Lieutenant Fowler dropped back to ride with him.
“Getting cold,” he said.
“Yes, it is.”
“Have you ever seen such God-forsaken country as this, Major?”
“Don’t believe I have.”
He did not really mind Fowler’s leaving the main body if he had to have conversation.
“I heard what Chawk said about the prisoner. He and Trubee are really worked up about her smoking in front of them, and Chawk is not the type to be pushed too far. Is it true that he once assaulted his troop commander?”
Thorn smiled. “More than that. He beat the pulp out of him. There are a lot of stories about Chawk and probably a third of them are true. It’s said that once, in a pool-room in Deming, he got very drunk and tipped a five-hundred-pound pool table end-over-end on two’ cowhands and then tried with a die to play snooker with their heads.”
“But wasn’t he court-martialed for attacking an officer?” Fowler demanded.
“No. The lieutenant had it coming. Chawk is a good troop sergeant. Men aren’t always court-martialed.”
“I know.”
Thorn stiffened. The words had slipped. He tried swiftly to read meaning into or out of the junior officer’s remark. “We have to watch Chawk, though. The important thing is to make sure he does not get another knock on the head.”
“Why?”
“He had a minor concussion at Ojos. As it was explained to me, another blow, even slight, might produce major concussion, in which the small arteries of the brain would break and cause hemorrhage. If this happened, permanent damage might be done to the brain, resulting in—and I’m quoting the surgeon—motor and sensory failure, maybe irrationality.”
“Irrationality?”
“Insanity,” Thorn said.
Lieutenant Fowler peeled thoughtfully at the tip of his nose. He was glad he had not ordered the sergeant to stop singing. An army was only as effective as its discipline, you were drilled at the Point, but a song was not worth a beating and even a beating was preferable to annoying Bliss with insubordination charges against a non-com. “Son, don’t go around shooting at sparrows,” a captain ten years a captain had said to him, “and the eagles will come to you.” Which was good, if colloquial, advice. Besides, it was incredible a man of such violent disposition should sing at all; perhaps he was already irrational.
“I must say it was pretty sluttish,” he said irrelevantly. “And typical of her, from what I’ve heard.”
“Oh?” Thorn said in spite of himself.
“Yes. Wickline was on staff duty in Washington ten year ago, when most of it happened. He was telling us about it when she turned up as the owner of Ojos.” Fowler went into detail. Almost simu!taneously with the conviction of her father, Senator Geary of Missouri, his daughter’s third husband had shot and wounded a man he had surprised with her in a Norfolk, Virginia, hotel room. Freed after a re-trial, the husband sued for divorce on grounds of adultery and won custody of their two children. Counsel for the plaintiff made excellent use of the fact that Adelaide Geary had once previously been divorced on similar grounds, that she had been placed on probation several times, because of her position, after arrests for drunkenness. Hers had been a front-page story for months running. Her name had been fired from pulpits to great moral effect. “From what Wickline could gather, she’d been a complete no-good practically from puberty,” the Lieutenant concluded with relish. “Which wasn’t too remarkable. The family made most of its money in beer.”
The horse, Sheep, sneezed and slobbered. The sky darkened fast as the sun slid down the side of the world. Lieutenant Fowler ran off at the mouth, but then, all junior officers did; they itched with ambition and scratched with gossip.
“If she’s sent across the border the papers will have a carnival. I hope she is,” Fowler went on. “I suppose she thinks a six-man escort is appropriate for one of her reputation. And for her parrot, of course.”
He was pumping again. Perhaps, though, Thorn reflected, it was only a reminder of his right to be confided in by his senior so that responsibility might be joint.
“I think it’s a toucan, not a parrot,” he said. “They’re larger, and cannot talk.”
But Fowler would not be put off. “By the way, is this a guard detail, Major?”
“I will tell you tonight,” Thorn said. “In the meantime I want to go on another mile or two before we camp.”
“Yes, sir.”
Still Fowler lingered.
“Will you bring Trubee in a bit and see that they stay closed up?”
Without a yes-sir Fowler went forward at a trot.
Into dusk the party filed. To the west the sinking sun set fire to a mounded hill and burned it rose, sapphire and black. To the northwest a bright star flashed. It was the extreme star in the handle of the Great Dipper, or, to the Mexicans, the lead ox of the constellation called El Carro, The Cart. Suddenly the last of the day was snuffed. Major Thorn rode ahead to call his party in.
They made dry camp on a long knoll. Animals were picketed and given a feed of native corn. There were no trees for wood but after search they located stunted thickets of granjeno and uprooted them and carried them by armloads and built a large fire. The Geary woman built her own fire twenty yards or so from that of the troopers. During the coming and going Major Thorn took Hetherington aside and asked if he had held his tongue about the purpose of the detail. Hetherington said he had. The officer believed him. Suppers were cooked. Most of the men fried bacon, then made ‘cowboy bread’ using a dough of flour, water and a pinch of salt and frying it in the meat-can in bacon grease. Major Thorn cooked and ate with them. The granjeno burned hot and fast. Red sparks streamed upward and disappeared with loud snaps. So bright was the firelight that the officer could observe every movement of the Geary woman: lifting easily she brought her saddle to the fire, the toucan still tethered to the horn, and then her saddlebags and blankets, after which she cooked her own meal, using a frying-pan. To his dismay she cut a potato and broke eggs into the pan. The matter of the cigarettes had been galling enough; he did not know what the men would do when they discovered what she was eating. Perhaps he could prevent it. Drinking his coffee hurriedly, he ordered Fowler to have all weapons cleaned and enough fuel for the night brought before anyone turned in. He then built his own, smaller fire at a point from which he could see what went on at the other two. But the woman ate facing the men until she was noticed. Something was said to her which he could not hear. She continued eating as though the soldiers did not exist. Fortunately they had finished their coffee and at that point Lieutenant Fowler set them to bringing fuel and the moment passed. Thorn watched while she smoked. She had taken off her flat felt Chihuahueno hat. Heavy, dark brown except for a gash of grey which ran from her forehead across the top of her head, her hair was coiled at the back in a large bun from which a hairpin stuck. It occurred to him she might once have been a remarkably handsome woman, an adulteress who took lovers as coolly as her father took Indian lands, and over whom one man might gladly shoot another. What Fowler had told him about her was possible. Now, however, hard and weathered, selfish and arrogant, she was only striking to look at. It was inconceivable she had mothered children. It was as though Mexico, altering her identity in its own image, as she wished, had altered her sex.
Major Thorn shivered. The night had become knife-cold. When the men had piled enough fuel he brought his blankets and saddlebags to his own fire, cleaned his dusty glasses on his shirt-sleeve, took out his black notebook and pencil stub and began to write.
Notes for Cavalry Journal
The rifle boot, on the left side of the horse, often causes sore withers on the right, the side opposite the boot. Remedy: since carrying the rifle on the trooper’s back has been found unsatisfactory, switch the boot from side to side on alternate days.
It was no use. The pencil trembled in his fingers. He could wait no longer. Standing, he motioned Lieutenant Fowler to him. Shoulders draped with
blankets against the cold, the men about the big fire were busy with oil and patches and their Springfields.
Fowler sat near him, expectant. The gold bar on his collar shone. Entering his serial number and middle name in the notebook, Thorn turned the pages to some notes he had previously made, checking them against replies. Fowler answered readily.
“There were six Mexicans behind the fence?”
“Yes, sir. Two of them ran before I could get within range.”
“That left four. You killed all four?”
“I believe so, Major. I didn’t count them.” He did not say he could not have counted because he was vomiting.
“This was a very unusual thing,” Thorn said slowly. “A troop commander attacks and destroys an enemy position alone. Thinking back, can you recall what your feelings were at the time?”
Lieutenant Fowler began to unlace his leggings. “We were pinned down under that steep bank. The Mexican fire was just over our heads. I remember thinking the position had to be taken, that was all, and that I ought to do it.”
“But in order to take it you had to climb sixty yards of hill in the open, under fire. You had at least twenty men left of your troop. The conventional thing to do was order an assault. But you didn’t. You must have come to the other decision on the basis of certain factors, and it’s those factors I am interested in.”
Lieutenant Fowler’s glance lingered on the Major’s boots as he continued to unlace. Boots were the one item of apparel he had been unable to locate, and he felt the lack of them keenly.
“I must have thought it was my duty. I’m sure that was the only factor.”
“Duty?” Thorn said testily. “Not at all. Come now, Fowler, try to remember.”
“I’m sorry, sir. It must have been a sense of duty. I know the obligation of a troop commander to his men.”
“He has no obligation to commit suicide.”
“He has if necessary,” Fowler said stubbornly.
“No.” Thorn tried another tack. “Do you recall any particular physical sensation when you made the decision or as you started up the bank—that is, anything unusual? You must have been tired by then. Was there a sudden reserve of new energy and great excitement?”
“No. In any case, Major, I don’t see where this line of questioning is supposed to lead.’’
It had gone badly, as it had with Hetherington. Fowler was a snob, a dandy, a gossip, and a good beating behind a barracks would do wonders for him. But he was also a brave man. And it was time he knew it. Major Thorn told him. Fowler sat with back straight, plebe posture.
“The Medal of Honor?”
“Yes. I understand your feelings,” Thorn said. “It must be strange to have the highest honor so early. Whatever you do in combat the rest of your life will be an anti-climax.”
The Lieutenant’s hands began to lace up the leggings he had just unlaced. He tried to remain expressionless.
“You should know, too, that I am also writing citations for Chawk, Renziehausen and Trubee. That is the purpose of this detail. To return to base until Congress has approved the Medal for all of you.’’
“All of us? Four men in one fight?” Fowler stood as though jerked by a string. “It’s impossible!”
“That is for me to decide,” Thorn said.
Fowler’s eyes were wide with recognition, in part of his new status, in part of something else. “The Medal of Honor. . .“ he repeated.
“Will you keep this quiet until I have seen the others?” Thorn asked. “And send Renziehausen over.”
Finally the junior officer turned and walked towards the big fire, his half-laced leggings flapping.
Thorn threw more granjeno on his fire. As it blazed up, Renziehausen appeared and waited at attention until invited to sit. To put him wholly at ease the officer drew him out for some minutes. Wilber James Renziehausen was nineteen and might have passed for sixteen. For beard he had freckles. His campaign hat, tilted rakishly over one ear, uncovered his need of a haircut. Both knees of his breeches had split, exposing boyish knobs. But he was well built and good-looking and his eyes were bright and clean as the fire. He was like a new pistol, loaded, cocked, and ready to go off in a smile at any excuse. His home, he said, had been a farm near West Allis, Wisconsin. He had three older brothers and a sister. He had bade his parents goodbye the day after graduation from high school, determined to come west to be a cowboy or prospect for gold or fight Indians or anything adventurous. But he could neither ride nor rope, the gold was gone, and Indians sold beads and blankets, and he had seen the cavalry drill at Fort Sam. He had been in the Army a year and liked it very much, especially campaigning like this. The fight at Ojos Azules had been the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.
Opening his notebook Major Thorn once more checked the data he had put down against the youth’s answers. After vaulting the gate he had killed one Mexican with his pistol. The other, who had fought with him, had been riddled with tin of the grenade thrown by his own men from the roof. He, Renziehausen, had not killed him.
“Just before you started, wasn’t another man from F shot in the head trying the same thing?” Thorn asked.
“Yes, sir. Corp’ral Cooper.”
“You saw this happen, yet you went over anyway? What made you?” Thorn was easy about it. “Try to remember.”
The private frowned. “Gee, Major, I can’t. We had to get through the gate and somebody had to open it and I was the nearest.”
“But weren’t you afraid?”
“No, sir.”
“Why not?”
Renziehausen grinned. “You won’t believe me, Major, but I done the same thing lots of times at home when I was a kid.” He described how he and neighbor boys had fought many an engagement with slingshots, holding and attacking his father’s barn. “Some of us would be in the barn and some would come hollering down the hill to drive them out. We’d run down to the fence by the horse trough and somebody would have to go over first while they was peppering at us from the haymow door. I always shinned over the first one and I never got hit. That morning at Ojos was the same and I remembered I never got hit so I went over and I didn’t. So I wasn’t scairt, not me. I wasn’t scairt the whole fight, honest, Major.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir.”
The officer reached to remove the private’s hat. “Then how do you explain this?”
He lifted the chinstrap from around the band. It had been bitten nearly through.
“You must have been very hungry, son, or very scared. It does no harm to admit it. Everyone is that way in a fight. Still you went over the gate. Can’t you tell me why?”
The youth shook his head. Even in firelight his deep blush could be seen.
“Try to remember. It is very important.”
“I can’t, Major. I just knew I’d be lucky and I wasn’t scairt.”
Giving up, regretting he had used the evidence of the chinstrap, Thorn returned the hat and, speaking gently, told Renziehausen why he had been detailed to base.
“Me? All of us?”
“Yes.”
“Will I really get it? The Congressional Medal of Honor?”
“I am sure of it.”
“What’ll they say at home?” the boy whispered “What’ll my brothers say?”
He wanted to believe, could not, then all at once let himself. In a paroxysm of joy he put his head down and hugged his knees, clasped himself, his own being, rocking back and forth, unable to speak. The officer looked away, embarrassed.
At that instant he heard the shout, the pound of feet between the other fires. Leaping up he saw the immense figure grappling for a second with the Geary woman. Before he could get there Chawk flung the woman away and waving a bottle high tipped it up and let tequila splash upon his face and run down his throat.
“Hand over the bottle, Sergeant.” The officer breathed hard from his run.
“You stinking Army scum,” Adelaide Geary said. “If I had a
gun I’d put a bullet in your belly and watch your guts run out.”
Scowling at the officer, Chawk lowered the bottle. “The bitch hid it on us, Major, like the smokes. I dunno why the boys an’ me can’t drink it—spoils o’war.”
“If she tries to escape you have my permission to shoot her,” Thorn said. “Beyond that, what she has or does is none of our business. So hand it over.”
The huge non-com stared at him. Flames at his back, he made a grotesque and terrible sight. His splayed moustache dripped. He heard through dark, hairy holes on each side of his head, for even his ears were swathed in bandage.
“Goddam, Major, you know we ain’t wet our gullets since we come south. Whose side you on?”
Thorn could not understand it. Like a pack-mule, the man had been in service long enough to be conditioned to taking orders. The thing had to be settled. He sensed the other men on their feet behind him, waiting.
“Nobody’s,” he said sharply. “I am commanding this detail and I intend to take it to base according to my orders.” He had an idea. “If all of you knew why you were detached from regiment—what is going to happen to you—you would stop acting like squaws, and soldier the rest of the way. Now give me that bottle and I’ll tell you.”
It worked. Curiosity struggled with thirst, and still scowling Chawk handed over the tequila. Major Thorn went to the Geary woman, gave it to her, then turned to face the men. It was neither the time nor the way he wanted but it had to be now. He took a step or two so that he might face them all, Chawk on his right, the others on his left.
“This is not a guard detail,” he began. “This may be the most unusual detail the Army has ever assembled for any purpose. As you know, I was transferred from regiment to serve as Awards Officer for this Expedition, being responsible directly to General Pershing. My job is to see that men who distinguish themselves on this campaign are written up so that they can be decorated. You remember Boice at Columbus. You may have heard I wrote a citation for him and that he was given the Medal of Honor. He was killed last week. He never knew Congress had approved his award. As a result, General Pershing has authorized me to detach those men whose citations are to be sent to Congress, to take them out of action and transfer them to base duty until their awards can be acted on by Congress. In this way no harm can come to them as it did to Boice before they find out what brave men they are.”
They Came To Cordura Page 9
