They Came To Cordura (22 page)

“Thanks for the help this afternoon.”

“No thanks. It was training. I’ve regretted it ever since.”

“Why?”

Fowler stared into the fire. While they had been pinned down in the box canyon he had peeled his nose white, and now, not only was his entire face scorched with new burn, even through the sparse hairs of his moustache, but his nose had blistered from glare into a large watery swelling, so that it resembled a vegetable, a radish.

“Hearing Trubee put it that way made everything clear to me. Whatever you’ve done has been out of self-interest—detaching us from regiment, this trip to base, giving up the horses to a force we could have whipped. We’ve only been a means of repairing the damage to your pride. You couldn’t be one yourself, but you can make as many heroes as you want. You’ll never be allowed to command again or see action, so the only way you can distinguish yourself is by turning them out wholesale. You’re not trying to save men now. You’re trying to keep your own creations. And in the end we’ll be sacrificed to you.”

“The two of us had better alternate guard tonight,” Thorn said.

The Lieutenant forced himself to his feet, swaying with weariness. “An officer’s duty is to protect his kind,” he said, “but only to a point. Covering up for cowardice is beyond it. As far as I’m concerned, Major, you are on your own. I think we are lost. We can’t survive another day of this. If we do get to base and Trubee talks among the men about your conduct at Columbus, you are done for. Are you still determined to turn in a citation for me?”

Thorn said nothing.

“Then that settles it.” He unstrapped the holster and pistol from his leg, took off his ammunition belt, and put them on the ground. “There’s my gun. This is the last thing I’ll do for you. I don’t want my name connected with yours in any way. If something should happen to you it would be best for all of us, you included. You need us, we don’t need you. If anything happens I won’t participate, but I won’t lift a finger to prevent it.”

Past anger or stunning, the senior officer did not notice the Lieutenant leave. To that small part of his mind still capable of reflection it seemed that Fowler’s act, contrary to all regulations written and unwritten though it might be, callous and inhumane, might also be the most mature of his entire life. Duty aside, its very inhumanity could mean he had become a man.

With slow movement he pulled the gun and belt to his side. At the other fire Fowler had already rolled into his blankets. Only Chawk sat cross-legged.

It occurred to him that he could not sleep with the sergeant awake. And then that there was no one else to stand guard. It was a problem he would have to think about.

He could not see Chawk well. He inspected his glasses. Too tired to pull out his shirttail he rubbed the lenses on his sleeve. Much more of the tape at the bow had loosened and when he had cut it off there was only a little left to pinch together. He had no more tape. If the rest loosened he would be unable to wear the glasses. That would be another problem.

He got out his notebook and pencil stub and tried to write, taking care to form each letter precisely.

Notes for Cavalry Journal

In the field an emergency litter for sick or wounded may be constructed of two pine branches, using for webbing
...

The roots of the
chamiso. . . .

Chawk was still up.

Under extreme conditions native corn, when crushed to a powder, may be mixed with water to provide
.

He had another citation to write, the last one. He leafed the pages and re-read some notes.

John (N.M.I.) Chawk, 323173, Sergeant, D Troop, 12th Cavalry, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity at risk of life, above and beyond the call of duty, in action involving actual conflict. On 16 April, 1916, at 05.45 hours, during an attack by Provisional Squadron, 12th Cavalry, upon Villista forces holding a ranch called
Ojos Azules
, near
Cusihuiriachic
,
Mexico
, D Troop, in the center of the line of charge, took heavy enemy fire, but managed to reach dismounted and take cover behind the outbuildings. Here it faced the chief enemy strong-point, the rooftop of the
casa grande,
or main house, on which were stationed more than 30 riflemen. To take this position would require a rush on foot, resulting in numerous casualties to D Troop. Before a charge could be ordered, Sergeant Chawk upon his own decision left the outbuildings and ran more than 50 yards across the
terreno,
or yard, of the ranch under a hail of close-range fire which clipped earth at his feet. Mounting a flight of steps which led to the roof-top he was struck on the head by a rifle-butt wielded by a Mexican. Recovering, he staggered upward, shot the Mexican with his pistol and . . .

A pebble clicked. On stocking feet the sergeant approached, monstrous as the firelight measured him. Except for the bottle-scar, turned a livid red by the sun, and his burnt nose, his face sprouted beard, his mouth entirely covered. As he stopped across by the fire, Thorn eased his 45 free and laid it on his thigh.

“You wrote me up for the Medal yet?”

“Why?”

“Time we chinned some, Major.” The giant made a move to come around the fire.

“Where we are, Sergeant.” Chawk saw the glint of the weapon, shrugged. “You plan to turn us in for gangin’ that bitch, me an Trubee?”

“I don’t know.”

The non-com reached down, snapped a bit of
chamiso
root, put it in his beard and chewed thoughtfully. “Other night you said we’d get in the papers about the Medal.”

“You may.”

“You mean pitchers of us?”

“Probably.”

“Can’t have that, Major. You’ve druv me hard this trip already, but I won’t have that. Mebbe you don’t know, but some men goes into service to hide out. A horse don’t ask no questions.”

“What are you driving at?”

Chawk spat out the root. “You write me up an’ they see it in the papers up to Albakurkey an’ I’ll have a rope around my neck, not no medal.”

“What for?”

“Well, a Finn an’ me workin’ section had a fracas. There was a shovel handy. Ever see a busted melon? I took out south and joined up. The short of it is, I’m wanted. A year back I was over to Tucson an’ they still had my name up in the post office. So it’s yer Medal or my hide, Major. But you fergit about it an’ that Finn an’ we’ll get along jake. You willin’?”

Thorn looked long at him. “I’m sorry, Chawk. There is nothing I can do.”

“You mean you’ll see me strung up?”

“No. I mean it’s my duty to write your citation.” The non-com glanced at the fire. As though to get more root to chew, he bent again. But there was something different in his movement.

It registered in Thorn just in time to send him upward and to one side in a desperate leap as half the fire, flaming roots and ashes, was hurled where he had been.

Heart pounding, he peered into what light was left. The giant shook the hand he had scorched and shifted weight, uncertain whether or not to try a rush.

“You’re covered, Chawk.”

“You gutless bastard. This ain’t Columbus, no ditch you can dump in now. You’d piss before you’d shoot.”

“Try me,” Thorn said. He sought frantically with his boot until it touched Fowler’s gun and belt.

After a minute or two the non-com made his choice, took a step backward.

“Nothin’ to lose, Thorn. I got to kill you.”

He backed off, turned and strode to the other fire. Thorn watched him every step of the way, only then let his breath go. Holstering his pistol, he built up the fire quickly, transferred the ammunition from Fowler’s belt to his own and strapped the second weapon to his left leg. Having found his pencil and notebook he paced back and forth, studying his position. The party’s two fires were placed on a small plateau between two arroyos. Nearer thirty than twenty yards separated them. The plateau was close to thirty yards wide. The night was windless. He could hear someone, Trubee perhaps, snore. The ground was granite and pebbles. He could not be rushed without hearing so long as he stayed alert. But the encounter had rubbered his legs.

. . .killed two others. Then, hurling the pistol and himself into the center of the enemy, he threw two Villistas bodily from the roof and strangled a third. His single-handed assault so demoralized the enemy that they leaped from the roof to be cut down by F Troop, passing through the now unbarred gate, or fled rearward over the roof. Thus, despite the injury to his head which produced partial concussion of the brain, Sergeant Chawk’s personal attack caused the complete destruction of the central Villista strong point, and the
casa grande
itself was occupied by Provisional Squadron. Signed and sworn to.

He had to count on his fingers. It seemed years since they had ridden away from the burial service. It had been four days. Where were the regiments now? Was Villa caught? Had they fought other engagements? How many men had distinguished themselves?

20 April, 1916, Thomas Thorn, Major, Cavalry, Awards Officer, Punitive Expedition, U.S. Army.

He signed, folded and buttoned it away in the oilskin envelope, looked towards the other fire and staggered up with pistol out. Chawk was gone.

Whirling, he tried to face in four directions at once. Then he steadied. The sergeant might have gone into darkness to relieve himself. Turning slowly, he listened. So close were the stars over the basin and perceptible their glitter that they seemed to crackle. It was the fire. His eyes watered.

A boulder of white edged over the south rim of the plateau. As soon as he knew he was seen, Chawk lumbered over the rim and strode forward.

“Far enough,” Thorn warned.

“Two-gun Thorn,” the non-com said. “Only way is to wear you down, I guess. Nobody to take guard fer you. Ain’t you sleepy, though? We’ll see who lasts the longest.”

Reaching behind his head he ripped off one of the hanging bandage ends.

“Don’t close yer eyes, you son-a-bitch. Don’t even blink.”

He went to the far fire.

Thorn let himself down. He looked at his watch, 21.25 hours, 9.25. It would be seven hours till dawn. Up the plateau Chawk threw more fuel on his fire. Don’t even blink. Thorn took off his glasses, rubbed the sore bridge of his nose. Not to close his eyes for seven hours. He must think of things to do. Too far from him to reach were his saddlebag, blankets and the canteens. He did not feel able to crawl to them. With a long
chamiso
root he fished for them, and pulled them to him one at a time. Next he cleaned both automatics, emptying magazines of cartridges and cleaning each one individually, which was unnecessary. This passed half an hour. Chawk sat without moving. Then the officer took inventory of the equipment and supplies and of himself and entered it in his notebook.

20 April, 22.04 hours.

Total 56 rounds amm., .45 cal.

10 tablets, quinine.

1
full canteen, 1 quarter full, 1 empty.

Was my father ever in similar situation?

Both feet blistered. Cannot march much more.

If am jumped without chance to fire will do all possible, but not risk injury to his head.

If do not reach base tomorrow doubtful detail will reach with present personnel.

Pvt. Hetherington down with typhoid last night. Have administered 5 tabs. quinine.

Fowler, Chawk, Trubee request no M. of H. Refused.

Lt. Fowler relieved of command.

5 citations written. Am placing in envelope in right breast pocket.

He yawned, and though the yawn stretched the burnt skin of his face painfully, he could not smother it, had to endure a series of them. His eyelids lowered, to fly open at a moan from Hetherington. He helped himself to his feet. Chawk had heard it. He stood. The officer went to the youth and found him feverish again. He got the canteen and gave him two more tablets, then made his way to where the woman slept, and bringing back the bottle sat beside the private so that he could see Chawk through the firelight and began to apply the liquor. Hetherington’s temperature seemed to rise by the minute. Thorn forced another tablet into his mouth and more water. His hands would not co-ordinate. Much of the tequila ran through his fingers. When he tipped over the bottle with an elbow and lost some of it, he rose with a groan of despair. Chawk still stood. Heedless, Thorn went again to the Geary woman, bent and took her by the shoulder until she stirred, waked. What he said came terribly hard.

“I need help. Will you, please?”

She walked after him to the litter. When she touched the private’s forehead a murmur was drawn from her, almost of pity, and cradling his head on her lap she soothed his face and hands and throat with the tequila far more gently than had the officer. Hetherington suffered intensely. His tongue licked at his lips, his eyes rolled back. “‘And while the children of Israel were in the wilderness,’” he cried out, “‘they found a man that gathered sticks upon the Sabbath day.... And they put him in ward, because it was not declared what should be done to him. And the Lord said unto Moses, the man shall surely be put to death: all the congregation shall stone him with stones without the camp. And all the congregation brought him without the camp, and stoned him with stones, and he died; as the Lord commanded Moses.’”

Thorn looked towards Chawk. The man sat before his fire. Adelaide Geary’s hands moved without pause. In the struggle with the two soldiers that afternoon the bun of dark hair at her neck had come uncoiled and now hung to her waist. Fire brightened the grey streaking the top of her head. Bent over Hetherington, one tanned hand smoothing his dampened sandy hair, the other touching the scratches she had made on his cheeks, the squint-lines at her eyes were erased, for the first time she appeared womanly. ‘How fine for her,’ Thorn thought, ‘with bird and bottle gone, to have a boy to nurse.’ Hetherington’s fever raged for more than an hour before they saw the familiar signs of crisis, the limbs rigid, the ghastly outpouring of sweat, followed by relaxation and sleep as deep as death. Adelaide Geary sighed. She was too worn to move the soldier’s head from her lap. Upon her face the air of night was cool. Near her the officer sat apparently asleep. When she spoke to him his broad shoulders slacked and his head turned sharply.