The Misfits worked just as hard going home as they did taking the field. Just because they’d kicked Yuyutsu’s butt was no reason to get careless. Besides, they had wounded to bring along. Samson with an arrow hole though his shoulder, Fergie with a broke leg, and Norroso with his mouth tied shut. Stryker with a stitched-up shoulder. But Fergie was the only one that couldn’t move under his own power.
Three days after Yuyutsu’s band passed the Misfits on its way up the canyon toward their rancheria, Stryker’s band approached Fort Bliss from the west. They got by the sentry with the proper password and scattered to their tents in the A Squad bivouac area. They’d be up at bugle call and off to the rifle range to sharpen their skills with Winchester ’66 carbines.
“By your leave, sir.”
“What is it, Top?”
“A Squad’s ready for morning review, sir.”
“Very well. One moment.” Stryker tugged his high-collared, brass-buttoned uniform into proper position, then donned his regulation kepi. He buckled on his gunbelt with its .44 Remington Army secure in a flapped holster, and stepped from his tent into the blinding brilliance of a sun that beat down through a cloudless sky.
Samson snapped to attention with only a slight grimace to indicate the pain caused by the Apache arrow he’d taken four days before. He saluted. “With your permission, sir.”
“Lead on, Top.”
Samson executed a precise about face. “If you’d be so good as to follow me, sir.” Without waiting for Stryker to say anything, Samson set out for the parade ground at a smart pace. Stryker followed.
When Stryker and Samson rounded the corner and entered the parade ground, the regimental band, General Hunter’s own, broke out in “When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again.”
The Misfits stood at attention, every button in place, every bit of uniform properly dusted and buffed. They looked elite. The very best the U.S. Army had to offer.
Samson took his place a long pace in front of the Misfits. Stryker halted a scant yard in front of him. The band finished its number. “Report,” Stryker said.
“A Squad, Headquarters Division, present or accounted for, sir!” Top Soldier Reginald Kearns executed a precise salute, which Stryker returned.
“Very well, Top. My thanks.”
“Review the troops at your leisure, sir.”
“Yes, I’ll do that.” Stryker marched to the end of the line of Misfits. Charlie Greer stood first in line, his Winchester carbine butt to the ground. “Good morning trooper Greer. May I look at your Winchester?”
Greer brought his weapon to port arms and held it out to Stryker. “Permission to speak, sir.”
“Speak.”
“The rifle is loaded, sir. And I filed the trigger down some, sir. She’s what you might call hair triggered. Sir.”
“Very well, trooper Greer.” Stryker handed the rifle as one would handle any loaded weapon. Greer’s Winchester was spotless, as was everyone in the entire A Squad. What’s more, every man wore proper uniform and accoutrements. Who’d have guessed what their tour of duty over the past few days had been like.
“Mr. Stryker. Report, if you please.” General Hunter stood at the proper place for a regimental officer.
“Yes, sir.” Stryker strode to a spot two paces in front of the general, where he came to rigid attention. “A Squad reporting, sir. All present or accounted for.” He gave the general the sharp salute called for in the regulations manual.
General Hunter returned the salute. “Your men don’t look like Misfits, Mr. Stryker.”
“Oh, but they are, sir, and proud of it.”
General Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would you mind me inspecting your Misfits, lieutenant?”
Stryker started. Inspection. No general ever inspected the troops. Reviewed, yes. Inspected, no. “Of course, sir,” he said, and prayed the Misfits would pass General Hunter’s inspection.
General Hunter also began with Charlie Greer. “Name?”
“Charles Elroy Greer, Sir.”
“Hmm. Yes. Your drawl says you are from Texas.”
“Yes, sir. Waco, sir.”
“Your weapon.” The general held out his hand.
Greer flashed a glance at Stryker, who gave the slightest nod.
“Of course, sir. Loaded. Hair trigger. Be careful, sir.”
General Hunter laughed. “You’re going to lecture me on handling weapons, soldier?”
Again, Greer flashed a look at Stryker, who stood a step behind the general. But he was merely staring into the distance.
“No, sir,” Greer said. “But it’s easier to handle a weapon, sir, if someone tells you its danger points.”
“Hmph. Well. Yes. Well kept weapon.” General Hunter returned Greer’s weapon and stepped to the next Misfit, repeating the process he’d done with Greer. When he finished, he turned to Stryker. “Excellent. Wish every squad in the regiment were as good.
“Thank you, sir. The men have worked hard.”
“Dismiss them, then come to my office. If you please, Lieutenant Stryker.”
“Sir.” Stryker held himself at attention until the general entered headquarters. “Misfits, you heard what the general said. I’m going to dismiss you, but you’ll go to the range and you’ll each take fifty shots at the target from a hundred yards. Likely as not, you’ll need your sharpshooting skills sooner rather than later. A Squad. Ten’hut. Dismissed.”
The Misfits broke ranks, but before they scattered, Stryker barked. “Top. Charlie Greer. You stay here.”
“Yo.”
The Misfits headed for the bivouac area to get ammunition for their Winchesters.
“Charlie Greer.”
“Yo.”
“As of this minute, you’re Sergeant Greer. Go lead the target practice. And you do whatever Top Kearns tells you. Hear?”
“Yes, sir!” Greer took off for the tents at a trot.
“Top. You come with me.”
“Sir.”
Stryker followed the general to the headquarters building and mounted the steps. Samson Kearns stood at attention to one side of the staircase.
“Top?”
“Sir.”
“Follow me.”
“White officer territory, sir.”
“The Misfit’s top soldier comes with its commander to report, Top.”
Samson shrugged, looked at the sky, then at the ground. “Could be dangerous, Cap.”
“Follow me, Top. Ya hear?”
Samson visibly braced himself. “Yo,” he said, and climbed the five steps to the headquarters porch.
Stryker went inside, with Samson a pace behind. “Morning Sergeant Major. I’m here to see the general.”
The sergeant major looked up from his paperwork. “No darkies,” he said.
“Reginald Kearns is Top Soldier in A Squad, sergeant major. If he stays out, so do I. If you still say ‘No Darkies,’ we’ll leave, and you can explain to the general why Lieutenant Stryker did not show up to report as ordered.”
“What is going on?” General Hunter said from his office doorway.
“I was telling the lieutenant ‘No darkies.’”
“Lieutenant?”
“Sir.”
“We don’t allow Negros into the headquarters area.”
“Then I request permission to resign my commission, sir. Reginald Kearns is Top Soldier with the Misfits. If he’s not welcome in this man’s army, then neither am I, Southern Rebel that I am. Sir.”
“You swore an oath, young man.”
“I did.”
“Are you telling me you’ll disobey the legitimate command of your superior officer?”
“As you well know, General Hunter, an officer is only as good as the men he commands. Sergeant Kearns is the best soldier I’ve got. Without him, sir, my report to you might not be complete. I’d rather not take that risk, sir.”
“Hmph. Harrumph. Very well. Sergeant major, the Negro passes.”
“Excuse me, sir. First Sergeant Kearns, sir. That’s his rank and name.”
“Name? Oh yes, name. As the lieutenant says, sergeant major. Er. First Sergeant Kearns passes.”
“Yes, sir. Git in here, boy.”
“General Hunter, sir,” Stryker said.
“What is it?”
“Permission to lecture the Sergeant Major, sir.”
“You have it.”
“Sergeant Major, how many men in the Fifth Infantry?”
“Fifteen hundred seventy at full strength, sir.”
“And how many in the Twenty-Fourth?”
“Should be the same.”
“What’s the desertion rate in the Fifth?”
“Twenty seven percent, as of last month.”
“And the Twenty-Fourth?”
“I know of none, sir.”
“Which would you rather have guarding your back, sergeant major? White men just looking for a chance to light a shuck? Or steady black men who keep every promise they ever made? Think about it, sergeant major. Think about it. And let me tell you. First Sergeant Reginald Kearns is no boy.”
The sergeant major made no reply. Stryker knew he’d not made a friend, but looking after his own men was much more important.
“Top.”
“Sir.”
“We’ll go report to General Hunter, if you please.”
“Sir.” With head erect and shoulders back, Reginald Kearns followed Stryker into General Hunter’s office. Both Stryker and Kearns removed their kepis and clamped them under their left arms.
“Lieutenant Matthew Stryker with First Sergeant Reginald Kearns, sir, reporting as ordered.”
Both Misfits held their salutes.
“Report,” the general said, returning their salutes.
“Sir. A Squad, Headquarters Division, met the Apaches led by Yuyutsu at Bone Head Canyon on the north slopes of the Sierra Madres. We exchanged fire with the Indeh, killing nine and wounding at least three. A Squad also destroyed ten head of stock—six horses and four mules. Yuyutsu sued for a ceasefire, which I, as commanding officer in the field, granted him. The Apaches buried their dead and traveled south, agreeing not to come into United States Territory. Sir.”
“Where again?”
“My Apache scout said the place was Bone Head Canyon. The Mexicans call it Craneo Blanco, I hear.”
General Hunter waved a hand at the map on his wall. “Show me.”
“Yes, sir.” Stryker studied the map for a moment and then pointed to a cut leading into the Sierra Madres. “Here, sir.”
The general’s eyebrows raised a fraction. “Here?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looks more than a hundred miles. But you’ve only been gone for six days.”
“The Misfits, er, A Squad, sir, can do sixty miles in a day, if pushed.”
“My dear lord.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well done.”
“Permission to speak, sir,” Samson said.
“Granted.”
“Mr. Stryker knows what he’s doing, sir. We licked Yuyutsu’s crowd fair and square, and brought back a good Apache scout, a man to run beside Bly, and maybe keep up with Dahtegte. His name is Norroso. Sir.”
“Lieutenant?”
“Sir.”
“You have a new scout?”
“I was going to put it in writing, sir.”
“Do that. Now, get out of here, lieutenant, first sergeant. Again, well done.”
Stryker and Samson snapped to attention and saluted. The general made a move with his hand in the direction of his forehead. Then, “One moment, Mr. Stryker. You didn’t say a word about A Squad casualties. The Apaches lost nine. How many did we lose?”
“None, sir. Trooper Ferguson has a broken leg, sir, and First Sergeant Kearns took an arrow in the shoulder. That is all, sir.” Stryker figured his own wound did not matter as it was not from Yuyutsu’s men.
“You took an arrow, Kearns?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you walked in here just now?”
“Yes, sir. The Apache scout Dahtegte fixed me up like new, sir.”
“Very well. Get out of here. Misfits. Of all the ... ” General Hunter shut his office door a little harder than usual.
~*~
Stryker’s Misfits gained a reputation at Fort Bliss. They challenged every company in the Fifth Infantry, the Tenth Cavalry, and whatever companies stopped by on their way to Arizona or California or wherever. None could outshoot the Misfits in group competition, and no one could outshoot Sharpy Bailor with a long gun.
Other officers bitched because the Misfits were never around to share in the chores, to be dog robbers for some officer, or to police up the grounds. Stryker made sure their time was taken up with training, and not only on the rifle range. They ran. They wrestled. They fought with wooden knives. They learned how to wear uniforms with pride and aplomb that other soldiers could only hope for. And they reveled in their name. Stryker’s Misfits. Men who could never fit the army machine, but who worked together like parts of a single entity.
“Misfits!” When Top Soldier Reginald Kearns called out, every Misfit stopped to listen. “Misfits. Full uniform in five. Line up on me.”
Stryker’s Misfits charged for their tents, unbuttoning muslin shirts as they ran. Hardly had they ducked into their tents than they came back out, buttoning sky blue trousers with light green stripes down the outside seam. Black campaign hats with blue cords clamped on their heads, they struggled to get into their uniform and in ranks, and not be late. After all, they were elite, the best in the whole army of the Southwest. They’d earned their name.
Stryker’s Misfits.
And proud of it.