“Mark, this is the most important story you have ever done in your life up until now. That’s not only history that you’re writing on that notepad, you’re also making the future possible. How would you like,” Custer leaned toward Kellogg, “to be the White House Press Secretary? It’s a key cabinet position that I’ve been thinking about creating.”
Kellogg’s rapid fire pencil strokes stopped in midsentence as he digested the import of the offer Custer was making, and grasped the importance it meant not only to the historical perspective and press acclaim, but to his personal future as well. Kellogg dismounted and walked back to the headquarters section, thinking to himself.
Kellogg was here purely by chance; it was his boss, Clement Lounsberry who by virtue of his senior authority and personal ambition should have been the one taking notes and being addressed by the next President of the United States. Lounsberry had founded the Bismarck Tribune and was prepared to go on the Custer expedition, having delegated the responsibilities of running the small daily newspaper to his capable assistant, Kellogg. Although small in circulation, the Tribune covered a huge geographical expanse. Marcus recalled the events subconsciously as he digested the import of what the general had offered him.
“Marcus, by all that is Righteous and Holy, I should be accompanying Custer on this crusade.” Lounsberry had told Kellogg, there was regret in his voice and pain in his bloated face.
Kellogg listened to the morbidly obese Lounsberry with rapt attention as the boss of the Bismarck Tribune revealed the unexpected turn of events, of how a bullet fired a dozen years before was about to change his entire life.
“My leg is killing me! I haven’t slept in days on account of the pain and there’s no way I can ride with the Cavalry.” complained Lounsberry, who rubbed the leg with both hands as it was propped on a stool while he sat in a swivel chair.
Kellogg knew Lounsberry was right; the former Civil War Colonel had taken a bullet in the leg at Spotsylvania which shattered the bone. It had never healed and the newspaper man had to walk with a cane, and sometimes crutches. The once active man had become fat and sedentary. He was bald on top, but combed his hair over it, making it merely appear to be thin.
Black, doll like eyes were set in a bloated face, and a grotesque dark walrus moustache overhung his upper and lower lips. Often there was food or nasal discharge embedded in the hairs. Lounsberry knew what he was giving up, but in a final gambit for fame and fortune he made his bid, placing his bet on his best man-Kellogg.
“You know, of course, what this opportunity means for you.” stated Lounsberry.
Kellogg, who was too stunned to reply at once, remained silent. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, he realized. A chance at the Holy Grail of journalism.
“I’ve appreciated all of the long hours you’ve put into the Tribune more than you know. This chance of a lifetime I’m giving you is in gratitude for your service.” concluded Lounsberry, who fought to contain his tears, stoically.
When Kellogg answered, it was exactly what Lounsberry wanted to hear.
“Rest assured, Mr. Lounsberry, I always return a favor.” responded the stunned Kellogg, who was almost speechless with disbelief.
Kellogg joined the enlisted men who were securing their regulation blue blouses onto the rear of their McClellan saddles. They were to be worn later in the cool of the evening. The Army had chosen the McClellan saddle not only because it was light and inexpensive but also because by its very design was conducive to the long, hard testicle busting rides of mounted warfare; the center of the saddle had been removed-leaving an empty space so that hard pounding did not bruise testicles. Attached to the D ring of the saddle was a carbine thimble-a leather socket that the Springfield slid into. The thimble provided a readier access for the Springfields than the leather scabbards that some troopers preferred when they neared their objective.
They were wearing the issue grey flannel undershirts and about their waists were privately purchased ammunition belts for the cartridges of their new Model 1873 Springfield carbines and the revolutionary equally new .45 caliber single action1872 Colt revolvers. Their blue cavalry trousers had white canvas reinforcing the posterior, from the knees up to the seat. The trouser cuffs were not tucked into the leather short topped boots. They were filthy, rough, veteran fighting men, dressed and equipped to do the job, not pass in review on parade. Six hundred and seventy five of them.
The troopers wasted not a moment in watering, feeding, and tending the horses. Many horses had festering blisters that had formed under the saddles. On the left shoulder of each horse was branded “US” and on the left hip was seared forever, “7.”
The days of unrelenting hard riding had given Associated Press reporter Mark Kellogg blisters along the inside of his thighs which had burst. To these ulcerations he applied bear grease. His glasses were smeared with sweat that he carefully wiped off with a soft cloth, to avoid scratching the thick lenses with the gritty dust that adhered to them.
Kellogg walked painfully to where Custer’s meeting was beginning to take place. Everything was moving fast. The General was standing near a knoll beside the creek issuing frag orders.
“Gentlemen,” Custer said in his rapid fire high pitched voice, “They discovered our presence and at once their scouts hastened away to alert the entire encampment. Of course it is useless now to entertain the illusion of surprise, and our intention to cross the river in the morning is necessarily changed to immediately!”
Custer spoke rapidly, although his thought processes were even faster, thought Kellogg, who short-handed notes with pencil of everything that was said as Custer observed approvingly.
“A large village of Sioux and Cheyenne has been reported by Lt. Varnum and his scouts, even now he sent word that they attempt escape!” shouted Custer, whose right hand clenched into a fist and pumped up and down as he shouted, on his hands were the large gauntlets popular with the cavalry.
As Custer described the situation phase of the order, he wore a large, cream colored straw hat, a blue flannel shirt, his buckskin trousers were tucked into his high topped, 1872 US Cavalry issued boots.
“It will be possible perhaps for us to prevent the hostiles from effecting an escape. Lt. Varnum is directed to employ his scouts in watching and reporting their movements!” continued to shout the general, he was pacing back and forth as he spoke, while Martini was holding the reins of Vic, his horse.
The General was rapidly delivering the abbreviated order, and went hastily to the execution phase, sometimes starting his sentences over to compensate for the rapidity of his thoughts.
“Captain Benteen, you will take three companies; D, H and K, with the objective of screening to the south-east along our left, Captain McDougal I’m assigning you and company B the pack train! Major Reno, you will take your companies A, G and M and assault the village when we come upon it! I will reinforce you! Lt. Varnum, is to continue scouting ahead of the vanguard…I will entertain questions!”
Captain Benteen was the first to speak up. He was wearing the blue cavalry trousers with canvas insert and suspenders over the long sleeved flannel shirt held up the trousers. His sleeves were rolled up above the elbows and his wide brimmed straw hat was pushed back far on his head as he spoke.
“Hadn’t we better keep the regiment together, General? If this is as big a camp as they say, we’ll need every man we have.” reasoned Benteen, who was wearing a non-regulation gun-slinger styled belt which held two Colt .45 revolvers.
Custer looked into the eyes of Benteen, cold, lifeless old doll eyes that resided behind eyelids nearly always wide open-the stare Custer had seen many times before in men who’d done too much killing.
“You have your orders.” expostulated the commanding officer of the 7th Cavalry.
Captain Benteen had not underestimated the commanding officer’s total hedonism. Custer had not even taken the question seriously, so self-absorbed was he in himself. The General was well aware of Benteen’s dis
like for him, but Benteen was no coward, and what he had to say, no matter how derogatory, he would say bluntly, face to face.
The Boy General had looked at the gargantuan encampment for nearly an hour using the binoculars of DeRudio, and was nearly overcome with joy and excitement. The desire to initiate the movement to contact was irresistible.
Chapter Eleven ~ Reno Attacks!
Major Reno crossed the Little Big Horn at a point where it was about 35 feet wide. If ever he were to cross his own Rubicon, it was here. When Reno launched his attack, it was at full gallop with a total of 134 officers and men in addition to 16 scouts. The distance to the village was about three miles over flat terrain that abutted the river. To Reno’s flank was scrub and cottonwood. He had asked no questions when he was ordered to charge, and almost immediately he ran into problems.
Thousands of warriors swarmed out of the southern end of the village to meet him. Many were armed with repeating rifles which they would shoot as they ran, not taking aim but pointing in the general direction of the approaching cavalry. Others approached also, shooting arrows at a high trajectory, drawing back on the bowstrings and releasing the shafts as they walked.
Immediately Reno ordered a dismount, and as his command formed a skirmishing line, one of the soldier’s horses bolted-with the trooper still on it- into the village. He was immediately taken to Sitting Bull, technically not a chief, but a religious Holy Man. To the Arikawa and soldiers who knew of him, he was a sorcerer; a High Priest of the darkest arts of black magic.
“Dismount! Dismount! Skirmishers quickly, on the double! One in four! To the trees! One in fours to the damned tree line and make it quick!” shouted the major who made no attempt to ensconce the panic betrayed by his voice.
One in four men ran with the horses to the wood line as the paltry remaining number fumbled with the trap doors of their Springfield carbines, loading one round at a time.
“Fire at will! Stop them!” screamed Major Reno.
Reno was running back and forth along the line, bent double at the waist to lessen his chances of being hit by the increasing volume of Indian fire.
“Faster! Faster! You’ve got to get those bullets down range and keep them going!” urged Reno, whose face and forehead were beaded with perspiration, his pupils dilated.
Some of the men held rounds in their mouths, and three between the fingers of their left hand to speed reloading as they shot the huge .45-55 one bullet at a time. Others fumbled with trembling hands and dropped bullets into the grass and desperately reached for the ammo belt as all hell broke loose. Sometimes the trap door closed before the soldier got another round into the breech.
“Dammit I’ve got to piss!” shouted Reno, the shout was absorbed like a sponge into the maelstrom of gunfire.
Reno lay on the ground to avoid being hit by the metal storm of gunfire while he tried to urinate. He fumbled with and unbuttoned his trousers and flung aside the syphilis drenched cloth he’d placed there to absorb the drainage. The urine was backed up behind a mucous plug that ran the entire length of his urethra. It was only the hydraulic pressure of his full bladder that dislodged the germ laden plug from the scarred, constricted urethra.
“Ahhhhhhhh!” the major screamed above the gun fire as the urine burned through his penis like a hot poker.
The din was deafening, Reno could hardly hear his own voice as he continued to scream above the melee. The act of micturition lasted a full two minutes, and by the time he was finished, he was screaming so hard that no sound issued from his mouth.
The Indians exploded from out of a shallow gorge to the direct front, a hundred yards distant. They were running and firing 16 shot 1860 Henry repeating rifles, thousands of them-while hundreds of warriors armed with Henrys and 13 round Winchester 1866 Yellowboy lever actions blasted through the wavering skirmish line and got in their rear. Shooting wildly, the Indians took a terrible toll.
“Bloody Knife! Where’s Custer!?” Reno screamed at the top of his lungs as he buttoned his trousers.
Bloody Knife saw the major’s lips moving but couldn’t make out what he said as the gunfire drowned his voice. Desperately, Bloody Knife reloaded his Winchester-a personal gift from the Yellow Hair. As he slid the cartridges into the loading gate of the big repeater, a bullet whizzed by his face like a hornet, causing him to distance himself from the hysterical major.
“I go ask aroun’ maybe find what’s up with Boy General!” shouted Bloody Knife back to Reno.
Major Reno saw that the valley was filling with the smoke of burnt black gun powder, and a growing grass fire. The smoke was beginning to obscure the cyclopean sized village. The village was one half of a mile wide, extending for miles, until it vanished beneath a dip in the land, and reappeared, stretching as far as he could see.
“Damn my soul! Where is he!?” expostulated the exasperated Army major.
The troopers, many whose hats had been shot off, were reforming into clumps, some were prying at swollen spent cartridge casings, trying to extract them from the chamber with anything they had at hand. The chambers of the carbines were heating to such a point that sometimes the rounds would ignite upon insertion.
Several thousand painted Sioux warriors appeared through the smoke of the burning grass, yelling and screaming, cranking off rounds from Henrys and Winchesters. They were firing from the hip as they ran. Swarthy figures, heavily muscled, they wore leather breeches and no shirts. Some wore large copper armlets around their bulging biceps.
Already there were soldiers and Sioux rolling in the grass, biting, pulling hair, grabbing at testicles. Teeth which some warriors had sharpened to points bit deeply into bearded necks, the warrior’s head shaking at the grip like a terrier. The soldier would gouge the warrior’s eyes with his thumbs, or try to fish hook his opponent’s mouth and rip the face from the corner of the mouth.
Reno was grabbed from behind. A brown, tattooed arm, thickly corded with iron muscle constricted his windpipe as another horribly painted beast of a man hurled into him from the front with a murderous knife held low, preparatory to the disemboweling thrust.
“Let go! You’re hurting me!” gasped the major, as he tried futilely to loosen the Samson-like arm, knotted with muscles that was crushing his larynx, “I can’t fucking breathe!’
Reno grabbed his .45 and rammed it into the side of the man’s head who was strangling him; he pulled the trigger and the resulting explosion ruptured his right ear drum.
“My ear! My God! I’ve ruptured my eardrum! I can’t hear! I can’t hear!” cried the officer.
Almost in the same motion he pulled back on the hammer spur again with his right thumb. He brought down the heavy revolver in an arcing motion and shot his knife wielding assailant in the side of the neck, just as the knife ripped through his belt leather. This left a horrible gash and threatened to unleash the hernia that resided uncomfortably close to the murderous laceration.
Two more pantherish figures armed with Winchesters leaped from the choking smoke and raced toward him.
“Help! Somebody!” shouted Reno as he reacted instinctively to the threats that were increasing as his command disintegrated.
The Indian with the neck wound staggered toward, and passed him, hand to neck, as the wound issued a high pressured spray of bloody mist between his taloned fingers.
The two advancing Indians raised their Winchesters, but Reno had the draw on the first one, a large Lakota Sioux, well over six feet in height. Reno fired from five feet and the brave reeled back, firing the Winchester high and to Reno’s right. Then the major looked into the eyes of the man aiming the rifle straight at his forehead.
The thick, black hair was tightly woven into two pony tail braids and secured in place with rawhide. The forehead sloped back and was tattooed with images of a hieroglyphical design; over these was ocher based war paint. The eyebrows were shaved off and the eyelashes plucked out. The nose was aquiline but not long and the painted lips were pulled back revealing teeth sharpened to
points. The warrior’s mouth was open to regain breath as his lithe, well-defined abdomen rose and fell from the exertion of running.
All of this Reno was aware of during the fraction of the moment in which it all occurred.
“Don’t do it!” commanded the Army officer.
The Lakota Sioux squeezed the trigger and Reno heard the hammer fall on an empty chamber as he continued the singular, fluid motion of pointing, and striking the hammer spur with the heel of his left hand while simultaneously squeezing the trigger with his right. The bullet rocketed from the 7 ½ inch barrel of the Colt and struck the brave in the sternum, smashing through it and knocking him back. He stepped back several times, holding one hand to his ruined sternum, and fell backward, holding onto the Winchester.
“To the wood line, men! All of you, now! Run for it!!!” screamed Reno.
Numerous troopers were horribly shot, and realized with cold horror that they were being left behind in the burning grass, to a fate worse than death…
Chapter Twelve ~ Reno Must Think Fast!
Custer watched through DeRudio’s binoculars from several miles away as the action unfolded at the south end of the Indian village. He turned the diopter focus rings until the imagery sharpened into stark clarity.
“Reno’s doing a good job of it, and has the situation well in hand. Now, let’s hop to it and hit ’em where they ain’t!!! Martini, you get back there to Benteen and tell him there’s a big village, and to link up with McDougal and bring the packs quick! Hold on a minute!”
Custer was agitated, stammering, and could not sit still in the saddle. Giovani Martini was not, to the Yellow Hair, a man who could think and rationalize, using common sense. He was more like one of his dogs that he could throw a bone to or teach simple tricks. But to expect the man to think was incomprehensible.
“Cooke, write it on a piece of paper for him, as the Wop cannot be trusted to convey the gravity of the situation!”
Metal Storm: Weird Custer A Novel Page 6