by Hank Davis
I would have been altogether comfortable after that could I have had a decanter of brandy with which to force out the inner chill. But Indians are notoriously incapable of holding liquor, and I did not wish to be the cause of this poor wretch’s further downfall.
Black Man’s Hand speaks surprisingly good English. I spent an hour and a half with him, recording his remarks with as much attention paid to accuracy as my advanced years and cold fingers permitted. With luck, I’ll be able to fill some gaps in his story before the Peyton resumes its flight across this griddlecake countryside.
Extract from The Testament of Black Man’s Hand
[Note: for the sake of easier reading, I have substituted a number of English terms for these provided by the Cheyenne Black Man’s Hand.—MT]
I was young when I first met the Oglala mystic Crazy Horse, and was taught by him to fly the Thunderbirds which the one called the Gray White Man had given him. [The Gray White Man—John S. Moseby, Major, CSAAC—MT] Some of the older men among the People [as the Cheyenne call themselves, Major Rickards explains; I assured him that such egocentricity is by no means restricted to savages—MT] did not think much of the flying machines and said, “How will we be able to remain brave men when this would enable us to fly over the heads of our enemies, without counting coup or taking trophies?”
But the Oglala said, “The Gray White Man has asked us to help him.”
“Why should we help him?” asked Two Pines.
“Because he fights the blueshirts and those who persecute us. We have known for many years that the men who cheated us and lied to us and killed our women and the buffalo are men without honor, cowards who fight only because there is no other way for them to get what they want. They cannot understand why we fight with the Crows and Pawnees—to be brave, to win honor for ourselves. They fight because it is a means to an end, and they fight us only because we have what they want. The blueshirts want to kill us all. They fight to win. If we are to fight them, we must fight with their own weapons. We must fight to win.”
The older warriors shook their heads sorrowfully and spoke of younger days when they fought the Pawnees bravely, honorably, man-to-man. But I and several other young men wanted to learn how to control the Thunderbirds. And we knew Crazy Horse spoke the truth, that our lives would never be happy as long as there were white men in the world. Finally, because they could not forbid us to go with the Oglala, only advise against it and say that the Great Mystery had not intended us to fly, Red Horse and I and some others went with Crazy Horse. I did not see my village again, not even at the big camp on the Greasy Grass [Little Big Horn—MT] where we rubbed out Yellow Hair. I think perhaps the blueshirts came after I was gone and told Two Pines that he had to leave his home and come to this flat dead place.
The Oglala Crazy Horse taught us to fly the Thunderbirds. We learned a great many things about the Gray White Man’s machines. With them, we killed Yellowleg flyers. Soon, I tired of the waiting and the hunger. We were raided once. It was a good fight. In the dark, we chased the Big Fish [the Indian word for dirigibles—MT] and killed many men on the ground.
I do not remember all of what happened those seasons. When we were finally chased away from the landing place, Crazy Horse had us hide the Thunderbirds in the Black Hills. I have heard the Yellowlegs did not know we had the Thunderbirds; that they thought they were run by the gray white men only. It did not matter; we thought we had used them for the last time.
Many seasons later, we heard what happened to Black Kettle’s village. I went to the place sometime after the battle. I heard that Crazy Horse had been there and seen the place. I looked for him but he had gone north again. Black Kettle had been a treaty man: we talked among ourselves that the Yellowlegs had no honor.
It was the winter I was sick [1872. The Plains Indians and the U.S. Army alike were plagued that winter by what we would call the influenza. It was probably brought by some itinerant French trapper—MT] that I heard of Crazy Horse’s raid on the landing place of the Big Fish. It was news of this that told us we must prepare to fight the Yellowlegs.
When I was well, my wives and I and Eagle Hawk’s band went looking for Crazy Horse. We found him in the fall. Already, the Army had killed many Sioux and Cheyenne that summer. Crazy Horse said we must band together, we who knew how to fly the Thunderbirds. He said we would someday have to fight the Yellowlegs among the clouds as in the old days. We only had five Thunderbirds which had not been flown many seasons. We spent the summer planning to get more. Red Chief and Yellow Dog gathered a large band. We raided the Fort Kearny and stole many Thunderbirds and canisters of power. We hid them in the Black Hills. It had been a good fight.
It was at this time Yellow Hair sent out many soldiers to protect the miners he had brought in by speaking false. They destroyed the sacred lands of the Sioux. We killed some of them, and the Yellowlegs burned many of our villages. That was not a good time. The Big Fish killed many of our people.
We wanted to get the Thunderbirds and kill the Big Fish. Crazy Horse had us wait. He had been talking to Sitting Bull, the Hunkpapa chief. Sitting Bull said we should not go against the Yellowlegs yet, that we could only kill a few at a time. Later, he said, they would all come. That would be the good day to die.
The next year, they came. We did not know until just before the Sun Dance [about June 10, 1876—MT] that they were coming. Crazy Horse and I and all those who flew the Thunderbirds went to get ours. It took us two days to get them going again, and we had only six Thunderbirds flying when we flew to stop the blueshirts. Crazy Horse, Yellow Dog, American Gun, Little Wolf, Big Tall, and I flew that day. It was a good fight. We killed two Big Fish and many men and horses. We stopped the Turtles-which-kill [that would be the light armored cars Crook had with him on the Rosebud River—MT] so they could not come toward the Greasy Grass where we camped. The Sioux under Spotted Pony killed more on the ground. We flew back and hid the Thunderbirds near camp.
When we returned, we told Sitting Bull of our victory. He said it was good, but that a bigger victory was to come. He said he had had a vision during the Sun Dance. He saw many soldiers and enemy Indians fall out of the sky on their heads into the village. He said ours was not the victory he had seen.
It was some days later we heard that a Yellowlegs’ Thunderbird had been shot down. We went to the place where it lay. There was a strange device above its wing. Crazy Horse studied it many moments. Then he said, “I have seen such a thing before. It carries Thunderbirds beneath one of the Big Fish. We must get our Thunderbirds. It will be a good day to die.”
We hurried to our Thunderbirds. We had twelve of them fixed now, and we had on them, besides the quick rifles [Henry machine rifles of calibers .41-40 or .30-30—MT], the roaring spears [Hale spin-stabilized rockets, of 2½-inch diameter—MT]. We took off before noonday.
We arrived at the Greasy Grass and climbed into the clouds, where we scouted. Soon, to the south, we saw the dust of many men moving. But Crazy Horse held us back. Soon we saw why: four Big Fish were coming. We came at them out of the sun. They did not see us till we were on them. We fired our roaring sticks, and the Big Fish caught fire and burned. All except one, which drifted away, though it lost all its fat. Wild Horse, in his Thunderbird, was shot but still fought on with us that morning. We began to kill the men on the Big Fish when a new thing happened. Men began to float down on blankets. We began to kill them as they fell with our quick rifles. Then we attacked those who reached the ground, until we saw Spotted Pony and his men were on them. We turned south and killed many horse soldiers there. Then we flew back to the Greasy Grass and hid the Thunderbirds. At camp, we learned that many pony soldiers had been killed. Word came that more soldiers were coming.
I saw, as the sun went down, the women moving among the dead Men-Who-Float-Down, taking their clothes and supplies. They covered the ground like leaves in the autumn. It had been a good fight.
“So much has been written about that hot June day in 1876, so much gu
esswork applied where knowledge was missing. Was Custer dead in his harness before he reached the ground? Or did he stand and fire at the aircraft strafing his men? How many reached the ground alive? Did any escape the battle itself, only to be killed by Indian patrols later that afternoon, or the next day? No one really knows, and all the Indians are gone now, so history stands a blank.
“Only one thing is certain: for the men of the 7th Cavalry there was only the reality of the exploding dirigibles, the snap of their chutes deploying, the roar of the aircraft among them, the bullets, and those terrible last moments on the bluff. Whatever the verdict of their peers, whatever the future may reveal, it can be said they did not die in vain.”
The Seventh Cavalry: A History
E.R. Burroughs
Colonel, U.S.A., Retired
SUGGESTED READING
Anonymous. Remember Ft. Sumter! Washington: War Department Recruiting Pamphlet, 1862.
— Leviathans of the Skies. Goodyear Publications, 1923.
— The Dirigible in War and Peace. Goodyear Publications, 1911.
— Sitting Bull, Killer of Custer. G.E. Putnam’s, 1903.
— Comanche of the Seventh. Chicago: Military Press, 1879.
— Thomas Edison and the Indian Wars. Menlo Park, N.J.: Edison Press, 1921.
— “Fearful Slaughter at Big Horn.” New York: Herald-Times, July 8, 1876, et passim.
— Custer’s Gold Hoax. Boston: Barnum Press, 1892.
— “Reno’s Treachery: New Light on the Massacre at The Little Big Horn.” Chicago: Daily News-Mirror, June 12-19, 1878.
— “Grant Scandals and the Plains Indian Wars.” Life, May 3, 1921.
— The Hunkpapa Chief Sitting Bull, Famous Indians Series #3. New York: 1937.
Arnold, Henry H. The Air War in the East, Smithsonian Annals of Flight, Vol. 38. Four books, 1932-37.
1. Sumter To Bull Run
2. Williamsburg to Second Manassas
3. Gettysburg to the Wilderness
4. The Bombing of Atlanta to Haldeman
Ballows, Edward. The Indian Ace: Crazy Horse. G. E. Putnam’s, 1903.
Benteen, Capt. Frederick. Major Benteen’s Letters to his Wife. University of Oklahoma Press, 1921.
Brininstool, A.E. A Paratrooper with Custer, n.p.g., 1891.
Burroughs, Col. E.R. retired. The Seventh Cavalry: A History. Chicago: 1931.
Clair-Britner, Edoard. Haldeman: Where the War Ended. Frankfort University Press, 1911.
Crook, General George C. Yellowhair: Custer as the Indians Knew Him. Cincinnati Press, 1882.
Custer, George A. My Life on the Plains and in the Clouds. Chicago: 1874
—and Custer, Elizabeth. ’Chutes and Saddles. Chicago: 1876.
Custer’s Luck, n.a., n.p.g., [1891]
De Camp, L. Sprague and Pratt, Fletcher. Franklin’s Engine: Mover of the World. Hanover House, 1939.
De Voto, Bernard. The Road From Sumter. Scribners, 1931.
Elsee, D.V. The Last Raid of Crazy Horse. Random House, 1921.
The 505th: History From the Skies. DA Pamphlet 870-10-3 GPO Pittsburgh, May 12, 1903.
FM 23-13-2 Machine Rifle M3121A1 and M3121A1E1 Cal. .41-40 Operator’s Manual, DA FM, July 12, 1873.
Goddard, Robert H. Rocketry: From 400 B.C. to 1933. Smithsonian Annals of Flight, Vol. 31, GPO Pittsburgh, 1934.
Guide to the Custer Battlefield National Monument. U.S. Parks Services, GPO Pittsburgh, 1937.
The Indian Wars. 3 vols, GPO Pittsburgh, 1898.
Kalin, David. Hook Up! The Story of the Balloon Infantry. New York: 1932.
Kellogg, Mark W. The Drop at Washita. Chicago: Times Press, 1872.
Lockridge, Sgt. Robert. History of the Airborne: From Shiloh to Ft. Bragg. Chicago: Military Press, 1936.
Lowe, Thaddeus C. Aircraft of the Civil War. 4 vols. 1891-96.
McCoy, Col. Tim. The Vanished American. Phoenix Press, 1934.
McGovern, Maj. William. Death in the Dakotas. Sioux Press, 1889.
Morison, Samuel Eliot. France in the New World 1627-1864. 1931.
Myren, Gundal. The Sun Dance Ritual and the Last Indian Wars. 1901.
Patton, Gen. George C. Custer’s Last Campaigns. Military House, 1937.
Paul, Winston. We Were There at the Bombing of Ft. Sumter. Landmark Books, 1929.
Payley, David. Where Custer Fell. New York Press, 1931.
Powell, Maj. John Wesley. Report on the Arid Lands. GPO, 1881.
Proceedings, Reno Court of Inquiry. GPO Pittsburgh, 1881.
Report on the U.S.-Canadian Offensive against Sitting Bull, 1879. GPO Pittsburgh, War Department, 1880.
Sandburg, Carl. Mr. Lincoln’s Airmen. Chicago: Driftwind Press, 1921.
Settle, Sgt. Maj. Winslow. Under the Crossed Sabers. Military Press, 1898.
Sheridan, Gen. Phillip. The Only Good Indian . . . Military House, 1889.
Singleton, William Warren. J.E.B. Stuart, Attila of the Skies. Boston, 1871.
Smith, Gregory. The Grey White Man: Moseby’s Expedition to the Northwest 1863-1866. University of Oklahoma Press, 1921.
Smith, Neldoo. He Gave Them Wings: Captain Smith’s Journal 1861-1864. Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1927.
Steen, Nelson. Opening of the West. Jim Bridger Press, 1902.
Tapscott, Richard D. He Came With the Comet. University of Illinois Press, 1927.
Twain, Mark. Huckleberry Among the Hostiles: A Journal. Hutton Books, 1932.
PROJECT HUSH
by William Tenn
Published in 1954, this story of one of the most momentous events of the 20th century is a satirical gem that still deserves to be read even though, as we all know, things didn’t happen that way. Or do we know? After all, if it had happened this way, that would probably still be classified.
William Tenn (1920-2010) was the pen name of Philip Klass (not to be confused with Philip J. Klass, the aerospace writer) who began writing SF and fantasy in the late 1940s, and was one of the brightest writers of the 1950s, particularly with his stories in Galaxy (where this story originally appeared). Along with other irreverent writers (notably Robert Sheckley, Fritz Leiber, and Evelyn E. Smith), Tenn set the tone of Galaxy as a home for wit and satire. During World War II, he served in the U.S. Army as a combat engineer in Europe, and later was a technical editor with the Air Force radar and radio laboratory, and probably had an abundance of first-hand experience with the military’s passion for classifying everything that it can. Of course, any information about his experiences is probably classified.
I guess I’m just a stickler, a perfectionist, but if you do a thing, I always say, you might as well do it right. Everything satisfied me about the security measures on our assignment except one—the official Army designation.
Project Hush.
I don’t know who thought it up, and I certainly would never ask, but whoever it was, he should have known better. Damn it, when you want a project kept secret, you don’t give it a designation like that! You give it something neutral, some name like the Manhattan and Overlord they used in World War II, which won’t excite anybody’s curiosity.
But we were stuck with Project Hush and we had to take extra measures to ensure secrecy. A couple of times a week, everyone on the project had to report to Psycho for DD & HA—dream detailing and hypnoanalysis—instead of the usual monthly visit. Naturally, the commanding general of the heavily fortified research post to which we were attached could not ask what we were doing, under penalty of court-martial, but he had to be given further instructions to shut off his imagination like a faucet every time he heard an explosion. Some idiot in Washington was actually going to list Project Hush in the military budget by name! It took fast action, I can tell you, to have it entered under Miscellaneous “X” Research.
Well, we’d covered the unforgivable blunder, though not easily, and now we could get down to the real business of the project. You know, of course, about the A-bomb, H-bomb, and C-bomb because information that they existed had be
en declassified. You don’t know about the other weapons being devised—and neither did we, reasonably enough, since they weren’t our business—but we had been given properly guarded notification that they were in the works. Project Hush was set up to counter the new weapons.
Our goal was not just to reach the Moon. We had done that on June 24, 1967, with an unmanned ship that carried instruments to report back data on soil, temperature, cosmic rays and so on. Unfortunately, it was put out of commission by a rock slide.
An unmanned rocket would be useless against the new weapons. We had to get to the Moon before any other country did and set up a permanent station—an armed one—and do it without anybody else knowing about it.
I guess you see now why we on (damn the name!) Project Hush were so concerned about security. But we felt pretty sure, before we took off, that we had plugged every possible leak.
We had, all right. Nobody even knew we had raised ship.
We landed at the northern tip of Mare Nubium, just off Regiomontanus, and, after planting a flag with appropriate throat-catching ceremony, had swung into the realities of the tasks we had practiced on so many dry-runs back on Earth.
Major Monroe Gridley prepared the big rocket, with its tiny cubicle of living space, for the return journey to Earth which he alone would make.
Lieutenant-Colonel Thomas Hawthorne painstakingly examined our provisions and portable quarters for any damage that might have been incurred in landing.
And I, Colonel Benjamin Rice, first commanding officer of Army Base No. 1 on the Moon, dragged crate after enormous crate out of the ship on my aching academic back and piled them in the spot two hundred feet away where the plastic dome would be built.
We all finished at just about the same time, as per schedule, and went into Phase Two.
Monroe and I started work on building the dome. It was a simple prefab affair, but big enough to require an awful lot of assembling. Then, after it was built, we faced the real problem—getting all the complex internal machinery in place and in operating order.
