Very quickly, the newly formed battery of mountain artillery became a unit with skills and pride in the accomplishment. As a group, having been chosen for length of leg, they were taller than other platoons. On occasions when they marched as a unit, without the gun mules, their demeanor showed their pride. Swinging at a fast march through the streets of Fort Sill, they had a tendency to strut just a trifle. They developed an esprit de corps and communication with expressions based on their work with the mules, the guns, and the packing.
In an emergency, every packer was expected to be able to do the job of any other. This, whether that happened to be on one of the gun mules or a cargo mule carrying regular pack loads. There was a language of communication all its own when packs were being loaded. Even without the experience, it is easy to see that a pack mule’s cargo must be balanced, to keep the packsaddle from slipping to one side. It must be loaded by the packers at approximately the same instant, to avoid slipping. Visualize, for a moment, canvas-wrapped bales of hay, for instance, weighing eighty pounds, one on each side of the pack animal, to be lifted into place simultaneously. Some communication was necessary. One, two, three, hup! As the two packers lifted the loads to sling them with a tight rope across the packsaddle. Then followed the intricate application of the famous “diamond hitch,” handed down through antiquity to form the final tightening of the pack load. In this situation, the diamond hitch became a two-man job. One packer was responsible for drawing all of the slack out of the hitch and holding it for the few seconds required to yank the last turn tight
and fasten it. This required communication. Since the packers, on opposite sides of a tall mule, could not see each other, there must be vocal commands, in sequence, alternating from one packer to the other. Ready … Take slack … Hit it. These, in a rhythmic cadence, would be meaningless to the men of other units. It became the exclusive code of the packers.
On pass in the nearby town of Lawton, Oklahoma, there was sometimes some friction between various units from Fort Sill. Usually these encounters were good-natured. But, with a great deal of pride involved, there was a tendency of the pack units to consider themselves the elite. Add to this, perhaps, a bit of jealousy or indignation over the packers’ superior attitude. A few drinks in one or more of Lawton’s hangouts, and friendly jibes might become more serious. Sometimes even physical.
Trained or training to fight, but not yet tested, young men have a natural tendency to search for opportunity without realizing it. It is difficult to be the first to back down from a confrontation. There is also the factor of loyalty and comradeship. A man in trouble has the right to accept support and help from his peers.
It was in this way that a custom arose in the darker regions of Lawton on a Saturday night. A mule packer in trouble might call for help from any other mule packer by initiating the packing sequence of communication. A long, loud call for help, “Take slack!” would be answered by any packer within earshot as they responded physically, rather than verbally. Hit it! Analogous to the circus roustabout’s request for assistance, “Hey, rube,” this sequence of events sometimes resulted in bloodied noses, blackened eyes, and broken teeth. The Military Police were usually active enough to forestall much serious injury, and the net result was largely an increase in pride and belonging.
John Buffalo usually avoided the areas where drinking was in progress. He had had enough experience with “John Barleycorn” to realize a potential weakness in himself. There was a serious theory that those of Indian blood react differently to alcohol than those of other races. John had seen this in evidence on the reservation at his last visit there. Some of the old men, dejected and dispirited over the changes happening to their people, were drinking heavily and rapidly sliding into oblivion. He saw the possibility that it could happen to him, and took pains to avoid it.
Even so, in early autumn he found himself one Saturday night with a couple of other noncoms from the pack howitzer units, walking the streets of Lawton for a change from the rigors of training. The battery had been in the field on a “firing problem,” involving a simulation of combat. The officers had been impressed at the speed with which the pack howitzers were able to set up in minutes and deliver a barrage of aimed fire. The targets were three miles away and out of sight behind a range of low hills. It was a good feeling, one of accomplishment, and morale was high. This, perhaps, contributed to a general cockiness on the part of the mule packers.
Add to such a mix a few beers, a few local girls of easy companionship, and a few gunners from the horse-drawn batteries. It was an explosive situation.
The three strolled along in the warm summer evening, listening to the laughter and piano music and loud voices from some of the smoky hangouts along the street. John was wondering … . In case the others wanted to stop in one of the bars, should he have a beer or two, or be content with sarsaparillas? He was still pondering that weighty problem when Corporal Vandever stopped short.
“What is it?” asked Staff Sergeant Bonner.
“Listen … I thought—”
Then the same sound, a long, wailing cry, “Ta-ake slack!”
Vandever was already running toward an open doorway where there were yells and the sounds of a scuffle. A woman screamed. The others followed him.
Inside, the problem was apparent. Two soldiers stood against the bar, surrounded by a half dozen others who were crowding toward them, but cautiously. One of the besieged men held a stout stick that appeared to be part of a broken chair. The bartender held a heavy policeman’s nightstick and seemed reluctant to use it. Possibly, undecided on whom to use it.
“Six of ’em,” observed Sergeant Bonner. “Well, let’s go!”
He stepped forward, speaking as he did so. “Okay, break it up!”
“Like hell!” said one of the more inebriated of the crowd.
He launched a long swing at the sergeant, and Bonner took a glancing blow to the ear. His reaction was quick, a one-two to belly and nose. There was a yell of triumph from the beleaguered pair at the bar, and pandemonium broke out. A crash of broken glass; fists flying; a scream, curses, and a rain of fisticuffs.
John was caught almost off guard as a burly man rushed at him, starting a looping haymaker swing as he did so. He ducked, grabbed the swinging arm, and used the man’s own momentum to propel the soldier into the wall, where he dropped limply. John turned to meet another incoming swing, tried to dodge, and succeeded only partially. A fist caught him above the ear, and the room whirled. He clinched with the attacker, remembering Jess Willard’s advice: Wrassle around till your head clears.
There were whistles blowing now, and the sound of running feet on the wooden floor. A trio of Military Police burst into the room, and the crowds began to scatter. Out the door, the windows, through a narrow back exit beside the bar … The fracas was over almost before it began.
“Who started it?” one of the MPs asked the bartender.
“I dunno,” said the barman cautiously. “These three tried to break it up.”
He indicated the three noncoms.
A tough-looking girl was helping a dazed soldier to his feet beside the bar. A lanky packer from their own battery, one whose back had been crowded against the bar, now grinned sheepishly, if somewhat drunkenly.
“Thanks, Sarge! We knew you’d come.”
“Okay,” said Bonner. “Let’s go home. You’re s‘posed to be fightin’ the Kaiser, not each other!”
Training and practice continued. There began to be rumors about shipping out, mingled with rumors that the war was coming to an end. Corporal Vandever gleefully told John of a prank that a couple of privates in his platoon had carried out. They had deliberately started a completely ridiculous rumor that the battery was to be sent to defend Alaska, and told it in strictest confidence.
Within a matter of hours, the rumor was back, with more details. The battery was to go by train to San Diego, where they would board ship to Alaska.
“I know damn’ well it’s true,” insisted one packer. “I got it from a fella in A-battery who has a cousin in Quartermaster. They’re fixin’ to issue cold-weather gear. But, he was told to say nothin’, and to deny it if he’s asked.”
“Hell,” said Vandever with a chuckle, “by that time, I was ready to believe it myself!”
It was only a few days later that John met a familiar-looking figure on the street at the fort. An officer, with insignia of a major … No, a lieutenant colonel, he saw as they came closer. Something familiar in the way the man walked. Straight as a ramrod; not tall, but lean and wiry.
John saluted as they met, and saw the recognition in the man’s eyes. At about the same time, he realized—
“Buffalo? John Buffalo?”
“Captain … Excuse me, sir. Colonel McCoy?”
“Yes … What are you doing here, John?”
“Transferred here, sir. From the cavalry. Fort Riley.”
“Yes,” McCoy chuckled. “I got into the same changeover.”
“You’re in artillery, too?”
“Yes. French 75s. But, I didn’t know you were in the Army, John.”
“Yes, sir. When the Rough Riders fell through, I had to do something.”
“And you’re a sergeant! Good. But it looks like the war’s about over now. What will you do then?
“Hadn’t thought about it, sir. Will you stay in?”
“Probably not. I’m married, now. We’ll probably go back to the ranch. Fella running it … Well, of course! You know George Shakespear.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, good to see you, Buffalo. If you’re up Wyoming way, stop by!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mebbe by that time, we can forget the ‘sir.’” McCoy grinned.
Only a few weeks later, the war was over. It would take a while to decommission the combat units, but it was time to consider moving on. John thought long and hard about a military career. He could do it, but would probably have to take a reduction in grade. He had always felt unsuited to the strict, time-oriented pace of the Army, anyway. It would be best to return to the more loosely organized schedule of a civilian. But what to do, there? He wasn’t sure. Well, he could decide, later. When it’s time …
At last, the Great War, the war to end wars, was over. Worldwide, there had been millions of fatalities. Ten million, he had heard.
Yet that paled to insignificance compared to the death rate from the terrible influenza epidemic. Worldwide, more than twenty million deaths … He realized now that he was fortunate to have fallen ill among such caring people as Father O’Reilly and Nurse Ruth Jackson.
He wondered how Ruth might be doing. Maybe he’d go and see. But first he’d have to muster out, and that process was moving slowly.