by Carla Kelly
Merciful heavens, what a stupid advertising gimmick Wonderland was, except that at times, Wonderland seemed exactly right. Ramsay thought about a summer of patrolling, keeping the visitors from doing stupid things, eating cherry pie, and experiencing the sheer pleasure of life in Yellowstone National Park. It was a long way from the Philippines, which could not possibly have made him more grateful. He stood there a moment more before the cold defeated his bare feet, then he turned to go inside.
The howl of a wolf stopped him. Alert now, he listened to that lonely sound, hoping to hear an answering call, wishing no one would expect him to order his men to kill those lovely creatures, along with coyotes and mountain lions. He knew he hoped in vain. All he could wish was that the wolves, at least, would retreat of their own volition and save themselves.
Truth to tell, the bigger nightmare that made him toss and turn was the annual directive he received to make sure each soldier station, supplied for the winter, had traps on hand, plus two bottles per station of strychnine to poison wolves by dumping the strychnine inside slit-open, winter-killed elk and deer.
According to the directive, the predator hides were to be taken as evidence and later brought to Fort Yellowstone headquarters for the winter count. In Ramsay’s nightmare, he was always the trooper putting poison inside the carcasses, his arms red up to the elbows.
Ram, you’re a sap, he thought. You love this job, but you know your duty.
He smiled to hear an answering howl, then smaller, chirpier yips. Puppies were baying to the moon like their parents. “Hide somewhere, little buddies,” he said softly.
He went upstairs, tired now and ready to sleep, except there was another ritual, one that the Philippine Islands dream required. Needing no more than the glow of the full moon, Ramsay opened the top drawer of his bureau and took out a red case. He pushed on it. The lid snapped to attention to reveal a gilt-colored five-pointed star with a red, white, and blue ribbon. An eagle perched on a cannon with some goddess or other striking an enemy.
He knew the citation by heart, mainly because he wanted to say it out loud at times like this in memory of those men of his who were equally brave and who did not get out of that cave alive, including his lieutenant.
“ ‘First Sergeant Ramsay Andrew Stiles with other men entered a cave occupied by a desperate enemy. After the death of his lieutenant and in the face of a heavy fire, with utter disregard for his personal safety, aided in forcing the outlaws to abandon their stronghold, which resulted in their destruction by our force,’ ” he whispered. “Thank you, men. I wish you were still alive. Sincerely, your sergeant.”
Then Ramsay Stiles could go back to bed and sleep until reveille, except that his usually orderly thoughts took another turn. Perhaps he could blame June’s full moon, which everyone who ever heard a Tin Pan Alley tune knew rhymed with croon and spoon and other delectable ideas. He lay there thinking he wouldn’t be so cold in this bed if he shared it with someone.
He yawned and scratched the stubble on his face. It was time to stand closer to his straight edge razor—army polish was lax during a Yellowstone winter—and pat on a little hopeful aftershave. Marriageable women didn’t materialize out of nowhere in Wyoming, but summer was coming. For the first time in nearly forever, Sergeant Major Ramsay Stiles—Medal of Honor recipient, a man kind to horses, and general all-around capable fellow—wanted a little more.
Chapter Three
The paperwork is going to kill me, Ramsay thought, and not for the first time since his return to Fort Yellowstone from the Philippines. He looked around Major Pitcher’s office at the others, and wondered why the Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, had ever allowed staff meetings in the first place. Perhaps it was Adam’s special punishment after ejection from the Garden of Eden.
None of the officers seemed to mind sitting in unforgiving chairs, taking such notes as warranted their attention, their backs straight, their eyes forward. He glanced at Captain Hiram Chittenden sitting next to him and revised his opinion. The Corps of Engineers officer, back from winter’s duty on the Upper Missouri, was doodling little rows of lodgepole pines, maybe planning his own assault on the trees as he built more roads for Yellowstone Park this summer.
What in the world was he, Ramsay Stiles, Iowa farm boy, doing here? He gave a hopefully unnoticed glance at the insignia on his sleeve: three gold chevrons, three gold rockers with a simple star in the middle, and hash marks slanting down both sleeves. A lesser man could crumble under the weight of all that gilt.
He took another glance at the light blue Medal of Honor service ribbon, with its five silver stars which Major Pitcher had informed him would always be worn on his uniform blouse. “No argument, Sergeant Major,” his commanding officer had told him firmly. “You won it; you wear it.”
Here he sat in a staff meeting with the officers, still amazed he even had his own office just down the hall in the admin building. He wasn’t the only enlisted man in the room, because there sat Corporal Myers, command clerk, at his tall desk, taking minutes. Myers didn’t sit in the exalted half circle around Major Pitcher’s desk though.
Major Pitcher cleared his throat. While no one came to attention, everyone did sit a little taller.
“Gentlemen, here we are at the start of another tourist season at Yellowstone Park,” Major Pitcher said and tapped on his paperwork. “Why the army has been here since 1882, goodness only knows. Heaven help us all.”
General laughter of the polite, officer type followed. Ramsay thought it best to just smile, his natural modesty unwilling to call attention to himself.
He hoped in vain. Major Pitcher looked directly at him and then at his officers. “Gentlemen, I have the unheard of luxury to introduce Sergeant Major Ramsay Stiles, former first sergeant of B Company and new Medal of Honor recipient. Yes, we all know him well, but glory be, this is his first summer with an impressive rank and a medal. And a seat in my staff meeting.” He glanced at the command clerk. “Corporal Myers, I want this in the record too, if just for my benefit. Can’t think of another time I escorted someone to Washington, D.C., for a Medal of Honor ceremony.”
Ramsay felt heat rush past his tight stand-up collar to bloom on his face.
“And he blushes,” Pitcher continued, while the others chuckled. He looked at the officer seated on the other side of Captain Chittenden. “Captain Bouvier, I know you will hate me until I die for usurping B Company’s first sergeant—”
“Not quite that long, sir,” Captain Bouvier interrupted. “Only every time I think about it.” More laughter.
Major Pitcher joined in the laughter and answered, “You are kindness, itself, Jack.” Ramsay watched the major’s face grow serious. “For the record now in this meeting, I did some amazing groveling—no, not that in the record, Corporal—let us say persuasive argument to get Sergeant Major Stiles kept here instead of booted upstairs to regimental headquarters at Fort Clark, where he rightfully belongs now. You don’t mind, do you, Stiles?”
“Not even slightly, sir,” Ramsay said. He looked down at the paucity of notes on his tablet. “Headquarters would mean more meetings, and you know how I love those.”
Chuckles this time. No one liked meetings, apparently.
Major Pitcher said something pithy, which was also left out of those minutes after a hard-eyed squint at the clerk. Pitcher looked down at his own agenda. “Because Sergeant Major Stiles just mumbles and blushes when asked, let me tell the rest of you and the record: After our fair-haired boy was awarded that hard-earned piece of metal, it was my privilege to request a promotion for First Sergeant Stiles from General Nelson Miles himself. Told him I wanted a sergeant major to help with the dirty work here in the park, if that was allowed.”
Pitcher looked at Ramsay, his expression kindly. “In case you want to thank them or cross them off your Christmas card list after this summer, depending, Sergeant Major, you can also thank your former captain and also the whiz bang engineer seated next to you for their additional letters
of recommendation.”
Ramsay knew about Captain Bouvier’s recommendation, but he felt a warm spot in his chest to know that the fort’s engineer had sent a letter too. He gave Captain Chittenden a sideways glance of appreciation.
“Of course it didn’t hurt that General Miles and I know each other from early years in Appleton, Wisconsin.” Major Pitcher’s expression turned serious again. “It’s a big step up, lad. I have no doubt you’re equal to the task. Gentlemen, let me turn your attention to the agenda.”
Had he blushed this much during the medal award ceremony in January? Probably. Men with reddish blond hair had almost no choice in the matter. Ramsay sat now with his typical stillness, watching the others, grateful the major had directed his attention to the business at hand, and away from the army’s newest, and probably youngest, sergeant major, who just wanted to do his duty and be left alone.
Once the blush died down, Ramsay took his own notes on summer events familiar to him from a previous tour here at Yellowstone with Bouvier’s B Company. The perspective was different now. Usually Captain Bouvier held his own staff meeting, once the word had been distributed from on high in this august gathering. Ramsay would be given his orders there, and he gave his orders in turn, placing corporals and privates at various strategic points in this district of the park from Mammoth Hot Springs to the Lower Geyser Basin, the better to assist tourists and/or stop them from stupidity.
Now he took notes on everyone’s duties and listened, wishing himself smaller, but that was impossible too. He was tall for a cavalryman, and took his share of good-natured abuse from his fellows in rank, who commiserated with his horse until the jokes got old and everyone forgot. For the hour of the meeting, Ramsay did what he did best—listened and absorbed.
Captain Chittenden’s report on continuing road construction toward what would eventually become the park’s east entrance was a masterpiece of information without superfluity, much like the man himself. This summer Chittenden’s crew, already in residence, might finish the road to Cody, Wyoming. “We need an east entrance,” Captain Chittenden announced with a smile. “Too many of you have been complaining how long it takes to get home to Pennsylvania and New York for Christmas.”
That’s right, Ramsay thought. Officers can leave. Oh, winter, where is thy sting for the men who sport shoulder straps?
Captain Chittenden’s enthusiasm was nearly palpable when he described the bigger event of his summer—a steel-girded concrete bridge at a suitable crossing above the upper falls of the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone. “I’ll be using one thousand laborers this summer on this and the roads,” he said. He held up a drawing of a graceful arch bridge. “With any luck …”
“It’s no mistake that the smartest men at West Point go into the Corps of Engineers,” Major Pitcher remarked. “Then it’s artillery, followed by infantry, and then us, the cavalry. How were your engineering grades, Captain Bouvier?”
The captain’s wry face and two thumbs down met with answering nods from the other cavalry officers. Captain Chittenden just shook his head and smiled.
The meeting ran from the dry details of commissary stores and horseshoes on hand, to the tasks that made patrolling Fort Yellowstone among the most interesting of assignments in the entire army. “Gentlemen, I know some of you deplore the spectacle of feeding bears at the hotels …” Major Pitcher began.
Without moving his head, Ramsay glanced at his former captain and saw his expected frown. Captain Bouvier had railed long and hard against the practice, and the major knew it.
“I would remind you all that we are here to protect the wildlife and remarkable formations and geysers, but we also owe something to our visitors, who do see this place as Wonderland,” Major Pitcher said. “They want bears, and we have bears for them.”
Ramsay watched Captain Bouvier open his mouth and prudently close it.
“And now back to you, Sergeant Major Stiles,” the major said, just when Ramsay thought his ordeal was over. “Don’t think for a minute you will have nothing to do this summer. Far from it.” Yellowstone’s acting superintendent leaned forward across his desk, and all eyes swiveled toward Ramsay again, perhaps also wondering what use a sergeant major would be in this remote place.
“I trust you have no problem with piles,” Pitcher said, and everyone laughed.
All of a sudden it became abundantly clear what the park’s chief enforcer was up to, and Ramsay smiled. This was his indoctrination, his entry into the club of higher command he had never sought, but which he had earned in a terrible place, doing extraordinary things to keep his men alive. So be it. He would play along, because he understood this army and he understood hard duty as well as every man seated here.
“Not a hemorrhoid in sight or otherwise, Major,” he said. “No dyspepsia, either. Sir, I am a nearly perfect specimen,” he said to laughter, getting his own digs in.
“That’s a relief, Sergeant Major, because I intend to keep you in the saddle this summer. You’re going to have free rein over this park and spare me any number of headaches. Are you in so far?”
“Yes, sir,” Ramsay said promptly, knowing his place.
“I want you to become familiar with every geyser, every paint pot, every bear, every elk herd, and the occasional moose,” Major Pitcher continued, a smile on his face. “Watch what goes on at the soldier stations and the hotels and the camping companies. If you see problems or complaints, keep me informed and be my eyes. Are you still in agreement?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied.
“I will request all sergeants and corporals in each of our companies to report to you with issues regarding tourists who come into conflict with geysers, paint pots, and wildlife. You will hear the problems and solve them promptly, if you can.”
Ramsay sat back, struck by the weight of responsibility as it settled on his shoulders like concrete. He nodded, wondering how on earth anyone could manage all this.
“You’re good with people, Sergeant Major Stiles,” Pitcher said. “You always have been.”
Ramsay looked around the half circle, heartened to see nods of agreement from the captains in the room, men he had known here, at other garrisons, and in battle in the Philippines. “Thank you, sir,” he said, flattered and puzzled at the same time.
“I’ll give you letters to carry to park concessionaires and hoteliers, letting them know to contact you if difficulties arise.”
Dazed at the duty ahead, Ramsay nodded, but then remembered himself. “Yes, sir.”
“You are probably wondering what these captains and their lieutenants will be doing this summer to wile away their leisure moments as you slave with this assignment. Go ahead, admit it.”
“It did cross my mind, sir,” he said, to general laughter.
“Every few days, you will report to me,” Pitcher said. “What you cannot solve—and I know there will be plenty of ladies and gents caught redhanded trying to chip away at a geyser for a souvenir or carve initials on a tree—you will inform me and I will send out these captains and lieutenants to apply some higher-level pressure, if needed.”
“Very well, sir,” Ramsay said. “When they start to demand, ‘Don’t you know who I am, Sergeant Major?’ I, uh, send in the cavalry.”
“Precisely,” Pitcher said when the laughter died down. “It’s a loose assignment, but one requiring that you get to know a lot of people from stable boys to hotel managers. People need to trust you.” He chuckled. “I imagine you’ll pose with a lot of pretty ladies who want their pictures taken with a stalwart representative of Uncle Sam’s Army. You’ll have all these lovely memories to fall back on when winter sets in and the work changes.”
Ramsay looked around again and saw altered expressions, serious ones. Winter was always another matter at Yellowstone Park. It came too soon and it stayed too long, with mounds of snow, faltering animals, and endless poachers. He knew his brother soldiers were remembering last winter’s disaster at the remote Sylvan Pass Station, where a sergeant
shot and killed one private and wounded another private he thought were conspiring against him. Winters in Yellowstone could do that to ordinarily sane men.
Major Pitcher clapped his hands together to break the mood. “But this is summer and we are going to enjoy it, eh, men? That is all. Sergeant Major, I will speak to you this afternoon about another assignment. You will enjoy this one.” He looked at his agenda. “I forgot one thing. It’s not listed here.”
The major stood and everyone else did too, except Corporal Myers taking notes at his high desk. “There is one remaining matter, brought to my attention by my dear wife, Matilda, over breakfast this morning. Pay attention, you captains, as I expect some assistance in this.”
And why was everyone looking at him again? Ramsay smelled a rat and knew his indoctrination into this new world of power and hierarchy was only beginning. He stifled a sigh. At least he wasn’t crawling through caves on Palong Batan, dragging out insurgents. Surely nothing could be worse than that. He stood at attention, because he was a man possessed of much ability to take what came his way.
“Sergeant Major, are you a man of temperate habits? No cursing or swearing?”
“Temperate habits, sir,” he said, wondering where this was going, especially if the major’s wife had called Pitcher’s attention to the matter over breakfast.
“You already told us you are a nearly perfect specimen. Do you smoke or drink to excess?”
“No, sir. Just a little hot toddy at Christmas and a beer now and then.”
“No diseases you would blush to tell us about?”
Ramsay stifled a smile. “No, sir.”
“You save your money?”
“Yes, sir, safely tucked in a bank in Bozeman.”
Pitcher shook his head. “This is much as I suspected, and which Matilda confirmed to me over porridge.” He pointed his finger at Ramsay. “Sergeant Major, she cannot think of a single reason why you haven’t found a wife yet.”
