Where Have You Been?

                                                                                      Where Have You Been?


“Where have you been?” A white bushy eyebrow arched upwards as he leaned forward in his chair.  There was an eager expectant light in his eyes as he waited for my reply.

“That’s a fairly general question Sir.  You’ll have to be more specific.”  I answered.  My eyes reflected puzzlement.  The question was not explicit enough for me.  Did he mean yesterday, the day before or, ten years past?  Did he want an autobiography of my life?  Where am I anyway and why am I here?
         
“The beginning will be fine.”  He replied. 
         
He wasn’t a large man by any standard; he looked like an Arab, dressed as he was in a foolish looking long white gown.  He possessed long creases on each cheek, brittle chips of blue ice fire for eyes, and his narrow lips were fixed in a perpetual thin line.  His most distinctive feature was the long flowing white beard, which lay like gossamer on his chest.  Who is he anyway?  My reason as to why I am here didn’t seem to fit with a self-portrait of my life.  Pointless, really and time consuming. 
         
“It’s a fairly long story Sir.  Are you sure you have the time?”  I grinned self-consciously, shifting uncomfortably in my chair.  “ I’m thirty-seven years old Sir.  This will take some time.” 
         
“The abbreviated version will be fine.”  He smiled, seeming to enjoy my discomfort.
         
“I don’t understand.  I thought you knew everything there is to know.”  I shifted again, attempting to appear more comfortable than I felt.  How did I know that?  I asked myself.
         
“I do but I want to hear your version just to make sure it jives with ours.”  He wasn’t smiling now a hint of impatience flowed across his face like a leaking seep.  “Just begin at the beginning as they say and I’ll let you know when I’m satisfied.”
         
I had no choice in the matter.  I had to tell him something.  I sensed that I was trapped in a corner.  But who would want to know about my life?  What I had accomplished or had failed to accomplish?
         
“My life is rather exciting Sir but I still don’t see the point.”  Stubbornness is my strongest trait.
         
“Let me be the judge of that.”  He replied, curtly, with a pen poised like a rapier, he eagerly waited to stab the white form sitting on top of his desk.
         
Where have I been?  Better to ask where I haven’t.
         
“Well,” I paused.  Not for dramatic effect you understand.  I was gathering my thoughts and assimilating the chronological order of my life attempting to present my history concisely as I had been trained to do.  “I suppose it would be all right to start when I went to West Point.  Would that be okay?”  I sensed it would assuming he wanted to know about my beginnings as a soldier.
         
“Fine.”  He looked at me expectantly with the infernal pen poised for immediate action.
         
“I entered West Point in my sixteenth year . . .”
                                                                                                            ******
         
“It is 25 June 1876, and the flags and company pendants with the big red ‘7’ snap briskly in the hot breeze.  It feels good to be alive and my men are primed for the coming battle.  The thunder of a thousand horse hooves pounding the hard-baked ground, told me they followed faithfully.  The creak of saddle leather, the rattle of sabers, and our mounts snorting grunts meant all is well in my calvary unit.  What I didn’t know: Major Reno was in the fight of his life and all was not well with my command and all would never be well for the seventh ever again.  I also didn’t know my enemy was well informed about my three-pronged attack strategy and is well prepared for it.  I didn’t know but I am about to find out.”  I paused, thinking about what I had just said.  Why had I said that?  Am I missing something here?  I shrugged mentally and continued with my narrative.
         
“I’m keyed up in anticipation of the coming fight I feel a tightening in my belly that coupled with the adrenalin rush is the elixir that sustains me.  My destiny is in the coming battle.  I can feel it in my bones.  Everything I have accomplished before culminating at this point in time.  Right here, now, after a four-mile sweep I will attack the enemy’s belly.  Rifle fire off to my left and upriver informed me that the rest of my troop under command of Major Reno has engaged the enemy.  I also know it means I have, so far, fooled the enemy into believing they are fighting my whole command.  I know this because I’ve pulled this same tactic once before on the Washita and the enemy then fell for the ruse.  The ploy had worked once.  Why not again?”  I paused.  Was I seeking approval from this artifact before me?
         
“Go on.”  He said, raising his eyes briefly, looking into mine.  He had been writing furiously as I spoke. 
         
“Shall I speak more slowly?”  I asked.  After all the man was old perhaps he couldn’t keep up with my narrative.
       
“No, no, you’re doing fine.”  He waved a dismissive hand in the air.
         
“We are away from the river and near the end of the encampment.  Halting my command on the hilltop afforded me time to view the village.  Everything I see below gives evidence that they have not suspected my plan of attack.  Women are strolling about, children are playing, and dogs are barking, nothing is amiss down there.  The fighting is far upriver and here down below is the enemy’s belly.  All we have to do is ride down the slope, sweep into the encampment like a prescient blue wave, slice into the underbelly with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel piercing soft flesh, rout the enemy, drive the enemy before us, and ball the enemy up until they surrender.  This we can do - this we will do!  We viewed the stage below.  The enemy, so absorbed in the fighting upriver, has not spotted my main attack body.  Yes just like the Washita!  I can see the coming battle unfolding before my eyes.  I know we have the advantage and are about to spring the trap thus ending the war for all-time.”
         
“How wrong you were!  How foolish and vain you had become!”  My recorder jumped up, and stood, glaring at me.
         
“I see no need for anger Sir.  I’m simply describing the events as I saw them.”  I glared back. 
         
The fool sounds like that pompous jackass Grant.  I silently assessed this relic before me.
         
“I apologize.”  He muttered, then sat.  “Continue.”  He said briskly, anger subsiding. 
         
“I instructed my bugler boy Johnny Martini to ride back and find Captain Benteen with orders to move his troop forward in all haste and bring the spare ammunition packs.  We will need them this day.  This day will to be a grand day, a day of reckoning and a day of glory!”  I exulted, my eyes burning with excitement, recalling the events, glaring at him, willing him to agree with my statement.
         
“I see.”  He replied sardonically.
         
We sat, staring at each other for a moment.  Is he mocking me?  The silence dragged as we gazed into each other’s eyes.  Judging, weighing, and sizing each other up. 
         
“Come, come, man, continue!” 
         
Our eyes slid away and I continued with my narrative.   
         
“I ordered the descent to the river and the encampment that beckoned me like a lusty whore and I answered the call.”  I said with an embarrassed smile, looking down at my dust covered jackboots.  Hmmm, my boots need polishing.  I made a mental note.  I will have my aide do that.
         
“Yes you did!  And you answered the call like a blind adolescent fool!”  He nodded at my discomfort.  “How could you know that one man in the encampment had studied your tactics and was relishing this battle every bit as much as you?  You should have known how many were waiting for you down there at that spot.  You should have but you ignored all sane and rational advice.  You figured you were powerful, unbeatable, and you rode with the best troops that the US Army could muster.  You are George Armstrong Custer - by God!  And you better not forget it!  You had battled before and had earned the respect and the fear of the enemy!  Or so you thought, in truth?  The enemy had prayed for, no, they had envisioned this day.  The great Sioux medicine man - Tatanka Yotanka - dreamed of this day.  And the day is theirs.  The great-war chief Tashunca-uitco saw to that.  You found that out.  There would be no surrender, no retreat, and no mercy for you or your hated troops, the Pony Soldiers of the Seventh Calvary out of Fort Abraham Lincoln.”  He glared at me balefully, the contempt on his face unsettling.
         
“Just a minute here!  Who are you to question my tactics?”  Rising anger flushed my face making me feel hot, and prickly.  Bloody fool, must be Grant’s emissary!
         
“Yes.  You are right.  I apologize.  Please continue.”  He sighed, the contempt fading from his eyes. 
         
“As I rode closer to the river and the encampment - just there on the other side - the day is mine!  I thought.  I would slash into the village like a wind driven prairie fire, sweeping and burning all before me.  Split the camp scythe like, slice it clean in two, divide the enemy force, and pound them into submission.  I would join up with Major Reno on the other side.  I could still hear the far-off heavy boom of the army Springfield Rifles and the sharp crack of the enemy Winchester in reply.  The day was perfect, my plan flawless and the enemy unaware of my impending raid.”  I halted my narrative, my mind recalling every detail.
         
“Then what?”  He asked in a mild manner.
         
“Then, a curious thing happened.  Causing me to halt my troop momentarily.  Four Cheyenne war chiefs, feathered headdresses’ rippling in the breeze, faces painted black and red, ponies’ painted and dressed for war, were riding slowly toward me, my troop, and about to ford the river, not a hundred paces away.  I marveled at their bravery, those four horsemen.  Four horsemen dressed for battle.  Could they . .?  I dare not ask myself.  But I couldn’t halt the question from wiggling, worming and creeping into my brain.  Could it be the four horsemen of the Apocalypse?  Surely not!  Is it a trap?  Were there more braves hidden behind the lodges?  The camp appeared to be helpless except for these four heroes the rest of the enemy force was upriver, engaging Major Reno.  Weren’t they?  I faced four men.  Four foolish men to be sure.  Four very brave and honorable soldiers and I had to give them their due.  I silently commended their bravery and I visibly saluted their honor.  I raised my arm and was about to order the charge.  The final act in the drama was now unfolding and no man could stop it.” 
         
“Yes but the charge never came.  Did it?”  He inquired mildly.
         
“No.  The charge never came.”  I shook my head slowly, recalling the events clearly. 
         
“No, it didn’t.”  He concurred softly and he joined me in shaking his head. 
         
“Where once there were four horsemen now there were thousands.  The charge halted before it had commenced, the pause to marvel had cost me the advantage and the battle began in deadly earnest.  I lost half my command in the first ten minutes.  The red horde had us strung out on the slope like a snake whose head is tethered to a rock and tail to a tree.  My troop was getting sliced to pieces.  Toshunca-uitco was at the rear, ripping my flank to shreds.  Scattered and weakened, the frightened and meek fell first.  The brave and seasoned lasted longer.  I knew I had to reach the high ground where we might make a stand, and we battled fiercely, inching closer and closer to the summit of that bald prairie hill.  Clawing, scratching, cursing, powder blackened faces streaming with sweat.  We fought for honor, for glory, and for our lives.  Our rifles began to fail and we cursed the Springfield and fought on with our colts.”
         
“Ammunition was running low.”  He offered almost apologetically.
         
“Yes.  I’d lost my campaign hat somewhere too and I could feel the afternoon sun burning my head and shoulders.”  I visibly shuddered.  I wasn’t hot now.  I felt cold and clammy.
         
“Did you know?  Did you realize what was happening?  What the end result would be?  Did that fact deter you?  Did you feel fear?  Did you flinch?”  His questions flew rapid fire like a Gatling gun rattling.
         
We should have had a Gatling gun.  I thought in retrospect.
         
“Oh, I felt fear.  What man wouldn’t?  That did not deter me nor did I flinch.  In the end I stood tall and proud and did my profession justice.”  I smiled wistfully, embarrassed at my candor.
         
“You were a fool but you were a brave one.”  He chuckled in good humor.
         
Why is he speaking of me in the past tense?  I was bothered by that insightful question.
         
“Men,” I continued, calmly, coolly, barely raising my voice above the din of battle, “we must reach the summit, there.  We must reach it and make a stand.  One hundred and fifteen out of two hundred and thirty-one stood to hear the order, breathing heavily over hard-fought, hard-gained and bloodstained ground.  Only the hero’s and very strong stood now.  The hills crawled with the enemy, Hunkpapa under Gall, Minniconjou, Sans Arc, the Cheyenne of Bob-Tail Horse and Two Moons.  But most of all, the fearsome Oglala, and their leader, Tashunca uitco, the bravest and most feared war chief of the Sioux.  In all, over two thousand warriors screamed for white blood and they were getting it by the bucket full.  Suddenly, there was a lull in the battle the red tide paused, standing in silent awe at our bravery.  Bloodied men, tired and panting men, bathed in our own blood and that of the fallen - dirty, grimy, sweaty men, faces caked black with spent powder dust, eyes shining with the heat of battle, and glistening with the fire of pride.  We knew we were going to die but we weren’t going to do that lying down.  I stood, as yet unwounded.  My voice still held the hard edge of command.  Men!  I stood above them.  We are going to go up there.  We will reach the top of this hill.”  I paused, remembering the faces, recalling the fierce pride in their eyes, their determination.  My God, the bravery! 
         
“In that brief instant, they stood around me, some weeping openly, others, eyes defiant, others, resigned to the fate that awaited us but none gave up this day.  I stood, eyes staring at the crest, and across the red mass before us.  There, sitting on his war pony, painted with lightning bolts and black and white polka dots, regarding me with dark flashing eyes was the man I now realized had bested me.  He had beaten me to the crest of that damn hill.  Resigned, I straightening my shoulders and I saluted my fellow warrior.”
         
“You said something to him at this point, didn’t you?”  He inquired.
         
“Yes I did.”  I sighed and shook my head.
         
“What was it?”  He inquired mildly.
         
“And someday you and I will meet again.”  I closed my eyes, recalling the image of my nemesis, sitting astride his war pony at the top of the hill.  A fierce and proud warrior the best damn warrior I had encountered in my career.
         
I halted my narrative and we sat looking at each other.  I felt drained, worn, it had been a long campaign and the battle had been fierce.  I couldn’t figure how I had escaped death and was sitting here explaining myself to this man.  A man I had never seen before in my life.  Obviously he was an army appointee.  A civil servant brought in to handle this mess I had got myself in.  Another of Grant’s lackey’s!  You can’t lose all your command without expecting repercussions and I expected full punishment for the transgression.
       
“Continue.”  He ordered briskly, his white beard rippling like a waterfall.
         
“The Oglala war chief, Tashunca-uitco, regarded me briefly, raised his buffalo war lance high over his head, swung it in an arch, pointed the tip directly at my chest, and with a great cry, unleashed a flood of four hundred warriors that would help swallow us.  Two thousand throats answered that cry and the battle resumed in deadly earnest.  I shouted at my men to stay together.  We were almost at the summit where we could make a stand.  I knew we would never make it but we had to try.  Just there where the sun lit-up the grass.  Sixty more fell in that brief span of time.  Wounded, with blood streaming from my mouth and chest, I kept firing my pistol until the red swarm was able to finish me off with a bullet to the temple.  Suddenly, the battle was over.  I had ridden my last campaign and was defeated by the greatest warrior the plains ever saw.”  I paused, puzzled by what I had just said. 
         
“What is this?”  I glanced at my interrogator in growing horror.
         
“Yes, we are almost done General.  Please continue.”  He said, without looking up.
         
“The victors stood over me, looking down at my form, apprehensive and waiting for me to jump up and begin fighting again.  For some were certain that I was a god and could do remarkable and frightening things.  But not this day I would rise no more.  Victorious howls soared filling the air echoing, reverberating.  Yellow Hair is dead!  They said.  His troops will ride no more.  His regimental band will not be playing that dreadful, Garryowen, ever again!  He is in the arms of Wakan Tanka - The Great Father.  Defeated, by the legendary war chief of the Oglala, Toshunca-uitco, the man the bluecoats call: Crazy Horse.”
         
I paused again, my mind in utter confusion.  I was dead?  Had I said that, dead?  I gazed at my interrogator with growing alarm. 
         
He sat, regarding me in mild amusement.
         
“Was there anything else General?”  He smiled faintly, setting the pen down on his desk.
         
“Uh, no, I don’t think so.”  I shook my head to clear the fog, attempting to understand what was going on.  “Where am I anyway?” 
         
“You’re in between General.  Nothing to be alarmed about I assure you.”  He smiled again.
         
“In between?  In between what?”  I sat, confused.  What is this fool talking about?
         
“Heaven and hell General.  I’m St. Peter.  And it’s my duty to rule on your case.”  He stood, planting his fingertips on the desktop, his long robe flowing, his beard cascading like an avalanche of snow.           
         
“What!  My case?  You mean . . . ?”
         
“Absolutely General!  I mean just that.  Heaven or hell that’s the issue before me.”
         
I felt fear seize me twisting coils of ice clutched at my innards.  “I expect no mercy sir.”  I mumbled meekly. 
         
“And none you will receive.”  He glared at me in anger.  “You’ve no need for warm attire where you’re going, General.”
         
It’s that damn Grant!  He finally got me!  I thought, with despair flooding my soul.
                                                                                             
                                                                                                    *****
         
Crazy Horse squatted on the hilltop, dark eyes surveying the battlefield.  Beside him sat Sitting Bull.  Together they observed the carnage below.  Victorious warriors were mutilating the bodies of the hated pony soldiers.  Both men felt a deep sense of foreboding.  This was a great day for the Sioux, and Cheyenne Nations and they had to allow the warriors their due even though they had been instructed to leave the dead as they had fallen.  Victory was not enough, deep feelings of anger, coupled with victory, spread like the hated fever that had killed so many of their friends and families.  Their eyes settled on the still form of Yellow Hair, as yet, no one had touched his corpse and none would.  Even in death, he was feared and respected more than any man on earth.  As they squatted on the bald prairie hill, regarding the scene below, they knew this victory was bittersweet for they realized they had won the battle and sensed they had lost the war.