by Chuck Tyrell
“You have it.”
“Sergeant Major, how many men in the Fifth Infantry?”
“Fifteen hundred seventy at full strength, sir.”
“And how many in the Twenty-Fourth?”
“Should be the same.”
“What’s the desertion rate in the Fifth?”
“Twenty seven percent, as of last month.”
“And the Twenty-Fourth?”
“I know of none, sir.”
“Which would you rather have guarding your back, sergeant major? White men just looking for a chance to light a shuck? Or steady black men who keep every promise they ever made? Think about it, sergeant major. Think about it. And let me tell you. First Sergeant Reginald Kearns is no boy.”
The sergeant major made no reply. Stryker knew he’d not made a friend, but looking after his own men was much more important.
“Top.”
“Sir.”
“We’ll go report to General Hunter, if you please.”
“Sir.” With head erect and shoulders back, Reginald Kearns followed Stryker into General Hunter’s office. Both Stryker and Kearns removed their kepis and clamped them under their left arms.
“Lieutenant Matthew Stryker with First Sergeant Reginald Kearns, sir, reporting as ordered.”
Both Misfits held their salutes.
“Report,” the general said, returning their salutes.
“Sir. A Squad, Headquarters Division, met the Apaches led by Yuyutsu at Bone Head Canyon on the north slopes of the Sierra Madres. We exchanged fire with the Indeh, killing nine and wounding at least three. A Squad also destroyed ten head of stock—six horses and four mules. Yuyutsu sued for a ceasefire, which I, as commanding officer in the field, granted him. The Apaches buried their dead and traveled south, agreeing not to come into United States Territory. Sir.”
“Where again?”
“My Apache scout said the place was Bone Head Canyon. The Mexicans call it Craneo Blanco, I hear.”
General Hunter waved a hand at the map on his wall. “Show me.”
“Yes, sir.” Stryker studied the map for a moment and then pointed to a cut leading into the Sierra Madres. “Here, sir.”
The general’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “Here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looks more than a hundred miles. But you’ve only been gone for six days.”
“The Misfits, er, A Squad, sir, can do sixty miles in a day, if pushed.”
“My dear lord.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well done.”
“Permission to speak, sir,” Samson said.
“Granted.”
“Mr. Stryker knows what he’s doing, sir. We licked Yuyutsu’s crowd fair and square, and brought back a good Apache scout, a man to run beside Bly, and maybe keep up with Dahtegte. His name is Norroso. Sir.”
“Lieutenant?”
“Sir.”
“You have a new scout?”
“I was going to put it in writing, sir.”
“Do that. Now, get out of here, lieutenant, first sergeant. Again, well done.”
Stryker and Samson snapped to attention and saluted. The general made a move with his hand in the direction of his forehead. Then, “One moment, Mr. Stryker. You didn’t say a word about A Squad casualties. The Apaches lost nine. How many did we lose?”
“None, sir. Trooper Ferguson has a broken leg, sir, and First Sergeant Kearns took an arrow in the shoulder. That is all, sir.” Stryker figured his own wound did not matter as it was not from Yuyutsu’s men.
“You took an arrow, Kearns?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you walked in here just now?”
“Yes, sir. The Apache scout Dahtegte fixed me up like new, sir.”
“Very well. Get out of here. Misfits. Of all the ... ” General Hunter shut his office door a little harder than usual.
~*~
Stryker’s Misfits gained a reputation at Fort Bliss. They challenged every company in the Fifth Infantry, the Tenth Cavalry, and whatever companies stopped by on their way to Arizona or California or wherever. None could outshoot the Misfits in group competition, and no one could outshoot Sharpy Bailor with a long gun.
Other officers bitched because the Misfits were never around to share in the chores, to be dog robbers for some officer, or to police up the grounds. Stryker made sure their time was taken up with training, and not only on the rifle range. They ran. They wrestled. They fought with wooden knives. They learned how to wear uniforms with pride and aplomb that other soldiers could only hope for. And they reveled in their name. Stryker’s Misfits. Men who could never fit the army machine, but who worked together like parts of a single entity.
“Misfits!” When Top Soldier Reginald Kearns called out, every Misfit stopped to listen. “Misfits. Full uniform in five. Line up on me.”
Stryker’s Misfits charged for their tents, unbuttoning muslin shirts as they ran. Hardly had they ducked into their tents than they came back out, buttoning sky blue trousers with light green stripes down the outside seam. Black campaign hats with blue cords clamped on their heads, they struggled to get into their uniform and in ranks, and not be late. After all, they were elite, the best in the whole army of the Southwest. They’d earned their name.
Stryker’s Misfits.
And proud of it.
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