Blue Ravens: Historical Novel

by Gerald Vizenor

  for dinner.

  Ten soldiers lived in a pyramid tent with a wooden floor and partial sidewalls. There were thousands of tents pitched in perfect rows, a city of canvas pyramids. Aloysius was assigned a bunk directly across from mine. John Razor was near the entrance, and the other natives from the reservation were in nearby tents. The bunks were metal and covered with a thin mattress. We lived and trained for weeks with strangers from other states.

  Springfield bolt-action rifles were issued to every new trench soldier, and rigorous combat training started on the third day. First we were instructed to fight with bayonets, throw hand grenades, and fire mortars. The start of our training was not much of a challenge, but later it became more intense. The officers had ordered extended exercises for a few days in preparation for a twenty-six mile march to the rifle range at Glassy Peak Mountain.

  Aloysius fired ten times and every round hit the center of the target. John Razor and Robert Fairbanks were singled out along with my brother as marksmen in the first round of shooters on the rifle range. There were about sixty targets at fifty yards, and the shooting lasted most of the day. My ears were ringing. We camped overnight in the area, and then continued training for three more days in the elaborate trenches.

  Senior officers had studied the strategies of trench combat in France and returned to construct a series of similar trenches at the camp. There were eight miles of trenches, eight to ten feet deep, and several grand bunkers that were more than thirty feet deep. We simulated combat with the enemy in the front line trenches, and then moved back to the reserve trenches. Grimly, we were ordered to practice “over the top” assaults through tangled barbed wire. Every soldier realized at the time that “over the top” of the trench in the face of the enemy was certain death, an absurd military suicide. The simulated maneuvers were executed at night, and with sudden feigned mustard gas attacks. The officers calculated that a real gas attack would have lingered over the trenches. Our sergeant shouted that mustard gas stinks just like the name, mustard and horseradish. The training with gas masks that night was terrifying but very effective. Several soldiers in various sections of the trenches were assigned to sound the alarm, beat a bell, or rattle a chain of cans at the first trace of poison gas.

  The French officers who were appointed to train us in trench combat denied that their country ever used gas, and condemned the evil Hun, Boche, or Germans. Gas warfare was worldwide, even the warhorses and dogs wore gas masks. The French officers were courteous, but with a firm hand instructed the soldiers how to survive in trench combat. The British officers were haughty, rather detached, and not effective combat instructors. The British were mocked every night when we returned to the reserve trenches. The arrogant poses and manners were so easy to imitate.

  A thunderstorm and heavy waves of rain flooded the trenches on the second night, and there was no escape. The water washed out ammunition niches and huge rocks on the trench walls. We waded for hours in the muck and carried out our military duties of map and compass reading. We were trained to direct artillery fire against the enemy. There in the rain, stuck in the mud, we read out loud from a wet War Department manual on how to use a compass. Suddenly, between bolts of lightning the officers ordered another feigned gas attack, a perfect time to test the readiness of soldiers. We adjusted our wet masks and continued the compass course.

  The lightning and thunder were spontaneous simulations of war. Place and direction in a war were more than a native gesture or sense of presence in a story. Yet, the azimuth of a compass and the map contours of the earth would never surpass the subtle turns of hand, head, eye, or lip in native stories.

  The Vanderbilt Road was under construction, and the train service was unreliable, so we walked the three miles with hundreds of other soldiers along the railroad track to Spartanburg. The streets were lined with soldiers, and every store was crowded with buyers no matter the merchandise. The hotels were overrun, of course, and the social center could not accommodate the number of soldiers in town over the weekend.

  Aloysius, Robert Fairbanks, John Razor, Louis Swan, and Patch Zhimaaganish, a native contingent from the reservation, joined me in a grocery store to buy food for an improvised picnic. The shelves were almost bare, but we managed to buy cheese, apples, hardboiled eggs, crackers, Ginger Ale, and Hershey’s Kisses.

  Rock Creek Park was crowded with soldiers, but we found a grassy area to eat our lunch. Naturally our stories started with the recent trench experiences, and then easily turned to relatives on the reservation.

  Aloysius drew blue ravens at the picnic, and with claws of Hershey’s Kisses. Louis Swan was fast asleep on the grass. John Razor told a story about a distant relative who had lost a leg in the American Civil War. Patch talked about his grandfather who lost a leg in the same war, and recounted his many duties as the assistant agent at the Ogema Station. He was nostalgic about the days we hawked papers at the station, and was forever grateful to my brother for the gift of blue ravens. Robert Fairbanks was quiet, lonesome, and mused on memories of his lover on the reservation. We teased him back to humor with erotic stories about our very distant lusty relatives, the women of France.

  Odysseus came to mind because the grocery store had sold every box of Post Toasties. The trader never traveled without several sealed boxes of his favorite cereal, an emergency gourmet meal with Eagle Brand Sweetened Condensed milk. He laughed and told the same story over every bowl of Post Toasties about the pious pastors who had objected to the original name of the cereal, Elijah’s Manna. The first time we ate cereal with him was during his recuperation at the White Earth Hospital. Later we shared his cereal at the livery stable. John Leecy made sure the hotel dining room served Post Toasties, and with fresh cream, when Odysseus arrived for the summer. Aloysius was convinced that the trader fed his horses Elijah’s Manna and later Post Toasties.

  Patch remembered the songs and humor of the trader, but he was never around for the stories in the livery stable because he worked every day at the Ogema Station. Patch leaned back against a sycamore tree and with the cicadas sang the “The Last Rose of Summer” in memory of the trader. The soldiers and citizens in the park were moved by the baritone voice and melancholy music.

  When true hearts lie withered,

  And fond ones are flown,

  Oh! Who would inhabit,

  This bleak world alone?

  The DuPre Book Store advertised in Gas Attack, the camp magazine, that the store was the largest in South Carolina. Yes, it was large and one of the few sanctuaries that summer weekend in Spartanburg. We were the only soldiers in the store, and it was the only place we actually met ordinary citizens. The owner was courteous, of course, but he studied our features, and some of the customers seemed to be wary of soldiers from Camp Wadsworth. Really, how would the owner and customers know that we were natives from the White Earth Reservation? Most of the natives in the area had been murdered or driven west to Indian Territory. Our skin was not dark enough to be segregated, and color was always a cruel measure of civilization. The bookstore, no doubt, was the southern heart of the townie civilization.

  ››› ‹‹‹

  I found a copy of The Odyssey by Homer, a translation by the novelist Samuel Butler in 1888. Odysseus gave a leather-bound copy to me with a special dedication that was too special and precious to take to war. I had decided to read at least one or two chapters, or books, each week in training and service in France.

  My literature of native memories and endurance in the war became The Odyssey, and the first chapter of my visionary journey started that very night before taps in the camp. Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by seas while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly.

  Samu
el Butler surmised that a woman created The Odyssey, and that the scenes were situated near the coast of Sicily. I was not aware of this at the time, and later the controversial theory made the adventure stories much more captivating. Odysseus would have been astounded that The Odyssey might have been the adventure stories of a woman.

  ››› ‹‹‹

  The Liberty Theater at the camp scheduled regular vaudeville shows, and other entertainment. We heard many versions of the stories about the woman who danced nude one night on stage. The theater was packed for several weeks, but there never was a repeat performance. Mostly the vaudeville shows, the dancers and singers, were not very talented.

  The YMCA, Jewish Welfare Board, and the Knights of Columbus provided activities and programs for the soldiers, such as letter writing, singing, and games. Patch was a great baritone singer and joined a choir of soldiers.

  Frank Moran, the prominent boxer and movie actor, was at the camp that summer to teach soldiers how to box. His “Mary Ann,” a powerful right-hand punch, was famous, but he lost a fight with Jack Johnson for the Heavyweight Championship of the World. Frank took an interest in my brother and me and taught us how to fight in the ring. He was a huge man, but he respected our size and energy, and he was fond of natives. He admired our courage that we were soldiers and not yet citizens. Aloysius was a natural, a great dancer in the boxing ring. Frank was certain that my brother could shadow dance his way to a prize.

  The Camp Wadsworth mascot pageant and parade was an incredible military spectacle. Soldiers presented and paraded their pets down the main street of the camp. The mascots were not trained for exhibitions, of course, so the parade was mostly devoted to a tug of war with donkeys, dogs, cats, raccoons, snakes, and many fancy chickens. Only a parrot seemed to have experience in parades. The first prize was for the homeliest or most unattractive mascot in the camp, the second prize was for the cleverest, the third for the most attractive, and the last prize for the most handsome mascot. An old donkey won the first prize, a six-toed cat the second, a Blue Hen third, and with irony the last prize went to a blotchy mongrel. The soldiers told fantastic animal stories about every creature in the parade. We actually felt at home that afternoon.

  Everyone in the camp had heard the steady story about the gullible soldier from New York City who had purchased a shiny opossum as a mascot. Naturally he placed his expensive gold watch in the pouch of the marsupial for safekeeping, and, as the story goes, the opossum ran away with a valuable timepiece. Aloysius laughed the first time he heard the story, and then he continued with the anecdote that the soldier had to buy his precious watch back from a pawnshop in Spartanburg.

  The Gas Attack was a weekly magazine published by soldiers at Camp Wadsworth. Former news reporters, artists, cartoonists, and fiction writers contributed to the magazine. “Dere Mable” was a series of fictional letters by the dimwit Private Bill to his dopey girlfriend Mable. And another regular series was “Private Ethelburt Jackbelly,” an absurd aristocrat who complained about every event and experience at the camp. Aloysius was asked to contribute art to the magazine, but he declined because he would never create caricatures or cartoons of soldiers.

  Private Charles Divine, the associate editor, invited me to write one of the letters for “Dere Mable,” but the stereotypes and steady stupidity of the letters were never my style of stories. The editor accused me of arrogance, no sense of esprit de corps, and would not consider any of my proposed stories for the magazine. My stories would have created a sense of presence not an absence, not mere caricature or mimicry. A few weeks at the camp was hardly enough time to worry about an invitation to write a fictional letter in the name of the simpleton Private Bill.

  At the time, the most recent issue of Gas Attack published “A Soldier’s Letter to His Sweetheart,” by Private Bill. “Dere Mable,” the letter started, “It takes a woman, Mable, to get things all balled up. I aint agoin to say much about this though cause the joke was mostly on you. I forgive you and I wont hold nothing against you. You can tell your father and mother right away sos they wont worry any more. I hope they wont blame you too much for makin all this trouble. An that it kasnt thrown off your fathers liver. Hes bad enough already.

  “So now when the wars over we can get married again just like we was goin to. Ill have more time then. I guess thats all I will have but we don’t need much money cause I dont care much for luxuries anyways. Simple, thats me all over, Mable….

  “Theyve put me on the special detail. The special detail, Mable, is a bunch of fellos what knows more than any one else in the camp. I sit on a hill all day with a little telephone in a lunch box and take messages. They got an awful system of sending messages in the artillery….

  “Its awful dangerous work cause where I sit aint more than half a mile from the shells. If they ever put a curve on one of them its good night Willie. I aint scared of course. I just mentioned it sos you wouldnt worry. Ill tell you more about the telephone next time. I may know more about it then myself.

  “Yours till they curve one, Bill.”

  › 11 ‹

  SACY-SUR-MARNE

  — — — — — — — 1918 — — — — — — —

  The Mount Vernon cut through the haze and slight crests of waves that early morning, a camouflaged troopship on course near the west coast of Brittany. The gray decks were wet and cold, and the sunrise was muted in thin clouds. My heart beat faster when noisy sea gulls circled the four giant stacks and landed on the bow of the ship.

  I could not sleep that night and was out early to catch the first sight of the country of our distant ancestors, the fur traders. The war provided the curious notion of a magical return and at the same time a discovery. Actually the native romance of the fur trade and agonies of war was a revelation of the heart not the irony of discovery.

  Nearby four sailors were at close watch on the bow for any sign of submarines. Soldiers were enticed by a cash reward to watch for submarines. One soldier mistook a huge log for a periscope and was teased with a single dollar purse. The bands and curves of white and black camouflage were not enough to disguise the ship, not even in the sea haze.

  The Germans had attacked hundreds of tankers and troopships, and some with elaborate camouflage. Enemy torpedoes sank the Lusitania, Gulflight, President Lincoln, Covington, Nebraskan, Aztec, and many, many others. The ship named Tippecanoe was torpedoed and sank a month earlier near the port of Brest in Brittany. A sailor boasted that since the war the Mount Vernon had safely sailed twelve times to Brest, France.

  Aloysius teased that my early morning watch had more to do with the fear of submarines than the sunrise. The tease may have been accurate, the open deck was more secure than the hold, and there was no better place to read the second book of The Odyssey than on deck at dawn as the massive steamship silently cruised closer to the war and the mystique of France. Now when the child of morning, rosy-fingered Dawn, appeared, Telemachus rose and dressed himself. He bound his sandals on to his comely feet, girded his sword about his shoulder, and left his room looking like an immortal god. He at once sent the criers round to call the people to assemble. … As the sail bellied out with the wind, the ship flew through the deep blue water, and the foam hissed against her bows as she sped onward…. Thus, then, the ship sped on her way through the watches of the night from dark till dawn.

  Later the sun burst out of the clouds, and then turned faint, again and again, bright and muted, as the Mount Vernon approached the rocky granite coastline of Brittany. Hundreds of soldiers rushed to the deck for the first sight of land. The pale seasick soldiers raised their arms and threw kisses ashore. One soldier shouted on deck that he would rather walk the frozen Bering Strait than cross the Atlantic Ocean. The captain steered the great ship slowly into the huge bay of Rade de Brest.

  Aloysius painted a huge blue raven on the navy dock as the ship was guided to the Penfeld River and Le Port Militaire. A trace of red stained one feather of the raven. Moored wooden boats with red sai
ls moved with the waves. Fishermen waved, sailors waved, soldiers waved, and war was a faraway scene.

  The soldiers shouldered their packs and rifles and marched down the gangway to France. More than three thousand soldiers had disembarked that morning and assembled in separate military units on the dock.

  Brest was once a seventeenth-century walled city. Le Château, an ancient castle, overlooked the bay. The navy dock was bordered with railroad tracks and massive warehouses. Four French soldiers, dressed in distinctive blue uniforms, had arrived to guard the ship. As our unit turned in columns and prepared to march toward the center of the city, ambulances and other military vehicles drove slowly down the dock and parked near the gangway of the ship.

  The Mount Vernon and other troopships delivered newly trained soldiers and then immediately returned with the casualties, the badly wounded in the war. Suddenly the wave of red sails and excitement of our arrival had ended, and every soldier on the dock stared in silence at the wounded. The medical vehicles were loaded with wounded soldiers, hundreds of desolate soldiers with heads, hands, and faces bound in bloody bandages. Many of the soldiers had lost arms and legs. Aloysius was moved to tears and turned away to draw blue ravens in waves of torment.

  This was not the war that we had imagined that summer in the livery stable with our uncle Augustus. This was a war provoked by an empire demon, more sinister than an ice monster, and the enemy of natural reason, and not by native visionaries, our sturdy ancestors, fur traders, or by the French. I could hear in the distance the great baritone voice of Patch Zhimaaganish. He sang the chorus of “When This Lousy War Is Over,” a song he had learned in the choir of privates at Camp Wadsworth, South Carolina.