They Came To Cordura

by Swarthout, Glendon

  In darkness men put on nose-bags, but did not unsaddle. Fires flared. They saw that they were in a large upland hollow atop a range, or corderilla. About the fires men clustered shuddering with cold, their finger ends sore from freezing, thawing canteens, heating coffee and hard bread.

  Major Thorn and Private Hetherington built a small fire for themselves. Through the afternoon and night they had not exchanged a dozen words. As they ate and drank the enlisted man asked again if there might be a fight, and the officer replied he did not know. Hetherington said he had heard there would be no cavalry after this campaign, that when the Expedition returned to the States the regiments would be given trucks to ride or retrained as infantry to fight in the big war across the pond. Major Thorn said he, too, had heard the rumors.

  Just then a strangling sound groaned in the hollow. Major Thorn went forward along the line, avoiding the firelight. He did not wish to speak to anyone, and since this was a squadron of the 12th, of which he had been Executive Officer at Columbus for almost two years, he knew every officer, nearly every man. The strangling sound came from the fire next to the farthest. It was that of the Apache Scouts who had been all day the advance guard. Curious, he had watched them that morning in Gral. Trias. A detachment of twenty had just been brought down from Oklahoma for scout duty. They were short men, averaging five feet six, but proportioned like deer, small-boned, their arms and legs roped with sinew; long black hair overflowed their campaign hats and they wore multi-colored neckerchiefs with concho slides made of silver; uniforms fitted them unnaturally. First Sergeant Chicken, who had served seven enlistments, was their non-com, and some of the others were named Hell Yet-Suey, Charley Shipp, Skitty Joe Pitt, Chow Big, Monotolth, Big Sharley, Loco Jim, B—25 and John Cody. When not on duty they liked best to drink, to sell silverwork to the troops, and to have their pictures taken in ferocious postures. As scouts, they were unequalled. What they would do in unit action no one could say. Major Thorn stood off from their fire. The Apaches squatted on their hunkers in a small circle. One of them had been exhorting the others in the tongue, after which he had commenced a song, singing what seemed to be the verse while the others joined in the chorus. This was repeated again and again. The song had pattern but not rhythm, and it seemed without end. The Apaches sang rocking, throwing heads back, veins in necks bulging, yellow teeth glittering, eyes bloodshot, lower lids hanging down, their faces, almost black, contorted with effort, for the song was very guttural and put much strain on the throat and head. Major Thorn could smell their sweat. Other men moved past him towards the last fire, and as he trailed them towards their officers’ call the Apache song climaxed with a wild, high-chorded yell which goose-fleshed the skin and split across the mountain hollow and caused several horses, terrified, to bolt.

  He took position behind the officers ringing the last fire. He saw Lieutenant Treat of C Troop, Heffernan of D, Wickline of G, young Fowler of A, and Captain Paltz, who had succeeded him as Executive Officer after Columbus, when he had been assigned to his present duty. He hoped Paltz would soon have his oak leaves. An exec deserved field grade. He saw the Mexican officer, the guide. He heard Colonel Selah Rogers speaking.

  “Convinced they are there. Old Hell-Suey says they are, and that is why his Indians were singing—they sing to ask the Great Spirit to protect them in time of danger. Don’t ask me how they know, but they do. We’re going to have a fight, you can be sure of it, and, boys—the ground being right and God-in-His-goodness willing we are going to have a charge!” There were murmurs. “The Señor here says he visited this ranch as a boy. Out of this cup the road starts and the ground slopes down gradually—it is about two miles to the ranch and open country all the way, though some of it may be cultivated. Watch out for irrigation ditches. The road runs straight to the ranch, passing right, which is the front, along a wall. We’ll go out of here and wait for daylight, ride maybe a mile, then form. I want ‘em to have the sight of us for breakfast. Now gather round, I’ll draw it in the dirt.” The officers came closer, bent down. “Here is the ranch, this rock—here we are—we’ll ride a mile down the road in column of troops, then at my signal wheel left and right off the road and form about here. Boys, I am going to form this squadron in a single line!” Colonel Rogers’s voice went high and sharp, almost childish. “This may be the last chance cavalry ever has to charge, and we’re going to smite them hip and thigh! I want A, C, D, E, F in that order, left to right, G in reserve close up, with the Indians in between D and E—we don’t know how they will behave—and the machineguns up fast enough to support us when needed. G, you’ll be in platoon column of fours right behind us where I can use you. When we’re in line I’ll have the charge blown and each troop leader will be responsible for deployment and results. And, boys, when you hear that horn I want guidons up and a straight line—we are going to do the last one in style! Now tell your men they’re going to have a fight they’ll never forget. We’ll leave this place for clear ground in twenty minutes. As soon as it’s light enough to see that ranch we will start down the road until my signal. That’s all, and may God-in-His-goodness let us have this morning.”

  The ring of officers broke and Major Thorn, skirting the light, returned. Telling Hetherington to roll and tie their blankets and ready the horses, they would pull out in twenty minutes, he took notebook and pencil, and leaning close to the fire wrote hurriedly on one knee.

  He did not say he will be 64 this summer and what a fight may do for him.

  According to Field Manual, factors which must be considered by cavalry commander: 1—Degree of surprise attained. 2—Nature of the objective, whether stationary or moving, and whether consists of mounted or dismounted force. 3—Enemy formation, whether close or extended order. 4—Nature and effectiveness of hostile fire and of friendly supporting fire. 5— Terrain. 6—Visibility.

  As of 04.15 hours 16 April accurate information on none of these available. A charge called for notwithstanding. Further, well-known by now, Mexicans will stand as long as their line of retreat is not threatened. Frontal attack does not threaten flanks. Also this command is exhausted, man and beast. Drill regulations: the squadron is rarely deployed in a single line. No one on this campaign has ever seen a squadron in single line even on parade. Proper attack formation under above conditions would be Line of Troop Columns of Platoons, troops wheeling left and right to flank, center firing and drawing fire. No objections from officers at this hour. If Exec. Off. I would object for record.

  Would you?

  He heard platoons reassembling and men swearing softly, trying to suppress excitement as the attack plan was explained to them; the running of the packers as they rounded up the mules. Across the fire Hetherington held their horses.

  This is what happens when men are made to wait too long. No blood on my hands. There is on your mind.

  You want a charge. You want another Hetherington. I did not try to talk with anyone today, even Ticknor. Did not think necessary report Colonel Rogers.

  It is important horses have sufficient bone. Ideal animals should be tight-made, well-muscled and close behind. To stand the gaff of an extended…

  Orders were shouted to douse fires. The officer kicked shale over the embers and the two mounted. Within minutes troops formed by platoons and Provisional Squadron, 12th Cavalry, moved out of the hollow.

  They rode not more than half a mile. When the ground opened the column halted and men dismounted to stand at horses’ heads. No one slept. It was a wait for daylight. The Dog Star disappeared. Troopers shook uncontrollably with cold and some, for the first time, with fear. That a few urinated repeatedly drew no notice. There was little conversation. In the midst of men each man found himself alone. To a young private in F Troop who had never been in battle it occurred that many were waiting to see the place of their own wounding or dying. He told himself he would not be hurt, but burning in his vitals he felt the bullet that would be for him, and unseen, twisting in agony, he leaned against his horse. The sergeant
of D Troop sang silently over and over the words of a barracks song about an ostler’s wife who, bent over her tub, took on a soldier and his washing at the same time. The sergeant did not think of the song or of the fight to come. He thought of nothing. Remembering there might be irrigation ditches, a private in C Troop who had served twenty years in the army made up his mind to seek one of them if the Mex fire became too hot for comfort and put his horse out of action with a well-placed round through the shoulder. The Lieutenant of A Troop congratulated himself that he could lead his first command in a charge, but regretted that all sabres had been stored in Dublán because without them it would not be a classic charge. Trying to appear composed, he went up and down his troop annoying his men with orders to tighten cinches and unbutton holsters, which gave him away, and no one obeyed. One of his lips was split, Hetherington whispered to the officer. It pained. The Major cleaned and re-cleaned his glasses. For a quarter of an hour 334 men waited in high dark beside patient animals. To them it seemed they stood on an edge. From whatever was below, a morning wind was sent and fretted with their faces, then waned. At last the sky sickened. Suddenly a blade of grey like a knife circled and cut an horizon. It was as though the great black bird which had all the night nested the egg of the earth lifted its wings and let light under and then with gigantic thrust of pinion flew upwards and it was day.

  Chapter Four

  EYES strained. Three hundred men drew audible breath.

  They saw the earth’s immense and aged hand upturned to the sky as though in supplication. They stood high on the wrist. Down, down the palm of the hand they saw a line of road which ran to mottled flesh of cultivated ground. Far, far to the rear of the palm and close to a horny ridge of hills basing the fingers of the hand they saw small motes of buildings which must be the ranch called Ojos Azules.

  What they saw stunned them. The Lieutenant of Federales who had visited the ranch as a boy had forgotten. This was the meaning of the terrain. From where they stood the ranch was nearer four miles than two. If the attack plan were carried out they would have to ride a mile of open ground and form in line in plain sight of the enemy and charge on tired animals three more miles to reach objective. I t was too far for the animals. It was too late to change the attack plan. If they could see they were being seen. They must move. They were committed.

  Orders to mount yelled in the still air and Provisional Squadron lunged forward and on to the road at a fast trot in column of troops, four abreast. Hoofbeats struck up a steady rhythm and dust spurted. They rode, it seemed, endlessly. The sun came and the dark column was turned to khaki, and the plain to its tawny color. Clouds like brush streaks angled in the dawn sky, white against faint blue. Four abreast they rode, platoon after platoon, troop after troop, at a fast trot. The foot soldier is ever by himself, two-legged, alone. If he wishes he may flee. What saves cavalry and makes of it the most terrible and majestic of military arms is nothing more than force of formation. To each man’s stature is added the height and weight of his mount. He is six-legged, he stands twenty-four hands high, he weighs a thousand pounds. He is merged in mass and movement. The self he finds, frighteningly, before battle, is lost. He is a creature without choice. If he reins in he is run down. So they rode four abreast, selfless, given up to momentum, bone of bone and muscle of muscle of their thin beasts, rode nearly two miles until those at the rear of the column saw the small figure of Colonel Rogers hand-signal left and right and troops wheeled trampling off the road.

  The squadron gigged horses in single line as ordered. On the far left was A Troop, then C, then D and the Apache Scouts, then E, then F on the far right. Intervals of ten yards between troops were maintained according to the book. The line extended a quarter of a mile. Its center was the road, across which D and the Apache Scouts were strung. Behind, the center G Troop, in reserve, halted in column of fours by platoons on the road, followed by Machine-Gun Troop.

  An officer looked at his watch and noted that the time was 05.32 hours.

  Troop commanders gave orders to fasten hats by chin-straps and draw pistols. No fire was to be returned until they reached the ranch.

  Troop guidons, red and white swallow-tail banners, were unrolled and raised. They hung limp.

  An officer brought up his binoculars. He wished they had a mil scale. The ranch was still nearly two miles distant. He saw a line of cooking smoke lift. He saw many horses grazing on the slopes at the rear of the ranch and two men running. He did not study the intervening ground.

  On the road, behind G Troop, the private, Hetherington, leaned suddenly and gripped the pommel of Major Thorn’s saddle. His eyes were dilated, the whites shiny with fright.

  “Sir, we’re going to have an awful fight, I know we are, and if the Lord takes hold of me again I’ll have to—

  “You stay with me, damn you.” The officer had his chin-strap between his teeth. He spoke savagely. “If you so much as draw your pistol or make a move to leave me I’ll shoot you myself. That’s an order.”

  Before the center of his line Selah Rogers, sixty-three years of age, spurred his horse in one direction, then the other, staring down his flanks.

  Pistols drawn, hunched forward, troopers sat their horses with a new sun warm on their faces. The air, clear as glass on this high plain, magnified objects, bringing deceptively closer the spread of low buildings, red-brown and white, the guard of cottonwood trees clothed in beaten gold of winter, that was Ojos Azules. By the heat of the sun, clouds were washed into brassy, glaring blue. The line heard cries in the sky, and raising their faces men saw a tremendous swarm of crows, black and billowing, hundreds of them calling to each other anxiously. It was a scene of harsh and surpassing beauty.

  The officer who had looked at his watch felt his stomach knot. Only a man too old to make the last decision would keep them there as though on parade. They would pay for every second with casualties. He looked again at his watch. He could not believe it. The time was 05.30. Only a minute had passed. It is 05.30 hours, he noted, and this is the morning of 16th April 1916.

  The charge blatted.

  The khaki line, a quarter of a mile long, kicked forward into the gallop and within instants let out into the extended run, reins loosened. There was no yelling. Guidons stood out taut with speed. Manes waved. Nostrils distended. The rumps of horses bunched in perfect unison. Dirt clods flew. The surface of the plain was like hide stretched tight to cure and on it more than a thousand hoofs drummed and boomed. The line of five troops remained firm for more than a mile, a remarkable feat when the condition of the animals was considered, then, without a single shot from the ranch, slowed, wavered, and finally broke asunder. The actual charge by Provisional Squadron, 12th Cavalry, in single line at Ojos Azules, ended nearly a mile from objective.

  The mile of extended run took most of what the horses had to give. Their breathing became liquid, they sobbed humanly. Their gallop altered to a series of desperate, drunken lunges. A few horses foundered and fell, dead before they crashed to ground. Most lurched on blowing red spray.

  On the far left A Troop ran headlong into a field of withered standing corn. Dry stalks beat and crazed the animals. When the troops emerged on the other side thirteen out of forty men were afoot, running. One of them ran crying aloud, hand over an eye, sight in it destroyed by the slash of a cornstalk as he was thrown.

  The remainder of A was joined by C, which had been slowed by several acres of ploughed ground. Progress of the two troops was unimpeded until, within two hundred yards of the left, or east, end of the ranch, they found strung across their front a three-strand barbed-wire fence.

  Officers shouted for wire-cutters, which every fourth man carried in his saddlebags.

  Up to this time there had been no sign whatever of enemy presence.

  At this moment, evidently on signal, the entire ranch fairly erupted fire. The detonation of hundreds of rifles of many calibers ripped and tore the thin air of the plain like fabric.

  A large, a very large, Me
xican force had been waiting.

  On the left fire came in sheets from three points: the adobe outbuildings where lived the vaqueros of the ranch; from a log corral; and, most unexpectedly, from a stone fence along a hillside half a mile to the rear of the ranch.

  Troops A and C milled at the shock. While wirecutters were located they bunched up to pass through the cuttings, offering a massed target.

  Fire from the hill-side was ineffective, but that from the log corral took immediate toll.

  The first casualty, a soldier in A, slid from his saddle as though to rest.