Once an Eagle

  They had started out from the post merrily enough, with the regimental band arrayed just outside the gate playing “The Girl I Left Behind Me.” Captain Parrish had given them “eyes right” as they swung past the colonel, a short, red-faced man with white walrus mustaches, who saluted them smartly. They were marching to battle, they were going to catch up with a mean old Mexican bandit named Camargas who had invaded United States territory and robbed a United States post office. They were going to track him down and defeat him in open battle. Three columns flanked by cavalry were going to converge on Montemorelos, where Camargas’ base of operations was—or at least that was what the sergeants said. It was going to be Buena Vista and Chapultepec all over again. Outnumbered five to one, twenty to one, it would make no difference—they were going to rout the infamous Greasers, avenge the insult to the flag, and plunge on to glory. It had been a still, clear morning and they’d been able to hear the strains of the regimental band for a long while. The sergeants had kept them at a smart column of fours, their packs were light and riding easy, and their veins pumped with the wine of adventure.

  But that had been six days ago, and in the meantime the country had begun to tell on them. Their feet were sore, they had slung their rifles, and their shirts were stiff with dust and dried sweat; there was very little joking, and no singing at all.

  “When we going to run into this Camargas joker?” Devlin queried aloud. “My feet hurt.” He had a blue handkerchief drawn tight over his nose and mouth, and his campaign hat was pulled down over his eyes: he looked like a cowboy bandit on a drunk. “Tell you what, Sam.”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to put that Pancho C. in a cage and take him back with me to Chicopee Falls and exhibit him at twenty-five cents a head. Then I’ll retire on the profits. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to lie in a pool for three days and nights.” He was dying of thirst; he saw water everywhere—in still mountain lakes, in rivers, in thunderous waterfalls. His head throbbed and his throat was like scraped leather. His tongue felt like a bag of resin. It was dry country, a cruel country. A country without water. Only fools and outlaws would choose to live in a country like this.

  “Well sure, but after that.”

  “Drink the pool dry.” He would rather die than tell Devlin—even his bunkie Devlin—the truth. He was going to lead a charge, like Captain Howard of the voltigeurs on the walls of Chapultepec, he was going to drag a mountain howitzer up to the belfry of the Church of San Cosmé and open fire on the gates of the city, like General Grant. The high places, take the high places. He was going to distinguish himself, right here in Mexico.

  “I’m going to get me one of those jackets embroidered in silver,” Devlin offered. “And one of those combs Mexican women wear standing straight up at the back of their heads.” He heaved a sigh. “But I wish to hell I’d joined the cavalry.”

  “Yep, the cavalry gets the glory and the infantry eats the dust,” Corporal Thomas told them. “Should have thought of that when you signed up.”

  Sam Damon wasn’t so sure. He could not rid himself, even now, of the feeling that the infantry was where his destiny lay—that all his trials and triumphs were welded to foot-soldiering. It was hard to hold that idea in this baking heat, traipsing over this measureless land filled with dust and vicious little stones, each of which had at least three sharp points—

  He heard Pensimer give an exclamation. Off to their right there rose a little plume of dust. Mesmerized, they watched it as it grew, slipped behind some thickets, reappeared—a horseman now, but a cumbersome horseman, growing larger, a top-heavy burden; and Sam saw there were two riders, one wobbling badly, swaying from side to side. Captain Parrish and Lieutenant Westfall cantered toward them and the strangers slowed to a trot, the overburdened horse wheezing, its flanks soapy with sweat. There was a little commotion among the horses, and they saw the swaying figure half-slide, half-fall to the ground. Captain Parrish turned and waved to Kintzelman, who said:

  “Damon, Broda, Devlin! Get over there and lend a hand …”

  They broke out of the column and ran over to the little group. One of the cavalrymen was talking to Captain Parrish, the other was sitting on the ground awkwardly, one of his feet bent under him, a hand gripping his thigh. As they reached him he raised his eyes to them and said, “I’m hit, boys. I’m hit …”

  “Why, it’s Gurney,” Broda said in great surprise. Damon looked at Broda and then at the wounded man; he could not recall ever seeing him before. His belt was gone, his shirt was wringing wet, and blood was all over his breeches. Damon heard the other cavalryman, who was still mounted, say tensely: “Yes, in force, Captain. I’d say a hundred, hundred and twenty.”

  “A hundred and twenty?”

  “Yes, sir. With lots of extra mounts. They must have come through the notch at Aldapán.”

  “Where is Hollander? Lieutenant Hollander?”

  “I don’t know, sir. The last I saw he was riding south.”

  “All right.” Captain Parrish dismounted and knelt beside Gurney, who stared at him fearfully. “Take your hand away, son,” he said. “Won’t cure it, I can tell you.” Gurney took his hand away from his hip very slowly, as though the consequences of such a move would be fatal; the Captain peered at the wound, and grunted. “Give me your bayonet,” he said to Damon. Sam slipped it out of its scabbard and Captain Parrish took it and ripped the man’s breeches open, wiping at the blackened oval hole from which blood flowed in a slow, greasy stream. Gurney, who had watched the bayonet with apprehension, groaned now and then.

  “Doc Haber’ll have to dig that out,” Captain Parrish said. He began to bind it swiftly and deftly, keeping the yellow gauze tight in his left hand. The blood kept seeping up through the cloth.

  Gurney moaned again. “It hurts,” he offered.

  “Of course it hurts. Did you think it’d feel good?” Captain Parrish stood up, wiping the smears of blood from his hands with a kerchief. “All right. Get him over to one of the wagons.”

  Damon bent over and started to take the wounded man by the shoulders.

  “No—don’t pick me up, don’t pick me up,” he begged.

  “Come on, Walt, it’s only a minute,” Broda said soothingly; then, in an eager tone: “Did you get one, Walt? Did you get one of ’em?”

  “Give me some water, mate. A little water—”

  Damon handed him his canteen, and the wounded man drank with feverish greed, clumsily, water trickling over his chin and shirt front, while the other three watched him in silence.

  “Did you hit one of ’em, Walt?” Broda pursued. “Before they got you?”

  “…I feel sick,” Gurney said. He had no interest in talking about the Mexicans or the skirmish, if that was what it had been, or the campaign.

  “He’ll be all right,” Broda said to the other two apologetically. “Once he’s in out of this sun.” But still they squatted around him, watching his narrowed eyes, the perspiration streaking his face and throat, the way his hand kept hovering over the wound, pressing the thigh above it delicately. It was as if in the next second—the very next second—they would learn something of incalculable value from this bloody, groaning voyager from a terribly distant country.

  “What are you men waiting for?” Captain Parrish called to them sharply. “Get him into that wagon and be smart about it …”

  They leaped into action, then—picked him up, muttering and protesting, and bore him over to the wagon. It stopped, and they lifted Gurney over the tailboard and eased him onto a pile of tarpaulins.

  “There you go, Walt,” Broda said. “You’ll be all right in here.”

  “Wait—” Gurney panted. “Wait—a minute—”

  They paused. It was stifling under the taut canvas; the tarps smelled of creosote and damp rot. Damon hung on the edge of the tailboard, feeling the jolt and joggle as the wagon started up again.

  “I want to tell you, mate,” Gurney cried softly, “I want to
tell you, there’s a whole …” Then he stopped, gazing at Damon, shaking his head in slow confusion, his eyes wide.

  “Come on, Sam!” Devlin called.

  They had to run to catch up with their place in the column. Damon was furious with himself for letting the trooper drink from his canteen. Now he had even less than anyone else, and God knew when they’d get any more. He’d always been a water drinker—at home he was always pumping a dipper full whenever he passed through the kitchen, loving the cool, silken rush of water against his throat—and maintaining water discipline on the march was a continual torture. Why the devil had he done it? The fellow had spilled more than he’d drunk, anyway …

  As they caught up with their squad Sergeant Kintzelman said, “What’d he do, stop one?”

  “Yes,” Damon said. He felt irritable and sullen.

  “Where’d he get it?”

  “In the leg, Sarge,” Devlin answered. “The upper leg.”

  “Oh, then it’s nothing much.”

  The two privates glanced at each other. Damon didn’t see how a hole like that in your body, a hole that could have you groaning and bleeding like that, was nothing much; but he put it out of his mind. They were going to be in it now, for sure. The thing was to be alert, keep your wits about you and not get rattled no matter what might happen. He’d know what to do when the time came … But the moment in the wagon with Gurney still bothered him.

  They marched on, more rapidly now, passed through a bone-dry riverbed covered with dense thickets, began to ascend a long slope to where a ridge ran back in the shape of a horseshoe. Great clouds came up, all black and silver like some mighty artist’s painting of storm clouds, and the wind blew harder, whipping dust in their faces until it stung.

  “Christ, it isn’t going to rain, is it?” Devlin exclaimed. Corporal Thomas laughed. “Rain like you’ll never hope to see again, if it does. And then gumbo! Boy …”

  The bugles were blowing now—sweet, sharp, windblown sounds. They were on a little table of ground, with the ridge on their left, the stony creekbed down and away to the right. The wagons were pulling into a tight clump, the mules tossing their heads and neighing. Captain Parrish was riding hard at the head of the column, gesticulating; his campaign-hat brim flipped up and down with the gusts of wind. Damon felt almost dizzy with impatience.

  “What do they want us to do?” he demanded. “What do they want?”

  Big Kintzelman grinned at him. “Take it easy, younker. The Old Man’ll let us know.”

  They moved past the wagons, curving back on them—then all at once a nearby bugle blew, a new call: insistent, piercing notes. Form hollow square. They broke out of column. This was better. He knew just what to do, they all knew just what to do. He ran forward to where Kintzelman was gesturing, and knelt. Devlin, Broda, Chandler were kneeling beside him; the rank behind stood, their rifles across their chests. It was going to be like the Peach Orchard. He thought fleetingly, remotely, of Mr. Verney, of Uncle Bill and the lamplit porch with the June bugs bumping and sizzling against the screens.

  “Load and lock!” Sergeant Kintzelman shouted. He pulled a singleton cartridge from his shirt pocket and inserted it in the chamber, plucked a clip out of his belt, ticked the noses smartly against his rifle stock and pressed it into the magazine, closed the bolt.

  “Fix bayonets …”

  He did this just as easily, was pleased to see that he was ready earlier than some of the older men. He felt no fear, only a kind of curiosity that brightened at the edges like heat lightning.

  “All right, men …” Captain Parrish was sitting his horse behind them, and they turned to watch him. His yellow crop dangled from his right wrist. “You will hold your fire until the command is given, and then you will fire by volleys. No one is to open fire until the express command is given. I want that understood.” His voice carried clearly in the wind. He rode off down the line.

  The wait was interminable. The rain clouds rolling and melting on themselves dipped lower, filling the air with darkness. Light seemed to glow on bayonets and buckles, all the points of metal, as though to offset the sky’s metallic gloom. The air was no cooler. From far off came a booming; guns or thunder, Damon couldn’t tell. The earth was hot against his knee, dust stung his eyes, sweat ran in his eyes and mouth. Why fire by volleys with six rounds in chamber and magazine? Was that what you did repelling cavalry? assuming this was cavalry? And what if they broke through?

  Then, like children at some distant, engrossing play there came a cry, or a series of cries, a medley of cheers and catcalls, whoops and whistles, and on the plain beyond the riverbed dust rose in massive yellow smoke. Sergeant Kintzelman behind him said something, but Damon could only watch in fascination as the slanting pillar of cloud, the high, lost cries, grew and grew—and then there they were, slipping out from under the canopy of dust, white-shirted figures with huge dark baskets of sombreros, fanning out and out until it seemed as if they must swallow the horizon, the limitless desert earth. What would stop them? Why didn’t they fire? He was conscious of the fact that he was pressing the Springfield against his chest, that he was scarcely breathing.

  They were nearer now—four hundred yards, three fifty, uttering their shrill, yelping cries, waving rifles and machetes and sabers, the horses plunging and dipping. He was aware of brief calls and exclamations in the ranks around him—but he himself was silent. There was a sudden thrust of panic at this violent, implacable onrush of horsemen—then it vanished. But still there was no command to fire.

  They swept into the creekbed, and now he could see faces, huge brush mustachios under the hats, the teeth of the horses. Now. They must fire now, or they would be overrun and cut to pieces. Sure, now—

  And all at once the horsemen broke to the right—went sweeping on down the streambed in wild parade, off to the left. Immediately above their heads—so low it seemed just above their hats—there was a tearing crash of thunder, flat as artillery fire, and rain fell, swept over them in pelting mad torrents, obliterating sight and sound.

  “Cover your pieces!” Sergeant Kintzelman was shouting at them. But everything was soaked through, everything was drowned in silvered sheets. Beside him Devlin was whooping like a banshee, his head back, mouth open, catching the rain. Corporal Thomas was wrapping his neckerchief around his rifle bolt. Damon looked at them all in astonishment: the sense of outrage was so great it nearly choked him. What was the matter with them all? Didn’t they care? Didn’t they …? A few feet away Kintzelman was grinning at him through the downpour.

  “What happened?” he shouted.

  The Sergeant shrugged. “Pulled foot.”

  “Why didn’t we open fire? At three hundred yards—what if they hadn’t broken away like that?”

  Jumbo laughed good-naturedly; the water was streaming from his hat brim. “Take it easy, younker. They didn’t want any.” Bugles blew; they began to straggle back into the column of march. Around their feet the dusty baked earth was already turning into a rich, soft slime.

  “Yes, but to let them get that close—” Damon protested.

  “The Old Man’s got his orders, too, you know.” Kintzelman winked at him once. “The thing was to face them out, that’s all: call their bluff.” He had his rifle slung, butt downward, the bolt under his elbow. “There’s more to this game than shooting …”

  Damon stared at him. “You mean—that’s it?”

  “That’s it, younker.”

  They were marching again. Everyone was talking animated now—even Corporal Thomas was whistling through his teeth.

  “Did you see the hombre with the two swords?” Devlin was saying. “The gaffer in the black and gold jacket? He had a sword in each hand and he was banging them together like the cymbal man in the parade, back home …”

  Damon made no reply. He felt bewildered, and cheated beyond measure. Looking back he could see nothing beyond the boulder-strewn riverbed and the spiny thickets of mesquite and chaparral. The rain had soaked through hi
s woolen shirt and he shivered. It was over. Nothing had happened at all.

  2

  WHEAT

  1

  “What’s the name of this place?” Ferguson asked.

  “The Anvil Leads,” Raebyrne replied. He was tall and gangling, with a freckled face and large, round, bright blue eyes.

  “What kind of name is that? Leads where?”

  “To the anvil, of course. Where’d you think?”

  “Say, can we go see the sights, Sarge?” Turner said. “After the parade?”

  “Maybe,” Sam Damon answered.

  “How long are they going to make us stand here? in the sun?”

  “As long as it takes.” Damon ran his eyes over the front rank. “Now, you’ve been given a signal honor. You’re the first American troops to parade before the people of Paris. Now I want to see you march like soldiers, and not like a bunch of farmers or acrobats. Keep your elbows in and your faces front. And I don’t want to see any goggling around at the girls. We’re going to be parading down the most famous avenue in the world, and I want to see you act in a manner worthy of it.”

  “Then what, Sarge?” Raebyrne asked him. “What are we going to do then?”

  “Then we’re going to pay our respects to the tomb of Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette.”

  “Hot damn! He must have got writer’s cramp just signing the hotel register …”

  “Hey, Sarge,” Ferguson said, “is it true we’re all going to get three days’ leave in Paree?”

  “No, it’s not. Now cut out your horsing around.”

  “Don’t seem eccable we’ve got to be waiting on them,” Raebyrne observed. “They ought to be waiting on us. We’ve come all the way hell-and-gone over here to bail ’em out, ain’t we?”

  The battalion was drawn up in the Court of Honor of the Invalides in Paris, standing at ease, which ostensibly meant one foot in place but didn’t always. Damon ran his eyes over them warily and thought with weary indulgence, Jesus, these kids. They were nearly his age, a few of them were older, but he’d drilled them and inspected them and taught them how to clean their rifles and wind their puttees, and he felt like the father of a bunch of heedless, obstreperous children. Catching the eye of Devlin, now corporal of the second squad, he winked solemnly. Well, they were good stuff, but there had simply been no time to train them adequately. They’d come into camp straight from the enlistment offices, had been formed into regiments and divisions and shipped over to Saint Nazaire before they’d learned which end of a rifle went off or how to run through a decent manual of arms. Now they’d been picked ahead of the other American units for a demonstration in Paris—a morale booster for the French, Major Caldwell had said; the French were eager for a look at the Americans—and God knew how they’d carry it off …