— Even though they’re in civilian garb, something about them tells the captain and me they are either current military or ex-military.

The manner in which they carry themselves and the way they talk to us and to each other gives it away. They’re not like the other tourists.

They look at us in our Union uniforms in a different way than everyone else does.

They may be youthful, with hair and clothing squared away, or they may be older and look like bikers. There often is something in their eyes that tells us (as the Civil War soldiers used to say) they have seen the elephant.

A younger, fit-looking man with short hair jumped in beside me instead of Captain Carter, who was standing on the other side of the Parrott Rifle’s barrel. He began talking to me like we knew each other, and I told myself, “This guy wears stripes ... several of them.”

He looked at my sleeve and asked, “First sergeant?” I said “Yes,” but did not add “sir” — which is what you call an officer. If he was indeed a sergeant, he knew that I also work for a living. I was returning the same courtesy he’d shown me.

My rank insignia consists of a lozenge (a diamond) over three chevrons that point downward. The chevrons of a modern first sergeant point upward. The lozenge is below them, and  there are three curved rockers on the bottom.

He asked what my duties would be as first sergeant in a Civil War battery, and I told him I report directly to the captain, so my duties are whatever he says they are.

I also call the roll, muster the men out for sick call and see to it that the horses and equipment are properly maintained and the men are properly provisioned and equipped.

If a junior lieutenant is carried from the field, I assume his duties and probably will be promoted — as may have been the case with Theodore Field, the real first sergeant of Battery C, 1st West Virginia Volunteer Artillery, which was at Cemetery Hill during the Gettysburg battle. He was mustered out at war’s end as the battery’s senior second lieutenant.

Most importantly, I see to it that the other noncommissioned officers are properly instructed in their duties and become proficient in performing them. It is the duty of senior officers to send men out to die, I said, but it is the job of sergeants to keep them alive.

The look on the man’s face told me I had guessed right about him. He said he had two more grades to make before he becomes a first sergeant, meaning he’s now a sergeant first class: three chevrons and two rockers.

“I intend to retire as a sergeant major,” he said. I hope that our paths will cross once more, so I can shake his hand and tell him, “Good to see you again, top soldier.”

Presently,  Capt. Gary and an older man began an energetic discussion of Confederate Gen. Richard (Baldy) Ewell, who was told by Gen. Robert E. Lee to get troops on Little Round Top before the Union did — but did not.

One story is that Ewell lost his nerve (which probably was not the case). Another is that Lee’s orders were to do it “if at all practicable,” and Ewell felt his men needed to stand down after a hard day of fighting. The older man told Gary that Ewell was justified in resting his men, and Gary disagreed.

I almost told the fellow that Col. William C. Oates’ Alabamians weren’t too tired after a 20-mile forced march without water to charge four times up Little Round Top next day in the face of the 20th Maine. However, my captain was holding his own, so I kept silent.

Another man who had been listening with what appeared to be considerable amusement later whispered to Gary, “He’s a Civil War instructor at the Army War College!”

Gary and I had almost recovered from that when the older man came back. He stopped long enough to smile, pat Gary on the shoulder and tell him, “We’ll talk again!”

We also met a man who said he was the great-great-grandson of Union Gen. Dan Sickles, a career politician who, until the Civil War, was most noted for shooting and killing his wife’s lover and getting away with it.

Sickles’ corps was placed in front of Little Round Top, but he didn’t like the ground and took his men into a position that exposed them to devastating fire from both sides and left a gap in the Union line. It cost him a leg, which he had packed in pickle brine and sent to Washington as his pound of flesh.

Sickles felt that rather than nearly losing the battle, he had won it with his actions and wrote himself up for a Medal of Honor. Some historians actually agree with him.

An Army major and a captain in uniform returned our salutes, shook our hands and thanked us for what we do. Amazing.

These are people who have the highest respect for tradition, and they seem to appreciate seeing others who share that respect enough to bring a part of it back to life.

Gary and I were headed down the hill past a group of men from the War College who stopped what they were doing and turned with smiling faces to watch us.

What they didn’t know was that we were headed for the comfort stations.

What they saw was something they must have seen before — a captain in a hurry and his first sergeant hustling to catch up, probably wondering, “Where’n the hell’s he off to now?”

When Capt. Gary passed, there were calls of “Good morning, sir!” and he responded, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

For me, it was a chorus of “Good morning!”

I turned — not saluting, because while they may have been officers, they were not in uniform. Instead, I turned, grasped the bill of my forage cap between my right thumb and forefinger and said, “Good morning, gentlemen.”

Then I added, “I’m proud that none of you called me ‘Sir.’ I’d have had to speak to him about it.” (I know how and have done so.)

That got a laugh from the soldiers, and one of them said, “He’s a working man!”

I looked back over my shoulder and, without breaking stride, said, “Damn right, sir!”

More chuckles followed, and the fellow added, “They’re still the same!”

I hope that’s true. I’m counting on all of them being the same.

I sleep well at night because of them.