Chasing Pancho Villa

by R. L. Tecklenburg

  Harrison noted the anger.

  “We needed to talk further about it,” the battalion commander said, then paused. “Sir, I want you to know…this was a highly respected unit. They distinguished themselves in Mexico. However, like any other unit, it had its bad apples. Trouble makers, stirring up the others. With Coloreds, I’ve come to understand, more discipline is required rather than less. Race troubles being what they are in Houston…well, sir, I feared something bad was bound to happen.”

  Harrison listened without interrupting.

  “Your brother refused to open fire. I told him it was a direct order from his commanding officer. Still he chose to disobey it.”

  Harrison watched the Major grow more agitated.

  “He treated me with contempt, sir. He spoke of our disagreement openly with other officers. This has seriously affected morale. Captain James was my subordinate.” The soldier turned to stare out the tent opening, making an effort to master himself.

  “I wanted to settle the whole matter so that the unit could overcome this, this terrible event. As soldiers in the United States Army, Mr. James, we both understood what was expected of us,” he said, turning back to the civilian. “And, sir, I want to tell you that I never charged Captain James with disobeying a lawful order, nor did I convey my own feelings to the Board of Inquiry.”

  Harrison studied the officer for a moment. “Did you tell anyone else you were meeting with my brother?” he asked calmly.

  “No, I did not.”

  “Was the reason you went to his tent that night to discuss my brother’s shortcomings?”

  “To discuss how we could better work together to improve things, Mr. James, not to discipline him. I was not angry, only disappointed. I had hoped we could resolve our differences as two officers in the United States Army.” The major gave James a straight look.

  “I did not like your brother, Mr. James. That is well known. However, the captain was a gentleman and an honorable officer. I would be the first to admit that I respected him.”

  “What else can you tell me about my brother?” Harrison asked, noting the officer’s anger whenever he spoke of Bart.

  “That’s all that I can tell you, sir.”

  “Thank you for your time, major. You’ve been most helpful. May I visit my brother’s company? Talk to his men?” Harrison asked.

  “Of course, Mr. James. I can arrange that. I’ll get someone to escort you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “This was my brother’s tent?” James asked, following the shorter man up the two quick steps. The stuffy, oily canvas smell in the desert warmth made him slightly dizzy.

  “Yes, sir,” the sergeant responded crisply.

  “Did you know my brother well, sergeant? Sergeant…?” he asked. The soldier was a slim, light skinned Mexican American of about 40 years of age. His dark hair was cut short and he wore a neatly trimmed mustache. The sergeant’s eyes were a soft brown, but James detected the steely determination in them. In their handshake, the grip was firm and the hand was rough and horny. A lifetime of physical labor, James thought. He also noticed that the sergeant didn’t walk, but marched, erect and military-like. His manner was polite and respectful.

  “Parilla, sir. Juan G. Parilla.” His back stiffened. “I knew your hermano for one year, sir. He was my commanding officer.” In the tent’s shadows, the sergeant looked directly at him without wavering.

  “How did you get along with my brother, sergeant?”

  “No problemas, sir. Su hermano was a fine man.”

  “No problems,” Harrison repeated softly. He continued to scrutinize the shorter man. “You must be infantry?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Who was living in this tent with my brother?” Harrison asked as he walked around the narrow area, examining its layout of two cots and a few pieces of furniture on a rough wood floor.

  “Lieutenant Floyd. He is en el campo with his men, sir.”

  “Does he still live here?”

  “Sí, señor. Aquí.”

  “And where was my brother’s body found?”

  Sergeant Parilla slowly stepped to the open area between the bunks and squatted down on the floor. “Aproxima aquí, Señor James.” With his hands, he outlined an area on the floor between the sparse furnishings. Harrison noticed two kerosene lanterns hanging at each entrance. There was just one writing desk and two chairs in the tent.

  “Show me how you found him, please.” Harrison knelt on the floor beside the soldier.

  “Señor, I did not find him. The major find him, señor. I come mas tarde. Major Snow, he was here already. I come maybe one hour later from mi casa en Columbus. Private Goode tol’ me to come,” he said softly, then he looked down. “He was here on the floor, Señor James. Blood everywhere. His head….” He paused. “His head mostly gone…. Everywhere.” He motioned at the canvas walls, at the spattered brown stains and small tear, while he spoke. “I wrap him up. My men take him away quickly. The major say, ‘take him away now.’ We do it as he order.”

  “I see.” Harrison paused for a moment to examine the tear in the tent’s side panel. It was about six feet up from the tent floor. He walked over to touch it. The edges were ragged. The bullet must have made that hole, he thought. “When you arrived, had he been moved from the spot where he fell.”

  “I don know, señor,” Parilla said. “Señor, I am not a police.”

  “How was he lying on the ground, sergeant?”

  “Señor?” he asked. Does this hombre want me to get on the floor?

  Seeing the hesitation on the soldier’s face, Harrison paused and asked again, in a different manner. “Please sergeant, it is important to Captain James’ mother and me that we understand exactly what happened.”

  Without a word, Sergeant Parilla sprawled out on the wooden plank floor, lying across the darkened areas where someone had attempted to scrub away the blood. He lay face up with his entire body situated in the space between the two cots. His feet pointed toward the open doorway of the front entrance. “Maybe like this, señor.”

  “Hmm.” Harrison studied his position. “In your opinion, sergeant, is it reasonable to believe that was the final position of a man who shot himself?”

  “Señor?”

  Both men stood to face each other.

  “It seems to me that a man would not take his own life sitting in a chair at his writing table or standing. That’s what I mean.” James continued to closely examine the premises. “According to a military police report we received only a week ago, the bullet entered here. An Army .45 caliber bullet.” He touched his forehead. “The medical examiner described the wound as compatible with a self-inflicted gunshot. That is, powder burns indicated that the gun—Bart’s own gun—was very close to his face. But I wonder, sergeant. Why in the forehead? And look where the hole is in the canvas.” He pointed to the tear about ten feet away from where the body was found. “What do you think, Sergeant Parilla?”

  The soldier stared at the civilian. “No se, Señor James. Es posible. I have seen many different ways that a man falls as he dies. And the bullet? Quien sabe?”

  “You may be right.” Harrison said. “The stains are over there closer to that entrance, near where he supposedly fell. But look, sergeant, at the hole in the canvas.” Juan looked to where James pointed. “Bart was supposedly sitting at the desk or standing between the cots.” He pointed to the blood stains on the floor behind him on the far side of the tent. Then he ran a forefinger around the edge of the tear. “That is what the medical examiner stated in his report. And way over here we have the bullet exiting the tent. Hmm.” Harrison sat in the chair and contemplated bullet trajectory. “I don’t think the hole is at the correct height or angle, and the blood stains don’t seem right, either. The scene is confusing to me.”

  “I do not believe he here like they say,” Parilla said slowly. “But I cannot know. I think he sit in his chair at his desk, facing this w
ay.” Juan’s back was toward the rear entrance, away from James. “He was maybe sitting like this when he shoot. He fall back and the chair turn over.” He turned the chair over for closer examination. “Look, Señor James. Blood, no?” The Sergeant pointed at the dried spots on the wood back. “Maybe he die falling, I think. And the bullet go in that direction.” He pointed at the tear.

  “Then you think he was sitting at his desk when he shot himself?”

  “Sí, es posible, no?” the sergeant replied.

  “Where was the chair when you arrived?” Harrison asked.

  “It was at the desk like we see today, señor.” Juan replied. “The major order me to clean everything in this tent. I discover the blood then, no?”

  “Someone could have been here in the tent with Bart.” Harrison thought out loud. “They disagreed, struggled perhaps. My brother was shot at close range and he fell backward. Maybe the killer moved his body after he was already dead. That’s why the blood stains are over there by the front entrance. To make it look like suicide”

  “Señor James, that is not the way they say it happened. The colonel and the major investigate, eh?” But the Sergeant was wondering also. The blood stains on the chair and the position the body was found seemed confusing.

  “Yes, but it could have happened another way,” Harrison said, still going over the scene. “You left the stain on the chair?”

  “Sí, señor.” Juan paused, and then said quickly, “Evidence, I think.”

  “Where did my brother keep his gun when he wasn’t wearing it?” Harrison’s mind was racing ahead.

  “Captain James keep his pistola in his tent. When he did not wear it, he lock it up in his desk. Aquí.” Juan tried to open a lower desk drawer. It was locked. “‘Juan, too damn many accidents’ he say to me.”

  “How many people knew Bart did this?”

  “No se, señor. I know only because he show me.”

  “So others may have known as well?”

  “Sí, señor. Es posible.”

  “Who else would have a key to the drawer?”

  “No one. But the lock, it is simple. See?” Pushing a small strand of wire he produced from his pocket into the keyhole and shaking the front of the drawer lightly with his other hand, the drawer easily slid open. Juan smiled. “Many old desk around. I must open them sometimes.”

  “Where are all the weapons kept? Do the rest of the troops keep their own weapons?” Harrison asked.

  “No, señor. They are all kept in the quartermaster’s tent. There is a guard on them. Only officers keep their pistolas. Sometime they wear, or sometimes they lock up, like Capitan James.”

  “Is there a record or log of when Captain James checked his out of the quartermaster’s tent?”

  “Sí, the record is clear. He write down the date he took it. Every soldier must do it this way. The colonel ordered. We check the record carefully.”

  “What did it say, sergeant?”

  “Your brother took his weapon from the tent three days before he died. The record does not say he bring it back.”

  “Sergeant, why do you think he checked his weapon out then?”

  “I do not know, Señor James.”

  “Do the officers need a reason to take their weapons out of the armory?”

  “No, señor. Out here along the border, is very dangerous. If they need them, they take them. Sometimes they keep them.”

  “I see. Who keeps track of all the company’s weapons?”

  “I do, señor.”

  “So an officer could take his weapon wherever he wanted? Could he sell it and no one would know?”

  Juan eyed the civilian. “No, es no posible. I watch closely all weapons and records. But….” Parilla shrugged. “The records only say your brother didn’t sign his pistola in again. There was no sign. That I know.”

  “Then he had it here with him, either locked in the desk or holstered?”

  “Sí, I think so.”

  “Was he wearing a pistol belt when he was found?”

  The sergeant thought a moment before answering. “No, no pistol belt. It was on his foot locker. Here.” Parilla walked over to the locker and pointed.

  Harrison considered, going over to stand beside Parilla. “Yet there’s one more possibility, isn’t there?” he said, looking back at the desk.

  “Señor?”

  “Someone could have opened that desk, just as you did, and stolen it without my brother’s knowledge. Isn’t that true, Sergeant Parilla?”

  “The captain did not report a stolen pistola. He would have reported it, Señor James.”

  Harrison thought. “Do you believe Captain James took his own life?”

  “It was a great surprise to me. He was not a man of fear.” Juan shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I must return to my duties now.” Without speaking further, he grabbed the pencil from the desk and hurriedly scratched out an address on a slip of paper he tore from a notebook in his pocket. “Señor James, maybe we talk more.” Handing it to Harrison, he abruptly turned to leave the tent. “Come. I will take you back to the gate.”

  “Wait!” Harrison called after him. “This Lieutenant Floyd. I would like to speak with him.” He stuck the slip of paper into his coat pocket.

  “Sí, señor. Follow me. The major orders that I escort you while you stay in camp. I think, Señor James, that he wants to watch you, eh?” Juan smiled slightly.

  “Are you keeping notes of my activities here, Juan?” Harrison asked.

  “Ah, no, señor. He say to report to him after you leave. Only this. Anyway, I do not write Ingles so well.”

  As they walked together toward the parade field, neither spoke. James wondered how much more the sergeant knew.

  When they reached the field, Sergeant Parilla stopped. The soldier indicated a formation of 40 men marching toward them with their rifles at shoulder-arms. Parilla waved to the officer.

  “Platoon, halt!” the man ordered the formation.

  Parilla approached the lieutenant and quickly briefed him. He turned back to James. “Señor,” he called. “I give you privacy with your talk. When you are ready, wave and I will come to take you.”

  The lieutenant waited with his soldiers standing at attention. The sergeant walked over to the formation and saluted. Lieutenant Floyd returned the salute. “Sergeant Parilla…” he called so the troopers would hear, “…take over.” The tall man stepped away from the formation and walked toward James, taking long, measured strides.

  “Lieutenant, I am Harrison James, the brother of Captain James,” he said as the officer reached him.

  “First Lieutenant Roger Floyd, United States Army, sir.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “I have some questions, sir. Could we talk privately?” Harrison noticed that this officer seemed more relaxed. He hoped the man would feel more comfortable answering his questions than the major.

  “Of course, Mr. James,” the tall soldier said. “Let’s stroll…if you don’t mind, sir.”

  Sergeant Parilla watched out of the corner of his eye as the two Anglos walked away into the dust. “Señor James, I return for you, eh?” he yelled as he marched the formation of soldiers away across the field.

  “Yes,” Harrison said, distracted. “I’m trying to get an accurate picture of my brother’s death,” he explained to the tall lieutenant. “Lieutenant, were you nearby when my brother died?” They walked slowly across the dusty field, avoiding other groups of soldiers around them

  “Sir, I want to tell you how sorry I am about your brother’s death. He was a fine man.”

  “I appreciate that,” Harrison said. “Again, when Bart died, were you near the tent?”

  The soldier hesitated, and then blushed. “I’m afraid I was indisposed.”

  “Indisposed, lieutenant?” Harrison turned to see the suddenly red face beside him.

  “Yes, I had had too much tequila. It’s a major pastime in
these parts,” he added.

  “You served with my brother in Houston, lieutenant?” Harrison continued, ignoring the confession.

  “Yes, sir. And in Mexico. Chasing Pancho Villa.”

  “Did it strike you as strange that my brother would commit suicide?”

  “No sir, it did not. Considering recent events, it was certainly possible, and even likely. Houston was a difficult time, Mr. James. The pressure on all of us has been extreme. The question of what went wrong there haunted the battalion officers, and most of all, your brother. We all tried to keep busy, to not think about the court martial. Yet, your brother…. I thought he kept more to himself after we returned. He was always busy with something, and never wanted to talk and relax with his brother officers.”

  “I see.” Harrison paused. “Tell me, did my brother’s Negro soldiers mutiny?”

  “No sir, they didn’t. No one from our company left the area.”

  “I don’t understand,” Harrison said. “If your company wasn’t part of the mutiny…?

  “Captain James was Officer of the Day, responsible for keeping order, ensuring the Battalion was secure. Our men were on police detail that day. Doing gate duty, patrols around the camp and keeping an eye on the civilians there.”

  “Civilians?”

  “Yes sir. The Third Battalion was there to provide security while the camp was being built,” Floyd explained. “It is to be a training camp, built to house thousands of recruits coming south for training for the war. Our company—L Company—had the guard detail that day.”

  “When the mutiny began?”

  “Yes, sir. It started with trouble in town with the police. A misunderstanding, really. But one thing led to another, and soldiers from two companies broke formation, rushing the quartermaster’s tent for rifles. First Sergeant Henry led them. They began to march into town. ‘Free Corporal Baltimore,’ they chanted. Crazy Niggers.” Floyd shook his head.

  “What action did my brother take when that happened?”

  “When we saw what was going on, Captain James formed a skirmish line with all our L Company troopers, to reinforce the guard. I was with him when he ordered the men to block the gates.”