They Came To Cordura

by Swarthout, Glendon

Hit, a horse ran half-way through the barbed wire, disentrailing its belly, tangling its rear legs, pitching its rider over the fence.

  Far to the rear, Machine-Gun Troop had lost much distance during the charge. The mules, the southwestern strain which came of a cross with a Mexican jack, were too small and carried loads too heavy to keep up: 312 pounds on the ammunition mules and 292 pounds on the gun mules.

  Seeing the situation of A and C Troops at the fence, however, the officer in charge had the fagged and braying animals whipped off the road to the left and ordered the four guns got into action against the Mexican position at the hillside fence.

  The machine-guns were the old Benét-Merciers, complicated weapons requiring perfect conditions in order to function. The first gun set up fired a few rounds and jammed.

  As the wire was being cut, Troops A and C still bunched up, a trooper shot out from them and got his horse to a gallop. It was the private from C with twenty years’ service who had determined before the fight to find an irrigation ditch and out of sight put a bullet into his mount. Now he rode perpendicular to the fence for more than a hundred yards towards the log corral. Six or seven Villistas fired at him as he neared. Pulling up, he emptied his pistol at them, killing one who wore a sombrero figured with silver, then leaped to the ground and taking his rifle ducked through the wire and ran bent to the corral. Seeing him come, the Mexicans made for their horses, which were saddled, while he reached the log wall and fired over it, pumping the bolt of the Springfield rapidly. He killed two more and disabled three horses, so that the rest of the enemy fled the corral on foot or spurring.

  During this incident Troops A and C cut and passed through the fence.

  Fire from behind the row of giant cottonwood trees on the near side of the ranch burst upon the center of the line at two hundred yards’ range.

  Coming up the road D Troop and the Apache Scouts were halted completely by it for a reason no one could have foreseen.

  At the instant they were fired upon, the Apaches dismounted, knelt or lay prone, and began to return fire, first with pistols, then with rifles. Orders to mount and charge were ignored by the Indians.

  D Troop, its horses winded and staggering, inexplicably drew up abreast of them.

  Colonel Rogers hopped from his horse, shouting, and ran among the Apaches flailing at them with his campaign hat, but they would not budge. A thousand years of training and tribal instinct told them to stay where they were. They would stand their ground as well as any white man, but the concept of being under fire and not returning it was alien to their nature.

  G Troop, weaving along the road in column of fours by platoons, overran the Indians, snarling all semblance of formation.

  Two horses, shot through the lungs, purple spuming from their nostrils, bucked and plunged, throwing their riders and trampling them.

  It was several minutes before Colonel Rogers could wave D Troop ahead.

  With the center of the line stopped, the attack became, after all, one upon the Mexican flanks.

  To the right of the road, moving unsteadily, gaps in its front where animals had fallen, E Troop received little enemy fire but suffered severe injuries to its mounts when it came suddenly upon an acequia, or irrigation ditch, within a hundred yards of the ranch. The ditch here was fourteen feet wide and ten deep, with only a trickle of water at the bottom between slant banks.

  Troopers in the lead tried to leap the ditch. The gaunt animals were incapable of such a jump.

  Three of them slammed into the ditch bank stiff-legged, snapping the cannon bones of their forelegs with reports heard above the rifle-fire from the ranch.

  Screaming like terrified women, two of the beasts attempted to claw over the rim of the ditch upon splintered bone and dangling hoofs.

  The third reared and fell backward upon its rider, crushing him face down into muddy water.

  One of the troopers was hurled forward from his saddle with such force that the impact struck him unconscious.

  Another emptied his pistol into the neck and head of a maddened brute before it died.

  A fourth horse came belly-down upon the edge of the bank, breaking its back-bone, and as it sank upon its haunches, shaking, from its tail a spurt of yellow water founted.

  Of the forty-two men in D, eighteen were unhorsed at the ditch. Some of the animals ran before they could be caught.

  Those riders able to dismount at the ditch assisted in destroying the injured horses.

  Unable to reassemble, D Troop took no part in the remainder of the attack.

  At the far right, or west, of the broken khaki line F Troop had encountered neither obstacles nor enemy fire. Aware of the gap in the line where E had collapsed at the ditch, its officer wheeled it left, towards the roads, and, careening, it responded.

  Here it found itself face to face with a high adobe wall which bounded the ranch on the west, running several hundred yards along the road.

  The wall was twelve feet high. F Troop could neither see over it nor be seen.

  Riders circled, bumped one another. At full strength, F Troop had nothing to fight.

  Someone headed down the road and the rest followed. They pulled up at a large gate stripped with iron. Rifle-fire on the other side deafened. If they could open the gate they could reach the center of the ranch.

  Several troopers drew rifles from boots and still mounted hammered with butts against the heavy wood. The gate was barred from inside.

  Another stood in his saddle, and supporting himself with one hand and craning his neck emptied his pistol over the top of the gate.

  As he turned to reload, shouting something, a neat hole appeared in both temples. He closed his eyes, stood motionless as though thinking, slid down, straddled the head of his horse, toppled to the ground.

  D Troop, signaled forward by Colonel Rogers after the Apache Scouts had proved immovable, took the heaviest enemy fire from the row of cottonwoods and the low ranch buildings behind it. But with most men managing to hold their horses up, more than thirty made the cottonwood trunks in a final rush.

  There was some dismounted fighting at close range, through doors and windows, but in the main the Mexicans melted rearward as D Troop paused to reload pistols around the corners of the outbuildings. Peering from them, they saw an oasis.

  Color astonished: green of grass, red and orange and purple of flowers, blue of a large pool into which flowing water spilled. The casa grande, or great hacienda, of Ojos Azules was a low, square structure, brilliant white, set amid an acre of tended ground, its near side shaded by overhangs, portales, a flight of steps slanting to the roof-top.

  On the flat roof at least thirty Villistas had concentrated, some standing, some squatting, muzzles of rifles spitting infernally, bullets raking the open yard, or terreno, spanging into the outbuildings, unleafing the cottonwoods.

  Across the terreno a dozen Mexicans fled in different directions, heavily weighted down with bandoleers of cartridges criss-crossed over their shoulders.

  Shot, three fell. One lay still. He was dressed in blue overalls and a suit coat.

  The bare, horny feet of the second twitched.

  On hands and knees the third crawled towards the troopers, grinning, moustached. He wore a green uniform and a felt fedora.

  He crawled until shot again.

  On the far side of the casa grande stretched a high wall, in its center a barred wooden gate over which rose the campaign hat and pistol of a trooper. Hat and pistol disappeared.

  The roof-top was the heart of the Mexican resistance. To clear it would require covering fifty yards of open ground and reaching the steps.

  The officer of D hesitated, thinking of deploying his men in three groups for a rush.

  Hatless, the sergeant of D, the one who, before the fight, had sung to himself the lewd song of the ostler’s wife, ran from the corner of an outbuilding. Taking great strides, his pistol swinging, he headed for the casa grande. Villista fire clipped earth about him, wet him with water as
he passed the pool. He started up the steps to the roof four at a time. Near the top of the flight a Mexican, with rifle swung in an arc, struck him a terrible blow on the head with its stock. He staggered back, shot the Mexican, then reeling upwards firing killed two others, reached the roof, hurled his pistol into the Villistas, followed it. The two nearest him he seized in long arms and threw bodily off the roof. The next he took by the throat, standing up, and strangled.

  Outside the gate most of F Troop milled uncertainly, trying to avoid trampling the fallen trooper.

  Finding himself beside the gate, the young private who, high on the hills in darkness, had writhed with an imaginary wound, holstered his pistol and hoisting himself vaulted over the gate and leaped to the ground just as two Mexicans were thrown from the roof of the casa grande. One fired point-blank at the private with his rifle. Drawing his pistol, the private shot him in the groin, then turned to the gate and frantically slid the heavy bar sideways. The second Mexican, weaponless, his leg broken by the fall from the roof, limped to the private from behind and grappled with him. On the roof a Villista lit with his cigar the fuse of a grenade hand-made from a baking-powder can and sailed the grenade at the gate. There was a tremendous explosion. The Mexican, whose body had served as a shield, fell riddled with tin, and in a shower of dirt the private unbarred and opened the gate.

  F Troop poured through mounted.

  The remainder of D rushed from the outbuildings.

  The Apache Scouts, no longer under fire on the road, came through the cottonwoods war-crying.

  Villistas leaped from the roof of the casa grande in suicidal attempts to escape.

  The terreno, thick now with the Mexicans’ black-powder smoke, was a hell of men and horses.

  There was hand-to-hand fighting. Men shot, clubbed, kicked, bit, and choked each other.

  To keep hoofs from their heads fallen men shot crazed, excreting horses through the belly.

  Struck by a bullet in his bowels, a young trooper pulled himself under the portale and there, unashamed, moaning questions, took down his patched and bloody breeches to examine himself.

  Wounded, wearing a pith helmet, one Mexican struggled into the pool, reddening the water with his wound, was caught bellowing from behind by an Apache. The Indian removed the pith helmet, put it on his own head, scalped the man with his knife, pushed him underwater to drown.

  A and C Troop had passed through the barbed-wire fence east of the ranch, and C, seeing the bulk of the Villistas fleeing on foot or trying to reach their grazing horses, deployed right and rode into them. Those on foot surrendered or were shot down.

  A Troop, spurring the flanks of their animals mercilessly, headed up the slopes south, towards the enemy position behind the stone fence on the hillside.

  Far to the rear, Machine-Gun Troop now got two of its guns into action. Two of the Benét-Merciers had jammed and the stoppages could not be reduced.

  The other two began to give overhead support to A Troop, firing at the stone fence, their only target of opportunity.

  It was long-range fire, however, at 1,500 yards, and could not be effective.

  Even this fire ceased shortly, for the twenty-odd men left in A reached the hillside, were stopped by a steep, almost vertical bank which they could not ride, and were there pinned down by Mexican fire from the stone fence sixty yards above them. To keep the machineguns in action at this range would endanger those under the bank.

  The Lieutenant of A dismounted below the bank. Enemy fire whirred over his head towards the lower slopes alive with chase. It had been he who regretted the storage of sabres at Dublán because without them there could not be a classic charge. He could not explain the presence of enemy on this hill unless they were herd guard for the horses left to graze during the night. His men huddled against the bank, waiting his orders. This was his first command. The position above could not be flanked. There was no cover on the bare hill. He must order an assault. Instead, he scrambled over the lip of the bank, slipped to one knee, and commenced a rush upward. It was a run of sixty yards through fire now directed only at him. Something hot slit his shirt at the shoulder. He dodged in reflex. He fell once, stood, ran gasping for breath to the fence, uncertain what to do. Two Mexicans wearing baggy white peon trousers and charro hats rose and ran. He saw four brown, surprised faces within arm’s length and jumping atop the stone emptied his pistol at them. A bullet blasted whole teeth and bits of bloody bone enamel from an open mouth. The Lieutenant retched. He heard his men coming up the hill and tried to stop retching.

  There was only sporadic shooting now. The area of the casa grande and its out buildings had been cleared. Dead or foundered horses dotted the arid slopes.

  What was left of the force of Cruz Dominiguez and Javier Arreaga was dispersing into the hills south of the ranch and scattering east and west upon the high plain as well, some men on foot, some riding saddled, some bareback two to a horse. Provisional Squadron’s animals were physically incapable of pursuit.

  Several troopers dismounted to let go a few rounds at the fleeing enemy with Springfields.

  Finally the last shot was fired. Its echo cracked off the hills until space swallowed it.

  In the blue sky of early morning the black and billowing swarm of crows still hovered above the scene of harsh and surpassing beauty, curious, calling.

  The officer who had looked at his watch before the charge looked again, having to hold one hand with the other to steady it.

  It was 05.59 hours.

  Elasped time of the fight at Ojos Azules had been twenty-six minutes.

  Chapter Five

  THESE were the results of the fight. Of the Americans, 6 were killed and 14 wounded or injured. Forty-nine horses were dead of exhaustion or had been injured and destroyed. Of the Mexican force, its strength estimated at 300 to 400 men, 44 dead were counted, 17 were captured, and an unknown number of wounded had escaped. One hundred and four horses and 112 rifles were left behind. One of the enemy dead found in the log corral wearing a sombrero ornamented with silver and a colored picture of Christ and the Virgin was identified by the Lieutenant of Federales as Cruz Dominiguez, an officer of Villa’s who, with Arreaga, had commanded the Mexicans.

  These results were dispatched at once by a messenger on a fresh horse to Pershing, who was understood to be west, at Pilon Cillos. Provisional Squadron was ordered to water and feed grain, then slaughter beef for breakfast. It would quarter at the ranch until orders to move on were received by aeroplane or return messenger.

  The horses were attended to first, getting a good feed of corn and some fodder found in the stables of the ranch. It was the first hay the animals had seen in weeks. Then a detail drove in four young steers, slaughtered and butchered them and hung the quarters from a scaffold in the corral as troops lined up to cut rations of fresh meat. Fires were built. Men broiled beef and made coffee.

  After eating there was much to do and doing it required most of the day. Platoons were turned into work-parties. One policed up the terreno and the grounds of the ranch, hauling away carcasses and stripping them of shoes. A second had the sad chore of collecting the six American dead and laying them in the stables under blankets for burial the following day. Another party rounded up the horses left behind by the Villistas, over a hundred of them. Ponies beside the American horses, thriving under conditions which wilted the cavalry animals by virtue of the fact that they were native to these conditions, they would make fine remounts, especially since soldiers would give them the care Mexicans never gave. When a party got around to collecting the enemy dead they found the Apaches had preceded them, looting the bodies of all valuables, particularly silver teeth fillings and the crucifixes worn around the neck. These the Indians would soon have melted down and re-worked into concho slides and belt buckles for sale to the soldiers. Troopers had to content themselves with sporting sombreros. The dress of the dead was a fantastic assortment of uniforms stolen from Federal troops, peon garb and gringo suitings. Some wore
shoes, some knee boots, some high leather leggings, some were barefoot. The looks on their faces ranged from the violent to the amused to the beatific, depending on the state of preparation in which death found the spirit of each. Even more fantastic was the conglomeration of rifles which was gathered: there were Winchester levers, Mausers, Remingtons, Krags left over from the war in Cuba, Marlins, Sharps, Ballards, Borchardts, Mannlichers, Evanses, Colts, Lebels, Springfields, and even Henrys; they ran the gamut of American and European calibers. Most of them were badly fouled from the black-powder loads. Many cartridges were simply re-sized leaden and jacketed slugs. A remarkable variety of weapons and ammunition was available to the revolutionaries in El Paso at five times the price originally paid. Villa had often been heard to state profanely that, had only one rifle and one caliber been invented, he could have taken all Mexico in ninety days. A deep, narrow grave was dug south of the ranch and in it, while the black-frocked vultures winged last rites, the forty-four enemy dead were stacked and covered.

  Troopers worked hard all the hot day, red-lidded from lack of sleep but still keyed up by the nervous excitement of the fight. By late afternoon, however, details dismissed, horses picketed to graze on the slopes and horse guard posted, nearly the entire command was bedded down under the cottonwood trees. A cleanly few washed underclothing in the pool in the terreno.

  The stocky figure of an officer walked about the ranch. It was Major Thorn. The day had worn him to the bone, first the fight, trying to see everything and watch Hetherington at the same time, then going among the men, questioning, taking notes, fearing their response to him, then as their faces proved, one after another, that they did not know, relief so complete that it left him trembling. But if they could be at ease with him, he could not with them, ever. Hat brim pushed back, he walked now without direction or purpose. He would have liked to talk with his best friend, Captain Ben Ticknor, surgeon to the squadron, who was with the wounded in the stables, but he did not dare. He had been lucky enough for one day. Being too close to it he could not write about the fight in his notebook, even think clearly about it beyond the fact that it was over and that everyone had got from it what he wanted, himself included, except the Mexicans and the dead, and maybe some of the dead as well. His walk was a delaying action by means of which he put off reporting to Colonel Rogers, who had his headquarters in the casa grande. It was like those he had fought as a small boy when ordered by his father, then a captain, to report for punishment to the first sergeant. That had been his father’s way: too tender-hearted to whip his son himself, he had turned the task over to a succession of first sergeants on a succession of posts. To them the boy had reported after loitering as long as he could. Punishment was public, usually on the parade-ground, and as the sergeant laid to, the father stood by stiff-faced, forcing himself to witness duty done, justice satisfied. Major Thorn could remember that the sergeant at Fort Riley, Kansas, was the hardest spanker, and the one at the Presidio, in California, the gentlest. ‘Report,’ he ordered himself. ‘You are not a boy, you are forty, so report.’