by Tim Slessor
While being shown the control-room, I was told that in any given month the number of trains being handled across the UP system was a fair indication of the economic health of the nation: less than 24,000 trains a month and things were not looking good; more than 28,000 and things were lookin’ up. What a indicator...
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When driving across Nebraska or Wyoming, if you come to a set of flashing red lights and a lowered barrier you had best be patient, very patient. The train that comes rumbling and hooting along the track may be 1½ miles, or 150 wagons, long. It is in no hurry; at 30 m.p.h. it takes three minutes to pass. The UP runs some of the longest trains in the world; a few stretch out for 1¾ miles. They are usually carrying Wyoming coal, over 22,000 tons of the stuff at a time. There are two huge and grubby yellow diesel-electric units pulling at the front and two more pushing at the back. The ones at the back have no crew; they are radio-operated by the engineer in front. If the controller sitting 600 miles (or more) away in Omaha wants the train to stop, he had better instruct the engineer to start the process 3 miles back up the line. The UP alone (other railroad companies are also in the business) has at least 30 of these coal trains rolling somewhere across the US at any one time, on their way to power stations from Texas to Maine, from Georgia to Wisconsin. Most of them will be routed through that marshaling yard at North Platte.
The coal comes out of the Powder River Basin of Wyoming, from strip mines at Black Thunder, North Antelope, Belle Ayr and a dozen more. In terms of the heat it generates, this is not high-quality coal. But in these days of worries about atmospheric pollution, it has one great advantage: it has a very low sulfur content, so power stations love it. Some 30 years ago they had hardly heard of it. Yet today the US derives about 25% of its electric power from Wyoming coal, much of it brought out from the Powder River country by the Union Pacific. And incidentally, air-conditioning now means that the US needs more of that coal to generate more of that power in summer than in winter.
In the time it took you to read those three paragraphs, less than half of that coal train will have passed by.
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Lastly, it must surely be of some relevance to try to judge the moment when the US first began to become a world power. Some might look back to the very birth of the nation, to the time when the rebel colonists (sic), following on from their Declaration of Independence, broke their English chains. After all, one can argue that until that moment they were not, except in the sense of geography, even Americans. But from that time on, that is what they became, in every way. So everything since achieved by the United States, not least its march to being the world’s only superpower, begins from that moment of irritable birth. Other commentators might point to that spring day in Paris when, on Jefferson’s orders, the Americans bought “Louisiane” and thereby doubled the empire of their young nation. Or why not, much later, choose the nation’s decisive entry into the First World War? Again one can assert that, from that time on, no other nation could afford to disregard American muscle, industrial or military. The Japanese tried in 1941. But what about a moment in between? What about 12.47 p.m. on 10 May 1869? One remembers Asa Witney who, long before that moment at Promontory Point became a reality, had looked into the future and seen the time when, by God’s Good Grace - in close alliance with that of Union and Central Pacific Railroads - the United States would move to stand at the center of the world. Surely, from that moment, much follows in terms of the nation’s history. In the world’s, too.
Custer And Little Big Horn
My every thought was ambitious - not to be wealthy, not to be learned, but to be great. I desired to link my name with acts and men as in such a manner to be an act of honor to future generations.
George Armstrong Custer, aged 27, from his book Tenting on the Plains, written while campaigning in Kansas in 1867
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The brief report just in from somewhere far out in the West was not believable. Generals Sherman and Sheridan, both in Philadelphia for the nation’s celebration of its first Centennial, quickly dismissed it. Yes, no doubt, just as they had planned and hoped, there had been a major engagement. Excellent! And there would certainly have been some casualties, probably some killed. Inevitable... But nearly half a regiment knocked out, including the Colonel? Ridiculous. It couldn’t happen.
On the evening of 4 July 1876, a telegraph operator in Salt Lake City started to take down an unscheduled message coming in from the Montana gold-town of Helena nearly 400 miles to the north: five companies of the 7th Cavalry, together with their Colonel, had apparently been wiped out somewhere on the northern plains. The news had arrived in Helena a few hours earlier, via a civilian courier called Muggins Taylor. A week earlier, Taylor had been riding with a military column that had been ordered to converge with the 7th Cavalry. It had indeed converged, but with a scatter of dead horses and over 200 mutilated corpses. Then, a few miles further on, it found the rest of the 7th Cavalry in a huddle on a hilltop. Taylor was detached to ride 200 miles westward with a first brief dispatch. From Montana, via Salt Lake City, the news was wired 2,000 miles east. It was in response to this short report that those two generals had made their denials. As they pointed out, there was nothing official from the army’s regional headquarters in St. Paul. All the same, as they no doubt quietly admitted to each other, it was worrying.
The generals did not have to wait long. Late the next day, a lengthy dispatch started to come in (via St. Paul) from the frontier town of Bismarck, in Dakota Territory. General Terry, the man in the field and in overall charge of the campaign that summer, had sent two dispatches. A short and immediate one had gone west with Muggins Taylor; another much more detailed one went east in the river steamer attached to the campaign, 700 miles down the Missouri to Bismarck.
To a nation which that very week was celebrating its 100th anniversary with flags, bands, parades, speeches and fireworks, the news from out of the west was devastating. Judged by contemporary reports, the disaster seems to have been not far short of the Pearl Harbor or the 9/11 of its day. One of the nation’s most famous regiments, allegedly highly trained, dedicated to Indian fighting and led by one of the army’s brightest stars, had been chopped up by a bunch of far-away redskins. How? Why?
So what, indeed, had gone so catastrophically wrong for George Armstrong Custer? The short answer: just about everything. The slightly longer answer was that the Colonel, over-confident as always, took on too many Indians who then did the opposite of what he expected them to do. But, as one might guess, there is a yet longer answer. It has engaged hundreds of historians and military commentators ever since. (I am well aware that adding my own ten cents’ worth won’t make any difference. Nevertheless...)
The disaster had several connected causes. First, Custer was deeply apprehensive that, if the Indians learned of his approach, they would flee and scatter. Second, if he allowed them to get away, not only would there be no glory for him but, even worse, he would be blamed, and his military career (already under a cloud, as we will see) would be finished. So, third, he rushed forward with no idea of the terrain ahead and no idea of the numbers he was up against. Lastly and fundamentally, the “hostiles”, instead of scattering - as, on experience, he certainly had a right to expect - swarmed out to attack.
In that brief analysis, one hopes there is not much ground for dispute. But beyond that, when we get to a detailed examination of what went wrong, we are looking at one of the most argued incidents in all of American history. Perhaps that is not too surprising. After all, the sole survivor of Custer’s immediate command of 215 men was a horse. And live horses can tell no more of what they have seen than can dead men. True, there were plenty of Sioux and Cheyenne who, later, had tales to tell. But their accounts were not trusted. Some of them still aren’t. Elsewhere that day, 4 miles distant, there were some hilltop officers who, having survived, quickly realized that they might become scapegoats; so they l
ooked to their own reputations rather than to an objective analysis of the debacle. Consequently, within weeks, the narrative became muddied and, to some extent, has remained so ever since. In short, once past the basic analysis that there were too many Indians who behaved uncharacteristically, there is almost endless room for questions, debate and conjecture. Which is why, over the years, there have been more accounts (over 2,000 of them - books, pamphlets, papers and theses - totaling many millions of words) written about Custer than any other military leader in history except for Napoleon.
So, to tease out some answers and to understand the conjectures (as far as we can), it is essential to look at the “education” of the man in charge because, if ever the tactical thinking (or the paucity of it) of an officer was the product of his earlier experiences, namely those accumulated during the Civil War, it has to be in the thinking and personality of Custer. Further, if ever the fate of a regiment was to be finally centered on one man, the regiment was the 7th Cavalry and, again, the man was Custer. So, to understand him as a military character, we must see what made him, what molded the man. In short, in order to decide whether Custer, from his earliest military days, was always riding for that final fall, we must go back nearly 20 years. (Dare I say it, but too many books about Custer start their narratives after the Civil War; one might as well attempt an analysis of Winston Churchill’s wartime leadership by ignoring all of the man’s life before 1940.)
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George Armstrong Custer was the son of a blacksmith. Thus he was with horses from boyhood. From his early teens, he wanted to be a soldier, a horse-soldier. At just 18, in 1857, he surprised everyone (except himself?) by being accepted for West Point. He twice came close to being expelled for an accumulation of minor breaches of military order: “late at parade”, “unmilitary conduct”, “room grossly out of order”, “idle and talking” and many more. He obviously had a problem with discipline; it was a handicap that he never really overcame. Except in his horsemanship, he was a notably poor cadet, academically and militarily. After three years, he graduated last in his class of 34. Yet, less than a week after leaving West Point, this most unpromising young man was posted to a front-line regiment.
In fact, the regiment already had a full complement of officers, so Custer found himself without a proper role. Disappointed, but a willing volunteer for anything exciting, he became a “balloonist”; he quickly gained a reputation at being rather good at spying out enemy positions from on high. So he was sometimes winched up two or three times a day. Between times, he galloped hither and thither on various errands, or took part in quick sorties into Confederate territory. In short, he offered himself for any project that caught his interest, the closer to combat the better.
An incident in the early summer of 1862 was typical. A Union column was held up at a river over which an important bridge had been destroyed. While a cluster of senior officers huffed and puffed about what should be done, the young Custer pushed forward and spurred his horse into the water, to see if the river was fordable. With the water up to his saddle, he could easily have been picked off by an enemy sniper. But he made it to the far bank, and back. The story goes that the general in charge was so impressed that the next day he gave Custer the honor of leading the first cavalry company across the river. Once on the other side, he and his detachment put some local Confederates to rout. It was a first instance of something that would, in time, be called “Custer’s Luck”.
Over the next few months, he began to gain a reputation that would be with him for the rest of his life: for limitless energy and impetuous courage. He was, after all, one of nature’s cavalrymen and, as such, he was always fretting for action. Armed with pistols and sabers, cavalrymen were for speed, for smashing through the enemy, for creating chaos, for what today, in an age of Humvees and Bradleys, is called “shock and awe”. To a young cavalier like Custer, courage and dash were far more important than forethought; after all, too much thinking might lead to too much caution.
In short, he was deeply impatient. His chance came at a place called Aldie. Two senior officers were out of the battle early; one was killed leading a charge and the other had his horse shot from under him. Custer rushed forward to take command, by example rather than by rank. Against the odds, he and the men following him swept through the enemy’s lines. Casualties were high; they usually were. But Custer had helped turn the battle. The General commanding the Cavalry Corps was deeply impressed. Indeed, so keen was he to make Custer’s vigor and leadership an example throughout his rather ill-disciplined corps that, ten days later, this young lieutenant was surprised beyond even his ambitious dreams.
Returning from some minor assignment, he was handed an envelope: it was addressed to Brigadier General George A. Custer. Even he did not believe it; it must be a joke. But the contents were genuine. Suddenly, less than two years out of West Point, he had been chosen to leap over a whole host of more senior officers. He was aged 23; it was unprecedented. Indeed, the records apparently show that he was the youngest American officer ever to have reached that rank, before or since. Custer’s Luck?
The contents of that envelope told General Custer that he was to take command of four regiments of Cavalry; they were stationed over 40 miles away. He immediately made the night ride. Within a day or two of his arrival, he was demanding something that he detected to be a missing ingredient in his command: discipline. He had become a convert - where others were concerned. Of course, among a few of his older officers (including a Major Reno, of whom more later), there was whispering about someone whom they saw as an over-rewarded and over-confident young pup. (Damn it, the man had even designed his own uniform: all velvet, gold braid, a red scarf, and a big floppy hat: “like a circus rider gone mad”, wrote a fellow officer.) Nevertheless, no one could accuse the Boy General, as he was becoming known, of not leading from the front. Standing in his stirrups, he would draw his saber and calmly walk his horse to the front where everyone could see him. Then he would turn and call for the bugler to sound the charge. Now, with a shout and a whoop, he would start forward at a trot, with his men in a broad echelon reaching away on either side. Nearing the enemy, the pace would quicken through a canter to a full gallop; then, a saber-slashing mayhem. One could get oneself killed that way. But not Custer.
At Culpepper, he was slightly wounded in the thigh by a piece of shrapnel, and his horse was shot from under him. But, as he had done before, and as he would do again, he had exactly judged both the place and the moment to attack. During the next two years, it is said that at least six more horses were shot from under him. Yet, in leading at least a dozen full-tilt charges and many more hot-blooded skirmishes, he was wounded just that once. Custer’s Luck? Perhaps. But there was more to the man than just good fortune. A senior officer summed him up: “He might well not conduct a siege, but for sudden dash it’s Custer against the world.”
Early in 1864, Custer persuaded his commanding general to give him three weeks’ furlough to return to his hometown, Monroe in Michigan. He planned to marry his sweetheart, Elizabeth Bacon. Earlier her father, a judge and one of the town’s prominent citizens, had disapproved of his daughter’s suitor; social lines in Monroe were rigid and a blacksmith’s son did not “measure”. But now that the young man was a Brigadier General, Elizabeth’s father gave his willing consent. The wedding was a grand affair with most of the town cheering the young couple on their way. After a brief honeymoon in New York, they went south to Washington. Then Custer rode out to rejoin his command.
By all accounts, once in the saddle, he was not only careless of his own life, but also that of his men. But then most generals of those times were. Perhaps, to hold their rank, they had to be. In the Civil War, the toll of casualties (on both sides) was always high; it seems to have been almost a point of pride with some officers, including Custer, that it should be. After all, heavy casualties demonstrated what a hard-won battle it had been. He wrote to Elizabeth (mor
e usually known as Libbie) more than once about the exultation of a full-blooded attack. “Oh, could you but have seen some of the glorious charges that were made... while thinking of them, I cannot but exclaim Glorious War!”
After the battle at Winchester, for “gallant and meritorious service” he was promoted to Major General; he was 25 and the most widely recognized young officer in the Union Army. In any war, what we now call “the media” prefer their heroes to be young, successful, somewhat eccentric, and then either disarmingly modest or charismatically flamboyant. With long blond locks, a self-designed uniform with braid from wrist to elbow, a big hat, and a pistol tucked into a boot top, the Boy General looked the part. And he knew it.
When at last the war was over, he led his men into Washington to join what today would be called the victory parade. Coming down Pennsylvania Avenue, some way short of the reviewing stand, his high-stepping horse became disturbed by the shouts of acclaim (that, at least, was his story) so that, with a tattoo of prancing hooves, it carried him alone and theatrically past President Johnson and Generals Grant and Sherman, to further amused cheers from the thousands of bystanders. Both his friends and his skeptics, when they heard, would surely have thought it typical of the man. The former presumably just smiled indulgently, the latter probably rolled their eyes heavenwards and muttered something about “grandstanding again”.
For General Custer, it had indeed been a Glorious War. But more importantly, in terms of the years that followed, he had been indelibly shaped by the experiences gained and the promotion won. Above all, he had become a personification of the chancy dictum that success comes to those who take risks, to those who dare. Or, to coin a cliché (with which he would surely have agreed), one should never look too hard before one leaps lest one hesitates and, perhaps, never leaps at all.