The Long Journey Home

by Don Coldsmith

  John decided that it was a good time to refrain from comment.

  “Now, while you’re here,” the officer went on, “there’s this other matter. As you know, your troop is being reassigned to artillery. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Your troop will be assigned to the 75s. Several batteries using French guns are in training. Some are already in process of moving to France. But we have another type of gun here. Several, actually, but I mean another 75-millimeter. The mountain pack howitzer. You’ve heard of it?”

  “Something of it, sir.”

  “Yes … Well, we can take it where we couldn’t take wheeled cannon, drawn by horse teams. In essence, the pack howitzers can go anywhere a man can walk. We don’t need roads. You can see an advantage in combat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But what does this have to do with me? John wondered.

  “You noticed that the examiners spent extra time measuring legs?”

  “Yes, sir. We wondered … .”

  “Of course. Here’s the situation: The mules are handled by a two-man team. Packer and driver, jobs interchangeable, trade off, front or back of the mule.”

  John was puzzled. He could not imagine where this conversation was going.

  “Now, you’re cavalry … horses. Know anything about mules?”

  “Not much, sir. Driven a few wagon mules.”

  “Yes. Pack mules are shorter and stocky in build. But they walk fast. Basically, faster than a man. Infantry, as you may know, marches at about three and a half miles an hour.”

  But where does all of this lead? John wondered again. He was very uneasy at the mention of “infantry.”

  “Now, a mule travels at nearly four and a quarter.”

  John still did not see the point, but kept silent. Surely the captain was going somewhere with this.

  “If we hold the mule down to our pace, he has to take short little steps,” he went on. “This makes his ankles sore, he goes lame, and we’ll have to carry his load. So, the driver and packer have to step on out, match the mule’s speed. And that takes long legs. Hence, the extra measurements.”

  John began to understand. It was a matter of capabilities. A draft horse has a different job than a racehorse. Among human athletes, a tennis player has different capabilities than a bone-crushing football tackle or fullback. A distance runner is entirely different from an expert with the 16-pound shot.

  “So,” the captain continued, “some of your troopers are being assigned to the pack howitzers. Those with long legs. Shorter men will be placed on the French 75s. We hate to break up a unit, but it’s not as if you’re a unit of local militia. You volunteered as individuals, right?”

  “Yes, sir. Pretty much so.”

  The officer nodded.

  “Thought so. Well, they’ll be reassigning, probably this afternoon, some will move to other barracks. Best of luck to you here, Corporal.”

  The change was a real shock to cowboys, who had seldom traveled anywhere on foot. Now, not only must they walk, but in addition, either lead or follow a mule. There was a lot of indignant complaint.

  “Damn’ jackasses! I didn’t sign on for this!” someone grumbled.

  “Not much better for those on the French guns,” came an answer.

  “At least, they get to ride,” the other retorted.

  “Sure … Bouncin’ on a caisson with no springs!”

  John, who had the traditional height of his people, had realized from the first that he must be in the segment chosen for the pack howitzers.

  The new artillerymen were already well versed in care and handling of animals in the military. It now became a matter of learning to use the equipment. There were four guns to the battery, short ugly cannon capable of direct or high-angle fire. Each of these howitzers was served by six mules with their drivers and packers. Set up for firing, these twelve men would become the gun crew for each of the guns.

  A mule is a hybrid. His mother is a female horse, a mare. His sire is a donkey. This ignoble breeding, dating back thousands of years, produces a useful, though sterile, animal. He has been the steed of kings, and valued above all else for some purposes. He has the build of his mother, and the long ears, stamina, and voice of his sire. Instead of the usual eleven months’ gestation for a colt, a mare bred to a jack donkey will take twelve to produce a mule.

  “Takes that extra month to grow the ears an’ the beller,” explained one of their instructors.

  There was a lot of training to be done. Practice drill, taking down and setting up the gun, packing the component parts on the mules. The howitzer could be quickly disassembled into nine component parts, which clamped and buckled onto specially fitted Phillips packsaddles. Everything was designed to fit something else, and each mule and its crew had its specialty. A squat, powerful jack mule carried the barrel, or “tube,” the business end of the cannon. It was the heaviest and most cumbersome of the loads. Another mule carried the wheels and the breech mechanism, another the recoil cylinders, and so on. All of these parts must be available in sequence, first things first.

  To accomplish this, the mules must stand in formation, facing outward around the gun’s location. Fanwise, three facing north, three south. It was quickly apparent that these mules were old soldiers. At the appropriate command, they would run to position. If a new recruit happened to be in the wrong place, he’d probably be stepped on. Some of the more experienced gun crews at Fort Sill could convert from a pack train to a firing artillery position in less than two minutes.

  More difficult than this learning process, however, was the conversion to marching at mule speed. Four and one-quarter miles an hour. The morning after the first five-mile hike leading mules—or, more properly, trying to keep up with mules—the trainees awoke with pain. From the groin, a band of cramplike fire stretched spirally inside the thigh and to the back of the knee. Troopers dragged painfully out of the bunks, to hit the floor spraddle-legged, limping painfully. The thought of another five-mile march after packing heavy gun loads on the mules was met with authentic groans. It was nearly a week before the new packers could walk normally again.

  By this time, they had developed a certain amount of pride in accomplishment. Like other special troops whose work is physically more demanding, they were issued extra rations. The mess hall of the pack units was reputed to be the best on the post.

  There was a change in attitude toward mules in the next few weeks. Most cowboys had little use for such a creature, and scorned their appearance and demeanor. It was a double insult, then, to be forced to become “mule men.”

  “Don’t underrate ‘em, boys,” insisted a grizzled old sergeant. “They’re smarter’n a horse. You’ve heard a mule is stubborn? Nope, just smart. If he wants to balk, he’s got a reason. Mebbe his load’s slippin’. Mebbe his hide’s gettin’ sore where his saddle rubs. Mebbe a loose shoe. But whatever it is, he knows, an’ you’d better find out. If’n you don’t, he may go lame, an’ then you’ll be carryin’ his load. An’ some of them gun loads is purty heavy.

  “Now, a mule will never founder, like a horse. A horse that gets into a grain bin will eat until he can’t stand, and may never be the same again. A mule jest eats what he needs. Tell you what … You can leave a penned mule with enough feed for a week. If you’d come back on the sixth day, ol’ mule will have one day’s feed left. A horse, now, would have et all he could, an’ be hungry by day three.”

  Few of the men actually believed Sarge’s testimonials. They laughed about it behind his back.

  But one day, most became believers. One of the gun crews was making their way around a narrow mountain trail, with a sheer wall above and a dropoff, a steep slope down to the creek below. The tube mule, carrying the gun’s heavy barrel high on his back, misstepped and fell, bouncing and sliding, through the heavy fringe of willows on the creek bank. They heard the massive splash as the struggling animal struck the water and the willows closed behind him. The driver a
nd packer had avoided the fall. No one could see the unfortunate mule, and the sounds of struggle soon ceased.

  “This is bad, boys,” said the old cadre instructor. “More’n likely his legs is broke from the fall. Even so, he’s drownded now, sounds like. But we got to get down there an’ salvage the gun. Won’t fire without that tube.”

  It took about twenty minutes to find a way down the bluff, a riffle in which to cross the creek, and back to the scene of the accident.

  To the amazement of the rescue party, there lay old Rabbit, the tube mule, on his back in the icy stream, with all four legs in the air. He had stretched his neck to reach the stream’s edge, and was calmly cropping grass from the bank, while waiting for rescue. He had hardly a scratch.

  “My gawd,” said one of the new mule men, “a hoss would have kicked hisself to pieces!”

  From that day on, there were fewer complaints about mules.

  In addition to the four gun crews in the battery, there was a fifth crew with a remuda of ten mules, forming the “cargador” section, assigned the responsibility of supply in the field. This included transport of not only ammunition, but the field kitchen and blankets, tents, and other necessities.

  John related well to all of this. The logistics of moving and setting up a mountain battery of artillery were not markedly different from those of the Wild West Show and its assorted personnel. The necessities were the same: food, shelter, preparation. Only the performance itself took on a somber, deadly tone. When the show was over, many would not be going home.

  A couple of the junior officers quickly noticed the apparent experience of Corporal John Buffalo.

  “You’ve done this before, Buffalo?” asked a first lieutenant.

  “Not exactly, sir …”

  John was somewhat unsure of what his previous experience would mean to these professionals.

  “I’ve only been in the army a few months,” he said vaguely. “Part of that was hospital.”

  “But you seem to know tents … . Packing. What was your civilian job?”

  “I … I worked for the Hundred and One, sir.”

  “The ranch, or the show?”

  “Both, sir. Several years.”

  The lieutenant burst out laughing.

  “Little wonder, then! We’ve often discussed how in the hell they can move a couple of hundred people and animals around the country like that. Well, we’ll talk later. We can use your experience.”

  When all was said and done, John Buffalo was assigned to cargador, rather than a gun crew, and wore a third stripe on his sleeve. As a noncommissioned officer, he was also assigned a horse, and found himself back in the saddle.

  That, too, was good, despite the military saddle. It could never approach the comfort of his old deep-seat stock saddle back at the 101.

  SIXTY

  Very quickly, the newly formed battery of mountain artillery became a unit with skills and pride in the accomplishment. As a group, having been chosen for length of leg, they were taller than other platoons. On occasions when they marched as a unit, without the gun mules, their demeanor showed their pride. Swinging at a fast march through the streets of Fort Sill, they had a tendency to strut just a trifle. They developed an esprit de corps and communication with expressions based on their work with the mules, the guns, and the packing.

  In an emergency, every packer was expected to be able to do the job of any other. This, whether that happened to be on one of the gun mules or a cargo mule carrying regular pack loads. There was a language of communication all its own when packs were being loaded. Even without the experience, it is easy to see that a pack mule’s cargo must be balanced, to keep the packsaddle from slipping to one side. It must be loaded by the packers at approximately the same instant, to avoid slipping. Visualize, for a moment, canvas-wrapped bales of hay, for instance, weighing eighty pounds, one on each side of the pack animal, to be lifted into place simultaneously. Some communication was necessary. One, two, three, hup! As the two packers lifted the loads to sling them with a tight rope across the packsaddle. Then followed the intricate application of the famous “diamond hitch,” handed down through antiquity to form the final tightening of the pack load. In this situation, the diamond hitch became a two-man job. One packer was responsible for drawing all of the slack out of the hitch and holding it for the few seconds required to yank the last turn tight and fasten it. This required communication. Since the packers, on opposite sides of a tall mule, could not see each other, there must be vocal commands, in sequence, alternating from one packer to the other. Ready … Take slack … Hit it. These, in a rhythmic cadence, would be meaningless to the men of other units. It became the exclusive code of the packers.

  On pass in the nearby town of Lawton, Oklahoma, there was sometimes some friction between various units from Fort Sill. Usually these encounters were good-natured. But, with a great deal of pride involved, there was a tendency of the pack units to consider themselves the elite. Add to this, perhaps, a bit of jealousy or indignation over the packers’ superior attitude. A few drinks in one or more of Lawton’s hangouts, and friendly jibes might become more serious. Sometimes even physical.

  Trained or training to fight, but not yet tested, young men have a natural tendency to search for opportunity without realizing it. It is difficult to be the first to back down from a confrontation. There is also the factor of loyalty and comradeship. A man in trouble has the right to accept support and help from his peers.

  It was in this way that a custom arose in the darker regions of Lawton on a Saturday night. A mule packer in trouble might call for help from any other mule packer by initiating the packing sequence of communication. A long, loud call for help, “Take slack!” would be answered by any packer within earshot as they responded physically, rather than verbally. Hit it! Analogous to the circus roustabout’s request for assistance, “Hey, rube,” this sequence of events sometimes resulted in bloodied noses, blackened eyes, and broken teeth. The Military Police were usually active enough to forestall much serious injury, and the net result was largely an increase in pride and belonging.

  John Buffalo usually avoided the areas where drinking was in progress. He had had enough experience with “John Barleycorn” to realize a potential weakness in himself. There was a serious theory that those of Indian blood react differently to alcohol than those of other races. John had seen this in evidence on the reservation at his last visit there. Some of the old men, dejected and dispirited over the changes happening to their people, were drinking heavily and rapidly sliding into oblivion. He saw the possibility that it could happen to him, and took pains to avoid it.

  Even so, in early autumn he found himself one Saturday night with a couple of other noncoms from the pack howitzer units, walking the streets of Lawton for a change from the rigors of training. The battery had been in the field on a “firing problem,” involving a simulation of combat. The officers had been impressed at the speed with which the pack howitzers were able to set up in minutes and deliver a barrage of aimed fire. The targets were three miles away and out of sight behind a range of low hills. It was a good feeling, one of accomplishment, and morale was high. This, perhaps, contributed to a general cockiness on the part of the mule packers.

  Add to such a mix a few beers, a few local girls of easy companionship, and a few gunners from the horse-drawn batteries. It was an explosive situation.

  The three strolled along in the warm summer evening, listening to the laughter and piano music and loud voices from some of the smoky hangouts along the street. John was wondering … . In case the others wanted to stop in one of the bars, should he have a beer or two, or be content with sarsaparillas? He was still pondering that weighty problem when Corporal Vandever stopped short.

  “What is it?” asked Staff Sergeant Bonner.

  “Listen … I thought—”

  Then the same sound, a long, wailing cry, “Ta-ake slack!”

  Vandever was already running toward an open doorway where there
were yells and the sounds of a scuffle. A woman screamed. The others followed him.

  Inside, the problem was apparent. Two soldiers stood against the bar, surrounded by a half dozen others who were crowding toward them, but cautiously. One of the besieged men held a stout stick that appeared to be part of a broken chair. The bartender held a heavy policeman’s nightstick and seemed reluctant to use it. Possibly, undecided on whom to use it.

  “Six of ’em,” observed Sergeant Bonner. “Well, let’s go!”

  He stepped forward, speaking as he did so. “Okay, break it up!”

  “Like hell!” said one of the more inebriated of the crowd.

  He launched a long swing at the sergeant, and Bonner took a glancing blow to the ear. His reaction was quick, a one-two to belly and nose. There was a yell of triumph from the beleaguered pair at the bar, and pandemonium broke out. A crash of broken glass; fists flying; a scream, curses, and a rain of fisticuffs.

  John was caught almost off guard as a burly man rushed at him, starting a looping haymaker swing as he did so. He ducked, grabbed the swinging arm, and used the man’s own momentum to propel the soldier into the wall, where he dropped limply. John turned to meet another incoming swing, tried to dodge, and succeeded only partially. A fist caught him above the ear, and the room whirled. He clinched with the attacker, remembering Jess Willard’s advice: Wrassle around till your head clears.

  There were whistles blowing now, and the sound of running feet on the wooden floor. A trio of Military Police burst into the room, and the crowds began to scatter. Out the door, the windows, through a narrow back exit beside the bar … The fracas was over almost before it began.

  “Who started it?” one of the MPs asked the bartender.

  “I dunno,” said the barman cautiously. “These three tried to break it up.”