose ancestors he wants to use as cannon fodder?"

"I just hope I took the wind out of his sails long enough to get him and his comrade back on board. He wasn't planning to 'jump ship' or something, was he?"

"That freeloader?" the lad sneered.  "What -- and miss a meal?  No, he'll stick to us like glue -- at least until he figures out how we got here.  He knows it has something to do with that hat of yours . . . don't ask me how he knows, but he does."

"Well, leave 'em to me -- you're gonna have yer hands full gettin' this bird fired up and ready for take-off.  Once the rest of the men show up, make sure they stay put."

"Good luck, Major," he said, as he started checking instruments.  "I wish you'd take someone with you -- say, O'Dowd?"

"Good idea," I replied as I exited the cockpit.

Emerging into daylight, I was pleased and relieved to see Blodgett and the "Walking Wounded" trudging up the hill.

"Any sign of the Russians," I asked Sgt. O'Dowd.  "I left them down by the campfire."

"That regiment, the 71st," the sergeant explained, "when they broke camp, they doused the fire and the Russians raised holy hell.  Then the two of 'em wandered off downstream."

"Well, c'mon, Sarge," I sighed.  "Let us leave the ninety-nine and seek that which is lost."

"Amen, sir," he smiled, and we started off at a brisk pace.  Their tracks were easy enough to follow in the soft loam of the riverbank, but soon we came to a ford and their spoor got swallowed up in the countless bootprints and hoofprints leading down to it.  A few yards beyond the muddy thoroughfare all traces of  shod feet abruptly ceased, and so we turned to trek up the beaten path, hoping to catch up with either our quarry or someone who may have encountered them.  At the crest of the hill, we stopped to survey the way ahead.  A broad expanse of open field stretched out before us, a split-rail fence bisecting the brown rut that disappeared into a line of trees on the horizon.  And clambering gingerly over the fence was a lone Union soldier, laden with his gear and headed in our direction.  Upon spotting us, he stopped, squinted, and crouched down, bringing his rifle to the level.  O'Dowd -- instinctively  -- did the same, but I stepped forward at once, my arms outstretched towards them both and my head turning back and forth to maintain eye contact with both men as I said to O'Dowd: "It's our uniforms, Sarge!  He can't place our uniforms, that's all.  Put up your rifle, for Chrissake . . . and stay put, while I go parlay with him."

O'Dowd reluctantly did as ordered, while I advanced towards the stranger, my arms half-raised, palms outward.  Once he saw the miniature Stars-and-Stripes patch on my sleeve, he put up his own weapon and proceeded to scratch his head.

"All right, old fellah, that's far enough," he called out when I was about six yards away from him.  "I can see you're Federal personnel, but I'll be damned if I can tell your rank.  State your business, please."

"Special correspondence corps," I fudged.  "Michigan Businessmen's Militia . . . we're on assignment from Harper's Weekly.  We seem to have misplaced two foreign correspondents -- Russians, actually -- in our employ.  We lost their trail in all this muck, but this must be the way they went . . . ."

"Russians, ye say?" the young man echoed.  "Yeah, I seen 'em -- passed 'em back there a good half-hour ago.  Headed for Washington they was.  Miserable sonovobitches, I must say.  Same get-up as you boys, though, except for Old Glory there," and he pointed at my sleeve.

"Well, son, have you any remarks for the press, as long as I've got you here?" and I pulled a notebook and a pencil from my pocket, for verisimilitude.

"Hell, yes!" he beamed.  "We'll hang Jeff Davis from a sour apple tree, come sun-up.  You can quote me on that, Grandpa."

"Very well, young man.  And whom do I have the honor of quoting?"

"Private George Tyler Burroughs, Company G, 71st New York Regiment.  And God save these United States of America!"

It was at this point that Major Burroughs' letter to me abruptly ended -- no signature, no further explanation, no reference to the balance of his strange tale, which lay tantalizingly before me in the thick, bound manuscript he had enjoined me not to open.  Dubious but dutifully, I stowed the letter in my shirt and stashed the miniature plastic disk among my own collection of 45- and 78-rpm records, and went to bed.

Came Christmas morning, the strange package was quickly forgotten in the mad dash to open all the really important gifts before Nan and the kids and I hurried out to Church.  But, apparently, the FBI had not forgotten and, true to Jack's prediction, we returned that morning to find our house ransacked and the only item missing was . . . that damned, mysterious, unread manuscript!

Now I am an old man, with a story or two of my own to tell . . . but none as strange as that which follows here--a tale of dark deception and high heroism in a time and a place hauntingly familiar, yet tinged with an undefinable air of impossibility.  And yet, what possible meaning can the word "impossible" retain in the face of a manuscript downloaded in 1999 from a compact disk manufactured in 1950?

Malcolm McHugh
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
January 1, 2001


Coming Soon
Chapter 3 ~ Othello's Fellows
November 1894
Geosynchronous coordinates:
Chicago, Illinois;
Xenia, Ohio;
Fort Sill, Oklahoma

Burroughs and the Military

Trooper BurroughsERB WWII Correspondent
Edgar Rice Burroughs and the Military: ERBzine 127
Edgar Rice Burroughs: Online Biography


BULL RUN: The Columbia Encyclopedia: Sixth Edition  2000

Bull Run: small stream, NE Va., c.30 mi (50 km) SW of Washington, D.C. Two important battles of the Civil War were fought there: the first on July 21, 1861, and the second Aug. 29–30, 1862. Both battlefields are included in Manassas National Battlefield Park (est. 1940).
Irvin McDowellPierre Gustave Toutant Beauregard
First Battle of Bull Run
The first battle of Bull Run (or first battle of Manassas) was the first major engagement of the Civil War. On July 16, 1861, the Union army under Gen. Irvin McDowell began to move on the Confederate force under Gen. P. G. T. Beauregard at Manassas Junction, Va. Gen. Robert Patterson’s force at nearby Martinsburg was to prevent the Confederate army under Gen. Joseph E. Johnston at Winchester from uniting with Beauregard but failed, and by July 20 part of Johnston’s army had reached Manassas. On July 21, McDowell, turning Beauregard’s left, attacked the Confederates near the stone bridge over Bull Run and drove them back to the Henry House Hill. There Confederate resistance, with Gen. Thomas J. Jackson standing like a “stone wall,” checked the Union advance, and the arrival of Gen. E. Kirby Smith’s brigade turned the tide against the Union forces. The unseasoned Union volunteers retreated, fleeing along roads jammed by panicked civilians who had turned out in their Sunday finery to watch the battle. The retreat became a rout as the soldiers made for the defenses of Washington, but the equally inexperienced Confederates were in no condition to make an effective pursuit. The South rejoiced at the result, while the North was spurred to greater efforts to win the war.

Battle of Bull Run: July 21, 1861Site of The First Battle of Manassas

JACK OF TIME ~ An ERB Time-Shift Novel ~ by Frank X. Blisard
ERBzine 0280 JACK OF TIME: ERB Novel Intro & Ch. 1 - "After the Fire..."
ERBzine 0330 JACK OF TIME: Chapter 2 "Time Bomb"
ERBzine 0433 JACK OF TIME: Ch. 3 "Time's Fool" - Graphics & Links Laden
ERBzine 0433t JACK OF TIME: Ch. 3 "Time's Fool" - Fast-loading Text Version
ERBzine 0434 JACK OF TIME: Ch. 4 "Time's Tool" - Graphics & Links Laden
ERBzine 0434t JACK OF TIME: Ch. 4 "Time's Tool" - Text Version
ERBzine 0436 JACK OF TIME: Ch. 5 "Time and Tide" - Text Version
ERBzine 0555 JACK OF TIME: Ch. 6 "A Time For War"
ERBzine 0663 JACK OF TIME: Ch. 7 "Othello's Fellows"

Volume 0555

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